Rebel Spirits (10 page)

I HAVE JUST
an hour to transform myself from the softball double-play queen into Scarlett O’Hara. You’d think I was a bride the way Mom and Charlotte are fussing over me up in my room. Hannah’s been imported for the Extreme Makeover, too. She can mold bread dough into every-which shape, so apparently she can stuff this five-foot-eight girl into Charlotte’s mother’s gown.

Patiently, Hannah instructs me to step into the gold, poufy dress. I do so, and the ridiculous hoop skirt and layers of petticoat make the hem stick out like a parachute. The sleeves, which
are cinched and flared at the elbows, have enough fabric in them to cover a sofa. And the buttons tracking down the back? Don’t ask. My three attendants nip and tuck and tug and tie and button and safety-pin me until I’m all encased in the Civil War–era number. I watch myself in awe in the floor-length mirror. Already, I’m transforming into someone from a different time.

Next, my team goes into hyperdrive on my makeup and hair.

“I need tendrils,” I explain, remembering what Evan had said.

“Of course you do,” Hannah says, wielding a curling iron like a hand mixer. I smell frying hair. Charlotte’s got hair clips and bobby pins between her lips. They’re disappearing at an alarming rate into the bird’s nest on top of my head. Mom sprays about a quart of hair spray on the whole mess, until it’s stiff as copper wire. If I scratch my head, the whole structure tilts. Hannah hands me a knitting needle and says, “Here, this’ll dig down into the nest without dislodging it. It’s a bit like spun sugar, isn’t it? Lovely.”

Mom demonstrates how to casually rest a pink parasol on my shoulder and twirl it alluringly, while Charlotte thrusts an ivory fan in my other hand and whispers in my ear, “This ball will take your mind off you-know-who.”

The moony, romantic girl in the mirror is definitely not me. I want the plain old Lori back, the cynical one who wise-cracks and used to wear pajama bottoms and flip-flops to Starbucks with Jocelyn. And I don’t really want my mind off Nathaniel.

“Oh, Lori,” Mom says with tears in her eyes. “You look so …”

“Stupid?”

“No, honey. You look utterly gorgeous.” She opens the door and yells for Dad. “Vernon, come see what Lori’s turned into!”

Dad pokes his head into my room. He’s carrying a plunger, having just unstopped General Buford’s toilet. His face lights up.

“Why, Lorelei Cordelia, you look stunning.”

“Don’t bring that drippy plunger in here,” Mom cries.

Which reminds me: The neckline of this gown plunges a lot more than I’m used to. That, and tendrils, all on the same night. Too much.

Mrs. Crandall stops by to see the spectacle I’ve become and says, “Observe everything at the ball, dear girl. Every little thing.” Sounds almost like a threat, but then she beams like the grandmother of the bride and hands me a paper-thin handkerchief. “Dipped in rosewater,” she explains. “Makes the gents swoon.”

“I need some time to get used to the new, improved Lori before Evan gets here,” I plead, and my bevy of attendants take
the hint. Besides, Charlotte has to go home and get dressed for the ball herself.

As soon as they’re gone, I flip open my laptop. The corset and dress won’t let me sit. The hoop pops up over my face. Back in 1863, what did girls do with all this superstructure when they had to go to the bathroom, or even sit down? Well, I’ll stand up and type my message to Jocelyn, not that I can actually bend from the waist, either, without being stabbed by plastic stays, buttons, and pins. Good thing I have long arms like an orangutan.

This isn’t the time to tell her how I’m obsessed with Nathaniel Pierce and … that I don’t know how I feel about Evan. Thankfully, Jos writes back before I can respond:

I’m still thinking about what Jocelyn said when Mom knocks on my door.

I spin around, and the dress takes a few seconds to catch up with me. “Come in!” I call.

She sweeps into the room. “Miss Lorelei? There’s a dashing Rebel soldier waiting for you in the parlor.”

I’m careful going down the stairs in my giant contraption of a dress, and my heart skips a beat when I see Evan down in the foyer, dazzling in his Confederate uniform. He must have had it dry-cleaned, because it doesn’t look muddy like it did earlier in the day, at the Battle. He’s not exactly Rhett Butler, but he looks
almost elegant, his strong jaw lifted proudly, the southern aristocrat. Very different from my Union soldier, Nathaniel.

Mom pats his shoulder. “You’re quite a dapper Rebel,” she says, and Dad, who’s traded the plunger for a camera, is snapping photos. You’d think this was a senior prom in another century. When Evan stands close enough for a good shot, the hoop of the dress jerks to the other side and juts out like a small circus tent. Gertie sticks her snout under the hoop, trying to figure out what this contraption is, so we get a great shot of the three of us — Evan, me, and Gertie’s rump.

Even I have to admit that the ballroom at the Inn at Herr Ridge looks magical, with electric sconces designed to look like gaslights, and everything gold-tipped. The crystal chandeliers cast amber lights around the room, which is filled with women in ball gowns as wide as mine, and men decked out in fine blue and gray uniforms.

Raising my fan demurely in front of my face, I whisper to Evan, “Will we southerners stick out like sore thumbs? Looks like mostly Union people here.”

“Don’t worry about it. Back in the day, Herr Ridge was the CSA hospital.”

“Lots of amputations, huh?”

Evan grins. “You’re funny.”

“For a fuddy-duddy, you mean. Actually, I’m a Scorpio. Scorpios are very passionate.”

“Good news!”

“About certain things,” I add, giving him a look.

Evan wheels me to the dance floor, where my hoop keeps bumping into other women’s hoops. He puts his arm around me in the classic dance frame position, the kind you only see on TV, and I just hope he doesn’t accidentally loosen any of the safety pins holding my dress together.

“So,” Evan says, smiling. “This is sort of a celebration for me. I got some good news today. A thick envelope from Stanford.”

I smile up at him. “You got your first choice!”

“Yep.” He beams. “Full ride, too. I worked my way up to the top of the waiting list. My mother’s at home weeping like her sinuses are on fire and wailing, ‘My baby boy’s going so far away!’”

“Mothers. Mine will be blubbering, too, next year this time. Maybe I’ll go someplace out of state, Maryland or Connecticut, but not as far as California.”

Evan pulls me a little closer; my dress rustles and my voluminous sleeve catches on the epaulettes at his shoulder. “We seem to be attached,” I say, trying to disentangle my sleeve.

“It’s okay. I like you close.”

So we dance like that until the music stops and I wrestle my sleeve loose. The musicians strike up another tune, and we dance and dance. Everything’s starting to relax inside as Evan and I waltz —
waltz!
— around the beautifully polished dance floor, sailing past the musicians like graceful ships. He’s a smooth dancer, so easy to follow, so easy to be with, so …
nice
. No complications. I’m actually feeling very girly all done up this way, as long as I don’t try to breathe. My eyes check out the ballroom, taking in the handsome soldiers and ladies of all ages and shapes and sizes gliding in swaying ball gowns. It’s like a dream.

Charlotte’s across the room in a massive pink birthday cake of a dress. Her hair is done up in two enormous cinnamon-roll braids, one pinned high over each ear. How many bobby pins does it take to anchor those pounds of hair? This is my first glimpse of her boyfriend, Eddie, who’s here as a Union cavalry-man. He’s no dancer, the way he’s tilting her left and right, like a steering wheel, but she looks happy.

And then I spot
him
leaning against the wall, with his booted foot crossed over the other and his eyes fixed squarely on me. People walk past him,
through
him. I’m the only one who sees Nathaniel Pierce, and it doesn’t even seem odd anymore. He gives me a bitter smile — Angry? Jealous? — then turns to
go. He’s a magnet and I’m nothing but a pile of iron filings poured into a Civil War dress. It takes all my energy to resist following him as he slips out of the ballroom.

“What happened?” Evan asks. “You went catatonic.” He gently gets me moving again, weaving me through the crowded dance floor. I wonder if Nathaniel is still on the grounds at Herr Ridge, but I figure running out after him might prove futile.

Then, all at once, something strange happens. The room suddenly seems twice as crowded. Shouldn’t we be bumping into people left and right? But we’re not. Evan leads me past,
through
, other dancers whose gowns are faded, dangling bits of torn lace. They smell of mothballs. The accordion pleats in their fans rest flat on the shoulders of their partners, Rebs and Yanks both, in tattered uniforms. The dancers’ feet glide as though there’s a cushion of air on the dance floor, like an air hockey table.

My heart is thumping. “Evan? Do you notice anything creepy about some of these couples?”

He shifts his weight away from me, looking at people on both sides. “Like what?”

“They seem to be dancing to different music from what we’re hearing.”

“Well, yeah, some people have no rhythm. I’m one of them, but my sisters made me learn to dance because they said I’d never get a girlfriend if I kept clunking. How am I doing?”

“Fine, great,” I murmur, stunned that he doesn’t see what I see.

Because they’re ghosts. Did Nathaniel somehow cause this … hallucination? But these people seem so real. One woman sashays past me and whispers in my ear, “We all look forward to your joining us.”

I feel my blood run cold.
Joining them?
As in … dying? “No!” I shout, and Evan stretches out his arm that’s held mine close to his chest.

“Sorry,” he grumbles. “I thought you liked it.”

“No, it’s not you. It’s them. The others.” He has no clue what I’m talking about, but he creates more space between our bodies. I stare at the gliding ghosts over Evan’s shoulders, fascinated, until one by one they blink out and the dance floor’s no more crowded than it was two minutes ago. A shudder ripples through me.

“Evan, I’m dying of thirst.” Poor choice of words. He’s irritated, I can tell, but he steers me to the punch bowl, moving us in time to the music. I guess he’s learned something about rhythm after all.

The punch smells like cotton candy and is a ghastly Hi-C red. Also, I’m known to be a klutz. Better not drip any on Charlotte’s mother’s gown. I’m hungry so I pop stuffed mushrooms into my mouth as we’re joined by Evan’s friend Barry. He’s dressed in a uniform identical to Nathaniel’s, but he’s not nearly as handsome. The two of them talk about Stanford — the tradition of people diving into the many fountains on campus, and the traditional primal screams before finals — but now I want to scream. I can’t stop thinking about Nathaniel. And then I realize the time.

“Evan, sorry, but I have to go, now.”

He scrunches up his face, seeing the sudden urgency in mine. Glancing at his watch, he says, “Whoa, it’s eleven o’clock. Yeah, we need to get going. I’m in three battles tomorrow, and I have to die again in Pickett’s Charge. See ya, Barry.”

Outside, he asks, “What’s the big hurry? You’ve been out past ten once or twice in your life, right? Not like you’re gonna turn into a werewolf or anything. Man, it’s complicated hanging with you, Lori.”

“So why do you?” I ask, trying to stuff my entire gigantic dress in the front seat of his Camaro. The hoop pops up and covers the dashboard. Evan has to shove it toward my window so he can see.

“Hey, right, that’s what I’m wondering, myself. Speculation: because the new girl in town’s a challenge?”

I hug the door in stony silence.

He turns off the ignition in the middle of the deserted country road. “Okay, what’s changed suddenly, Lori? We were having a good time ten minutes ago.”

“What do you mean, what’s changed?” But I know what he means. He senses that I’d come closer, but now was drifting away from him, and it’s true.

“I don’t get it. Get you. You’re like a faulty tap, running hot and cold. Where’s the passionate Scorpio you warned me about?”

“Sorry, Evan. I’m just tired. A lot’s been going on this week. The basement, the shed, all that stuff. I just need to get some sleep.”

At Coolspring Inn, he parks, ready to jump out, but I thank him and give him a kiss on the cheek that sort of misses and brushes his ear. “Don’t get out. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Thanks for a nice evening.”

“Yeah, right,” he mutters.

“Have a good death on the battlefield tomorrow,” I call from the porch. He waits until I unlock the front door and wave from inside before he pulls away.

I run upstairs to get out of this uncooperative monster of a dress as fast as I can. The gauzy petticoats and the hoop skirt slide down easily enough. But the twenty-seven seed-pearl buttons down the back — yes, we counted twenty-seven — are impossible to undo quickly. How did they ever undress back then? I decide to leave the dress on for my visit to the creek. I hurry downstairs. Without the hoop, the dress brushes my toes. I kick off the stacked heels and run barefoot, holding the skirt up so it doesn’t drag through the wet grass. It’s beautiful tonight with moonlight reflecting on the water like drizzled fresh cream.