Page 62 of Fallen

By the time I was eighteen, the festival had lost some of its luster. On that particular day, I escaped the watchful eye of my datt under the guise of a restroom break and I made my way to a not-so-bustling area on the periphery of the festival, far enough away from my Amish brethren to sneak a smoke. I was about to light up when a cacophony of raised voices interrupted my plans.

I should have known Rachael Schwartz would be involved. The majority of festivalgoers were Amish, after all, and they simply did not partake in noisy public discourse.

At the edge of the gravel parking lot, next to a row of Port-a-Potties, Loretta Weaver pulled a wood crate filled with what looked like baked goods from the back of a wagon and carried it to her booth, where she’d set up a nice display. A homemade easel was bedecked with a big handwritten sign that proclaimed:

HINKELBOTTBOI (CHICKEN POTPIE)—$6.99

LATTWARRICK (APPLE BUTTER)—$4.99

FRISCHI WASCHT (FRESH SAUSAGE)—$3.69

KARSCHE BOI (CHERRY PIE)—$1.99 PER PIECE/$6.99 WHOLE PIE

A few yards away, two English girls had been working on their own booth, where they were selling cakes. A printed sign pinned to the front of their table read:

PERSONALIZED CAKES FOR BIRTHDAYS,

ANNIVERSARIES, AND OTHER SPECIAL

OCCASIONS. TAKE ONE HOME TODAY!

Evidently, a territory dispute had broken out between two groups of sellers.

“Hey you! Pilgrim girl! This is our spot.”

An English girl of about fifteen wearing cut-off denim shorts and a Backstreet Boys T-shirt stood in front of her booth, hands on her hips, glaring at Loretta. Behind her, two gangly teenage boys stood next to the booth, watching, their expressions expectant and amused.

Loretta Weaver went to the English girl and offered a faltering smile. “We’re just selling for the day,” she said reasonably. “Pies and such, you know. We can’t leave until everything is sold.”

A second English girl rounded the table to join them. This one wore a white blouse and pink shorts, a nifty summer hat cocked to one side. “Yeah, well, you’re putting a crimp in our style with those pies. You’re going to have to take it elsewhere.”

Loretta shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “But this is my booth. I’m all set up. I think we’ll be fine just where we are, don’t you?”

Hat Girl rolled her eyes. “We paid a week’s salary for this spot, and we were told no one next to us would be competing with our shit.” She pointed toward the ocean of tables and sellers set up closer to the buildings. “You’re going to have to move.”

Loretta looked around as if expecting someone to come to her aid and help her defend her position. But no one was paying attention. She stood there, looking from one girl to the other, saying nothing.

“I don’t think she heard you!” one of the boys called out.

“Send her a frickin’ text!” the other boy added, and both of them broke into raucous laughter. “All those Amish hypocrites got phones!”

Loretta looked at the boys and swallowed. “We paid, too. We can’t just move. This is our table. There’s no place else to go.”

The Backstreet Boys T-shirt girl pointed to the more crowded area at the front of the market. “I bet there’s a table over there. Just go. You’ll find something.”

“But this is our assigned booth,” Loretta said reasonably. “They told us to use this one. We can’t just take someone else’s spot.”

“Oh my God, she’s dense.” Shaking her head, Hat Girl moved closer and got in her face. “Look, be a good little pilgrim, load up that buggy, and move your shit.”

Loretta opened her mouth as if to say something, but closed it as if not certain how to respond. Instead, she looked down at the ground and shook her head. “I don’t want any problems.”

“Well, you got one,” said the girl in the Backstreet Boys T-shirt.

Hat Girl looked at her friend and shook her head. “I’ve heard they were dense, but this is ridiculous.”

“Maybe she needs some convincing!” one of the boys called out.

The other boy started to chant. “Catfight! Catfight!”