Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink Read online

  “Are you examining my pores?” I asked, befuddled.

  “I know not what means ‘pores.’” She drew back slightly. “Rather that I only suspicioned that one might have bedecked one’s complexion with paint as one hears tell of in the brothels and bawdyhouses be seen on ladies of ill repute. One feared that one mayhap had chanced upon a common whore.”

  Ugh! My jaw dropped, but only for a moment.

  “Well, one would really appreciate it if one didn’t use language like that in front of the children.”

  “I know what a ‘whore’ is,” one of the girls piped up. “It’s a dental hygienist. Like my dad’s girlfriend.”

  “That actually wasn’t what I meant. I was referring to your completely unintelligible syntax, Miss Fennyweather.” I mean really, she sounded like Yoda. I wanted my girls to be grammatically correct. “Good day.”

  I waved her off and returned to the pansies, leaving Miss Fennyweather to shut her parasol briskly and walk, mouth opening and closing like a fish, away down the lane. And the other thing: “Robin, that’s not a nice word. I’m sure your dad’s girlfriend isn’t a whore.”

  “But my mom said.”

  I dealt with this the rest of our flower-picking excursion, trying not to dissolve into giggles every time my eyes met Cam’s, as Cam tried not to choke on his cake, shaking as he was with suppressed laughter. Once the girls had picked enough flowers, they filed inside.

  “Hey.” Cam straightened and dusted the cake crumbs off his hands, making his way over to me. “I should really get back to the ship. I’ll see you at the Showdown tonight. You know where the beach is?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head.

  “Then I’ll pick you up outside your ship—the Lettie Mae, right?”

  “Right.” I nodded.

  “Sweet.” Checking that the girls were inside, he kissed me quickly. “Until tonight,” he said, making it sound like a promise—a promise of what, I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t wait to find out.

  “Tonight.” I breathed in the beautiful words, magical West Side Story orchestra popping back into my head. “Tonight, tonight, there’s only you tonight,” I sang softly as I ducked back into the house and Cam hopped the fence.

  We had just enough time to get everyone’s flowers in the heavy wooden press before two o’clock rolled around and it was drop-off time at the Welcome Center. On my way back, I heard a familiar voice flagging me down.

  “Libby! Libby!” I turned. It was Roger, the museum publicist. “It is Libby, right?” He caught up with me, wheezing slightly as he placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

  “Yes, hi, I’m Libby,” I introduced myself.

  “One of Maddie’s interns, right?” I nodded. “I thought so. But I left a message for you with the other one and I had no idea what she was saying, so I wasn’t sure if you got it.”

  “You mean Ash—uh, Susannah Fennyweather?”

  “Yeah.” I detected the hint of an eye roll. “Did she tell you about the costumes? For the Sea Shanty Showdown?”

  “Sort of. I mean, she told me but in her own special way.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” Definite eye roll. “We’ve got a pirate wench costume waiting for you down at the shack. I thought we could take some nice publicity shots, for some promotional literature—brochures and stuff—and kind of work the pirate angle. Pirates are fun. People see pirates, they think fun, they think the museum is fun, yadda, yadda, yadda. And the Camden Crier is coming to do a piece on it too, so we can get a nice color shot of you in there. You don’t mind, right?”

  “Um, no, I guess not.”

  “Thank God.” He mopped some sweat off his brow. “I was afraid I wasn’t gonna get a wench. The other one wouldn’t do it, but she told me ‘wenching’ would be ‘just your cup of tea.’”

  Jesus. Thanks, Ashling. “Um, just so you know, Roger, I’m doing this to help the museum, not because I have a particular affinity for ‘wenching’ or sundry related activities.”

  “Yep, yep, got it, thanks—you’re a doll.” He was scanning the town green over my head, looking for someone else. “Thanks a mil. See you at the Showdown.” He hurried off.

  The costume shack lady was waiting outside the door for me.

  “You”—she waved me in excitedly—“are going to love this! Saucy with a capital ‘S,’ missy!” She bulldozed me into the shack and started energetically dressing me.

  You know in Pirates of the Caribbean when Johnny Depp goes to that tavern in Tortuga, and all the prostitutes slap him? That’s what I looked like. Except with less clothing. If I had thought my boobs were out of control in my normal museum gear, they were now practically up to my chin, exploding out of a scarlet satin corset and chemise with two wisps of sleeves. The skirt was ripped and tied up on one side, revealing layers of lacy petticoats, laced-up high-heeled boots, and more leg than had probably ever been seen in the Museum of Maine and the Sea. I felt like I was about to go hawk Captain Morgan rum and wondered if there were any documented cases of spontaneous combustion from embarrassment.

  “Aaay!” shrieked the costume lady. “I love it!”

  I got the feeling she’d been sort of limited in her costuming options all these years and had quashed a secret desire to design for Vegas showgirls. Or drag queens. She fussed around like a kid in a candy store, pinning up my hair into two messy buns with a bandanna, like a slutty blond pirate Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Todd, and she even busted out an illegal stash of makeup to rouge my cheeks and line my eyes with kohl.

  It’s all for the good of the museum, I reminded myself over and over again, as I tried unsuccessfully to cover myself up a little bit more. If I had to whore myself out, literally, to save our nation’s cultural institutions, then so be it. Future generations would thank me for my sacrifice.

  I decided to go hang out onboard the Lettie Mae until the Sea Shanty Showdown, as I definitely wasn’t leaving the museum grounds dressed like a pirate queen. Plus, ever since Garrett had colonized the ship with his treasure trove of electronic devices, it was officially a cell phone–safe zone. I figured if he had the laptop and the video camera and the voice recorder and God knows what else, one teeny little cell phone more couldn’t hurt.

  As if my phone could somehow sense that we’d entered neutral territory, the minute I hit the deck, it vibrated.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Libby? Is this Libby? The real Libby?” someone whispered frantically. After a second I recognized Dev’s voice.

  “Of course it’s the real Libby, who else would it be?” I asked quizzically.

  “I don’t know anymore,” he whispered, paranoid. “I don’t know anything anymore!”

  “Dev, where are you?”

  “In a closet.” Sniffle. “I never wanted to go back in one, but here I am.” Double sniffle.

  “Can you speak up? It’s really hard to hear you.”

  “Noooooooooooooooooooo!” he howled.

  “Dev, calm down. Tell me what’s going on,” I prompted patiently.

  “I can’t,” he said, sobbing quietly. “I can’t tell you anything. Libby, I think they tapped my phone.” His voice went so low, it was barely audible.

  “What? That’s ridiculous. Who are ‘they,’ anyway? Who do you think tapped your phone?”

  “Ono-may Orps-cay Ublications-pay.”

  “What? Who?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Mono Corps Publications!” he whisper-screamed. “Teen Mode’s parent company! Libby, they’re everywhere.”

  “Okay, Dev, you need to calm down and start breathing.” I could hear a panic attack coming on over the phone. “Take a few breaths. Nice, long, deep breaths.” He took several. “There you go! Good job.”

  “I did a good job. For once, I did a good job,” he said sadly.

  “Go to your happy place, Dev. Kelly Clarkson. Happy place. Kelly Clarkson.”

  “Oh, no, I do not hook up, up, I go slow,” he sang softly.


  “There you go!” I encouraged him. “Now, whenever you get scared, just sing that song and think of me, and it’s like I’m right there with you.”

  Dev had dubbed Kelly Clarkson’s “I Do Not Hook Up” the “Official Libby Kelting Anthem.” He took especial delight in singing this whenever we were at parties or dances, as a warning to potential suitors. So maybe I’m a little picky. Sue me. I don’t think that’s the worst thing in the world.

  “Libby,” he whispered, “I’m scared.”

  Click. The line went dead. Yikes. An international publishing conglomerate might have just taken a hit out on my best friend. I tried to call him back several times, but to no avail. Garrett wasn’t on the boat, so I paced and thought about Dev until the sun set and it was time for the Showdown. A loud whistle pierced the air. I leaned over the side of the boat; Cam was waiting down on shore, looking up at me. He whistled again. I scurried down the gangplank.

  “Damn,” Cam said as I hit solid ground. “You look . . .” He was at a loss for words.

  “Like a prostitute? I know,” I moaned.

  “Hot.” He shook his head. “I was gonna say hot.” He put his arm around me and started steering me toward the boathouse.

  “They’re making me. The museum. I swear to God, I did not pick this outfit. Roger thinks pirates are ‘fun’ and wants to put pirate pictures in the Camden Crier. He thinks it’ll make more people come to the museum.”

  “It’d certainly make me come.” He smirked.

  “So where are we going?” I changed topics quickly, blushing. If I was gonna keep hanging out with Cam, I needed to stop embarrassing so easily.

  “The beach. Not the town beach, the museum beach. It’s that smallish strip of sand next to the boathouse. There, you see? Where the bonfire is.”

  I did. It was glowing in the distance, shooting orange sparks into the darkening dusk. As night fell, the sky deepened to a shade of blue that was almost navy, dark enough to see the first stars of evening twinkling above.

  The boathouse was a large wooden structure on the dock, with three walls and one side open to the beach. We walked down the length of the dock and entered the boathouse from the side, through propped-open double doors that looked like they fell off the side of a barn. Directly inside, there was a pirate at a desk with a series of lists.

  “Ahoy.” The pirate waved. “Be ye checkin’ in and competin’ in the Showdown, arrgggh?”

  “You look like a tool.” Cam chuckled.

  “Dude, shut up,” the pirate said. “They forced me to wear this.”

  “This” was a cobbled-together pirate outfit clearly meant to channel Jack Sparrow, except the sashes around his head and waist were a Barbie hot pink. The black dread-locked wig and beard he had on were threatening to consume his head altogether. He was drowning in a sea of nylon dreadlocks. I assumed the pirate had applied his own eyeliner, or else a six-year-old had sloppily drawn circles around his eyes with a black crayon. He looked like a mangy panda’s piratical cousin.

  “I feel your pain,” I sympathized.

  “Well, you look hot,” the pirate grumped. “I look like a tool.”

  “You look very . . . distinguished,” I offered.

  “Be ye singing, wench?” he asked, waving around a ballpoint pen with a giant feathery plume taped to it.

  “Hells no,” I said firmly. I would prance around all tarted up, but that was the extent of the humiliation I was willing to endure in the name of history. Nobody needed to hear me mangle a shanty.

  “Cam, you doing anything solo or just the annual Squaddie ‘What Do You Do with a Drunken Sailor?’?” the pirate asked, list in hand.

  “Just ‘Drunken Sailor.’”

  The pirate checked something off.

  I looked around while Cam and the pirate, who turned out to also be on the Demo Squad, talked. The walls had been decorated with all types of different pirate flags; not just the skull and crossbones Jolly Roger, but the skull and cutlasses, bleeding hearts, little devils, and skeletons. The band was in the back center of the room—fiddle, accordion, banjo, and fife—already playing merrily away. Sea shanties were actually pretty catchy; my toe was involuntarily tapping, and I felt the unfamiliar urge to start jigging or something.

  There were a lot of faces, and a few I recognized. Ashling was there, in Susannah Fennyweather garb, dutifully studying some sheet music. Suze stood next to her, looking absolutely miserable in a pirate costume, trying to stabilize the stuffed parrot that kept threatening to pitch off her shoulder. Neil and the marine biologists stood just off to the side of the boathouse in the sand, clinking beer bottles together. Neil was still bandaged but looked to be enjoying himself immensely.

  Garrett was standing in the corner of the boathouse, looking awkward and slightly defeated. I had a feeling I knew why. There hadn’t been the merest hint of paranormal activity onboard the Lettie Mae. As a kind of summer opener, he’d published an article summing up all the earlier ghost sightings, but I knew he wasn’t happy with it.

  “Come on, Libs. Let’s go get a beer before all the good stuff’s gone.” Cam put his arm around my waist and pulled me away from the pirate table.

  “Oh, um, I’m not twenty-one,” I said as we walked out to the beach.

  “Ah, but I am.” He winked. Wow. I had guessed that Cam was a little older than me, but I hadn’t realized he was twenty-one! That was so . . . mature. I knew it was kind of silly, but I couldn’t help but feel cool that someone older was interested in me. I mean, Cam probably could have gone to the Showdown with anyone, and he’d picked me. Me! There were two large barrels full of ice just outside. He pulled two beers out of one of the barrels and popped them open with a bottle opener on his key chain. “And here you are, m’lady.” He handed one to me, executing a joking half-bow and winking again.

  “Oh, thank you, but I don’t really like beer. I—” Cam had taken a deep swig and wasn’t paying any attention. I took a small sip and made a face. Ugh. Beer is just gross. Even the smell—yuck.

  Cam started chugging his beer, as a group of guys walked over.

  “Yo, Cam!” Ah. Squaddies. They all started talking, drinking, and laughing, in a maelstrom of mans and bros, and Cam promptly forgot all about me. I looked in the other barrel. Root beer. I wondered . . . I held my beer bottle up. The two were almost identical. I hid my beer in the sand behind the barrel and exchanged it for a root beer, which luckily had a twist-off top. I took a long, sweet gulp. Much better.

  “Babe? Babe! Hey, babe!” Bro-fest was over, apparently.

  “Yeah, Cam?” I trotted over, trying not to topple over in the uneven sand in my silly little boots.

  “Babe, these are my boys,” he introduced me. They all stared directly at my chest. I bet not one of them would have been able to recognize my face if we met up later.

  “Hi.” I blushed. I swore one day to wreak vengeance on Roger for this outfit.

  “Kelly!” one said excitedly.

  “What?” I asked, confused. “No, um, I’m—”

  “Melissa?” another one asked.

  “No, I’m Libby.” I shot Cam a quizzical look.

  “Libs, we’ve gotta go practice, okay?” He kissed me sloppily, and it tasted like beer. “We’ll be back. Don’t miss me too much.”

  “Damn, son, how do you do it?!” one yelled as the pack of them walked off. “You are a legend, Cam-man!” They high-fived and laughed, leaving me with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I wondered who exactly Kelly and Melissa were.

  I was alone in the sand, in the darkness, watching the bonfire shoot up into the now black night sky. I could’ve gone to talk to Neil and the marine biologists, but I was starting to feel like there was some kind of weird love triangle going on. And as badly as I wanted to rescue Suze and her floppy parrot, I really didn’t think I could face Ashling in my historical hooker gear.

  “Hey.”

  It was Garrett, fiddling awkwardly with his voice recorder.

 
“This is Janine.” He stepped aside to reveal a short woman with a camera. I always forgot that Garrett was actually quite tall—not Neil tall but still really tall, taller than Cam, surprisingly. He hunched a little, like he wasn’t totally comfortable with how tall he was. “She’s the, um, photographer at the Camden Crier. Do you mind if she takes your picture?”

  “Oh, uh, no, of course not.” We stepped into better light, closer to the boathouse.

  “She’s going to be running around doing candids mostly, but they want a few stills too,” he explained, as Janine gave us the thumbs-up, indicating the light was good.

  “Here.” I gave him my bottle. “Would you hold my root beer? It looks like real beer, and I feel like that’s not exactly the family-friendly image the museum should project.”

  “I, uh, don’t know that your, um, outfit is exactly a family-friendly image.”

  He was clearly exerting superhuman effort not to look at my chest.

  “It’s okay.” I sighed. “You can look. They’re sort of hard to avoid.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He studiously looked up and away, looked anywhere that wasn’t directly down my shirt.

  “You’re a good guy, Garrett.”

  “You don’t need to sound quite so surprised, Libby.” He grinned sheepishly.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re still a jerk. And a weird-o,” I clarified, “but there may be hope for you yet.”

  “Uh, thanks, I guess.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose, like he was embarrassed or something.

  I smiled, and Janine took my picture, before moving back into the boathouse, leaving me and Garrett standing alone in the moonlit sand.

  “So, how are you enjoying your first Sea Shanty Showdown?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “Off the record? Or is this in your official capacity as Camden Crier reporter?” I asked.

  “Off the record,” he said. “Libby Kelting, uncut and uncensored.”

  “It’s . . . fine, I guess.”

  “Fine? That sounded pretty censored.” He laughed.

  “Okay, okay, umm, let’s see,” I began. “I like the music. More than I thought I would. And the actual Showdown hasn’t even started yet, so it’ll probably only get better. So that’s a plus. And this root beer is delicious.” I took my bottle back. “But I saw Ashling with some sheet music, and that makes me very apprehensive.”