Read Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink for Free Online

essay. Or nailing the smoky-eye look.
    Ruth sent me out back to scrub the pots under the water pump. The lard was . . . crusty. As I pumped water and rubbed my hands raw trying to get out globs of stuck-on pork fat, contemplating the irony that the tallow soap I was using was also made out of animal fat, I fought down the urge to vomit for the millionth time that day. I was surrounded by animal fat. Even the cleaning products felt dirty! Greasy, gritty water soaked the hem of my skirts and little black cast-iron flecks came loose, settling in my clothes, my hair, my everywhere. Suddenly, I had a flash of the cute, clean girl who’d arrived in her canvas ballet flats, innocent, naive, and a stranger to lard. It was all just too much. I put down the last of the mostly clean pots.
    So, yes, I’ll admit it, I’d broken the cell phone rule. I’d stuck it in my bra before I left the house to smuggle it into the museum. We were allowed to wear modern underwear under our costumes, but I had a horrible feeling that Ashling was going full-on commando in the name of historical accuracy. Not me—I love history, but I love personal hygiene more. I like a little something on under my petticoats, thank you very much. So I had a pink lacy bra that doubled as a stealth cell phone holder under my stays. I know, it was bad that I’d brought the phone. But I’d thought that Dev might have needed me. Turned out, I needed him. I looked around—Ruth was busy in the house, and none of the museum visitors on the road could see around to the garden, but . . . Bingo! I spied the almost-empty apple barrel. Perfect cover. I leaned over, stuck my head in the barrel, pulled the phone out of my boobs, and dialed.
    â€œDev!” I sobbed. “I smell like a slaughterhouse!”
    â€œWhat? Hello?” he answered, confused. “Who is this? If this is PETA again, I don’t know how you got this number, but back off. We are running the ‘Fun Fur’ piece, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
    â€œWhat? No! It’s not PETA—it’s Libby.”
    â€œLibby? Why would you smell like a slaughterhouse? Aren’t you wearing your Burberry Brit?” It was hard to hear him.
    â€œNobody ever mentioned how much lard was involved in the good old days.” I sniffled.
    â€œYou did not just say ‘lard’ to me.” Static. “I’m on a no-fat, no-carb diet. Don’t even think ‘lard’ in my general direction.”
    â€œWhere are you?” I asked. “There’s a lot of background noise.”
    â€œStarbucks,” Dev replied briskly. “I’m trying to construct a carry-able tower out of four nonfat half-caf lattes, two Cinnamon Dolce Light Frappuccinos, three shots of espresso, and a reduced-fat strawberry scone, and it is
not
going well.” Shuffling noises. “How are things with you? Aside from the L-word. How’re the other nerds?”
    â€œThey hate me,” I moaned miserably. “It’s like
Legally Blonde.
”
    â€œReally?” he asked. “That’s weird. You’re not even that blond. You use the honey-to-caramel shade of Sheer Blonde shampoo.”
    â€œI know,” I whined, “but they’re treating me like Elle Woods’s sluttier, stupider younger sister.” Okay, fine, really it was only one of them, but I was in a self-pitying mood and felt like the whole world was out to get me. And I wanted to whine.
    â€œYou? Really. Really? You have way too many freckles and sometimes your hair frizzes. I mean you’re cute, but you’re no Reese Witherspoon . . .”
    â€œExactly!”
    â€œI mean, they should have
seen
you when I first met you in that tragic pink turtleneck you thought was so chic.”
    â€œIt
was
chic three years ago!” I protested.
    â€œYou were a well-meaning mess. I made you what you are!”
    â€œI’d be offended,