Colonial Madness (9 page)

“Don't start, Tori.” Mom stirred the liquid with a spoon and poured in the sugar. “I already apologized.”

She passed the spoon to me and started grinding the corn, although as angry as I felt, I probably could have pulverized the entire ear in five seconds flat.

Eli strolled by and peered into our simmering pot. “Your porridge seems watery.”

“That's because it
is
water,” I snapped.

“Manners, Tori!” Mom shouted in a harsh voice I'd never heard her use before.

I instantly clammed up and stirred the pot.

“We had some . . . technical difficulties,” Mom told Eli. She put down the pestle and poured the contents of the mortar into the pot. “But we're fine now.”

Eli nodded. “Good. Because you have roughly”—he gazed at the sky—“fifteen stirs of the spoon before sunrise.”

“What if I stir really slow?” I asked.

Mom gave me another look, but Eli laughed and continued to another table.

I stirred the porridge until Eli called time, then scooped a little to study it.

“I'm not a psychic, but I'm pretty sure we aren't going to score high on this challenge,” I said.

And we didn't.

Angel and her family scored the highest, Dylan and Uncle Max scored somewhere in the middle, and Mom and I came in dead last. Apparently, our porridge was too sweet, too watery, too chunky, and had an acorn in it.

“Heh. It's just like a cereal-box prize,” said Mom, plucking it off Eli's spoon.

When the results were announced, I groaned and buried my head in my hands. Mom hugged me close.

“So we're not off to a strong start,” she said. “But we'll rally and win this whole thing.”

I nodded into her shoulder but didn't say what I was thinking.

That I'd need to be a team of one for that to happen.

I
n colonial times, families of a village would help each other out in moments of need. Like when a girl was starving because all she'd had for breakfast was four spoonfuls of porridge soup.

But since this was modern times and an elimination contest, nobody was interested in sharing their gruel with me and Mom. Not even Angel.

“Sorry,” she said, “but we need all the strength we can get.” She ran her spoon around the edge of the bowl, scooping out the last grains of porridge.

“Uh-huh,” I said, drooling a little. “Are you gonna eat the drop that fell on your shoe?”

Angel crinkled her nose. “You need to start watching out for Dylan. He's singling you out for some reason. Play smarter.”

“I'm playing smart enough,” I said defensively. “I just didn't expect him to be so malicious and evil.”

“We must be talking about Dylan,” said Mom, walking over with something fuzzy in each hand. She tossed me one. “Heads up! As usual, your mother comes through in a pinch.”

I grabbed the peach midair and frowned at it. “Hmm. No real protein.” I took a huge bite anyway, chewing slowly and savoring the taste of something other than the air I'd been swallowing. “Where did you get these?”

“Oh, there's a Trader Joe's behind the cornfield,” Mom said with a casual wave of her hand. “Where do you think I got them? I found a peach tree.”

“Did you also find a bacon-sandwich tree?” I asked. “Or a tree that eats evil boys? Because I could take a stroll with Dylan after breakfast.”

Mom shook her head. “I can't figure out how someone like that could come from someone like . . .” She nodded at Uncle Max.

“Maybe he gets the evil from his mom's side,” said Angel.

I rolled my eyes. “It's not like bad habits are hereditary.
Otherwise I would've been sleeping in the barn right alongside her.” I poked Mom in the side and she grabbed my finger, twisting my arm behind my back.

“Say ‘My mom is the best mom in the world!' ” she said, tickling my side.

I laughed and squirmed. “I can't! You taught me never to lie!”

Angel smiled at the two of us but then quickly sobered and straightened up.

“Eli,” she whispered.

Mom and I disentangled ourselves from one another and stood side by side.

Eli placed his hands behind his back and stopped in front of me and Mom.

“It pleaseth me your spirits remain high despite earlier troubles,” he said. “I hope the tasks of your day prove not overwhelming in nature.”

“Tasks of the day?” I repeated. “What would those be?”

Eli clucked his tongue. “If you cannot suss what needs be done, yours will be a perilous journey indeed.”

That seemed a tad overdramatic, considering I could hear the highway traffic from where we stood.

“From this day forward,” Eli continued, “we offer no more guidance. It becomes your charge to thrive and survive. We only watch and judge.” He took each of our hands and clasped
them warmly. “Best wishes and strength.” Then he turned to Angel and did the same before walking away.

“Well,” said Angel, “I should get back to my folks so we can make our plans for the day.” She picked up her bowl and waved her spoon. “Best wishes and strength!”

I turned to Mom. “We need a game plan.”

Mom sat at the table. “All right. I suppose we knock out the most important items first.”

I nodded. “Maslow's hierarchy of needs. On the most basic level, we need air, water, food, and sleep.”

“Air . . .” Mom took a deep breath. “Check. Water from the pump . . . Check. Food . . .”

“Is very lacking,” I said as my stomach gnawed at itself. “Let's start with that. We can't live off peaches alone. What other food sources do we have?”

We both glanced around the clearing where other families were strategizing their days. With this many people, there'd be a rush to find resources.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” I asked Mom.

“That if we eat Dylan we can take care of two problems at once?” She smiled to let me know she was kidding. Or insane.

I leaned in and so did she. “There are cows and chickens in the barn and vegetables in the garden,” I whispered. “But not enough for nine families.”

Mom nodded and leaned back. “How about I take care of the meats, and you take care of the veggies.”

I studied her closely. “By meats, you mean . . .”

She rolled her eyes. “Not your cousin.”

“Okay,” I said, starting to my feet. Mom grabbed my arm.

“Not so fast,” she said under her breath. “Or everyone will know.” She slowly stood and I copied her. “We're just going for a nice . . .”

Dylan sprinted past our table.

“Run!” cried Mom, heading for the barn.

I took off toward the garden, and judging by the shouts and pounding footfalls behind me, I wasn't alone. The corn was plentiful enough that I could save it for later. Instead I grabbed half a dozen squashes and handfuls of beans and turned to pluck out some carrots growing to one side.

Angel's entire family was in the garden, with both Angel and Aunt Zoe holding their dresses out in front while Uncle Deke tossed vegetables into them.

I created a makeshift basket with my own skirts and continued down the line, watching one of my distant aunts claw at the dirt around some leafy green stalks that turned out to be potato bunches.

I crouched carefully, keeping my vegetables in my dress, and dug my fingers into the earth, stopping every so often
to tug on the stalk to see if it was loose. Sweat started to drip down my forehead, both from the effort and from knowing I was missing out on so many other vegetables as I watched people work around me.

Finally, I felt the roots start to give and jerked with all my might. About eight dirt-covered potatoes appeared on the end of the stalk. I let out a loud “Woohoo!” and tucked the bunch of potatoes under my skirt, where nobody could get at them. Then I scrabbled at the dirt for more.

“Need help?” Mom spoke over my shoulder, and I jumped.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “You should be in the barn.”

“I'm done there,” she said, crouching beside me and scooping up dirt with our porridge spoon. “And you're almost out of available food here.”

I straightened and looked around with wide eyes. Little scraps of vegetation littered the garden plot, the dark brown dirt from below the surface peppering the lighter soil on top. The plot was practically barren.

“Let's give it a pull,” said Mom, dropping her spoon into a pocket. She and I both wrapped our hands around the stalk, ripping it from the ground . . . minus the potatoes.

“Shoot!” I shouted.

“I've got this,” said Mom, nudging me. “Leave your vegetables
here and go grab whatever else you can find.”

I dropped all my gatherings beside her and scanned the garden again to see what would be worthwhile. A watermelon, free of its vine, rested in the middle of a random patch of dirt, no doubt dropped by someone in a hurry.

I hoisted up my skirt and ran for it, at the same moment that Angel approached from the other side. She might have had more energy from breakfast, but I was running lighter with nothing in my stomach. I reached it seconds before she did. Angel still grabbed for it and tried to yank it out of my arms.

“Let go!” I shouted. “I had it first.”

“You can eat meat!” she shouted back. “Vegetables are all my family has.”

And then she tried to bite my hand.

“Hey, you're supposed to be vegetarian!” I squawked, bouncing my hip against hers. Angel stumbled backward, thrown off balance, and I escaped with the watermelon tucked close to my chest. I sprinted back to Mom, who regarded me with wide eyes.

“What was that about?”

“Hippies . . . are . . . violent,” I managed between breaths.

“Well, I can always fight her off with these,” said Mom, holding up the second bunch of potatoes.

“Those are even bigger than the first ones!” I said, helping Mom to her feet.

“Load me up,” she said, holding her dress out in front of her.

I piled in the vegetables, and we staggered under the weight of our haul back to the manor.

“So, how many eggs did you get?” I asked, climbing the stairs.

“None,” said Mom.

I stopped on the landing and faced her. “None? Did you spend all your time getting milk?”

“No,” said Mom, pushing me toward the door. “Keep walking. These potatoes aren't getting any lighter.”

I did as she said but talked over my shoulder. “If you didn't get any eggs or milk, what did you get?”

“Something even better,” she said, opening the door to our room.

A cow was tied to the bedpost.

I almost dropped the watermelon. “Wha—”

Something hammered and scratched from inside the footlocker.

Two chickens.

I gasped. “No.”

“Ta-da!” said Mom.

I tugged her the rest of the way into the room and locked the door behind us.

“What did you do?” I hissed.

Mom blinked at me. “I . . . brought a cow and two chickens upstairs. I thought that was pretty obvious.”

“
How
did nobody see you?” I asked.

She bit her lip. “I may have tried to bring in a goat first, and they were busy chasing it around the library.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “We sleep here, Mom.”

“And now so do they,” said Mom, petting the cow. It blinked slowly at her and butted its head against her side.

“I think I'll call you Queenie because you were a royal pain to get up the stairs.” Mom turned to me and laughed. “The chickens were much easier. I just put KFC under one arm and Popeye—”

“Oh my god, I don't care!” I shouted. “We can't keep farm animals in our bedroom!”

Mom frowned. “Clearly, you don't see how clever I am. Everyone else grabbed eggs and milk. I grabbed the sources. Now we'll never run out . . . and we have entertainment for the evenings!”

I sighed and leaned against the door. “Can't we put them someplace else?”

Mom waved a dismissive hand. “You'll hardly notice they're here. Isn't that right?” She tugged on Queenie's halter.

Despite all the madness, at least our food situation was under control, even if it
did
take away from our last basic need: sleep.

The second most important needs were safety and security. We needed light, which came from candles, and we had maybe one more night's worth before ours were useless. To make the candles, I'd need lard for the wax and string for the wick. Unless I could steal some candles from the kitchen.

I tiptoed downstairs and started opening cupboards.

Not a scrap of food or conveniences. Just dishware, cookware, and buckets of lard.

Great-Aunt Muriel had wanted to make this hard on us.

I grabbed a bucket of lard and a small pot and spoon, carrying them all outside. Then, when I was sure nobody was looking, I snuck down to Caleb's craft shop in search of string for the wicking.

When I walked in, he was hammering a piece of metal into a disc but stopped and smiled.

“Sorry, hi!” I said with a wave. “I was looking for some string?”

“You don't have to be sorry,” he said, putting down his hammer. “
I
should be, for letting Dylan crash our date.” He froze. “Or . . . you know . . . not date.
Day
. Which was actually in the evening.”
He looked as if he wanted to jump into the forge.

“Our duh?” I stammered, wide-eyed. Then I cleared my throat and tried again. “Our date?”

“Was it not? Sorry, I guess—”

I took a step forward. “No, you were right! I mean . . . I wanted it to be.” A blush warmed my cheeks.

Caleb's grin returned. “Good. Then . . . maybe we could try again tonight?”

I pretended to think on it. “I don't know. I already have a bracelet. What else would I need you for?”