Colonial Madness by Jo Whittemore Page B

going. While I ducked my hands under the water, he worked the handle. Something on his wrist glinted in the sunlight.
    â€œI didn’t know colonial men wore bracelets,” I said, wiping my hands on my dress.
    â€œA few did,” said Caleb. “But this is more a family pride thing.” He held the bracelet out for my inspection. It was a piece of black braided leather with a strip of copper attached in the middle. The initials PR were stamped in the copper.
    â€œThis reminds me of my dad,” I said, touching the outline. I explained about his flattened-coin collection. “What do the initials stand for?”
    â€œPaul Revere,” said Caleb. “He’s one of my ancestors.”
    â€œPaul Revere?” I gawked at him. “ The Paul Revere? As in ‘The British are coming!’?”
    â€œSo you’ve heard of him,” said Caleb with a grin. “Most girls aren’t impressed by that.”
    I made a face. “Well, I think we established I’m a bit of a nerd, so . . .”
    â€œI like it,” said Caleb.
    â€œOh.” My cheeks warmed. “Cool. So . . . uh . . . where did you get the bracelet?”
    â€œI made it,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “If you want, I can show you, and you can make one with your dad’s initials.”
    A broad smile crossed my face. “I’d love that.”
    Caleb smiled back. “Great!” he said. “Can you meet me here after supper, or will you be busy?”
    â€œIt’s the imaginary 1600s,” I said. “What would I be busy doing?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Caleb scratched his head and grinned. “That fire took an awful lot of your time.”
    â€œHey!” I playfully pushed him.
    He held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Since it won’t take you any time at all to start a fire, I’ll expect to see you here after the canary pudding.”
    I made a face. “And I will be here before the canary pudding.”
    Caleb laughed. “It’s made with lemons, not birds. I promise.”
    Eli whistled for all of us to gather around to learn a new skill, but I was only half listening. I wasn’t sure what made me more nervous . . . canary pudding or a kind-of, maybe date with Caleb.

    â€œBecause that’s what it is, right? A date?” I asked Mom later. We were up in our room, sprawled across the bed as comfortably as our gowns would allow. I’d just filled her in on my conversation with Caleb.
    â€œI’m not sure,” she said with a frown. “I’ve never dated a colonial gentleman. I guess it depends on if he offers you a bouquet of corn and polishes his shoe buckles.”
    I rolled my eyes. “He didn’t ask Angel as far as I know, so it might be a date. But it could just be because I admired his bracelet.”
    Mom patted my leg. “Yes, honey, that’s it. He’s interested in you because you have the same taste in jewelry.”
    I propped myself up on my elbows. “So it is a date.”
    Mom groaned and rubbed her temples. “Does it really matter?”
    â€œI need to know. How I act will depend on whether or not we’re just friends or something more.”
    â€œWhy don’t you quit worrying so much and just enjoy it?” asked Mom. “Live for the moment.”
    â€œSays the woman who freaked when Funk saw her in a bathrobe.”
    Mom popped me across the face with a pillow.
    â€œYou’re lucky I can barely move in this dress or I’d get you back,” I said. “I think my sweat made it extra starchy.”
    She leaned toward me and wrinkled her nose. “It made it extra something ,anyway.”
    â€œWhat?” I ducked my head into an armpit. “Whoa!”
    In the ripeness category, I could definitely give Dylan a run for his money.
    â€œI need deodorant,” I said, getting off the bed and