Hot Scots, Castles, and Kilts Read online

  Hot Scots, Castles, and Kilts

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Day 1: Summer Vacation Barf Bags

  Day 2: Breakfast I Miss My Snooze Button

  Day 3: Morning

  Day 4: Fiona

  Day 5: Cows

  Day 6: Mom's in Writer Mode

  Day 7: Morning

  Day 8: Adan Is So Hot

  Day 9: Darn Ghost

  Day 10: I Want a Favorite Spot

  Day 11: Laundry

  Day 12: Fiona Is Going to Be My Ghost-hunting Partner

  Day 13: Calling Samuel Logan

  Day 14: 8 a.m.

  Day 15: Shopping

  Day 16: 7 a.m.

  Day 19: Pimples

  Day 20: Clan Wars

  Day 21: Double Date

  Day 22: Midnight

  Day 23: Great

  Day 24: Creature from the Dye Pit

  Day 25: Chores

  Day 28: Medieval Fair

  Day 30: Power Tools

  Day 33: Fiona Has Run Away

  Day 34: Seeing Fiona

  Day 35: Mother-Daughter Bonding

  Day 36: Nope

  Day 37: My Dress Is So Hot

  Day 38: Dad's Here

  Day 39: Wedding of the Century

  Day 40: Plan to Lure Unsuspecting Tourists and Get Them to Work Our Farm Is Still Moving Forward

  Day 41: Going Home

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to my Sammantha, without whom I wouldn't have had a character to send to Scotland.

  Day 1

  Summer Vacation

  Barf Bags

  What creative genius coined the phrase barf bag? They should've gone with something more sophisticated, like vomit vessel or regurgitation receptacle.

  Takeoff, plus turbulence, plus air sickness equals me and my new close friend, the barf bag. I took Mom's bag too, just in case.

  Flying sucks.

  Mom and I have been on this plane for five gross hours. I've been nauseous, couldn't eat, barely watched a movie, and tried to sleep. No luck.

  Molly MacKensie, a long-lost Scottish relative of Mom's, has invited us to spend a month and a half with her this summer. We're going to visit our ancestral homeland, Scotland.

  Who knew we were Scottish? We're German, French, and Polish. But Scottish? No one tells me anything. My parents keep secrets from me like they're high-ranking officials in the CIA.

  I've seen television shows about the Loch Ness monster. What's the deal with that? An ancient sea creature living in a freshwater lake? Sweet!

  Maybe I'll see it. Maybe I'll be standing onshore, snapping pictures, and the huge beast will appear, showing itself to me. Then it will lean in real close, breathe fire at my feet, and roar like a crazed medieval dragon, swinging its gaping, razor-tooth-filled mouth at me. I will freeze in terror, hoping to not pee my pants.

  But a gorgeous knight, wearing a kilt, will come to my rescue. He'll hold his broadsword high and say, “Auch, Nessie, leave the bonnie lass be.” The monster will obey his command and slither back into the dark waters of the lake, leaving me, knees shaking, in love with my hero.

  I sighed, gaining control of myself. Mom says I'm overly dramatic. Dad calls it passionate. I like to think of it as creative.

  I've spent the last month of my sophomore year of high school researching and preparing for this trip. Everyone is so hyped about it that Mom and Dad even threw a Scottish-themed sixteenth birthday party for me.

  Try explaining to your friends the fat man standing in the corner of your yard wearing a kilt and playing a bagpipe—which, by the way, sounded like a dying cat. It was all I could do to keep myself focused long enough to blow out my candles.

  So now Mom and I are off to spend forty days in Scotland.

  Relatives, castles, superstitions, ghosts, and, hopefully, hot guys.

  Molly, Mom's newly discovered relative, has a fifteen-year-old daughter, Fiona. I wonder what they're like. Mom assures me they are not weirdos or anything, but she has an odd, writer's personality, so I'm not too cool with her as a judge of character, although she is always telling me her written characters are very realistic. I guess what she's trying to say is that she has to know and understand people to write them.

  I read one of her romances once. Mom's about as in touch with reality as someone who claims to have fallen in love at first sight.

  I guess Fiona and I should get along since we're both in our mid-teens. And I have a lot to say on the topics of guys, makeup, and shopping. Trust me.

  Before leaving home, I went to the mall and strategically purchased clothing for the Highland weather. I bought hiking boots, jeans, sweaters. . . . I did not buy anything plaid. First, it doesn't suit my light complexion and dark hair; and second, what if I mistakenly bought a rival clan's plaid? I've read about clan feuds, and I don't want to be on the receiving end of some medieval revenge feudy thingy.

  10 p.m.

  A summer romance would be awesome. I'm single. I broke up with Chad last week 'cause his hands are girly.

  And long-distance relationships are a pain.

  Not that I've ever had one.

  10:10 p.m.

  It'd be so cool to go back home and tell all my friends that I'd dated a hot Scot. If it happens, I'm taking a ton of pictures and plastering them all over my Web page. Then if no one asks me to the winter formal, I'll say something like “We decided not to date other people.”

  10:23 p.m.

  The BF-in-another-country angle could make me a hot commodity with the guys at home. Untouchable—and the untouchables are, ironically, always the girls the cool guys want to date. Then maybe they'd walk around with that fine, forlorn love pout because of me for a change. Sweet.

  11:01 p.m.

  Mom has talked enough about her romance novels set in Scotland for me to know that Scottish men have steamy bodies and come-hither charm, whatever that means. But, since they do, I splurged on beauty products.

  Mom's always saying, “Sami, you spend too much money.” But, hey, I'm a teenage girl.

  I'll find a job when I get home. Then Mom won't moan about how I spend money because it'll be my money.

  12:15 a.m.

  The Internet said that the weather in the Highlands in July would range from sixty to seventy degrees during the day, but that it would be a lot cooler at night.

  I hope the MacKensies have heat. From the pictures I've seen, most of the buildings there are pretty medieval-looking, made of stone and all. Medieval buildings are cold and damp and heated with fire-places. I read somewhere that they used to burn animal poop. Gross. That smell would never wash out of my hair.

  1:05 a.m.

  How long is this flight?

  Will I have jet lag?

  Maybe not if I sleep.

  I'm going to sleep.

  1:57 a.m.

  Can't sleep.

  Anyone for a game of cards or something?

  3:03 a.m.

  Mom is snoring. I want to die. This is so embarrassing.

  I hope the Brad Pitt twin two rows back doesn't think it's me.

  What if Mom drools?

  Gross.

  4:27 a.m.

  Trying to sleep is futile.

  I dug through Mom's bag and pulled out her Scotland travel guide. I didn't care about the maps, motels, or restaurants. I turned to the second half of the monster-sized book, the interesting stuff.

  Along with dinosaur-like creatures living in the lakes, spirits and goblins apparently run rampant in the countryside. The section on haunted castles has to be at least thirty pages, each full of detailed sightings. I wonder if MacKensie Castle is haunted? That'd be sweet. />
  Cool! There is apparently a long tradition among Scottish people of foretelling the future. Maybe I'll get in touch with my Scottish self and hone my Second Sight skills.

  Customs—YES!

  My first trip through customs: a life experience marker. Here I was stepping onto foreign soil (well, technically I was already on foreign soil, but still) and I didn't even get a stamp in my passport, just a slip of paper.

  How do you say “let down” in Scottish?

  It was nothing like in the movies. No huge guy dressed in a dark suit whisking us into a small room to rifle through our belongings, question us under a single, hot lightbulb, or threaten to throw us in prison.

  Scottish people are too mellow with their country's security, but they do sound cool . . . if they'd just slow down enough for me to actually understand.

  Family Reunion

  Molly and Fiona met us at Inverness Airport.

  You know that weird stuff about everyone having a twin somewhere in the world?

  I think Molly is Mom's twin.

  I swear.

  They both have the same reddish-brown curly hair. Once, I tried to copy the shade and curl of Mom's hair, and let's just say that ended badly. I figure I should save myself countless futile attempts and potential disasters and just resign myself to the fact that I'm stuck with straight, fine, dark brown hair.

  Mom and Molly have the same perfectly shaped hazel eyes. Top those off with identical smatterings of freckles across their small noses, and people at the airport were stopping to stare at the “twins.”

  They hugged, laughed, and talked. Then they even started to finish each other's sentences. Weird.

  What if Mom's long-lost relative is some psycho fan or something? After all, Molly contacted Mom through her author Web site. Mom publishes using her maiden name, Patty MacKensie, but our real last name is Ames.

  Molly hugged me. I didn't get any funky feelings, so I guess she's not the stalker type.

  At least I hope.

  Fiona Is WEIRD

  Mom and Molly are the only creepy, family-like connection.

  I'm light, but Fiona is almost albino.

  I wear makeup, and Fiona doesn't.

  I wear jeans, and Fiona wears denim that looks like it was purchased at a dollar store.

  How can I communicate with someone who obviously doesn't shop at American Eagle?

  My nails are painted; Fiona's are plain and clipped.

  I'm tall, and Fiona is short.

  I smiled . . . and she smiled . . . and then we said hello at the same time.

  Maybe I'm just tired and cranky.

  Castle in the Mist—

  Whatever

  More like a cloud of freezing, heavy air than mist—but it's not a castle.

  Hey, where's my castle?

  It's a croft, with a stone cottage strategically placed in the middle of a stinking field. There's a low stone wall surrounding the structure, but sheep are walking through an opening in the wall and grazing right in front of the door.

  Molly said this is where Mom and I will stay for the next month.

  Ummm . . . Hello

  There's no electricity.

  We have to pump water into the sink in the kitchen. Are we in the Stone Age?

  Geez. Even the Romans had running water in their homes. Of course, during the height of the Roman Empire, this part of the world was run by uncivilized, dirty barbarians.

  Molly and Fiona left us to settle in. Molly offered to pick us up for dinner, but Mom said she'd like to walk.

  Great, we'll probably get lost. We aren't the best with directions. Neither of us was born with an internal compass.

  I claimed the loft bedroom. When I stretched out for a nap, the mattress felt like it was packed with straw. Either that or arrow-tipped twigs.

  Tricked

  Before we'd left home, Mom had hinted that we'd be helping Molly and Fiona prepare MacKensie Manor to be a working farm for tourists, where people could step through time and into the life of a medieval Scottish family.

  I should've asked for precise details.

  I figured we'd at least be staying in the castle.

  I wonder if Mom knew that we'd be staying at a cottage with no electricity.

  Probably. It's easy to agree to things while sitting in a room with five electrical outlets.

  Now that I'm here, I'm really wondering, who would go to a working farm for a vacation?

  People should go to the beach for vacations.

  I should be at the beach checking out guys, or at the mall buying clothes . . . and checking out guys.

  “I talked to your principal,” Mom said, “and you can use the hours here as part of your hundred hours of required community service for graduation.”

  I snapped my pinky knuckle, a nasty habit I'd picked up in middle school. I do it when I feel helpless.

  I guess helping here might be better than emptying bedpans at the local nursing home. But still, someone should've asked me. I'm sixteen, and I have a voice. When will Mom let me grow up? Someday I'll go on vacation where I want and with whom I want to go with . . . and it won't be Mom!

  Home Sweet . . . Cottage

  Our cottage has to be the worst one on MacKensie Land. Or maybe it's the best—and if that's the case, then this farm needs some serious help to become a quality tourist trap.

  There are candles and oil lamps all around, so when the sun goes down, at least we still have light—even if it is a dim, creepy, stinky light.

  There are two rooms downstairs. The dining, cooking, and living areas are all one big room. Mom has a small bedroom at the north end, and I'm in the loft. The “kitchen” is nothing more than a sink with a water pump and a super-old fireplace. It's the biggest fireplace I've ever seen. I tried to stand in it and hit my head, but it's still huge.

  Mom has trouble cooking on the electric stove at home, so the medieval cooking thing isn't going to go over very well. Maybe now I'll lose those extra five pounds.

  Molly and Fiona did leave us a cupboard full of food. I'm not sure Mom or I can cook quality homemade meals without a microwave. Dad is the cook in the family. I'm starving already.

  We do have an icebox. There's a chunk of ice in there now. I wonder how long it will last.

  There's no shower. I'm going to need every facial cleanser I brought with me to keep pimples at a distance. In a week, Mom will be begging to use them. Her box of pencils, erasers, and notebooks won't keep her skin clean.

  Now who made the wiser purchases? Hmmm . . . I'd say me with my plethora of facial cleansers and pimple lotions.

  Roughing It

  We are not a roughing it kind of family. We are a family who vacations at a swanky beachfront condo on the Gulf Coast. Cooking over an open fire, straw-filled mattresses, no electricity, no running water . . . We are civilized people. We need modern conveniences to survive.

  Help!

  Walking, 7:57 p.m.

  The sun was setting, and we were walking in the middle of a foreign land.

  “This is so great,” Mom said. “We're staying at a cottage, in Scotland.” She put her arm around me.

  I rolled my eyes and cracked my left pinky knuckle. “Great,” I mumbled.

  “Let's go,” she said, pointing her finger straight ahead like she was leading a grand Scottish expedition.

  “It's getting dark . . . really dark,” I said. “Maybe we should stay here and try to cook something.”

  “Molly told me how to get there,” she said. “And it's dusk, Sami, not dark.”

  Okay, Molly told her how to get there. Mom couldn't find the store on the corner of our street without getting lost, even with written directions and a map. And I was not much better.

  “I can see my breath,” I said when we stepped outside. “We could get lost and die of hypothermia.”

  Mom laughed. “You're such a joker, Sami. I love going places with you.”

  Joker? I was being dead serious.

  Did I say dea
d?

  10 Minutes After Leaving

  We were lost. Mom would not admit it, but I knew.

  11 Minutes After Leaving

  Lights. MacKensie Castle? A mirage?

  15 Minutes After Leaving

  Lights were twinkling in the far, far distance.

  It was pitch-black. I couldn't see where my foot was stepping, and Mom hadn't brought any form of light. She would never have made it as a Girl Scout. (True, I never made it past Brownies, but I'm not as hopeless as Mom.)

  “We're lost, aren't we?” I asked.

  “No . . . we're in the Highlands,” she said.

  “You're such a joker, Mom.” Not.

  23 Minutes After Leaving

  I grabbed Mom's hand. I felt like a scared baby. It was annoying.

  I'm not a momma's girl. When I turned thirteen, I turned overnight into daddy's girl. Mom and I had a typical mother-and-teenage-only-child-daughter kind of relationship—tense.

  I squeezed her hand. Despite our strained relationship, she would never lead me into harm.

  Our steps fell into a synchronized rhythm. Left, right, left, right, left, right.

  We were making progress . . . to where? Hopefully, the twinkling lights in the distance—MacKensie Castle.

  “It's really dark,” I said.

  “Umm-hmmm.”

  Something crashed to our left. We froze, right legs midstride. The sound was definitely not the type of rustle created by a tiny, furry woodland Scottish creature.

  No, it had been a legitimate monster-sized detonation, shattering tree limbs and possibly rocks. A large, creepy Highland monster or goblin was stalking us, using the blackness as cover.

  Our breathing was soft and shallow. We stood motionless.

  A howl tore through the night. A shiver raced down my spine and my eyes began to tear. We were going to die.

  We squeezed hands and ran.

  Right, left, right, left, right.

  I heard Mom's breathing deepen. My legs shook.

  “Almost . . . there,” she said, gasping for breath.