by Anya Monroe
Her old group of friends had summer plans that Marigold decided she didn’t want to partake in. Somehow backpacking Europe or hiking Machu Picchu or an internship in NYC didn’t hold the lure it once had. She was sick and tired of being caught. Marigold wanted to be free.
She made her way to the campus graveyard, full of secrets and mystery, but mostly quiet. In the center stood a fountain filled with coins, water bubbling over the copper and silver. She took a penny from her beaded purse and pressed it between her thumb and forefinger, lingering under the moonlight.
She needed a wish, something. Anything.
A guy with a broad-rimmed hat and suspenders walked alone across the lawn and caused her pause, but she didn’t keep her eyes up. She put the coin to her lip and kissed it before throwing it in with the others. She’d have to wait to see if hers came true.
Abel
The driver pulled to a stop and looked at Abel through the rearview mirror. After the bus ride, he had hailed a taxi, overwhelmed at the idea of navigating the city himself.
“Here’s your stop, sure this is the right place?” He gave Abel, in his Amish clothes, a second look.
“‘Tis right. This is Madison Hall, my new home.” Abel looked out the window smiling; he had been waiting months for this moment. Climbing out of the car he stretched his legs, cramped after the two-and-a-half hour ride.
The dorm was a large brick building, situated in the heart of campus. The street was lined with cars, and people rode bikes while talking on phones. Ivy covered the walls of the four-story building, setting the stage for the ultimate college experience, even if it was for a single summer.
The taxi driver took the suitcases from the trunk, setting them on the curb. “You think there’s a place to hang your hat in that fancy place?”
Abel handed him a few bills then shook his hand. “If there’s no hook to hang it, I’ll put a nail in the wall myself.”
The driver laughed, pulling away, and Abel walked to the door, not looking back.
The Resident Assistant sitting at the front desk checked Abel in and led him to his room on the second floor. He already knew his roommate was a guy named Lacey from Cincinnati, per the email he’d received at the public library in Lancaster.
“Bathrooms are on each floor, and then the dining hall is just two buildings to the left. Super easy to find,” explained Tara, the RA, pointing as she went. “And if you ever have problems with other students, someone is always on duty. In the summer, it’s just the first two floors of Madison Hall for the Summer Intensive kids, like you.”
“How many of us are here?”
“Usually about twenty in each of the Intensives. What’s your program?” She wore thick black eyeglasses and makeup that made her eyes shine. Abel was grateful for a warm person to ease him in.
“Business.”
“Oh awesome, I’m a business major myself, third year. Professor Trape runs that Intensive and he is fantastic.” She smiled, stopping in front of a metal door, labeled Room 18 with a paper made sign. The names Lacey and Abel were colored in markers. “Like the sign I made you?”
“You did this?”
“Yeah, I’m kinda like the floor mother. So if you have any issues, let me know. I’m in Room 22, so I’m close if you need anything.”
Smiling tightly, Abel tried to absorb the information. He knew it would be a lot to take in, and he was right. Everything was different. He’d never spent a night away from his house in his life, and now he was moving in here for ten weeks.
“You nervous? You look nervous,” Tara asked, patting him on the arm. “It’s going to be okay. From what I can gather, you aren’t used to the city, and your back story isn’t my business, but honest— if you need anything, ask.”
Abel knew Tara’s compassion wasn’t the norm with Englisher’s, at least not the ones who toured Lancaster County. Those people were nosy and wanted a sliver of Amish life to take home with them. Often these visitors bought fresh vegetables and black strap molasses, as if a few ingredients would provide them the recipe for a simple life.
Abel’s family, the Millers, didn’t come in contact much with these folks. The Millers owned a large private sheep farm, which wasn’t a contracted stop on guided tours. Still, Abel would hear stories from friends at church of these jean-wearing folk who gawked and pointed at them.
He knew all about the time his cousin, Martha, who worked at her family bakery, was asked if she’d ever worn pants by a teenage guy. Or the time his friend, Joshua, was given a phone number by a girl wearing heels. Joshua didn’t have the heart to tell her he wouldn’t be calling, and it wasn’t because she wasn’t hot. He didn’t own a telephone.
Tara rapped on the door, and it was opened by a short, stocky guy.
“Hey, Tara, what’s up?” he asked.
“This is Abel, your roommate,” she said, waving Abel closer.
He swallowed his nerves and focused on enunciating his words as clearly as possible. He’d been practicing speaking without his thick Dutch accent, but he knew it would be seen as a red flag.
“Hello,” Abel said, sticking out his hand politely.
“Hey, dog, look at you!” Lacey’s eyebrows popped up as he took Abel in. “You never answered my emails, man. I wanted to know if you minded me bringing a mini-fridge.”
Abel looked dumbfounded and didn’t answer. Tara stepped back and scratched her head as if trying to figure out how this popped-collar pseudo-gangster was going to fit with an Amish Puritan.
Abel wondered the same thing.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna leave you both to it. Orientation is tomorrow, okay?” Tara walked away patting Abel’s arm, seemingly unconvinced this arrangement was going to work.
“So … I guess I’ll just come in.” Abel walked into the dorm room, noticing right away it wasn’t so different than the sparsely decorated room of his childhood. Plain white walls, a small four-drawer dresser, and narrow twin beds. He’d grown up sharing space with Eli, but his brother was even more reserved than him.
Lacey had already gone back to hanging up a poster over his bed, featuring a giant pot leaf with the words, Light Up Your Life. Classic, Abel thought.
“So, dude, you ready to party?” Lacey said. “I mean I know its school and everything, but I was stoked to get away for the summer. I already saw this one girl, she was wearing some weird shit, this costume and sword and I don’t know, but it was hot. Believe me.”
“Oh, um, well I am looking forward to getting to know the other people in the program,” Abel answered diplomatically, setting his suitcase on the empty bed. Rubbing his hand over his chin he tried to think of something else to say. He had nothing.
“That’s cool, man.” Lacey finished taping the corner of the poster and plopped down on the bed. “So in the email from the housing people it said you were from Lancaster.”
“Right.”
“So I googled it, cuz I didn’t know that area. And so, you’re like, Amish?”
“Ja, I mean, mostly.”
“That’s cool. I mean, are you pretty straight edge then?” Lacey flipped a cheap plastic lighter in his hand.
“Well, I guess, mostly.”
“Mostly your answer to everything?”
Abel smiled, wanting to let his guard down, especially since he wanted to get along with his roommate.
“I’ve smoked if that’s what you mean,” Abel answered, shaking his head, not quite believing in two minutes flat he’d already gone there with his roommate. He had, plenty of times with Joshua, down at the place where they used to party, but he hadn’t in a month or so. Everything changed after things got messy between his sister, Bekah, and his best friend. He didn’t really want to be a part of that scene anymore.
Especially after he got accepted to the summer program.
Lacey seemed to visibly relax, his shoulders dropped and his grin grew wide. “Sweet, I mean, I like to smoke.” He pointed to his poster. “But I didn’t want to be a jackass either.”
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“Amish teenagers are like most teenagers. We’re all just trying to figure it out.”
“So how’d you end up here? Isn’t that like sacrilege?”
“I always really liked school, and when it stopped in eighth grade, I took liberties and kept teaching myself.”
“And you got into this program? It’s hard as hell man.” Lacey whistled. “Damn, self-taught, huh? My parents have been paying tutors for me as long as I can remember, SAT prep courses and all that shit. And you just like, what? Got a book from the library?”
“Something like that,” Abel said, remembering it was exactly that. He read those SAT prep books and used the library computers to find out when the tests were and after he got his results, a librarian’s jaw dropped and she told him about this program.
Abel spent years devouring any reading materials he could get his hands on. Once accepted in the Jamestown Summer Intensive and he unashamedly declared his thirst for knowledge, a prideful sentiment not highly regarded in the church, it became clear the bishop needed to be involved.
The only saving grace was that since Abel was eighteen and on Rumspringa, his church sanctioned time to “run around” in the outside world before being baptized, there was little they could do to forbid it.
“Wanna go check this place out?”
“Sure.” Abel stood, not having unpacked yet. Remembering how he got here, the people he left to do this, he felt ready to seize the moment, to find his place. To not look back. “I’m starving.”
Later that evening Abel was exhausted and ready to get to sleep before his orientation the next day. Lacey had mellowed over dinner, and Abel realized he might be as nervous as him, just showing it in a different way. Mostly, as a privileged gangster.
They’d eaten dinner with people Abel couldn’t remember and Lacey had gone off with them, leaving Abel alone. He was grateful. He’d always ended his evening with solitude. He craved the silence that hung over his parents’ farmhouse as he fell on his single bed, exhaling. He had done it. Really, truly done it. He’d thought for sure a problem would crop up that would force him to stay home. Force him to fill delivery trucks or muck stalls when a member of the day crew called in sick.
His SAT scores had changed everything, and nothing held him back besides frustrated parents and a disappointed brother. But none of their excuses kept him from coming to this Business Intensive Summer Program, a program enrolling rising seniors, a program that granted him admission due to his extenuating circumstances.
Namely, the fact he never went to high school.
He was here.
He unlaced his shoes and unhooked his suspenders, thinking of the late evening walk he’d taken. He’d been so excited to see the campus even though everything was dark by the time they finished eating in the dining hall. The brick walkways, the enormous buildings as old as the city itself, the graveyard filled with tombstones hundreds of years old.
He wished he could tell Joshua about his day. Maybe they’d sit around a bonfire, or he might even have told Esther about it in a quiet buggy ride. But Abel knew even if he were face-to-face with them, the people he’d known his entire life wouldn’t understand. They would want to know what strange foods he ate, what clothes people wore, and if everyone thought his accent was funny. Those weren’t the things he’d want to share.
He wanted to tell them things they wouldn’t understand. He’d say walking that brick path was better than taking his first steps, he’d swear the library they passed smelled like the books he dreamed of reading, he’d say he saw an angel in the graveyard, dressed in lace spun by the moon, praying to a fountain filled with gems.
He’d say all his wishes had come true.
Chapter 2
Marigold
She honestly didn’t expect their threats to come to fruition. But the week after her father’s book launch, they called her to the study before she’d even eaten breakfast. Completely caught off guard, like that was their plan or something.
“We didn’t raise you to be lazy,” her mother said coolly, flicking the hair from her grey eyes as she sat in a tweed armchair. “We’ve all chosen to put your past behind you. Thank god your father’s connections kept you away from court and judicial punishment.”
“It’s not exactly behind us if you keep bringing it up,” Marigold said softly. She was so tired of defending herself. Yes, she had screwed up, but she’d paid the price.
Her mother shook her head as if not wanting to get sidetracked by Marigold’s feelings. “Listen, if you aren’t going to use this summer preparing for your future you need to procure gainful employment.”
Marigold stared at them, not ready for this. It was still morning. Her hair was in a messy bun atop her head, a yellow tank top with sparrows embroidered on the front clinging to her ribs, a pair of baby blue bloomers on her legs. She was barely awake.
“Where could I even get a job? You know as well as I do that nearly every shop in the area threatened me with a restraining order last year. Why are you doing this?” Her blank eyes blinked at the people before her. Her mother pointedly held Marigold’s gaze. Sighing, she realized what they were actually doing – forcing her into a corner she didn’t want … college.
Her father coughed, his wrinkled face appearing more wrinkled the week after his book release. He didn’t appear all that interested in being summoned from his morning routine for Marigold. The Wall Street Journal sat folded in his lap, and his weathered eyes kept glancing down.
“Max,” Eileen prodded. “Say that thing you said you were going to say.”
“Oh god, Eileen, give it a rest. This whole idea is so proletarian of you. You want her to go get a job? She’s never even washed her own laundry.”
They argued incessantly, this was no surprise to Marigold. However, what she did take affront to was the fact her father knew nothing about her besides shallow assumptions.
“Seriously? I make my own laundry soap, don’t you know anything?” Marigold asked, incredulous. She was the one who taught the housecleaner how to mix borax with lavender oil.
“She needs a job, Max, she’s sitting around the house everyday like a degenerate.” Marigold’s mother spoke as if her eldest daughter wasn’t in the room.
“Says the women who insisted on letting her child choose her own bedtime, her own hobbies, her own limits. Look where your child-led parenting got you eighteen years later.” He mocked his wife openly, and Marigold didn’t like it, but she also didn’t like her mom’s new parenting tactics. Namely, forcing employment.
“Don’t you dare throw that in my face, Max.” Eileen stood up, crossing her arms in protest. “I can’t have my child waste away, I don’t want her to end up like the Parson boy.”
The Parson boy had moved into a commune in Berkley and used Kickstarter to fund his Veggie-Oil refinery. He was happy. She imagined a very pleasant life for herself if she was anything like the Parson’ boy.
Marigold wanted to tell them how she really felt, that college was a waste when she didn’t know what she wanted. That college wasn’t for everyone. But she’d already tried to explain herself so many times. She was trying to prove that she was in no rush to become who she wasn’t.
Max sat in the chair as if no amount of disruption would get in the way of the paper and coffee. But still, he was angry. “You say that, Eileen, but I met you on a picket line!”
It was true. Eileen had been a young activist, writing columns for the newspaper berating big business. Nine months later, she delivered the steel mogul’s son. They were married. She put down her mantle and got an MFA and began writing stories glamorizing a life she never lived. A life the Parson boy actually was living. She was a hypocrite.
“Enough!” her mom shouted. “Just be on my side, Max. I need you to support this. You promised me this from the beginning. You promised to take my side with the children.”
While this conversation took place, Marigold continued to sit with her hands in her lap, knowing they were just g
oing to get more upset with her if she spoke. Maybe she should just move to the Parson boy’s commune, she thought. The main issue to that plan, or any other plan that wasn’t college, was the fact she had no money to support herself. She’d given every penny she’d made off her YouTube videos to the barista she’d gotten fired.
Maybe a job wasn’t the worst idea in the world. If only she could get one. Obviously no business in the vicinity would hire her after the videos she took on their premises. But there had to be places that would employ her.
Max put down his paper and looked at his wife across the room. The wife who appeared exhausted from not getting her way. The wife who everyone knew wouldn’t stop until she did.
“Fine. Marigold, you have to get a job.” He gave in completely, as if he hadn’t been yelling a few moments ago. He was no longer interested in the fight.
Marigold’s father Max was twenty years his wife’s senior, and this morning, his age showed. Marigold rarely thought of his maturity, she’d always been more aware of the fact that her dad wasn’t the dad of the year.
He attempted to appear at the appropriate times, but he was busy and sort of famous from his how-to books about the business sector. And considering they were absolutely nothing alike, it never bothered her all that much.
Now that she was being cornered into a job, all she could remember were the times he had neglected to show an interest in her achievements, especially her latest ones. The ones that she was most proud of.
When she’d learned to sew her own clothes, when she gave every person in the family a handmade Christmas gift, when she single-handedly prepared a six-course dinner on Thanksgiving. It had been the best meal she’d ever eaten. Everything was from scratch; not even the cranberry sauce came from a can. She had boiled fresh berries in sugar water and cooled it a day ahead of time. None of that was on her family’s radar.
Academics or nothing. To them, she was a failure.
