Grounded

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

When I wake, Jeremiah and Caleb are hovering over me. Something cold and wet blots my forehead and dribbles down my temple—Jeremiah with a moist handkerchief.

"Did I pass out?" I ask.

"Oh, thank the good Lord," Jeremiah says on a sigh. He slides an arm under my shoulders and hugs me to his chest. "You were electrocuted."

"Electrocuted?"

"I've never seen anything like it before," Caleb says. "You weren't even touching the outlet. How could that have happened?"

"Well, don't ask us. You're supposed to be the expert," Jeremiah says accusingly.

"Jeremiah, it wasn't Caleb's fault," I say. "If he says he's never seen this happen, I believe him. I'm okay." I sit up and rub my chest, still sore from where the electricity struck me. My hand touches skin. "Oh my. It burned through." I grip the singed edges to close the hole in my dress as heat rises in my cheeks.

"Don't worry. We kept you covered." Jeremiah helps me up.

Once I get my feet under me, I peek under my palm. The hole is the size of a silver dollar and directly over my heart, with crispy brown edges that stand out against my pale skin. Amazingly, my flesh is unscathed. "If you all would please excuse me, I'd like to change," I say.

"You should change into the English clothes I bought for you," Hannah says. "Maybe static electricity was the cause. Wool is the worst material for that. I think it would be safer if you dressed English."

I run my hand down my apron to the thin wool of my skirt. "Yes, I'd like that."

With thoughts of the rubbery fabric from my tree box in my head, I follow Hannah across the hall to a closet brimming with clothes that are as foreign to me as the ceiling fan above our heads. Hannah pulls out a pair of denim pants and three different shirts.

"These look small but the material stretches to fit, even the jeans. They just have one size here that fits everyone. Layer them, like this." She demonstrates.

"Okay." I'm skeptical. The T-shirt looks especially tiny as if it were made for a doll. Will it fit over my head? I carry the items back to my room and shut the door behind me.

Undressing is a process. I shed the skin of where I come from piece by piece, carefully folding my apron and dress, even though they're both ruined. By the time I reach my tights I wish I'd never come. Although the colors, fabrics, and decoration of the clothing on the bed fascinate me, I'm at war with myself over wearing it. I am naked in more ways than one.

Reluctantly, I slide into the pants, which Hannah called jeans, marveling at how the denim is as soft as a baby's blanket. The midnight blue slithers over my hips, stretching, expanding as I dress. Once I have them on, I tug the zipper, unzip them and zip them again. I smile at the novelty of the interwoven metal teeth. The jeans don't feel that different from tights. I squat and stand, getting used to the feel. Next is an elastic lace undergarment with thin straps. It's snug, lifting my breasts and hugging my waist. In this, I can't even look down my body without blushing. Quickly, I cover myself with a formfitting T-shirt, paper-thin and cornflower blue. This layer has cap sleeves and covers more skin. I can tolerate a look in the mirror now. The color makes my eyes look greener than they actually are.

Everything on my body is snug, stretchy, and leaves me feeling on display. Thank goodness for the last layer, a silvery jacket. Silky and light, I weigh it in my hand. A tag on the collar says it maintains body temperature in all but the most extreme weather. I slide my arms into the sleeves. With a hood and a zipper, it drapes over the T-shirt, giving me some sense of modesty. This zipper is harder to work because I have to start it myself. When I finally succeed in hooking the sides together, I zip it as high as it will go, just under my chin. I frown. I do not look like an Englisher. I tug the zipper halfway down, until it looks more like what Hannah might wear and shrug at my reflection. This is how Englishers look and how I must look to fit in. It's not too bad.