Trading Secrets (3 page)

I
n preparation for spring break, I spend several afternoons at Lizzie's place. We hole up in her bedroom and watch Amish reality TV shows that she's recorded.

“What are you going to wear for your trip to Amishland?” Lizzie asks as she fast-forwards through the ads.

“Stop calling it Amishland,” I say to her. “You make it sound like an amusement park.”

She reaches for a handful of popcorn. “Fine. What are you going to wear when you go visit Zach's farm? You don't want to insult his family, you know.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “You don't expect me to wear Amish clothes, do you?”

“No. Of course not. That would be plain weird.” She pauses the TV. “But you do want to look respectful, don't you?”

“Well, I don't know. I guess I do. It's not like I was going to wear anything skanky.”

She laughs. “I know that, silly. You don't even own anything skanky. But what are you going to wear?”

“I have no idea. What do you think I should wear?”

“Well, it's your first time meeting Zach. I'm sure you want to look good.”

I shrug, reaching for more popcorn.

“You should probably wear a dress.”

“A dress?” I frown at her. “You know I hardly ever wear a dress.”

“Which is a mistake, in my opinion.” She points at my jeans. “You've got great legs.”

I laugh. “Thanks. But I hardly think showing my legs will do me much good in an Amish community.”

“You're probably right.”

“I figured I'd just wear jeans,” I admit. “I mean, I am going there to work on the farm, remember? It doesn't make sense for me to get all dressed up. Besides, it's a three-hour bus ride. Who wants to dress nice for that?”

“Good point.”

“Anyway, Zach will probably be so shocked to see me that he won't care what I'm wearing.”

“That's true.” She agrees. “But his mother might.”

“I'm not going there to impress his mother, Lizzie. In fact, I doubt that's even possible.”

“Well, don't be surprised if she doesn't approve of you wearing pants.” Lizzie starts the TV playing again, and on the opening of a show we see a couple of girls walking along a dusty road looking rather sweet and old-fashioned in their long, baggy dresses in shades of blue and green and purple. They all have on black stockings and black shoes, and on top of their heads, where their long hair is neatly pinned underneath, they have crisp white hats with strings that flutter in the breeze.

“I wonder how they keep those bonnets so white,” I muse.

“It makes kind of a pretty picture, doesn't it,” Lizzie says dreamily. “So old-fashioned and innocent looking. But kind of strange too.”

I absently nod, absorbing this sweet scene before the image fades away and suddenly it's a completely different scene, with a bunch of young people drinking and dancing at a noisy nightclub—talk about contrasts! This particular reality show is about Amish kids who leave their families and homes to visit the outside world. Really, it's rather sad to see these innocent Amish teens struggling to fit into what they call “English” culture. I find myself wishing that some of them had simply stayed home. I'm sure their parents would agree.

“I don't really get why these kids leave,” I say quietly. “Their home life actually seems kind of inviting to me.”

Lizzie grabs my arm with an alarmed expression. “Please, Micah, don't tell me that you're enchanted with Amishland—that you plan to go there and never come back!”

I laugh. “Yeah, sure, that sounds like something I'd do.” But even as I blow it off, I do wonder . . . what would it really be like to be Amish?

It's not until I've tried on almost everything in my closet and my room looks like a hurricane hit that I decide what to wear for my trip to Holmes County. Call me a chicken or call me a fraud, but by the time I'm getting onto the bus with my backpack, I feel fairly certain that I can pass for a guy. And that's exactly what I intend to do. I'm wearing a pair of my old basketball shoes and Dad's old man jeans
that I've topped off with a gray sweatshirt and baggy denim jacket, also scavenged from Dad's closet. I've pinned up my long, dark curly hair and shoved it into a Browns ball cap. To complete my manly look, and to make me feel better about going without a trace of makeup, I've donned a pair of aviator sunglasses. It's not the kind of outfit I'd wear to school or around friends, but I tell myself that it's comfy for traveling, and for the most part it is. Except I'm wearing two very snug sports bras to hold everything in—that's not exactly comfortable. But I feel confident about my disguise. To any casual observer, I look like a guy. Or so I tell myself.

However, once the bus pulls into the small, charming town of Hamrick's Bridge, I start having serious doubts. Maybe my masculine costume is just one more major mistake. As I shove my water bottle into my backpack, I realize that nothing in there is going to help much either since I only packed more of the same. Really, what was I thinking?

As I get off the bus, I tell myself to buck up and try to put on the demeanor of a teenage guy. Being nearly five foot ten doesn't hurt. Even so, I take bigger than usual steps and attempt to swagger a bit as I sling a strap of my backpack over one shoulder. Not that I think anyone is noticing me particularly, but more for the practice. If I really plan to carry out this plan—as insane as it seems—I might as well give it my best shot.

I stroll down Main Street holding my head high and watching people milling about the town. I'm surprised to see a number of Amish people in the mix, and I wonder if Zach might possibly be one of them. What if he came to town to offer me a ride? But I don't notice any Amish young men who resemble what I imagine my Zach looks like. Finally I
approach a pair of older women who are looking at a bulletin board outside of a store.

“Excuse me,” I say in a lowered voice that I hope sounds masculine. “Do you know where Brewster Road is?”

“Sure do.” The shorter woman points down the street. “Turn left on Fifth Street right there and go a few blocks—about eight I think—and Brewster Road will intersect.” She peers curiously at me. “Are you new to Hamrick's Bridge?”

“Just visiting,” I say gruffly.

“Brewster Road leads out to an Amish settlement,” the other woman tells me with a curious glance. “That where you're headed?”

“Yeah. Going to visit a friend.”

“Are you Amish?” she asks with a doubtful expression.

“Nah. But my friend is.” I tip my head in what I hope is a polite gesture. “Thanks.” Then before they have time to get suspicious, I continue on down the street. The temperature is in the low sixties and about perfect for a walk. I'm actually looking forward to the quietness of a country stroll. It will give me a chance to gather my thoughts and prepare myself for whatever lies ahead.

As I walk down Brewster Road, I can hear the clip-clop sound of horse hooves on pavement, and I turn to see a black horse-drawn buggy slowly approaching. Because it's moving slowly, it takes a while for it to reach me, but when it does, I glance inside to see an Amish couple sitting in the front. The woman has on the traditional white cap, which I know from Zach's letters is called a
kapp
, as well as a black shoulder cape. But it's her serious expression that catches my attention, and I wonder why she seems so glum. The man, wearing a dark jacket and straw hat, keeps his gaze straight ahead.
It takes them a while to get ahead of me since I'm walking fast, but eventually they take the lead, and before long I can barely hear the horse's hooves.

According to Zach's directions, I will reach Green Brush Lane when I'm about three miles out of town, and I'll turn right on that road. After another couple of miles, I'll see a black mailbox that says JD Miller on it—and that means I'm at Zach's farm.

The countryside around here is picturesque and beautiful. With white rail fences and tidy little farms, everything looks crisp and clean. Whether it's a dark brown freshly plowed field or one that's bright green with new growth, it all looks carefully tended. I take a number of photos on my phone and even do a selfie with several black-and-white cows behind me, which I send to Lizzie.

Just as I come to Green Brush Lane, I hear more clip-clopping of hooves. This time it's a buggy being pulled by a pair of handsome brown horses, and like me, they are turning onto this road. I'd love to take a picture, but I know that won't be appreciated, so I control myself. Feeling a little nervous—could this be Zach and his family?—I glance inside the buggy and am relieved to see an elderly couple in front and several small kids in the back. The kids look as curiously at me as I look at them, and the youngest boy sticks out his tongue. Naturally I imitate the tot, and the other children break into peals of laughter.

Green Brush Lane is a gravel road, but it seems well maintained. I pause to get a drink from my water bottle and realize that despite my earlier nerves, I'm starting to feel pretty hungry. I open my phone to discover that it's already past 3:00, and I haven't eaten since 8:00. Why didn't I think to
get something in town? I consider calling Lizzie but decide I might be wise to preserve my battery for as long as possible since I know I won't be able to recharge it at Zach's house. That is, if I'm even allowed in Zach's house. I have no idea which way this is going to go.

When I finally see a black mailbox that appears to be the Millers', I decide to send up a quick prayer. “I know I might be doing this all wrong,” I confess, “but it's only because I want to meet my friend Zach. Please help things to go well.” I mutter “Amen” as I look out over what looks like a freshly plowed field. Just like the other farms I passed on my way here, this one has a two-story white house with a red barn nearby.

Feeling like an interloper, I turn down the gravel road that leads up to the Miller farm.
Act like a
guy
, I keep telling myself.
You can pull this off.
My plan is to pass myself off to Zach's family as Micah Knight, a seventeen-year-old guy from Cleveland. That way I won't be such an embarrassment to Zach. Then, when I get a quiet moment with Zach, I will confess to him that I'm really a girl. Naturally, he'll be shocked and dismayed, but I will at least have had a chance to meet him face-to-face.

What I hadn't counted on was how long it would take to get here. With the bus stopping at all the small towns along the way, the trip was longer than I expected. And walking these five or so miles has eaten up even more time. According to my phone, it's well past 4:00 by the time I reach the front door. With a hand that's slightly trembling, I reach up to pull my cap down lower on my brow and then knock, but before my knuckles touch the wood, the door flies open and a barefoot girl who looks to be about ten gapes up at me. “Are you Micah?” she says with wide-eyed interest.

“Yes,” I say in my deep voice.

“Come in,” she tells me. “Mamm,” she calls over her shoulder. “Zach's English friend is here.”

“Welcome,” a matronly woman tells me as she enters the room with a kitchen towel in hand. “You are Micah?”

I nod nervously, reminding myself that this is true. I really am Micah.

“Welcome to our home.” Although her words are hospitable, her expression seems cool and reserved. Almost as if she's unsure of me. Hopefully she can't see through my disguise already.

“Thank you,” I mutter, looking down at my feet as if I'm shy.

“I am Ada Miller,” she tells me. “And this here is Ruth.” She puts a hand on the girl's bare head. That's when I notice that neither of them is wearing the usual white bonnet. I want to ask why that is but know that would sound nosy.

“Zach has told us about you,” Mrs. Miller says.

“He said that I can help with the spring planting,” I say woodenly. “That's why I'm here.”

“
Ja
, that will be good. If you like work.” She peers curiously at me. “Do you like work?”

“Sure.” I make a nervous smile.

“Zach and his daed are out in the south field,” she tells me. “They will work as long as the light allows.”

“Want me to take Micah out there?” Ruth offers eagerly.

“You want to go help them now?” Mrs. Miller looks uncertain.

“Sure,” I say quickly. Right now I want to do anything to get out of here. I keep getting the feeling that she can see right through me.

“Ruth,” Mrs. Miller says, “take Micah's things to Zach's room and get on your shoes.” I try not to gasp at the idea of my bag in Zach's bedroom—or the possibility that she expects me to sleep there tonight if I stay. But before I can stop this madness, Ruth grabs my backpack and runs up the stairs. Now Mrs. Miller turns back to me. “Are you hungry after your long trip?”