Colonial Madness (10 page)

“Earrings?”

I laughed and Caleb held up a hand. “You think I'm joking.”

He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a strip of leather punched with holes. From several dangled intricately shaped earrings.

“You made these?” I asked, unhooking one that had a trio of tinkling metal leaves.

“Well, the posts are surgical steel, but the rest is all me,” he said. “And if you want, you can help me design a pair for you.”

I put the earring down and faced him. “You spend a lot of time in here making stuff to sell, don't you?”

For some reason, Caleb bristled at that and went back to his anvil. “I guess,”
he said, pushing on the bellows. The room got exponentially hotter as the flames grew.

“It's not a bad thing,” I said, wincing from the heat. “It's just . . . I think you might be overdoing it. Kids our age only work this hard in sweatshops.” I wiped my forehead and showed him my hand. “And this is getting pretty close.”

Caleb smirked and picked up a pair of tongs. “Unfortunately, I don't have a choice. While you and your family have the luxury of competing for a fortune, my folks and I are just barely getting by.” He grabbed the metal disc with the tongs and plunged it into the fire.

I frowned. “Caleb, this isn't a luxury for me,” I told him. “If my mom and I don't win, we can't afford to keep our business open. If that happens, we lose her business
and
our house.”

He paused in rotating the disc. One side began to warp. When he saw what was happening, he quickly withdrew it. “I'm sorry,” he said without looking at me.

“It's okay,” I said. “I shouldn't have said anything about how you live
your
life. I'm sorry.”

But for some reason, he didn't seem comforted.

My heart sank. “Do you . . . do you still want to hang out tonight?”

Caleb looked at me and nodded firmly. “Just the two of us.”

“Good. I'll wear my best bracelet and my least smelly dress,” I said.

One corner of his mouth slowly crept up into a smile. “It's a date.”

I left the craft hut with a smile and some string and found my bucket of lard exactly where I'd left it. Apparently, Dylan had no reason to sabotage it, which meant he probably didn't know what it could be used for. Score one for me.

I spooned the lard into the pot and almost threw up when a big chunk of fat revealed a putrid liquid layer underneath. Maybe Mom and I didn't need candles. Maybe we could just develop night vision, like owls, or scream at objects to find them, like bats. I raised one arm to cover my nose and finished spooning. Then I melted the lard over a fire for Pukestravaganza #2.

“What are you cooking?” Mom walked up, her voice muffled by one hand over her nose and mouth.

“I'm not cooking; I'm making candles.” I took a step back and studied her, chicken feathers smattering her clothes and hair. “What happened to you?”

“Oh, I thought I could get the chickens to play Duck, Duck, Goose,” she said. “I was wrong.”

“Really?”

“No. They seemed a little cramped in the chest, so I decided to move them to the bathtub.”

“The bathtub where we take our baths?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Relax. They struggled so much, I never got the chance before they flew out the window.” Mom peered into the pot. “That's melting nicely.”

I stared at her. “Excuse me?”

“I said the fat—”

“I'm not talking about the fat!” I banged the spoon against the pot, and bits of lard flew everywhere. “What happened to the chickens?”

Mom took the spoon, no doubt worried I might weaponize it. “I told you. They flew out the window.”

“Chickens can't fly!”

“They can if it's a short distance,” said Mom. “Or if they're incredibly athletic.”

I continued to stare at her.

“Unfortunately, neither of those was true in our case,” she said with a sheepish shrug.

I sighed.

“But we'll eat well today!” she said with a reassuring smile.

“We could've eaten well for two weeks!” I told her. “You didn't scare
the cow, too, did you? Because I know they can't fly at all.”

While we talked, I started making the candles. Gripping the string in the middle with both hands, I dipped the rest of it into the lard pot and then lifted it out.

“And since I'm on a roll, I've got more bad news,” said Mom. “Because it could be seen as an unfair advantage, we're no longer allowed to spend time outside the contest with the staff.” She paused. “A.k.a. Caleb.”

A.k.a. date night was canceled.

“That's fine,” I lied, though I wanted to dunk Dylan's head in the lard. I had a feeling he was behind this.

“Sorry, hon.” Mom squeezed me to her. “But there are plenty of boys back home.” She put the spoon she was holding on the table. “I'm going to pluck and cook those chickens before flies eat the good parts.”

She kissed the top of my head, and I went back to dipping candles, quietly seething inside.

Until I saw Caleb.

He came out of his craft hut and made a direct line for me, clutching a small white box in one hand.

“Those candles are looking pretty good!” he said.

“Yeah, but they're not smelling pretty good,” I said. “What's that you've got?” I nodded to the box.

He grinned and ducked his head. “Just a little something for you. Sorry I got so defensive earlier.”

I took it from him and opened it. Inside were the leaf earrings I'd been admiring. I beamed up at him. “These are awesome! Thank you so much!”

“I thought you'd like to have those, even though we're going to make you some special ones tonight,” he said.

“Tonight,” I repeated, remembering Mom's warning.

“We
are
still on for tonight, right?” asked Caleb.

It took me roughly two seconds of hesitation before I answered.

“Yes, of course I'll be there.”

Y
ou want me to what?” asked Angel. “You can't be serious.”

I clasped my hands in front of me. “Just for tonight. I already promised Caleb I'd meet him before I knew the contest rules.”

Angel crossed her arms over her chest. “You know you could get disqualified. You really want to do that for a guy who lives hundreds of miles away?”

“Nobody's going to find out,” I said. “And Caleb isn't going to say anything. Please just cover for me for, like, an hour.”

Angel studied me closely. “One hour. Sixty minutes.”

“Sixty minutes,” I promised.

She sighed and waved me away. “Go. Have fun. Fall in love.”

“Thank you!” I squealed, and hugged her.

“Oh! Ack!” she cried, pushing me away. “I'm pretty sure he's not going to fall in love with that smell. What have you been doing?”

I shrank back. “Picking vegetables in the hot, hot sun, and boiling rancid fat. You wouldn't happen to have any all-natural body-odor remedies, would you?”

“Vinegar and mint,” said Angel. “Mint to mask the smell, and vinegar to prevent more. I actually have a solution that combines both.”

She disappeared into her bathroom and returned a moment later with a small bottle. I tried to take it from her, but she pulled her hand back.

“I'm doing you three favors,” she said. “I want something in return.”

“Three favors?” I repeated.

“This stuff can be used as a deodorizer
and
mouthwash,” she said. “And I'm lying to your mother for you.”

I nodded. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

I ground my teeth together but nodded again. “I'll be right back.”

Slipping into my bedroom, I shuffled through the feathers
on the floor and got on my hands and knees. We'd chosen to stash all our fruits and vegetables under the bed, so I rolled the watermelon out and hefted it into my arms. Queenie mooed from her corner by the wardrobe.

“Don't tell Mom,” I said, closing the door behind me.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” said Angel when I presented her with the melon. She handed over the bottle. “And good luck in the afternoon challenge.”

“Yeah,” I said, pocketing it. “You too.”

But I knew neither of us really meant it.

After a delicious lunch of second-story chicken, Mom and I joined the other families in a field where targets had been set up fifty yards away. Eli leaned against a post jutting from the ground, one of about twenty posts scattered at random around us.

“It would appear that some of you lack in foodstuffs,” he said. “In colonial times, this was when it became necessary to find more. Therefore, we give you the opportunity to go ‘hunting.' ” He crooked his fingers.

“Did air quotes exist in colonial times?” Mom asked me in a low voice. I shushed her.

“It would be truer to have you shoot and kill your own animals,” he said, causing Angel's whole family to gasp. “But I do not feel as if you can all be trusted with weaponry.” I might have imagined
it, but I was pretty sure his eyes flicked to Dylan.

“Therefore, using bow and arrow, you will attempt to hit the target, the bull's-eye specifically. The closest two will win a basket of foodstuffs.”

“Easy,” said Mom. “I took archery at summer camp.”

Several other people murmured confidence in themselves.

“Let's get shooting,” said Dylan, rubbing his hands together. “Where's the gear?”

Eli smiled and indicated a stack of bows propped against a tree. “I've provided the bows. You must provide the arrows.”

“How's that?” someone asked.

“We have to make them,” I said.

“Correct!” said Eli. “All you should require are sticks and feathers.” When he mentioned the first item, he pointed to the trees, and when he mentioned the second . . . Caleb rolled up in a wagon with another guy about his age in a hat that said
TOM'S TURKEYS
.

“Uh-oh,” said Angel.

Both guys jumped down and grabbed a roll of baling wire off the back. In five minutes' time, they'd unrolled it all around the posts I'd noticed, and soon the families were enclosed in a large patch of field.

And then . . . the demons were unleashed.

A dozen turkeys who clearly did not want to lose their feathers sprinted from their cage to the far end of the enclosure.

“You have until the sand runs out to prepare three arrows per family,” said Eli. He held up a large hourglass and flipped it over.

Everyone burst into action, running straight for the turkeys. Mom grabbed my arm and held me back.

“Everyone else is gonna get their feathers first!” I said, trying to pull free.

“No,” said Mom, crouching low. “They're going to drive the turkeys right to us.”

Sure enough, half the birds were headed back toward our side of the enclosure.

“There.” She pointed. “The one that looks like it has a perm.”

We both dove for the same bird, which squawked and let out a Gobble of Doom.

Mom held it tight. “Get four feathers!”

I winced and said, “Sorry, Mr. Turkey.” Then I grabbed the feathers and yanked. The second they were in my hand, Mom released the bird and grabbed my free hand.

“Let's go!”

She pulled me out of the enclosure, and I was happy to see we were the first ones free.

“Grab the straightest, longest sticks you can find,” she instructed me. “I'll split the feathers.”

I scanned the ground for fallen branches, picking some up and throwing others aside. After I found the best, I glanced at the hourglass in Eli's hand. It was halfway empty. I glanced into the turkey pen. One of the families was still inside.

“Tori!” Mom called to me.

I hurried over with the branches and she studied them, throwing away all but three.

“Good job,” she said. Mom took a knife out of her pocket and sharpened one end of each stick into a point. “Now we add feathers.”

“With what?” I asked. “Glue?”

She sawed three grooves along the sides of the opposite end, sliding the vein of a halved feather into each groove.

“Cool!” I said, admiring her handiwork when she finished the first one. “Where did you learn that?”

Mom smirked. “I'm a dressmaker, sweetheart. My job is making pieces fit seamlessly.”

She finished the second arrow, then the third, and cut a notch in the feathered end of each for the bowstring.

“Shall we test them out?” she asked.

But before she'd even nocked the first arrow, Eli hollered for everyone to stop.

“Time has run out!” he cried. “Grab your bows and arrows and follow me to the targets.” He pointed to the family still in the turkey enclosure. “Except you. Your time has run out for the contest as well.”

The rest of us fell into step behind Eli, and while we walked, I stared at other people's arrows. They all looked pretty crude, with Angel's family's looking crudest of all.

Theirs didn't have feathers; they had leaves.

“Um . . .” I pointed at Angel's arrow.

“We couldn't do it,” she said.

“How would you like it if someone chased you around the yard and pulled out your hair?” asked Aunt Zoe.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “You don't think those leaves are going to crumble under the pressure?”

“It was either this or get disqualified,” said Uncle Deke.

“Enough idle chatter,” said Eli. “You will surely startle your prey.” He gestured to some hay bales with bull's-eyes painted on them.

Dylan snickered.

“Assemble a line and take your shots. The order matters not,” said Eli, ignoring him.

And even though Mom and I were last in line, we placed first. Angel's family came in dead last.