My Faire Lady
Page 26
“Well, I’ll let Will walk you out,” Suze says, and pulls me into a hug. We squeeze each other tight, and when we part we’re both teary. “Call me soon, okay?”
“Absolutely. Bye, Suze.”
“Fare thee well, Ro,” she says, her words soft and sincere, and she slips out of the tent with a nod to Will.
I take the sweatshirt from him and stuff it into the suitcase. A corner of the sleeve sticks out because the zipper won’t close all the way. Will begins to roll up my air mattress, squeezing out the last pockets of air from it. It occurs to me that this might be the last time I’m alone with him, so I watch him work, the corners of my mouth turning up as he pushes his glasses back up on his nose. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt with Einstein’s face on it today, and he hasn’t shaved. It’s a look that is so completely Will Fuller that I have to let the image burn into my memory like one of the Polaroids I’ve taken this summer.
He folds up my air mattress and blanket, tucks them under his arm, and reaches a hand out for my suitcase.
I smile at him. “And I thought chivalry was dead.”
“Only amongst the knights. The whip cracker still plays by the old rules.”
I laugh and let him take my suitcase. We walk the worker route behind the village to the employee parking lot, which is just fine by me. I’m not sure I want to see the village empty, with none of Lindy’s dolls and dresses in the windows, without the smell of Ramón’s sticky buns, and without all the children running around playing swords. It’s just not King Geoffrey’s Faire without the people.
When we reach my car, Will lifts my belongings into my trunk and closes it. The sound of the trunk shutting and locking has a melancholy tone of finality to it, and a lump rises to my throat.
I swallow thickly. “Well, I guess this is good-bye, huh?”
It’s like the words themselves break me, and the flimsy wall I’ve built comes crashing down. I’ve known good-bye was coming, that we’d leave this place and go our separate ways, but until now it seemed so far away. My eyes start to well up and I look down, letting my curls fall in my face so he can’t see me cry.
“Hey,” Will says, and takes both my hands in his. I screw up the courage to look at him, blurry as he is through my tears, and try to memorize him exactly as he is now. He looks at me intently, like he might be trying to do the same thing, and says, “I have something for you.”
Will takes my hand and turns it over, then pulls a pen out of his jeans. On the ticklish skin of my wrist, he scrawls, “crackerjacques@gmail.com” in his slanted, pointy handwriting.
I stare at it, its meaning sinking in. All summer long, e-mail and the Internet and the technological world didn’t exist, and now here he is, offering me a link to him on the outside. It’s a promise, and as the ink dries, so do all my tears.
He’s given me more than one summer.
“It’s going to be hard not to see you every day,” I say, finally looking back up at him.
“Well, if you miss me a lot, you can always find me on YouTube. I don’t mean to brag, but my whipping videos have a couple of thousand views.”
“Ooh, a celebrity gave me his e-mail,” I breathe, and feign swooning.
Will merely shakes his head at me. “I’ll miss your strange sense of humor, Rainbow Ro. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“Then don’t make me wait too long.” He looks at me seriously. “E-mail me. I want to see you soon.”
“First thing,” I promise.
Will kisses me good-bye, and though it feels like he means it to be a short kiss, soon his arms encircle me and we’re leaning up against my car door, lost in each other.
“Hmmm, I’ll miss that, too,” Will whispers as he pulls away.
“Yeah, I’m going to want to do that again,” I say as I try to catch my breath.
“Then see you,” Will says, and squeezes my hand.
“Soon,” I agree, and get into my car.
Will is the last thing I see as I pull away from King Geoffrey’s Faire. Well, Will and the small troll on the post that first directed me to this wonderful place—Ramón’s troll. It’s strange now to think of myself on that first day, taking a turn onto an unknown dirt road and ending up somewhere better than I could have ever imagined.
The whole summer feels like a dream—a dream filled with fairy-tale things like knights and pretty dresses, yes, but art and friends and new love as well. A dream filled with promises of great things to come. As I head back to reality, I can’t resist giving the troll a wave good-bye.
I plug my cell phone into my car outlet and power it up for the first time in a month. I haven’t missed the device at all, though I’ve deeply missed the people on the other end of it. There are three voicemails: one from Kara saying she wants to hang out tonight and celebrate my homecoming; one from Meg, who is asking if I’ll get Davis’s number for her, and one from my mother. The one from my mother is the most intriguing, for a few reasons, not the least of which is that it’s about art school.
Rowena, this is your mother. I know we asked you to do the research but I couldn’t help myself. Do you know there’s a school for art in Providence? It’s not too far away at all. The Rhode Island School of Design, it’s called. The career paths are just lovely. Listen to this: They’ve got animation, graphic design, art history . . .
I listen to my mother ramble on about the prestige of being a graphic designer or an art museum curator and smile. Providence is only an hour away from Boston, where a certain whip cracker will be.
But right now, I have nothing but time. I turn off my GPS, not quite ready to be yelled at by a British robot. Instead, I dig the troll that Ramón made for me out of my purse and set her on my dashboard. She can guide me home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I want to thank Amy Rosenbaum for giving me Ro and King Geoffrey’s Faire. You shaped this story into what it is, and your guidance was invaluable. Also, thank you, Amy, for your faith in me. It came at a time when I needed it most, and because of that, I was able to find faith in myself. Your support means the world, and I am so thankful that you noticed my writing.
To Navah Wolfe, my editor, thank you for your insight, for challenging me, and for taking this story to a new level. I learned so much from you, and you taught it all with patience, care, and enthusiasm. Thank you for jumping headfirst into this book and loving Ro and the gang just as much as I do.
A big thank you to the Ohio Renaissance Festival and all of their employees for answering my questions, letting me explore, and making me feel like an insider. I wanted to be a “lifer” after my experience there. A special thanks to Suzanne Robbie Hay, who let me watch her paint face after face while I did nothing but ask questions and gulp down turkey legs. You helped me bring Ro’s job to life and provided a sense of realism that my nonartistic brain would never have imagined.
And, Laura Wills, thank you so much for tagging along and asking questions when I was too shy.
Thank you to Brent Taylor, who read this book in its first draft and whose continued enthusiasm never fails to keep me going and floors me at the same time. Thank you, too, to J. H. Trumble—a fantastic writer and a fantastic friend. Your advice is always right, and thanks for reminding me to take deep breaths and relax. I don’t think I could survive without daily e-mails from the both of you.
I have a few friends who, over the years, have provided helpful feedback that has made me a much better writer. Ann Skinner, your keen sense of characterization strengthened my own greatly, and you always rope me in and help me keep the plot in line. I can’t thank you enough for editing so much for me over the years. Kate Nondahl, your support, encouragement, advice, and grammar skills have helped me immeasurably. You’ve kept me going. Erin Sweeney, you’ve been a great cheerleader. We started this thing together, so hurry up and finish your novel! John Finck, you always manage to see my stories differently. Thank you for making me see them from new angles as well. It�
��s your turn now.
Melissa Lawson, my partner in crime. Thank you for being a great listener, a great hand-holder, a great instigator of hijinks, and a great everything else. I know that if I ever show up at your door with a dead body, you won’t say a word. You’ll just go find a shovel and start digging with me.
To my parents, Nick and Ruth Pinnix, thank you for being so supportive of all of my dreams and for encouraging my imagination. Because of you, it is limitless. Thank you for sitting through stuffed animal weddings and for listening to all of their stories.
Finally, to my husband, Andy, you really are my hero. You’re the guy who can always make me smile, who can always get me dancing, who can always make me laugh. You make me brave because, with you, I know there’s always someone on my side. Thank you for picking up the slack when I daydream too much, and for looking out for things that might make me stumble while my head is in the clouds. I truly don’t know what I’d do without you. Love you, baby. Always.
Author photo by Allison Bartholomew
Laura Wettersten lives in Ohio with her wonderful husband, their adorable son, and two neurotic dogs. She has degrees in both music education and library science, and when she’s not writing or teaching she enjoys directing middle school musicals, dancing awkwardly around her kitchen, and watching Wipeout and 30 Rock reruns. Visit her at laurawettersten.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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The text for this book is set in New Caledonia.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wettersten, Laura.
My faire lady / Laura Wettersten.—First edition.
pages cm
Summary: After breaking up with her boyfriend, seventeen-year-old Rowena takes an out-of-town summer job at a Renaissance fair, but romantic entanglements soon follow.
ISBN 978-1-4424-8933-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4424-8935-6 (eBook)
[1. Renaissance fairs—Fiction. 2. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 3. Love—Fiction. 4. Summer employment—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: My fair lady.
PZ7.W5335My 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013021542