Page 98 of Book and Ladder
M&M:Are you nervous?
Christmas vs. the first day of school? The holiday means once-a-year, giddy anticipation. Back to school always felt like facing the gallows.Will I fit in? Will I keep up? Will I fail?
I don’t expect him to answer my question directly, so I’m about to let him off the hook when his response pops up.
BTTP: I’m nervous. Excited. Overthinking. You know, the usual.
M&M: Same. I feel like I’m waiting in line for a roller coaster. I can’t wait to get on the ride, but I know my stomach’s going to drop. What if we don’t click in person?
As much as I don’t want to air the thoughts that have been playing havoc with my nerves, I’ve always been honest with him. I don’t want to start putting on a pretense now.
BTTP: I think we’ll click. We’ve already shared more than most people share before a first date … or even a second or third.
He pauses and then adds:
BTTP: Not that this is a date.
And then he adds:
BTTP: Not that it’s not, either. We’re just meeting. Sorry. I shouldn’t be so quick to hit the return button.
M&M:I’m glad you’re quick to hit return. I feel better knowing I’m not the only one feeling a little jittery.
BTTP:Well, buckle up and keep your feet and handsinside the cab. The ride takes off in less than twenty-four hours.
I smile.
M&M:I’ll throw my hands up down the big hills if you will.
BTTP: Deal. See you tomorrow.
M&M:Yes. Right in front of the corn maze. I’ll be holding a copy ofThe Princess Bride, like I said I would.
M&M:As you wish ;)
We sign off and I sit on my couch, wondering what BTTP looks like and how I’ll know it’s him. He’ll find me. I’m sure of it.
By mid-afternoon the Waterford Fall Festival is in full swing. Gravel crunches under tires, dust rising in low clouds that settle on hubcaps and boots. Pickup trucks line both sides of the country road, tailgates dropped like extra benches for families tugging on jackets and straightening costumes before heading in. The mowed field beyond the barn is dotted with cars, sunlight flashing off windshields. The October air is crisp, carrying the sweet-smokey mix of kettle corn, wood fire, and hay.
I’m dressed as the farm girl, Buttercup, in a peasant blouse, long skirt, apron and braid. Not disguised. I couldn’t risk BTTP missing me in the sea of people.
I’ve mingled, but I keep drifting back to my post near the corn maze.
I scan the crowd, past the whitewashed barn and across the grassy square strung with the bunting Patrick and I hung—pumpkin orange, harvest gold, and deep maroon triangles fluttering in the breeze.
My mouth is dry. My throat tight.
Animals bleat in the makeshift pens, ponies circling as kids bounce in their saddles. Children race past—princesses in gowns over rubber boots, cowboys in felt hats, superheroes dragging capes through dust. Their fingers are sticky with caramel apples and kettle corn.
Every laugh, every shout from the dunk tank feels too loud, like it might drown out the one voice I’m desperate to hear.
I sweep my gaze over rows of booths, hand-painted signs calling out fried pies, pumpkin fudge, jars of honey, and autumn crafts. Cornstalks and hay bales mark the corners. A generator thrums beneath the sing-song calls: “Turkey legs! Get your turkey legs!” … “Fresh apple cider, straight from the farm!”
The whole festival hums and churns—squeals from the Ferris wheel, the clang of horseshoes, a wash of chatter and laughter.
I don’t see him.
Or maybe I do, and I don’t recognize him under the disguise.
