Chapter
9
I stood in my room, staring at myself in the mirror. I resolved this would be the last time I
donned my boy's clothing and disobeyed my parents. I shook my head sadly, and snuck out the back entrance of my
house.
My feet took me surely to where I wished to go,
memorizing every site I knew so well, every scent, every sound. Perhaps one day when I sewed in my prison, I
could think of these things and remember. The wind blew a few wisps of my hair out of my cap, and I pushed it back
up out of my face. This visit could not
be long.
And there I was, standing in Dassett
Alley for the last time. I timidly
knocked upon the door, and, to my relief, Peter himself opened it. "Jemmy! We were beginning to worry about you," his broad smile showed his bright
white teeth; I could hardly restrain myself from crying.
"Peter, I must speak with you," I
said, biting my lower lip with a vengeance to stop the pain constricting my
heart. "Would you walk to the wharves
with me?"
We walked through the streets of
Boston, the bustling streets, filled with vendors, shopkeepers, and lads such
as ourselves. The wharves were
strangely quiet this day, the salty sea air resonating amongst the few men,
waiting for various ships to come in. But none were scheduled that day.
"I am sorry about Chris," Peter
said. "I know the two of you were fast
friends." I could tell he meant
it. He studied me softly, seeing how
true his words had been.
"Yes," I said, looking down at the
ground, trying to hide the tears clouding my eyes. "That we were. I shall
miss him much."
"He would love it though," Peter
bent down a little, leveling his eyes with mine. "To know that his death has been glorified and turned into a
rallying point for Patriots everywhere."
"Yes, but is it right?" Oh blast the
tears, now streaming down my face. "One
in a hundred of those people actually knew him, and even less know how his
death transpired."
"I know," he said, taking my
hand. I needed his comfort, but oh this
charade of being a boy! As such I was
supposed to be strong, to not cry. But
I was a boy, and Peter was almost a man. "We must think of Chris now, not those who would twist his death into
something it was not. Chris would be
proud nonetheless. He would be
ecstatic."
I smiled at that last statement,
knowing how true it was. I wiped away
my tears, and gave Peter a wan smile. He smiled back, standing back up from his bent-down position and
brushing a clump of brown hair off his forehead. "That's the spirit," he said, grinning back at me. We walked in silence further down the wharf,
enjoying each other's company.
"I
am moving to Lexington tomorrow," I finally blurted out. If only I could tell him the truth! But Peter was more sophisticated than Chirs,
the kind of person who should be completely shocked at my behavior. Perhaps Peter would have understood-he was
different. I knew that, but this was
how I wanted to remember my days as Jemmy; as days of friendship, camaraderie,
and equality. Where I was trusted,
where I was not looked down upon because of my gender. So I lied.
"We'll miss you," I could tell he meant it. That look in his eyes, full of earnesty
and…and what else I do not know. "I'll
miss you." Truth, perhaps. Depth.
"And I you."
"Give me an address and I will write
to you." Oh goodness, what to do?
"I…I don't know where I shall be," I
stammered.
"Where should I write to then, for
now?" He looked at me, completely
innocent of what I was hiding.
"I don't know," I said, praying
fervently that he wouldn't see I was hiding something. But he did.
"Jemmy, what are you hiding from
me?" he asked, puzzled. "Always this
secrecy, when there are so many questions people wish to ask. Why do you always wear your hat? Why do you speak so properly? How is it you can read so well, always your
back so straight, walk so soft. Why do
you look at the ground so oft, why do you not partake in the more vulgar of
Chris' friends' activities-"
"Peter, I know you have many
questions, but I cannot answer them," I said, a pained look upon my face. "Please try to understand." I put my hand gently around his forearm,
pulling him to look at me.
"No Jemmy, I can't understand." He
shook out of my grasp, still looking at me, waiting for an answer. "What is it you hide from me, from my
father, from everyone?"
"Peter, do you trust me?" I asked.
"Of course I trust you-otherwise you
wouldn't know as much as you do about the doings of my father's shop," he said.
"Then please trust me when I tell
you I cannot tell you what you want to know. You wouldn't understand."
"Did Chris know?"
"Yes."
"He understood, why couldn't
I?" He asked, now becoming frustrated,
perhaps a little angry.
"You know how different you and
Chris were," I said, looking at him pleadingly. "Peter didn't speak as well as you, he partook in the more vulgar
activities, he couldn't read, his back was never straight…" I continued with
this list until Peter stopped me. He
seemed to guess where my thoughts were taking me.
"So Chris could approve of your
actions because he was less cultured, whereas I would be disgusted?" Peter shook his head. "If that is the case: I'm your friend,
Jemmy, and I have a right to know. And
as your friend, I'll understand." Now
it was he who was pleading with me- pleading for my friendship, for my
trust.
I said nothing, only looked deep
into his hazel eyes. I prayed silently
that he would not hate me, would not be disgusted, that he would
understand. Then, I guided him to a
back alley, and ever so slowly took out the pins keeping my worn hat upon my
head. I gently took off my hat, and my
dark brown hair cascaded down my shoulders.
He didn't say anything, just stood there
gaping. He opened his mouth to say
something, but thought better of it and remained silent. I looked at the ground, ashamed. I should have known that he wouldn't
approve! I thought. But he
deserved to know. "I'm sorry,
Peter," I said. I put my hair back into
my cap, and started to walk away.
"Jemmy wait," Peter said, and grabbed my wrist. I turned slowly, still keeping my eyes fixed
on the ground at my feet. "Or," he
paused, and glanced at the ground. "What is your name?" He
stared back at me, willing me to look at him. My strong gaze on the ground did not waver.
"Abby," I said. Peter gently pulled my chin up and looked me in the eyes. He extended his hand, and I took it,
unsure.
"Well Abby, I'm glad to meet you."