I leaned back on my hands and sighed. Dick.
Stacey nudged me. “Don’t worry about him,” she whispered. “Your name is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Don’t let him bother you.”
I blew out a breath. “I’ll try.” I turned my attention back to the circle, where Mitch was up next.
“Mitch Malone.” His voice exuded confidence, and why not? Look at the guy. Someone like that could be conceited about himself, and for all I knew he was. But the way he smiled, not only at me but at the kids in the circle, told me there was more to him than how much he could deadlift. “And I’ve been doing Faire for, what, about as long as you, Simon, right?”
Simon nodded. “You started the year after me. So the second year of Faire.”
“Yeah, that sounds right. Your big brother bugged me for, like, half of senior year in high school to join up. Said he needed more big strong guys, and not scrawny little guys like you.”
“I was not scrawny.” Simon huffed, but a smile played around his mouth too. This was obviously an old, toothless argument.
Mitch waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. ‘Scrawny’ is a relative term, right?” I wasn’t sure if he consciously flexed his pecs at that point or what, but there was definite movement under his tight gray T-shirt, and it was a beautiful thing to watch.
Simon sighed again, but unlike when he expressed his disapproval of me, this sigh came out as more of a laugh. “Okay, whatever. I assume you’re bringing the kilt again this year, right?”
“Oh, aye, lad. Marcus MacGregor rides again!” Mitch’s slip into a Scottish brogue made my eyebrows shoot up. I’d dismissed him as a meathead, with the tight T-shirt and high-maintenance physique. But the meathead had hidden depths. He was friends with an uptight intellectual like Simon and could affect an accent on command.
As we kept going around the circle, I found my attention wandering back to Mitch and that tight T-shirt. To my horror, Mitch caught me looking at one point and sent a wink my way, along with finger-guns. Ah, well, he was still kind of a meathead after all. I snorted, which I tried to cover with a cough, but Mitch laughed anyway. Simon cleared his throat, shooting a dirty look to the both of us, and I looked away, my cheeks burning.
“I’m Caitlin Parker.” My niece’s voice was like a cool, deep breath to my soul, and I looked to where she sat across the circle from me with a gaggle of her friends. “I’m new this year—hi!” Her dorky wave was so much like mine I couldn’t help the smile that broke across my face. The Parker DNA was strong in that one. But how would her natural dorkiness play in this room? I bit my lip and glanced around, but everyone looked welcoming and accepting. My heart softened. Maybe there was something to it all, cultiness aside.
“I’m a lady-in-waiting to the Queen,” Caitlin continued, pride in her voice, and was it weird that I felt kind of proud too? Like she’d landed a really good job or something? You go, kiddo. “And . . . um.” She looked down at the paper, then back up at Simon. “I want something fancy, Mr. G. Since I’m a noble, right? What about Guenevere?”
I narrowed my eyes at Simon while he considered. If he threw a barb at her like he had at me, I was going to come at him, right in the middle of that circle. But to my surprise, he nodded.
“I don’t see why not.” He talked to her in a gentler version of his Teacher Voice. Not condescending, but still authoritative. “Now, you’re young, though, remember. So the other ladies-in-waiting will most likely call you a diminutive.”
Her face screwed up. “A what?”
“A nickname. Like Gwen, or Ginny. But merchants, or anyone else of a lower status, will call you Lady Guenevere.”
“Okay.” Her smile widened. “Hear that, Emily? You’re lower status, right?” A few people chuckled when she yelled across the circle at me.
“Yes indeed, milady!” I called back. More chuckles. I leaned back on my hands again as Cait and I grinned at each other. Yeah. I liked these people. Then I glanced up at Simon again. Okay, I liked most of these people.
The rest of the rehearsal was a basic rundown of the schedule, and then those in the more specialized small groups—singers, dancers, fight crew—split off to talk further. Wenches and ladies-in-waiting weren’t needed anymore, so Cait and I got to leave.
About halfway through the drive home, Caitlin put her phone into her pocket and leaned between the front seats. Ever since the accident she’d refused to sit in the front seat of any vehicle. Since she’d been in the back at the time of the crash, it made sense. It was going to be tricky when it was time for her to learn to drive, though. “Do you think we can watch some Harry Potter tonight?”
“Um . . .” I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Where had this non sequitur come from? “Sure . . . ?”
“Mr. G said it was a good way to work on our accent. You know, for Faire. Watch a lot of Harry Potter movies and, like, soak up the accent.”
“Mr. G said that, huh? I must have missed that part.” My estimation of Simon went up one very small notch. Give a kid a homework assignment like that and it didn’t feel like homework. “So was Mr. G one of your teachers this year?”
“No.” She snorted, like that was the stupidest question I could have possibly asked. “He teaches juniors and seniors. Honors-level, college prep stuff.”
“So you’ll get him in a couple years then, right? Your grades are good enough.” I had no way of knowing if that was true or not, but I’d always been a smart kid, and I’m sure April had been too. Caitlin had to take after us. Parker DNA and all.
“Oh, yeah,” Caitlin said quickly. “I’ll get him for AP English both junior and senior year.” I liked her confidence.
“Good.” I hazarded another glance at her. “How’s your mom feel about Harry Potter movies? And maybe ordering pizza?”
That got me a grin as we pulled into the driveway. “She likes ’em. Both.”
Three
Faire rehearsals became a part of our little family’s routine. Early every Saturday morning Caitlin, along with me and my very large travel mug of coffee, tumbled into the white Jeep and drove to the high school. These mornings were called “rehearsals,” but at first they were basically crash courses in Elizabethan history. We learned the hierarchy of nobility and how to address everyone around us. How low to curtsy to the Queen as opposed to a merchant. What kinds of things a tavern wench might discuss with a town crier.
It still had its culty moments, but I was getting into it. Those Saturdays were packed, but I loved it all. The history lessons, which reminded me of my European history classes back in college. The snatches of song starting and stopping from out in the vestibule, where the acoustics were better, as the singers rehearsed their harmonies. The bits of costumes appearing. As the weeks went by, it became normal to see a girl running down the aisle wearing a bodice over a sundress, or the guy who had worn the HUZZAH! shirt walking around in a jerkin and jeans. Rehearsals were a lot of fun.