Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink by Stephanie Kate Strohm Read Free Book Online Page A

a
Songs of Little House on the Prairie
tape I’d played until it fell apart when I was little. I watched him fade into the sunlight, wind ruffling his golden hair.
    Primroses and poetry . . . I sighed and sniffed deeply. Sweet.

Three
    If we were shooting
VH1: Camden Harbor,
this would not have qualified for Best Weekend Ever. In a series of unfortunate incidents including countless snide comments, the revoking of my TV privileges after the
Charm School
marathon I watched was deemed “lewd,” and the theft of a strawberry-banana yogurt, the absolute low-light was when Ashling decided I was taking up more than my allotted one-third of the bathroom shelving. Consequently, she moved all of my toiletries into my bed, where I, unawares, rolled over them and ended up covered in shampoo. It wasn’t as bad as pork fat, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. I couldn’t wait to get out of the house for work on Monday. I practically skipped down the sidewalk and up the stairs of the Bromleigh Homestead. For the first day of camp, I donned the sky-blue striped poplin. The stripes were sort of nautical, and in case a certain totally romantic, Shakespeare-quoting, flower-tossing, chivalrous, charming, breathtakingly handsome Squaddie happened to pass by, the blue brought out my eyes. Once dressed, I walked over to the Welcome Center, where I’d be meeting my campers. On my way in, Maddie flagged me down.
    â€œHey.” She hustled over, clipboard in hand. “Things are a little nuts. The first day of our busiest season, you know? Not that things are particularly busy this year,” she muttered darkly. “Anyway.” She shook her head to clear it. “You okay?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œGood, good.” She checked something off on the clipboard. “Camp ends at two, then I’ll need you to head over to the administrative offices for an all-staff meeting–slash–press conference sort of deal.”
    â€œPress conference?” I asked, curious.
    â€œYes, press conference, the Oak Room, two fifteen. Attendance is mandatory. Over here!” she called, and waved at a blue polo-shirted employee, who was leading a group of ten little girls in old-fashioned dresses and pinafores. Clearly, they’d been to the costume shack too. “Over here!” she called again. The girls formed a group around us. “Miss Libby,” she said, “these are your campers. Campers, this is Miss Libby. She’s in charge now.”
    Maddie bustled off, frantically scratching at the clipboard with a chewed-up BIC pen.
    â€œHey, guys,” I said as I gathered them in. “Let’s hit the homestead. Follow me, and stick tightly together.” The Welcome Center was really crowded, but I managed to shepherd my flock safely through. We chatted as we walked down the lane to the Bromleigh Homestead, and Ruth was right—they seemed like a sweet group of girls. Not that I was really surprised, because a historical domestic arts camp just doesn’t seem like it would attract the wild ones. They squealed with delight and exclaimed over the house as I led them to the dining room, where I’d set up ten little calligraphy stations. I thought we’d start off by making colonial “nametags,” using ink pots, parchment, and quill pens. About an hour and a million ink blots later, we finished. I punched holes in the tags and tied them around each girl’s neck with a length of yarn. After a brief squabble over who got the purple yarn, we headed into the kitchen.
    I had decided to follow Ruth’s advice and keep it simple. No animal carcasses today. Or probably ever, if I had any say in the matter. Like Maddie had said, I was in charge now. And I was thinking we had a summer of baking ahead of us.
    â€œWho likes lemonade?” I yelled.
    â€œMe! Me! Me!” they shouted back.
    â€œWhat about gingerbread?”
    â€œYay!”
    The
yay
s had it.