you Clifton Village is open on weekends, so you can bring your parents back with you sometime when you want to stay longer. We also have special events, like the Fourth of July celebration and Christmas at Clifton. The next event is the revival on May 25, 26, and 27. I'm sure you'd enjoy that."
Jessie stared. Even the annual revivals—when Reverend Holloway rode in and preached for three hours a night, so vividly that Jessie always dreamed afterward of hellfire and brimstone—even those had an audience. Was there anything the tourists weren't allowed to see?
"You can pick up a schedule of special events at the ticket window," Mrs. Spurning continued. "And if you want to spend a day just watching Clifton, you can rent out spots on the town square." She pointed to a covered opening in the ceiling. "We put stairs there."
"Don't the Clifton people see you?" a boy asked.
"No. You're inside one of the three hollow trees we have up there. It's quite an experience."
Mrs. Spurning went on, but Jessie's mind blanked. Hollow trees . . . She meant the haunted trees! So they were haunted, in a way. Jessie shivered. She would have preferred ghosts.
"... You have to reserve the lookouts way in advance, because anthropologists are beginning to flock to Clifton for those spots. It's a wonderful perspective on a primitive culture," Mrs. Spurning said.
Jessie glowered. Primitive culture! She'd like to see Mrs. Spurning work like Ma or any other woman in Clifton. As far as she could see, all Mrs. Spurning could do was talk. Jessie wanted to yell at Mrs. Spurning, as she had at the boy in the blacksmith shop. Think of Katie, she told herself. You can't because you have to get help for Katie. And Betsy. And Abby. And Jefferson. And . . .
Repeating the names calmed her, but she almost missed hearing a voice from behind her.
"Isn't this whole concept a little, well, a little voyeuristic?" Nicole asked.
Jessie didn't know what voyeuristic meant, and, from their puzzled expressions, it seemed a lot of the other children didn't either.
"Aren't we invading these people's privacy?" Nicole continued. "I mean, if they want to live like it's 1840, that's fine, but why should they let us watch them?"
Mrs. Spurning gave Nicole the same "Oh, aren't you precious" look she'd given Jessie when Jessie said the village wasn't authentic.
"When they moved here," Mrs. Spurning said slowly, "they agreed that they would be watched. In exchange, they are not bothered in their lifestyle. They have total privacy except in the common areas we've seen, and they know that. And, of course, they're free to leave whenever they want."
Nicole shrugged, giving up. But Jessie bit her tongue so hard she could taste blood, holding back from telling Nicole and Mrs. Spurning and everybody else the truth.
"Any more questions? No? Good. Because now we're going to see the school," Mrs. Spurning said.
Jessie hung back as the others surged through the door Mrs. Spurning held open. She didn't want to see these children make fun of her friends. But finally she had to step through because the other woman was staring at her again. The woman had told Mrs. Spurning she was a chaperon, not the teacher. Did she have a bigger name because she was meaner?
The chaperon glared as Jessie looked around. Jessie turned her gaze to Mrs. Spurning.
"This school focuses entirely on memorization and rote recitation," Mrs. Spurning said. "Pupils study and then repeat back what they have learned. That was considered the best way to educate a child in the early 1800s."
Jessie wondered how else someone could learn something, besides memorizing it.
"Listen now," Mrs. Spurning said. "I believe it's time for the first graders to recite."
The little children at the front stood. "Cat," they said, "c-a-t. Dog, d-o-g."
"Ant, a-n-t," Jessie muttered, so softly she was sure no one would hear. Katie had recited those words for Jessie just a few days ago, while Ma was busy listening to Bartholomew's
Jessie stared. Even the annual revivals—when Reverend Holloway rode in and preached for three hours a night, so vividly that Jessie always dreamed afterward of hellfire and brimstone—even those had an audience. Was there anything the tourists weren't allowed to see?
"You can pick up a schedule of special events at the ticket window," Mrs. Spurning continued. "And if you want to spend a day just watching Clifton, you can rent out spots on the town square." She pointed to a covered opening in the ceiling. "We put stairs there."
"Don't the Clifton people see you?" a boy asked.
"No. You're inside one of the three hollow trees we have up there. It's quite an experience."
Mrs. Spurning went on, but Jessie's mind blanked. Hollow trees . . . She meant the haunted trees! So they were haunted, in a way. Jessie shivered. She would have preferred ghosts.
"... You have to reserve the lookouts way in advance, because anthropologists are beginning to flock to Clifton for those spots. It's a wonderful perspective on a primitive culture," Mrs. Spurning said.
Jessie glowered. Primitive culture! She'd like to see Mrs. Spurning work like Ma or any other woman in Clifton. As far as she could see, all Mrs. Spurning could do was talk. Jessie wanted to yell at Mrs. Spurning, as she had at the boy in the blacksmith shop. Think of Katie, she told herself. You can't because you have to get help for Katie. And Betsy. And Abby. And Jefferson. And . . .
Repeating the names calmed her, but she almost missed hearing a voice from behind her.
"Isn't this whole concept a little, well, a little voyeuristic?" Nicole asked.
Jessie didn't know what voyeuristic meant, and, from their puzzled expressions, it seemed a lot of the other children didn't either.
"Aren't we invading these people's privacy?" Nicole continued. "I mean, if they want to live like it's 1840, that's fine, but why should they let us watch them?"
Mrs. Spurning gave Nicole the same "Oh, aren't you precious" look she'd given Jessie when Jessie said the village wasn't authentic.
"When they moved here," Mrs. Spurning said slowly, "they agreed that they would be watched. In exchange, they are not bothered in their lifestyle. They have total privacy except in the common areas we've seen, and they know that. And, of course, they're free to leave whenever they want."
Nicole shrugged, giving up. But Jessie bit her tongue so hard she could taste blood, holding back from telling Nicole and Mrs. Spurning and everybody else the truth.
"Any more questions? No? Good. Because now we're going to see the school," Mrs. Spurning said.
Jessie hung back as the others surged through the door Mrs. Spurning held open. She didn't want to see these children make fun of her friends. But finally she had to step through because the other woman was staring at her again. The woman had told Mrs. Spurning she was a chaperon, not the teacher. Did she have a bigger name because she was meaner?
The chaperon glared as Jessie looked around. Jessie turned her gaze to Mrs. Spurning.
"This school focuses entirely on memorization and rote recitation," Mrs. Spurning said. "Pupils study and then repeat back what they have learned. That was considered the best way to educate a child in the early 1800s."
Jessie wondered how else someone could learn something, besides memorizing it.
"Listen now," Mrs. Spurning said. "I believe it's time for the first graders to recite."
The little children at the front stood. "Cat," they said, "c-a-t. Dog, d-o-g."
"Ant, a-n-t," Jessie muttered, so softly she was sure no one would hear. Katie had recited those words for Jessie just a few days ago, while Ma was busy listening to Bartholomew's
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