Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (9 page)

“Definitely not like that,” Garrett said so firmly, I was almost a little insulted. He climbed down the little wooden ladder that led to his bunk to stand in the two square feet of floor space between the bunks. He folded his arms across the “I am the Fifth Cylon” printed on his chest, whatever that meant, and leaned against the ladder.

“Garrett is, um, investigating,” I explained.

“Investigating?” Garrett repeated. “Like I said, Nancy Drew, this is not
The Secret of the Old Clock
—”

“Sorry, sorry, whatever!” I interrupted. God, he took himself
so seriously.
And he wrote for a newspaper that probably like all of fifteen people read! “Garrett, our intrepid
Camden Crier
reporter, is writing a piece of journalism so serious, it is second only to a treatise on Fallujah, except the subject happens to be a
ghost
instead of war crimes.”

“A ghost?” Cam chuckled. “That's cute, Nancy.” This was addressed to Garrett, not me. “I see you've got your flashlight in case the big, scary ghost comes to get you.”

“And the museum decided,” I continued, before Garrett could say anything, “that he couldn't stay on the boat alone. Not being museum staff and all. And it kind of fell to me, because nobody wanted to do it.”

“Shocker.” Cam snorted. “Well, at least since it's Garrett, I know I don't have to worry about anything happening between the two of you.” Garrett stiffened but said nothing. “Later, Libs.” Cam slung an arm around my shoulder and deposited a smacking kiss on my cheek, eyes on Garrett the whole time. “And you'll definitely get a good night's rest. This one'll put you right to sleep. Ask him to tell you about
Battlestar Galactica.
” He left the fo'c's'le, laughing all the way up the stairs and out of the ship.

“Battlestar Galactica,”
Garrett muttered distractedly as he climbed back into his bunk to give me room to unpack.
“Battlestar Galactica!”
That was more of a declaration of outrage. He started fiddling with a flashlight, screwing and unscrewing the part where the batteries went in. “You know,
Time
magazine named it one of the One Hundred Best Television Shows of All Time. It's been in the
New York Times
' Top Ten list every year since it debuted. And it's been nominated for several writing, acting, and directing Emmys, in addition to the ones it
won
for visual effects. I don't understand why this country has such a weird prejudice against science fiction. Because it involves interplanetary travel, it's automatically crap?”

I realized he was waiting for an answer. “Um . . .” I finished stuffing the rest of my things in the whitewashed trunk bench. “I like watching things where people attend English country dances and fall in love, so I'm, um, probably not your target audience.”

“Anyone involved with Cam is definitely not my target audience,” he said so quietly, I wasn't sure if I was supposed to hear it.

“Listen,” I said, “I'm all unpacked, so I'm gonna hang out on deck. If you want to stay in this cave, that is totally fine with me, but I'm going up. You do whatever you want.”

I grabbed my book and headed up, leaving him in the bunk, hoping he didn't follow. Up the steps and on deck, out of the claustrophobic cabin, I decided I liked boats. The
Lettie Mae
was a small ship, for a schooner, and the weather-beaten wooden planks fit snugly together. “My, she's yar,” I said to no one in particular. It was the only nautical term I knew, because Katharine Hepburn had said it in
Philadelphia Story.

I went straight up to the bow at the front of the ship, resisted the urge to have my very own
Titanic
“I'm the king of the world!” moment, and sank down in a little ball, snuggling against the side of the ship. The bow was very cozy. Hours flew by as I sat there reading, totally immersed in the world of the book.

“That looks sort of thick for
People
magazine,” an unwelcome voice said snarkily, interrupting my reading. Jesus. Why did everyone at this museum think I was stupid? Did they not have well-dressed blondes in Maine? This was getting ridiculous. But when I looked up, mentally prepping a biting comeback, I came face-to-face with a horrifying sight.

“Oh my God,” I said, gasping, “you did not seriously bring those Hobbit feet up here.”

“What?” Garrett was standing above me, little digital video camera in hand, displaying the biggest, hairiest, most terrifying feet I had ever seen. “Wait, you know what a Hobbit is?”

“Yes, I know what a Hobbit is. I'm not pop-culturally challenged. I saw
Lord of the Rings.
I was even in the Orlando Bloom fan club in fourth grade. I had his poster in my locker. Oh my
God,
can you
please
put on some socks?!”

“Orlando Bloom portrayed Legolas, the Sindar Elf of the Woodland Realm. Not a Hobbit,” Garrett said seriously. “And in my opinion, his performance was one of the weaker ones in the fellowship—”

“Oh my God, I don't care, whatever! Socks, shoes, something, please! I am instituting a new policy! Shoes or socks must be worn in communal areas!”

“Fine, fine!” Finally he stomped away and then returned a minute or two later, feet thankfully encased in Converses. Phew.

“Much better,” I muttered.

“So what are you reading?” He crouched down to my level. Curses. Why did he insist on socializing? Well, it's not like I could dodge him forever. I had to spend the rest of the summer with him in very close quarters. So I supposed I just had to make the best of it. “Something about shoes and lipstick?” he said sarcastically.

Grrrrrr.

“
Northanger Abbey.
” I showed him the cover. A small woman in a black dress made her way down a long, maroon-carpeted hallway. “No shoes, no lipstick. Fun fact: Sometimes girls read things that aren't magazines or related to
Gossip Girl
in any way, shape, or form. There you go. A little bit of trivia, free from me to you.”

“Is that . . . Jane Austen?” he asked. He sounded surprised, which only annoyed me more. Both that he knew Jane Austen had written it and that he didn't think I'd be reading it.

“Impressive,” I said approvingly, albeit very grudgingly. “Most people haven't heard of it.”

“I, uh, read it on the cover,” he admitted, laughing.

“That's okay.” I laughed with him, in spite of myself. “Like I said, most people, especially boys, haven't heard of it. Let me guess: you had to read
Pride and Prejudice
in, oh, let's say junior English in high school, and that pretty much sums up your Jane Austen experience?”

“Pretty much.” He nodded. “Is this one good? I mean, they didn't make it into a movie with Keira Knightley, so it can't be
that
good.” After a moment or two, the ghost of a smile flitted across his face, and I realized he was joking. “It's sort of, um, unusual that you're reading it, right?”

“Sort of, yeah,” I agreed. “The really unusual thing is that it's my favorite. I don't think I know anyone else whose favorite it is.”

“Why is it your favorite?” He folded his knees into his chest. One had a Band-Aid on it, which looked sort of funny on his big knees, like he was the world's largest six-year-old boy. And it appeared to be a Transformers Band-Aid. Oh my God. So he
was
the world's largest six-year-old boy.

“Catherine, the heroine, has kind of an overactive imagination. She loves these dark, mysterious gothic novels and sees herself as the heroine of one. And you should be the heroine of your own life, you know? I like her. She's feisty. Funny. I think the best word is . . . irrepressible,” I decided. “And the hero, Henry Tilney? I like how sarcastic he is. He's smart, well read . . . the two of them seem like people I'd want to be friends with. Like real people, who would actually fall in love. Who you could see having a life together. I mean, sure, yes, Sexypants Darcy, everyone loves him—I get it. I like him too. But he's just so . . . aloof. Could you really hang out with Mr. Darcy? Sometimes I don't really know if I could. Henry Tilney, though, you could totally just shoot the shit with.”

“An interesting theory.” Garrett nodded. “But you know,” he said seriously, “I might be wrong, but I
think
Mr. Darcy's first name was Fitzwilliam, not
Sexypants.
I did only get a B on that test, though, so I don't know . . .”

I blushed and decided to steer the conversation away from sexy anything. “This is the real reason I fell in love with it, though. My favorite line:

 

“History, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. . . . I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all—it is very tiresome.”

 

“What?” He wrinkled his nose, confused. “You're working at a museum. Don't you like history?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Of course I like it. I love it. I know, it seems contradictory, but this is how I feel about a lot of history. I don't like ‘solemn' history either—wars and plagues and dates. History isn't an endless parade of facts. There's so much more to it than that! Catherine would have loved the history that
I
love. History is just stories—I mean think about it,
story
is right in the word—history is the life stories of millions and millions of people. Real people, living, beautiful, ugly, wonderful, horrible, messy, complicated human lives. War isn't just the names of a victor and a loser and the date it happened, but
who
was that victor, not just on the battlefield, but in the barn or the bedroom, you know?
Why
was he the victor? You know how they say truth is stranger than fiction? All the greatest stories in the world are things that have
actually happened.
History isn't dull or dry or dead or boring—when you look at it like that, it's the most alive thing there is! You know?” He was staring. “God, I'm sorry.” I blushed. “I got a little carried away. I usually do, when I talk about history.” So carried away that I'd completely forgotten who I was talking to. And that he was a lame sci-fi freak with gross feet who thought I was stupid.

“No, no! That's great!” Garrett rushed in. “I think it's great that you're so passionate about it. I was just . . . just thinking how
weird
it was that you said that, because that's basically exactly how I feel about journalism. Except I've never been able to articulate it so well.” He grinned wryly.

“That was hardly articulate,” I countered.

“I mean,” he went on, “when you think about it, history is just journalism plus a hundred years, give or take. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” I smiled. “You're right. I'd never thought about it like that.”

The sun had started to set over the bow of the ship, bathing us in color.

“Red sky at night, sailor's delight,” I said softly.

Garrett's face darkened, like he'd just remembered something. “So . . . you and Cameron?”

“Oh, um, I don't know.” I blushed. “I've only known him for like a week.”

“So you're not dating?” he asked brusquely.

“I, um, I don't think so. I don't really know,” I admitted. “He, um, asked me to, um, ‘come with' to this Sea Shanty Showdown thing, but I don't really know what that means . . .”

“Cameron was being vague? What a surprise.” He stood up abruptly. “Trust me. I've known Cameron for a long time. You'd be better off if it meant nothing. Much better off.” Garrett brushed some nonexistent specks of dirt off his shorts. “The sun's almost set. I'm gonna go downstairs and see if anything shows up.”

“Wait.” I got up to join him. “How does this work? Are you going to stake out all night long? Do I need to like supervise? Do I have to watch you the whole time? Or can you just promise me you're not going to pull a Guy Fawkes and blow this mother up?”

“No, you don't have to watch me. And Guy Fawkes failed, anyway.”

I followed him down into the hold.

“Oh, I know. I assumed you would fail in your attempt, as all the gunpowder in here is fake. That was part of the metaphor.” I mean, obviously.

He went into the fo'c's'le, and returned with two battery-powered portable camping lamps. “Here. This is for you. It'll get really dark really fast, and all of the oil lamps in here are fake—and any kind of flame would be a safety hazard, anyway.” He handed it over.

“Are you going to stay up all night?” I asked.

“Oh, I don't know.” He sighed. “The ghost has only ever been sighted in the early evening, around now, but that might just be because no one was on the ship later. So I guess I'll just hang out with my video camera until I get tired.”

“Listen,” I said halfheartedly, “if you want me to do a shift or something, I guess I could. You could wake me up, if you want.”

“No. No, that's fine.” He brushed past me and went deeper into the ship. “Good night.”

“Um, good night,” I called after his retreating back.

Inside the fo'c's'le, which was, except for the camping lantern, pitch-black, I changed into heart-patterned boxers and a Hello Kitty T-shirt. After placing the light and my book up on the bunk, I climbed up the ladder and got into bed.

It was sort of creepy in there. Okay, really creepy. The camping light cast all sorts of eerie shadows into the gloom as the boat rocked gently, and you could hear the wind whistling from outside. Not that I ever in a million years would have admitted to Garrett that I was a little freaked out, but I was. Really freaked out.