Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (24 page)

He may have been a totally genius fashion designer and the best BFF a girl could ever ask for, but he still hadn't mastered the concept of the inside voice.

“Okay, one, feet off the table—that's just rude.” I tapped his boot with my pink glittery gel pen until he removed it. “Two, I just found this
amazing
Civil War diary online, and I do not want to be distracted right now; three, this is a library, so shhh,” I admonished Dev. “And, four,” I concluded, “what on earth are you doing in here? I've never seen you in the library. Not once. Not ever. Not since you were stopped at the door freshman year for having a contraband iced caramel macchiato. So what on earth could possibly bring you in here?”

“That's how you
know
it's important. Because only something serious could bring me back to this iced-coffee desert of freakish silence,” he insisted. “Hey, you're wearing the kilt I made you!” he noticed excitedly.

In addition to supplementing my school uniforms, Dev had turned exploiting the loopholes in the St. Paul Academy dress code into an art form. Sure, they said boys had to wear black or gray pants, but they never said they couldn't be suede. Today he wore a distressed black blazer over a sheer white shirt tucked into skintight leather pants; his striped uniform tie hung loosely around his neck.

“You look kind of like a preppy rock 'n' roll pirate,” I told him.

“Libby!” Dev clapped his hands together with glee. “You just
get
me. Skirt looks great, btw. And speaking of exquisite tailoring,” he continued, “you remember the jaw-droppingly chic ensembles I pulled together for your little shindig last summer?”

“Of course,” I said, nodding. “How could I forget?”

They had been truly magnificent. Last summer, when I worked as an intern at Camden Harbor's Museum of Maine and the Sea, Dev had made the most beautiful historical costumes imaginable for the end-of-the-season costume ball. It was a total dream come true: I'd finally felt like I'd jumped back in time, like I'd been able to really live history. Sure, not everyone dreams of cast-iron cookware and corsetry, but it had been the perfect summer for me.

“So, naturally, I've been thinking about the success of my colonial couture,” he said, stroking his chin, “and while I had never intended to be a historical fashion designer, I must admit, there are certain advantages. Some of it is very appealing: Exaggerated silhouettes. Huge skirts. Over-the-top fabulousness. I mean, hello!” He sat up very straight. “I am over-the-top fabulous!”

“That you are,” I agreed.

“So, naturally, it was a very small step from colonial couture to . . .” He held up two flailing jazz hands. “Confederate Couture! Ta-da!”

“Ta-what-now?” I asked, confused.

“Confederate Couture!” he repeated, more enthusiastically.

“Do Confederates even
wear
couture?” I asked skeptically. “And I'm really trying to read right now.”

“Ba baaaaaaaaaaa ba baaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” he sang grandly, to the tune of the theme song from
Gone with the Wind.
“We're goooooooooooooooooing sooooooooooouth.”

“Shhh!”
A very angry girl in oversize hipster headphones looked up from her computer and tried to incinerate us with a glare.

“Can we sing along later?” I asked. “This diary
I'm reading is
really
cool! I promise. Seriously. Listen.” I
had
to read him what I'd found. I was always trying to get Dev more interested in history, and this might just be dramatic enough to spark his interest.

“What did you say it was—some girl's diary? Snooze.”

“Um, hello, no snooze at all.” I read him the quote I'd found, and from the moment I read “Mr. Yankee,” he did seem to perk up considerably. “See? Cool, right? There are actually a lot of misconceptions about women in the antebellum South. Lots of them went hunting and fishing, participating in what we think of as stereotypically masculine pursuits. I mean, look at what a badass Sarah Morgan was! They weren't all sitting around, flirting and fluttering their fans.”

“Nothing wrong with flirting. But my belt
could
use a carving knife,” Dev said contemplatively. “Why are you so into this diary, anyway?”

“Well, this is the closest I'll ever get to experiencing the Civil War, right? To really understanding what it would have been like for a girl my age to live through that.”

“Hmmm.” Dev stroked his chin methodically, the fluorescent lights glinting off his perfectly buffed nails. “What if there was a way for you to
actually
live through the Civil War?”

“Keep talking.”

“This is what I've been
trying
to tell you, Libby!” he said, sighing with exasperation. “Have you heard of this Civil War reenactment thing? You know, like in
Sweet Home Alabama
?”

“Of course I've heard of it. I've even met some people who do it.”

“Eeuw, really?” Dev made a disgusted face. “Super lame. It's, like, almost as bad as LARP-ing.
People running around, having fake battles, and pretending to be soldiers. Wearing uniforms they never wash and eating something called ‘hardtack,' which is not as much fun as the name might first lead you to believe.”

“It's really not that lame! It's cool,” I countered. “People take these reenactments very seriously. This is about as close to total historical accuracy as you can get.”

“Total historical accuracy: the Libby Kelting dream,” he said, smirking. “Hence,
we
are going south. I've already rented a sutler's tent with the Fifteenth Alabama Volunteer Infantry!”

“What's a sutler?”

“Oh, Libby, I'm disappointed.” He shook his head. “Who's the history nerd now? A sutler is a civilian merchant who sells provisions to an army in the field, in camp, or in quarters.” He smiled like the cat that had just caught the canary.

“I don't know everything.” I blushed.

“I know that you don't know everything. I just never thought I'd get you to admit it.” He grinned. “Anyhoo, sutlers set up tents at reenactments and sell stuff—hats, clothing, canteens, what have you. And let me tell you, these reenactors are
super
specific about their uniforms.” He rolled his eyes. “Beyond boring! No creative license! Everything has to be exactly the same as it was back then, down to the thread count and button holes. So naturally, I decided to cater to the ladies—because even civilian reenactors deserve to look fabulous! So we'll be selling ball gowns, tea dresses, day dresses galore! All at Dev's Confederate Couture. I scored us a super-sweet gig, following around the Fifteenth Alabama, giving them a
very
minor percentage of the profits in exchange for transportation to the battlefields and a tent.”

“Let me get this straight: You want to go to Civil War reenactments and sell nineteenth-century women's costumes.” I gave him my best skeptical look. “Do you
have
nineteenth-century women's costumes?”

“I have something better,” he said smugly. “Connections. You remember my uncle Raza?”

“The one you stayed with in New York last summer?”

“Yes! He has a sari store in Murray Hill and mad connections in the Garment District. So he's gonna hook us up! Bargain prices on top-quality fabrics. We'll make a few samples, take measurements, and have our clients fill out order forms. Easy-peasy. I'll sew 'em when we get back. Custom Confederate Couture. So pack your bags! We are ready to go, baby!”

“I don't know if I'm ready to go,” I said doubtfully.

“Libby, you're my model. I neeeeed you,” he whined. “To model my fashions. Did you not hear what I just said about specializing in women's wear? Plus, you can deal with all the boring nerd stuff. Lend me some nice historical accuracy. Cute sticker,” he said, tapping the pink cupcake on the back of my computer.

“Oh, Dev, I don't know. I—”

“Stop protesting. I have a beyond-perfect business model. What are your concerns?”

“Your mom's okay with this?” I asked skeptically. “With you rolling around Alabama totally unsupervised?” Dev's parents were pretty strict, and Dev could find a way to get into trouble at a maximum-security prison run by nuns.

“Libby, we're mere
months
away from college. To put it plainly, our lives are basically no longer supervisable. It's time for us wee baby birds to fly from the nest. Besides, both my parents applauded my ingenuity and economic ambition,” he said, preening. “And your mom's fine with it too.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“Duh, I called her. You know I always enjoy a good chat with Mrs. K. And she gave you the go-ahead. I only had to
slightly
exaggerate the adult supervision factor.” He flashed me a thumbs-up. “All the mommies are onboard. We're ready to roll.”

“Wait a minute, I'm still not—”

“Don't even pretend you don't want to go.” He picked up a pen and starting doodling stars in my margins. “You were waxing rhapsodic about the charms of olden times like two seconds ago.”

“Well, yes, I mean, it would be amazing to go,” I said somewhat wistfully. “But . . . I had planned to spend the summer with Garrett and—”

“Don't play the boyfriend card,” he interrupted. “Don't you dare. First of all, I'm not even sure someone who lives six states away even qualifies as a boyfriend.”

“Hey!” I protested. “That's so not fair. We talk every day!”

“Okay, you have an electronic pen pal that you made out with a couple times.” Dev rolled his eyes. “Congratulations.”

“Just because you don't believe in long-distance relationships—or relationships, for that matter,” I amended, as Dev glared, “doesn't mean they can't work out.”

“Fine, boyfriend, pen pal, whatevs.” Dev held up his hands in surrender. “It all boils down to this: Do you want to go to the Civil War, yes or no?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Then your cerebral swain will understand, I promise you. If I know geek boy, he'll start spouting off about intellectual opportunities and chasing the dream or something.”

“Well . . .” I hemmed and hawed. “I have to at least talk to him about it.”

“Thought you might say that.” Dev nimbly swiped my computer, turned it to face him, and banged on the keyboard until my laptop started emitting a shrill ring.

“You can
not
use a phone in here!” I whisper-screamed, horrified.

“This place has
so
many rules,” Dev complained. “And it's not a phone.”

Before we got kicked out of the library, I managed to hustle Dev and my ringing computer into the relative safety of the adjacent computer lab. It was empty except for a group of guys clustered in the corner playing World of Warcraft. As soon as Dev slid the computer onto an empty table, the screen filled with the face of my boyfriend, Garrett McCaffrey.

He looked just like he did almost a year ago when he'd pulled me out of an apple barrel: unruly dark hair, thick plastic-framed Clark Kent glasses, and an adorkable comic-book T-shirt. I still couldn't believe it had taken me an entire summer to realize that he was the Mr. Darcy to my Elizabeth Bennet. How could I
ever
have thought he wasn't totally cute and the only boy for me? I must have had a fit of temporary insanity. It may have taken a ghost,
Northanger Abbey,
and a nineteenth-century whaling vessel to bring us together, but at least I'd come to my senses eventually.

“Libby!” Garrett said happily, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “This is a surprise. Good timing. Just got back from soc class.” His look changed to confusion as Dev pushed his way into the frame. “Uh . . . hi, Dev.”

“Do you think I need cheek implants?” Dev stared into the tiny camera, massaging his face. “I think this camera makes my cheeks look weird.”

“Your cheeks are fine.” I resumed my place in front of the camera as Dev started ensuring that his gelled hair was perfectly spiked. “And, Garrett, your cheeks are perfect.”

Garrett laughed and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long arms. I could see a sliver of dorm room in the frame behind him, just as messy as it had been the couple of times I'd visited him at Tufts.

“‘Mutant and Proud,'” Dev read off Garrett's
X-Men
T-shirt. “Oh, Garrett.” He sighed. “Didn't you get that Marc Jacobs gift card I sent you for your birthday?”

“Yeah!” Garrett nodded happily. “I got some great socks.”

I stifled a giggle as Dev's face fell.

“Listen, I'm glad you called. I mean, face-chatted,” Garrett said seriously, straightening his glasses.

“Libby needs to talk to you about the summer!” Dev shrieked before I swatted him away.

“Uh, before you say anything about the summer”—Garrett started rustling around in his desk drawer—“I want to show you something.” He produced a stack of papers and brochures.

“Does that say ‘the Paul Revere House'?” I asked, squinting.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “The thing is, I got that internship at the
Boston Globe
—”

“YOU GOT IT?!” I screamed happily.

“Shhhhh!”
the World of Warcraft guys admonished me. Dev stuck his tongue out at them.

“Garrett! You got it!” I continued, more quietly. “Oh my God, I'm so happy for you!”

“Thanks.” He blushed and looked even more adorable. “I know we were going to spend the summer together in Maine. And I want to spend the summer with you. But—”

“But you have to take it,” I interrupted him. “Garrett, you have to! This is your dream internship. Your churning butter in a hoop skirt, if you will.”

“Well, I probably won't describe it like that, but, yeah, it is,” he said, laughing. “Which is why I got you these!” He held up his stack of papers triumphantly. “The Paul Revere House, the Commonwealth Museum, the Gibson House Museum. All in Boston; all still accepting internship applications!”