Marco gives her a sidelong, indifferent glance, and opens his mouth as if he has some witty comeback prepared, but my father’s voice comes over, calling us to the entry of the fair where we perform and with a bite into his bottom lip, Marco moves away with his guitar slung over his shoulder.
“What’s the name of this town again?” I ask, and Genevieve draws her brow tight. Her dark eyebrows pull together, and the hint of dark girl-stache under her nose twists with her lips as she thinks.
She’s nearly my opposite. Taller, thicker, dark everywhere, with hands that are used to doing the same work as some of the biggest men in the families, and although we should be rivals, we both understand no one has it much easier than another in our life.
“Millington. Why do you care?”
I shrug. “One place blends into another. It’s nice to know which is which.”
I don’t tell her the real reason. One of these towns close by must be where I was born. Perhaps someone, someday, will recognize my eyes and claim me as their own.
A girl has to have dreams.
A loud clap next to my head shocks me back into the moment.
“Five minutes.” My father’s voice booms around the makeshift camp we’ve set up on an empty scrap of wooded land, behind where the fair will be going on for another day after today, then we’ll be gone. “If you want lunch, I suggest you put a bit more effort into today than you did yesterday.”
“Yes, Papa,” I answer, setting my hands on my hips just below where the corset is cutting into my flesh, the gnawing in my belly making me feel nauseous.
The last thing I do before following the trail of others out into the crowd, their violins, guitars and flutes ready for the show, is look up at the sky, asking as I do each and every day for answers.
Who am I?
Someday, I hope I will know.
Chapter Three
Merrick
The scent of smoked turkey legs and Guinness beer drifts to my nostrils, my ears filled with the chatter of the crowd. There’s a long line of adventurers—or victims—waiting in line to experience what looks like a death trap of a wooden-style boat, being swung between two trellises by two pirate characters shouting insults.
I work my way down the dirt path, past booths selling kilts, incense, leather vests and replica swords. Two girls sit next to each other on pillows, getting henna tattoos in a tent.
This is the first year the Medieval Fair has stopped in Millington, but I’m familiar with the whole deal. These groups move around the country, stopping in different towns, setting up their shows and wares like modern-day nomads.
There’s lots of dreadlocks and codpieces. Corsets that threaten a nipple to spring forth at any moment.
I’m a red-blooded American male. I should be thrilled at the prospect of an errant nipple sighting.
But, I’m not. It’s just another call. Another job. And I look at the guidepost sign when I get to a junction in the dirt paths where hand-painted wooden arrows toward the gallows, the dunking booth, the pub…the stage.
I work my way in the direction of the stage as, the music coming from that direction begins to drift on the warming summer wind.
I recognize a few faces in the crowds, but for the most part, I’m getting sidelong glances and a few dirty looks from the more anarchist attendees, but I feel no danger.
As I come around a corner between a juggler and two actors acting all hoity dressed as a King and Queen, my stomach drops. I see the smile first—toothy, with lips that look like they’ve been plumped with a tire pump—then I hear the voice.
“Merrick!OH. MY. GOD. What the ever-loving good luck are you doing here?” Patsy Leeland speeds her steps away from a few other ladies that are watching the royal production and toward me, my nerves already on edge.
“Hi, Patsy.” I nod, keeping my voice as disinterested as possible without being rude.
She’s chomping purple gum holding a tall paper cup of dark beer.
We went to school together and she’s been making herself available to me for the better part of twenty years. I give her an A for effort but an E in understanding, because I’ve never returned her interest.
The music is closer now, and I’m assuming it’s from the stage, but I can’t see anything yet except for Patsy’s black tank top with ‘I like power between my legs’ emblazoned over a Harley logo.
“You here alone?” She asks barely hiding her glance at my crotch.
