“Common kissing? A pox on thee for saying so! I've kissed the hand of Queen Lizzy herself, you loggerheaded knotty-pated malt-worm!”
And with that they all start fighting, with Casey in the middle trying to break them apart. And between punches, the insults fly fast and furious—“Ya gleeking hedge-born hugger-mugger!” “Ya paunchy, elf-skinned measle!” “Ya reeky, onion-eyed pigeon egg!” “Ya villainous, urchin-snouted wagtail!”—until finally Casey shoves them apart, crying, “God's blood! Yer but a band o' gorbellied, sheep-biting skainsmates!”
The three men freeze, then begin rubbing their jaws, muttering, “Ay. 'Tis true. We are!” And the next thing you know, they're all shoving their mugs in the air again, singing, “But I'll never, no never, no never again, if I live to a hundred or a hundred and ten; 'cause I fell to the ground and I could not get up after drinking a quart of the Johnny-Jump-Up!” Then they all link arms and take a great big bow while everyone claps and cheers. And Marissa joins right in, whistling real loud between her fingers, saying to me, “Wasn't that great! That was really fun.”
Now, I'm not hot to stick around whistling and clapping. I want to leave before … but it's too late. Casey's already hopped off the stage and is heading straight for us, calling, “Hey, Sammy! Sammy, wait up!”
“Hold, lad!” Black Hat bellows after him.
“What, Dad?” Casey says, turning around.
“Mind yer tongue! You'll be tossed from the Guild for such language.”
Casey rolls his eyes and calls over his shoulder, “Aye, sir,” then gives me the biggest smile I've ever seen. “How'd you know I'd be here?”
“I …,” and I'm about to say, I didn't! but then he says, “You look great in maidenwear.”
“Maidenwear?”
“You know … that whole getup,” he says with a whisk of the hand. Then he takes off his cap and sweeps it in front of himself grandly as he makes a bow. “A gent should doff his cap for a lady, nay?”
Well, Marissa positively giggles while my cheeks turn pink as petunias. But I hike up my skirt and stick out my high-top. “Don't be fooled, okay?”
He laughs, but keeps talking like I'm some “lady.” “Willst thou attend the next performance? 'Tis funnier than the last.”
“No!” I tell him. “I mean … we're just going to walk around and, you know, look around.”
Then Marissa says, “I didn't know you were an actor, Casey.”
“Casey? Thou mistaketh me for another. I am Sir Lucan, Knight of the Holy Blade of York.”
Marissa giggles again, so he says, “But I must away, fair lass. Duty calls.” Then before I realize what's happening, he grabs my hand, puts it to his lips, and says, “ 'Til we meet again,” and dashes off.
“Oh!” Marissa gasps. “Oh!”
I knew my face was completely bugged out, so I turned my back on the stage and wiped my hand against the skirt of my dress. I don't know why I was trying to wipe it off. It wasn't wet or anything. It just tingled. Soft, shivery tingles. All up and down my arm.
Marissa was grabbing on to me, giggling away. “Sammy! Ohmygod, Sammy!”
“He was acting, Marissa, you get it? That was Sir Lucan, Knight of the …”
“Holy Blade of York!”
“Yeah, whatever. The point is, that was not Casey.” I was rubbing the back of my hand like crazy.
It still tingled.
“Ha!” she says. Just, Ha!
She kept in step with me as I hurried away, and finally she says, “I have never seen your cheeks this red, you know that?”
“You better not tell anybody about this, you hear me? Not Dot, not Holly … nobody!”
“About what?” she says, looking at me all innocent-like. And I'm just thinking, Phew! when she adds, “Love's first kiss?”
“Marissa!” I lay into her with both hands. “That was not love's first kiss! It was a meaningless little brush of the lips against my hand. He was acting.”
She smiles and kind of shimmies from head to toe. “Ha!”
I rub my hand against my skirt, then shake it off like crazy, grumbling, “Let's go find Danny or something. Get your mind off of Sir Kiss-a-lot.”
She laughs and skips along beside me, saying, “Slow down! Slow down!” Then she spreads her arms wide and takes in a deep breath. “Isn't it glorious out?”
“Glorious? Marissa, it is not—”
“Smell. Just smell. It smells like …”
“Hay. Or straw. Or whatever all those bales of stuff are.”
She yanks me back. “Where are you going?”
“I don't know. Away from … there,” I tell her, hitching a thumb over my shoulder.
“Well, stop, would you?” She points to a post with flat wooden arrow signs, saying, “That way's Goose Hill, Gypsys, Merrie Merchants, and the Tavern Walk. That way's the Village Green, Friar Tuck's Forest, and Food Mongers Row.” Then she cries, “Oh! It's kettle corn! That's what I smell! Come on!” and drags me along to Food Mongers Row.
Now I am not hungry. Not at all. So while she's getting herself a nice fat sack of kettle corn, I'm trying to get my mind off my hand, checking out the tent-booth next door. One half of it has swords and armor and chain-mail vests, the other half has sundials and telescopes and other old-looking gadgets. And there's one gizmo with zodiac signs all around the edge that catches my eye, so I pick it up.
“Good morrow, m'lady. Hast thou interest in an astrolabe?”
I put the zodiac thing back down and ask, “Does everyone around here talk like that?”
“Ah, thou arst a traveler, then?”
“Uh …”
“Mayhap from the Isle of Rose? And pray, is something amiss with thy hand?”
“Huh? Oh. No.” I didn't even know I was still rubbing it.
Marissa comes dancing up and shoves the bag of kettle corn under my nose. “This is so good. It's the best I have ever had! Try some. Try some!” Shake, shake, shake.
I push the bag away and say to the guy, “Uh … bye … or, later, or however you say see-ya around here.”
“Anon!” he says with a smile. “We say, Anon!”
“Anon,” I tell him, and follow Marissa down the lane.
“This place is so cool! Everyone is into it. Isn't it fun?”
I take a handful of kettle corn because she's shoving it under my nose again. “Yeah, but don't you feel … you know … like you're part of some weird play or something?”
“Exactly!” she laughs. “It's living theater!”
Now, she says this with a grand sweeping gesture and an English accent. And I'm thinking, Oh, no! when she darts over to a tent with dangling pewter necklaces. She points to one and says to the man behind the table, “How many pence is this, good sir?”
“'Tis twenty even,” he tells her.
She gives a little curtsy and says, “Gramercy,” then scurries back over to me.
“Where in the world … ?” I ask her.
She giggles and wiggles, and her eyes are twinkling. “A man in front of me over at the kettle corn.” She spins completely around, holding out her skirt with one hand. “You've got to give it a try, Sammy. It's fun!” Then she points to a tent we're passing by and whispers, “Go on! Go try it!”
“But Marissa, I don't want a bedpan!” because that's exactly what they're selling at that booth.
“Bedpan, schmed-pan. It doesn't matter … you just ask!”
“Seriously?”
“And with a straight face, Sammy.”
So I tried to compose myself, but I kept cracking up. And finally I said, “I cannot ask how much a bedpan costs with a straight face, Marissa.”
She rolls her eyes and drags me along, and when we come to a booth selling dragon mugs and dragon bowls, she stops and says, “Okay, here. Just do what I did, all right?”
“I'm not gonna curtsy.”
“Fine.” She shoves me. “Just go!”
So up I went, feeling like a real doofus. But Marissa was breathing down my
neck, so I cleared my throat, picked up a dragon cup, and asked a big hairy guy on a stool, “How many pence is this, good sir?”
He stood up, and that's when I realized that this big hairy guy was a big hairy giant. I swear he was eight feet tall, and his voice was about ten feet deep. “ 'Tis forty-five, lass. Forged and fired by me own hands. 'Tis but one in all the land. Truly a work of art.”
I blinked at him, then put the mug down veeeeeery carefully. “Gramercy,” I squeaked, and started to walk away.
“Thirty, then!” he bellowed, then dropped his voice. “But not a word to anyone!”
I swallowed hard and said, “Gramercy, good sir,” and hurried away.
“Fie!” he grumbled after me. “Fie!”
“See?” Marissa said when we were far enough away. “Wasn't that fun?”
Now I'm about to tell her that no, having a big hairy giant growl, Fie! at me is not my idea of fun, when I see a small group of people coming our way. And what I notice first is that they look out of place. They're wearing tight jeans and tight tops, and they're looking down their noses at everything. Like, Oh, isn't this lame.
And then I realize that I know these people. Way better than I want to.
And at that moment they spot us and I can tell— trouble's going to break out on Food Mongers Row.
SIX
“Oh, I don't believe it,” Marissa whispers, freezing in her tracks.
“Believe it,” I tell her, because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that Heather Acosta is not a bad dream.
That girl's a living nightmare.
And no matter where I go she seems to haunt me, coming out of nowhere going, “Bwaa-ha-ha-ha-ha,” when I least expect it.
The second she spots us, the rest of Mongers Row falls back like a gunfight scene in an old Western movie. It's only Heather and her wanna-bes Monet Jarlsberg and Tenille Toolee on one end, and Marissa and me on the other.
And as they're approaching, Marissa starts to do a little of the McKenze dance, squirming from side to side, biting a nail, saying, “Oh god. We're never going to live this down. She's going to make fun of us from here to … to high school.”
“And beyond,” I muttered, keeping my eyes locked on Heather and her growing smirk.
And that's when it happened. In a flash, I went from feeling ridiculous in red velvet and a lace-up blouse to feeling like she looked ridiculous in her trendy clothes and too-cool-for-all-of-you sneer.
So when Marissa whispers, “I'm sorry, Sammy. I know what you're thinking, okay? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” I turn to her and say, “Don't be. You're right, she's wrong.”
“But—”
I grin at her. “When in Rome …”
“You're kidding, right?”
“Nay, lass. 'Tis no time to falter, come!” I held my head high, smiled at no one in particular, and started walking.
Marissa fell into step beside me, saying through her teeth, “We're just going to walk right past them like this?”
“Aye. 'Tis the plan.”
She choked back a laugh. “You're cracking me up, you know that?”
Now, I knew Heather was not going to let us just walk by. I think she's got some kind of a kink in her brain that makes her have to say something snide. But I figured we'd act like we didn't care—maybe toss a few fun Old English words back at her and just keep on keepin' on.
And sure enough, she says, “Hey, Guin evere, looking for Lancelot?” and right on cue the other two snicker. Then Monet says, “That'll be the day, won't it? When Sammy lands a knight,” and they all start laughing real loud, with Tenille and Heather telling Monet, “Hey, good one!”
So I just smile at them and say in my best Old English accent, “Aye, 'tis a funny one, that! But thou mistaketh me for another. Anon!”
And I'm just smiling and walking on while they're looking at me like, What? when Marissa, Marissa, says, “Yeah, and besides, she's just been kissed by a knight.”
Well, you better believe I spun on Marissa with a look that's screaming, “Shut up!” but it's too late. She's already saying, “Perhaps you've heard of him. Sir Lucan? Knight of the Holy Blade of York?”
Now Tenille and Monet are looking about as sharp as Play-Doh. But Heather's eyes bug out and she yanks me by the arm. “Liar!” she says, but there's doubt in her eyes.
I level a look at her and say, “Pray, traveler, touch me not!”
“He couldn't have!” she says, still holding on tight. “He wouldn't have!”
“I sayeth, touch me not!” This time I manage to twist my arm free, but she holds on to my sleeve, and I'm afraid with the way she's yanking that she's going to rip it.
“Who couldn't have?” Monet asks her. “Who's Sir Lucan, Knight of … whatever?”
Heather shakes me by the sleeve. “Did my brother kiss you or not?”
All of a sudden this short pudgy woman with a floppy hat, an apron, and a big fish comes up and says, “Unhand her, y'wench!” Heather just totally ignores her, so she says it louder, “Unhand her, I say!”
Now, I'm thinking, Who in the world is this woman, and what's she doing holding that big ol' ugly fish by the tail, when all of a sudden she takes a step back and kersplat, she smacks Heather across the back with the broad side of the fish.
Heather cries, “Oooohhhh!” but I think she was way more grossed out than hurt. She lets go of my sleeve and shrieks at the pudgy woman, “You hit me with a fish? I'm gonna sue! I'm gonna sue you for—”
“Aw, flush it, ye saucy pin-hearted strumpet!” Then she calls out into the crowd that's gathered, “Sheriff!”
No one steps forward.
She calls to the other side, “Sherriiiiiiff !” and all of a sudden a man comes crashing through, calling, “What is it, washerwoman?”
The fish lady points to Heather and says, “This wench hath commenced to brawling in our row.”
“Ah,” says the sheriff, rubbing his goatee as he looks Heather over. “Well, traveler, I'll have ye know that the Crown has issued an edict that no violence take place upon penalty of lands and titles of those involved being stripped. It would appear there are no titles in danger here, but I advise thee well—be on thy way, or we'll have no choice but to set the privy monster loose upon thee.” He bends a little closer to her, but says so the crowd can hear, “A common fish doth smell like a rose next to the likes of Harvey the Privy Monster!”
That makes a lot of people around us laugh, but Heather blinks at him like, What? and I'm still kind of stunned, too.
But in a flash it's all over. Heather's saying to Monet and Tenille, “God, let's get out of here,” and as they leave, the washerwoman and sheriff take bows all around and the crowd claps and cheers.
Marissa and I tell the sheriff and the fish lady, “Gramercy!” and “Anon!” and then hurry off in the opposite direction from Heather.
The minute we're safely away, Marissa says, “That was too bizarre! And did you see Heather's face when she got clobbered with that fish?”
“She wouldn't have had to get clobbered with a fish if some one hadn't made her short-circuit in the first place!” I turn on her and say, “Why did you tell her Casey kissed me?”
She cringes. “I'm sorry! But she was being so, you know, snotty. That crack about Guinevere and Lancelot. I … I couldn't help it.”
“This is going to get back to Casey, you know. And you made it sound like he kissed me, not my hand!”
“Aw, c'mon, Sammy. She deserved it. But I'm sorry, okay?”
So we walked for a little ways, saying a whole lot of nothing to each other until Marissa points and says, “Hey, check it out! Live chess!”
So we watched a bunch of grown men and two “queens” move around a giant grid of squares for a while, then went on to see a show where you could buy tomatoes and throw them at the players onstage. At first it was really strange, throwing mushy tomatoes at people, but everyone in the crowd was doing it, so we got into it, too. And Marissa—ace pitcher that she is?
??managed to get one of the players smack-dab in the middle of his forehead. He stopped and turned toward the audience, tomato goop just running down his face, while the crowd went wild, applauding and cheering.
After that we had fish on a stick and vinegar potatoes for lunch. And you know what we washed it down with?
Dragon piss.
Well, that's what everyone called it, anyway. No one would admit that it was really just lemonade.
Anyway, after lunch we watched some guys with heavy gloves launching falcons to snag pieces of food from the air and then the Mud Bumblers show, which was a funny pirate skit. Then we wound past some merchant booths, and people called, “How now, good ladies, welcome!” to us to try to get us to stop in and see their wares.
And actually, I was stopping and looking at a lot of things, because these were mostly arts and crafts booths, and even though I had been to a real art gallery, I was remembering what Miss Kuzkowski had said about checking out the art at the Faire and how we were supposed to decide what we thought was and wasn't art.
And I was in the middle of looking over some drawings of knights on horses when the man behind the booth cries, “You!”
I jumped. I mean, his “You!” was directed right at me and seemed to shoot straight through my heart. And before I could catch my breath, he reaches across the table, grabs me by the shoulders, and says, “My plucky little tiger?”
This guy's got a patch over one eye, scarves every-where, a large plumed hat on his head, and a beard that's been charcoaled on. And I don't really recognize him, but from his voice I know who it has to be. So I peel up his patch and look him in both eyes. “Jojo?”
“It is you! Sweet Pea, you are simply stunning in a dress! And forgive me, but after last night's wardrobe display I would've thought you didn't own one.” He hurries to add, “Not that that's a bad thing. My, my, no! Could you imagine tackling that criminal in a dress? He would've gotten away. Clean away!”
Now Marissa's heard every word of this, and she's looking at me like, What? so I tell her, “There was a little, uh, incident at the art gallery last night.”
“The art gallery? You found trouble in an art gallery?” Then before I can say anything, she asks, “What art gallery?”