Rebecca Lynn said, “I want to be like Laura Ingalls, Daddy. Can I? Can I be like Laura?”
“You can if we get chosen.”
My sister was smiling, my dad was smiling, and Ricardo was smiling. I faced the cameraman. Behind his creepy goatee, Carl was smiling too!
But I was not. My smile had crawled into a hole and died.
“Dad,” I said. “I’d miss my friends.”
“You’d make new friends in the backcountry,” Ricardo said.
I ignored him.
“Dad, please. You can’t be serious about this…”
Ricardo interrupted again. “This is the chance of a lifetime. It’s the opportunity to—”
“Shut up!” I screamed. Carl shoved the camera in my face, but I didn’t care. “This is asinine! Do you hear yourselves? How can you all think this is something I’d want to do?” I stood up. Tears ran down my face. I knew there were long black streaks on both my cheeks, like a Goth who’d just discovered that vampires are make-believe. “I don’t want to do this. Please, Dad, I’d miss junior prom. Plus, I only have this summer and next before college.” I had sort of forgotten about college over the last few months, but now it seemed like the most important thing in the world. “Please.”
No one said anything for a moment. The tiny red light on the camera held steady.
Dad took my hand. His voice was so quiet I could barely hear him. “Sit down, Brooke.”
I did as he asked. I wiped my cheeks with the backs of my hands. My bottom lip wouldn’t stop trembling. My dad took my chin and turned my face toward him. I tried to say “please” again, but it wouldn’t budge.
And then the words flew out of him like venom from a snake. “I’m doing this for you.”
“What?”
Ricardo said, “In your father’s letter he told us how things have been since your mother passed away. How hard it’s been, especially on you.”
My head jerked hard toward Ricardo.
“What the hell do you know? You don’t know anything about me. Or our family. You’re just creeping for some freaks to put on your show. You think I don’t know how reality shows work? How they deliberately try to make people look like idiots?”
“That’s not what this show is about—”
“You only do it to make money. Everybody knows that.”
“This is a shared venture,” Ricardo said. “Everyone involved loves history and wants to share that love with an audience.”
“I want an audience, Daddy,” Rebecca Lynn said. She was crying now, too.
Ricardo stood up. “Why don’t we take a little break? Let things cool down. We’ll come back in a few.”
Ricardo and Carl left the living room. I heard the front door close.
Dad stood up, and for a moment I thought he was going to hit me. My Dad bragged about the fact that he had never, ever, in his entire life, hit another soul, so this idea frightened me more than anything else.
“Stand up!” he ordered.
I did, but I took a step back.
“Why are you jeopardizing this?”
Rebecca Lynn stood behind him, sniffling. She grabbed onto his hand.
“I really don’t want to do this, Dad. I don’t—I don’t think it’s fair—”
“Fair? You’re talking to me about fair? You girls lost your mother. I lost my wife. So don’t say anything to me about fair.”
“I know you think you’re doing this for me, somehow, but…I don’t want to live in any time but now. I don’t want to live on a prairie, or in the woods, Dad. I don’t want to leave where we are.” I started bawling, choking on the words. “I’ll—I’ll do better in school, and I’ll start doing more around here. I won’t hang out with Libby anymore, or her friends from ECU. Is that what you want?”
Dad let go of Rebecca Lynn’s hand and pulled me to him. I could smell the spicy aftershave he hadn’t worn since before Mom died. He hugged me tightly as I cried into his shirt. But his hug told me the decision was already made; that I was a case of “too little, too late.”
“Brooke,” Dad said as he held me. “We’ve lost so much already…I don’t want to lose anything else.”
“Like what Dad?” I said in a muffled voice. “What are you afraid you’re going to lose?”
He squeezed me harder, and the words he chose bore a hole through my heart.
“You, Brookie. I’m afraid of losing you.”
Carl and Ricardo came back into the house and resumed their positions, Ricardo in the overstuffed chair and Carl with that one-eyed bird on his shoulder. Dad sat with his hand on mine as if to anchor me.
“So,” Ricardo said. “Get things ironed out?”
Dad nodded.
Right away, Ricardo started asking questions, one after the other, like he’d never left; like I hadn’t just had a personal meltdown.
Ricardo: “What religion are you?”
Dad: “Episcopalian. But we don’t go very often.”
Ricardo: “How physically active are you on a daily basis?”
Dad: “I enjoy taking walks along the river.”
Me: “You haven’t taken a walk in a long time, Dad.”
Dad: “Maybe you’re not home enough to witness it.”
Rebecca Lynn: “I ride my bike. And I jump rope.”
Ricardo: (Handing me his stupid smile.) “And you?”
Me: (Shrugging, defeated.) “I go to gym class at school. And I walk down to my friend Libby’s house a couple times a week. It’s a few blocks.”
Ricardo: “What activities do you do over there?”
Me: “Hang out. Play pool. Watch Netflix. Junk like that.”
Ricardo: (Scribbling on the sheet.) “What do you know about the Civil War era?”
Rebecca Lynn: (Shouting like a contestant on The Price is Right.) “Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves!”
Dad: “I’ve read a few books on the subject.”
Ricardo: (Smiling, moving a finger along the edge of the sheet.) “Any specific skills you’d like to share?”
Dad: “Skills?”
Ricardo: “Anything that could make your family stand out from the others. Like weaving. Or tanning.”
Me: “What does tanning have to do with Laura Ingalls?” I pictured myself in a bikini, my winter skin soaking up the rays out in the middle of a wheat field. It was the first time that day that laughter rose up inside me.
Ricardo: “Tanning is making leather.”
Dad: “I never did any tanning, but back in my teens I helped grow collards.”
“You did?” I asked, surprised.
“With your Great Uncle Mitchell. He owned a farm out in Boone. I spent a couple of summers there, and he taught me how to plant and harvest.” (To Ricardo.) “I also learned to brew beer. But that skill I learned from my father. He owned a few breweries. I have what you might call an eclectic family.”
“But you chose to become a chemical engineer,” Ricardo said.
“Yes. Well. Real life beckoned.”
Ricardo: “Would the family be open to a physical?”
Dad: “Of course.”
Ricardo: “Can any of you sew?”
Dad nudged me.
Me: (Mumbling.) “I sewed a pillow once.”
Dad: “It’s beautiful, with velvet trim. As nice as Pier 1. Her grandmother keeps it on the sofa in her living room.”
Ricardo: “Can any of you cook?”
Another nudge.
Me: (Sighing.) “A little.”
Dad: “Brooke did everything around here when her mother was ill, including the cooking. She made meatloaf, burritos, lasagna, chicken and rice. She’s a wonderful cook.”
Ricardo: “Any of you know how to ride a horse?”
Rebecca Lynn: “I like dogs better than horses.”
Dad: “Brooke?”
Me: (Fiddling with my eyebrow hoop like a kid with OCD.) “I took riding lessons for three years during middle school.”
Ricardo placed the paper in a beige folde
r and closed it.
“Why do you think you should be one of the families chosen for this venture?”
Before I had time to add my two cents, Dad said, “We understand hardship and know what it takes to overcome that. When we have disagreements, we work through them. We can also offer humor and creativity to the project.”
“Venture,” Ricardo corrected.
“Venture,” Dad repeated.
“And you?” Ricardo asked Rebecca Lynn.
“It would be fun to dress up like Laura Ingalls. Could we have some pets?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned to me. “How about you, Brooke? A little while ago, you wanted nothing to do with any of this. What made you change your mind?”
The way Dad’s voice had trembled. The way he held me so tightly he almost cracked my ribs. The way his panicked words told me he was afraid of losing me, even though I’d been afraid of losing myself for nearly a year.
Welcome to my world, Dad.
Ricardo stared at me, waiting.
It occurred to me no matter what I said, or how I said it, it wouldn’t matter. If our family, even after all my stink and tears, ended up on the show, I would not be shipped off to a relative’s house for four months. There would be no shopping at Peacock’s Plume for the perfect prom dress, no sitting in a stretch limo with my bestie, miniature bottles of vodka and rum tucked inside our sparkly purses. I would not spend the summer tubing on the river, or hanging out at Libby’s beach house in Emerald Isle. I’d miss my kitchen, my bedroom, my house, and everything in my life that was as different from Laura Ingalls’ life as one can imagine.
And it also hit me that no matter how much I wished it, Mom would not be able to save me.
“My dad wants change,” I told Ricardo, trying not to cry again. “I guess this is the only way to give him that.”
“Us,” Dad said. “This is for all of us.”
But it’s because of me, I thought, clinging to the outside chance we wouldn’t be chosen. I secretly crossed my toes and silently pieced together what I remembered from the Our Father prayer.
Dad asked Ricardo, “Did we make it in?”
“The videos still have to be reviewed by our producers. Their decision won’t be made lightly, but we’ll let you know ASAP. We want to give our families enough time to prepare, both mentally and emotionally. A venture like this will be life changing—for everyone involved.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Libby had a huge FROG—Finished Room Over Garage—which her totally awesome parents let her and her three older brothers turn into a hangout room, with an old plaid sofa bed, a bunch of beanbag chairs, a huge flat screen, and a pool table that had seen a lot of use. A bunch of us neighborhood kids met over there at least once a week, and we hung out until dinnertime, when her mom told us to go home and eat with our own families.
“You’ll understand why this is important when you have kids of your own,” she’d say as Libby and her brothers set the table.
When I returned from Lib’s the Monday after the home interview, I heard my dad’s voice coming from the den.
“I understand,” he was saying. “Thank you, Ricardo, for taking the time to call.”
I stepped into the arched doorway of the den. Dad looked up from his leather recliner. The cell phone sat on the coffee table. Channel 13 News was on the television over the fireplace, but the volume was turned down. The ticker tape that ran along the bottom of the screen told me there was a thirty percent chance of rain.
“That was Ricardo?” I asked.
Dad nodded but didn’t say a word.
Either way, I was afraid to hear the answer. If we got on the show, the next four months of my life would be destroyed. If we didn’t, I was sure my dad would try to find another way not to “lose” me. Like by sending me to some creepy all-girl boarding school where American Pecking Order Stats was a required course. Or to Outward Bound where I’d have to live in the wild and feast on tree bark.
“Go get your sister,” Dad said.
Rebecca Lynn was doing her math homework at the kitchen counter. A pot of spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove.
“Dad wants to talk to us,” I told her.
“Okay,” she said, jumping down from the stool.
I grabbed her by the wrist, hard, so she’d know I wasn’t messing around.
“Ouch!”
“Shut up and listen to me. Dad got a call from Ricardo.”
“So? You don’t have to break my arm.”
“If we didn’t get picked, Dad is going to be really upset. I just want to prepare you.”
“If we didn’t get picked, it’ll be your fault.” She pulled out of my grasp and ran into the den.
Dad leaned against the leather chair arm, his arms folded across his chest. “I have some news.”
Rebecca Lynn hopped from one foot to the other like she had to pee.
“Ricardo said the turnout at the audition was more than anyone expected. They’re only choosing a select few…” He looked at the muted television as if the words he needed were scrolling across the bottom along with the weather. “Well…so…he and the producers agree that the Decker Family…would be an asset to the show.”
My mental dictionary looked up the word “asset” and my knees nearly buckled.
“Daddy?” Rebecca Lynn said. “Did we, or didn’t we?”
Dad suddenly jumped to the center of the room, danced a jig like a drunken leprechaun, and scooped up Rebecca Lynn in his arms. “We did we did we did!” He swung her around in a wide circle. After he put her back down, he said, “You girls ready to go back in time?”
“I am!” Rebecca Lynn squealed.
“How about you, Brooke?”
I didn’t answer. I held my fist against my mouth like I’d just witnessed a murder.
“She’s crying again, Daddy,” Rebecca Lynn said.
“You should be proud,” Dad told me. “We beat out hundreds of other families.” He took the remote control and turned off the television. “Why don’t you go upstairs and process this? I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
I barely felt my legs as they took me up to my bedroom, where posters of Bob Marley, Katy Perry, Pink, and other cool singers covered my walls. Where my laptop sat ready and waiting, my light blue pillow shams and bedspread and curtains matched a perfect Eastern North Carolina sky, and my closet full of not-yet-worn summer clothes seemed to sigh with sadness.
“Ricardo said I can have pets,” Rebecca Lynn was saying downstairs. “Do you think he’ll let me have a pig?”
I kicked my bedroom door shut before I heard the answer.
CHAPTER SIX
Ricardo came to our house the next day accompanied by a man dressed in an expensive suit and shiny leather shoes. Carl the cameraman tagged along. Rebecca Lynn and I followed the men into the living room.
Ricardo introduced the man in the suit as Burt Novak, the show’s executive producer.
“I know this is a lot for your family to take in,” Novak said as he sat on the sofa before anyone asked him to. “We’re here to answer any questions you may have.”
“I have a question,” I said. “Why did you choose the 1860s? Why not a fun era, like the Roaring Twenties, or the 1960s?”
I pictured my hands and head stuck in the stocks like an accused witch, or on my dress a red letter “A” for “Adultery” for being unfaithful to the venture.
“We made the decision in a very unconventional way,” Novak said. “Our team sat at a table at the Red Lobster, put a bunch of dates on scraps of paper, and threw them into a hat. Eighteen-sixty-one was the winner. The name of the show is Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town. I think the title says it all, really. The town will be filled with other families, just like yours. Though there will be individuals who are on their own, for the sake of keeping the town feeling real.”
“On their own?” Dad asked.
“Like the town sheriff. The reverend and his wife. There may even be a passerby from time
to time, to keep things authentic. We want to stay true to the events of the day.”
“Like what?” I asked, way too lazy to go through the American history timeline buried somewhere in my brain.
“Like the Civil War,” he said. “There may be a few reenactors roaming about, along with a some other surprises.”
Civil War reenactors were nothing new to me. New Bern, North Carolina, my hometown, is steeped in Civil War antiques, yearly encampments, blacksmithing, and re-created duels. There are even stories of cannon balls buried in the mud on the Neuse River floor.
“Let’s get to the rules,” Novak said. “Each family will be strictly monitored. You do something against the grain, and the cameras are bound to catch it. You do something a little extra 1800s-ish, and the cameras will catch that as well. Our camera people will seem intrusive in the beginning, but you’ll get used to them. The videos are sent to the producers on a consistent basis. But you don’t need to be bothered with that. Just worry about not getting kicked off the show.”
“Kicked off?” I asked, a little too enthusiastically. “What would get us kicked off?”
“Sneaking in something that wasn’t yet invented. Speaking like a modern girl instead of one from 1861…”
Rebecca Lynn said, “I can talk like a girl from back then.” She stood up. “Papa, there are turkeys over yonder!” She giggled and sat back down.
“Wonderful,” Novak said, grinning like a dipwad. “Each family will arrive at different times to establish the town. Your family will be the last to arrive. Some are already there. Like the mercantile owners, for instance, who set up weeks ago.”
I was relieved we didn’t own a mercantile.
Novak said, “And each family will have their own MO.”
“MO?” I asked.
“Modus operandi. It’s Latin. Basically, it means, where you came from, why you moved there, and so on. Your backstory.”
Ricardo added, “But all the backstories are different.”
“Right,” Novak said. “That way the show has layers. You’ll find out yours the day your venture begins. Until then, we recommend doing some research. Might help you acclimate more easily. At the end of your stay, our team of historians will be reviewing all of the videos, evaluating the condition of your homesteads, as well the general condition of each family member. They’ll be looking at things like animal health, cleanliness, food supply, money left…”
Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town Page 3
