Gunpowder and Tea Cakes: My Journey with Felicity

When the last bell of the day rings, the whole class starts shoving stuff into their backpacks. It’s springtime, and nobody wants to stay in school any longer than necessary. Ms. Deming reminds us all to remember our assignment. Our persuasive essays about citizenship are due Monday. Right. We’re supposed to explain the important role that everyday people play in government. Boring. I haven’t started writing yet, so I know what I’ll be doing this weekend. My friends, Lauren and Amara, are waiting in the hall. Amara says she’s almost done already. Her mom won’t let her participate in her African dance group’s performance tomorrow if her homework isn’t done. Amara’s mother was born in Senegal, and both of them belong to an African dance group.

Lauren says she hasn’t started her essay either. Her mom is taking her to the animal shelter to pick out a puppy this afternoon. In fact, Amara and I are invited to come to the shelter with her! I really want to go, especially since I love animals more than anything in the world. But I can’t. I’m not allowed to go anywhere after school unless it’s cleared with my dad in advance. Dad and I moved in with Grandma after Mom died last year. Even Grandma can’t give permission.

Nobody quite knows what to say. Finally, Lauren breaks the silence and just comments that Dad is really strict. I hate disappointing my friends. I turn toward home with nothing to look forward to except cleaning my grandma’s antique shop and homework. The antique shop is in a really old brick building in Williamsburg, Virginia. My grandpa, before I was born, worked in a grocery store. Grandma kept herself busy by buying and selling antiques. Her store isn’t crammed with all kind of stuff like some antique stores. Everything is tidy, and she doesn’t sell anything that isn’t at least a hundred years old.

When I get to the store, both Grandma and Dad come out. Dad runs his own plumbing business, so he’s hardly ever home so early. I tell him that Lauren is picking out a new puppy this afternoon, and I’d love to go along with. Maybe we can meet them at the shelter. He apologizes, but says he has an emergency call. And he hasn’t yet Lauren’s mother yet, so the answer is no.

Dad and Grandma say I can’t have a puppy of my own right now because the apartment above the shop is small. We have a sweet yellow cat named Muffy, but no dog. Dad tells me to cheer up. We have a fun day planned for tomorrow at Colonial Williamsburg. Right. Colonial Williamsburg is a big historic park very close to where we live. People called interpreters work there. They dress up in old-timey costumes to tell the story of the American Revolution, when the thirteen colonies broke free of British rule. They give tours of old buildings and stage plays right in the streets. My dad is a volunteer interpreter there, playing the role of a Patriot who wants independence. I’ve been accepted as a junior interpreter there for the summer. I’ll probably learn to churn butter and bake bread. I chose to do it because Dad wanted me to, but it’s not how I’d want to spend summer vacation. I’d rather play with a puppy.

After Dad leaves, I complain to Grandma that he’s the strictest dad on the planet. I asked him if I could take horseback lessons and he said I had to wait until I was sixteen. It’s as if he doesn’t trust me. Grandma asks if I want to see something cool. She leads me to a glass display case with a teensy-tiny portrait of a woman strung on a fine chain like a necklace. Only the woman’s head and shoulders show. Grandma says it was painted in 1775, right around the time of the American Revolution. There weren’t any photographs or videos, so if people were going to be separated for some time, they’d carry these portraits around to remember.

Grandma doesn’t mention that the portrait might have been painted because the woman’s family feared she might die. After my mom died, it would’ve been nice to have a portrait of her. Dad and I stopped taking pictures of Mom when she got really sick. The night she died, Dad put away every framed photo of Mom we had. It hurt him to see her all healthy.

Grandma closes the case. I pick up a cleaning cloth from the stack under the counter and pretend to start chores. The truth is I’m thinking about puppies and Mom. Grandma heads upstairs to get started on dinner. I give the case holding the portrait a swipe. I open the door and lean closer, studying the lady. She’s very pretty. There’s something in her expression that reminds me of Mom. Before Mom died, I didn’t realize how much would die with her. She was giving me guitar lessons, but now the guitar sits unused under my bed. We used to bake butterscotch brownies a lot, but I can’t make them anymore because they make him sad. And Mom was the one who encouraged me to be a veterinarian one day. Dad doesn’t discourage me, but he’s more interested in history, like Grandma. Everything would be different if she were still alive.

Gently, I pick up the tiny painting. The woman in the portrait looks kind and understanding. But something is wrong. The painted colors blur together. I feel a little dizzy, so I squeeze my eyes closed. The floor tilts beneath my feet and everything whirls around. I clench the painting with my hand tightly. What is going on?