His Yep seemed shorter still.
After about five more minutes, a young woman approached. She had reddish-blond hair with hints of blue, a diamond stud sparkling on her left nostril, and a daisy tattoo gracing one side of her neck. A few inches shorter than me, she was rail thin, wearing a colorful scarf, leather jacket, black leggings, and fat suede boots that to me seemed better suited to the tundra than Southern California.
“Tyler? I’m Lark Parrish.”
I thrust out my hand. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too. Sorry it took so long to get over here.”
“No problem. I appreciate your help.”
She cocked her head slightly as she released my hand. “You have an accent.” Before I could respond, she added, “I thought you were from Pennsylvania.”
“I am.”
“You don’t sound like it. You sound like you’re from another country or something.”
I shrugged, concerned at how things were starting out. Had Brady not told her that I’d been raised Amish? If not, why not? Had it simply not come up? Or was it because he was ashamed of that fact?
Pushing those questions from my mind for now, I ignored her comments and shifted the conversation over to the task at hand, explaining that I’d never had anything to do with cameras or photography before, but that I had taken an interest of late and wanted to find someone knowledgeable to teach me a few basics over the next month while I was in town. The crowd continued to thin out as we stood there and talked, me answering her questions and the two of us discussing what I was looking for and what might be involved. To my dismay, though, once Lark and I had hammered out the details, she hopped right back to the topic of my accent.
“I just can’t place it,” she said, looking me over closely as if my face or hair or clothes might give her a clue. “I’ve met your parents, so I know you didn’t get it from them.”
Startled, I hesitated for a moment before understanding her confusion.
“Oh, Liz is my stepmother. Brady and I are just half brothers, not full.”
“Ah,” she replied, stretching it out. “So that explains it. I didn’t realize Liz was your dad’s second wife. Is your mom foreign? I know he was in the military, right? So he’s probably lived all over the world.”
I could tell she wasn’t going to let this go. I glanced away to see that the playing field was nearly empty and the concession stand workers had begun to close up shop.
“Actually, I was raised Amish. The accent is from Pennsylvania Dutch, the language we speak among ourselves.” I didn’t add that my mother had passed away seventeen years ago.
“Whoa,” she said, eyes wide. “Seriously? You’re Amish?”
I shrugged, feeling as though she expected me to whip out a straw hat and a pair of suspenders at any moment.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” I told her, feeling self-conscious. “I mean, I’m still just a regular person. All Amish are. Just regular people.”
She seemed to realize her behavior had been bordering on rude. “I’m sorry. I guess it just took me by surprise. You’re the first Amish person I’ve ever met.”
“Then we’re even,” I replied with a smile. “You’re the first photographer I’ve ever met.”
She tossed back her head and laughed. “Holy cow. You’re cute and funny. Want to give me a ride home? I think I just might end up deciding to tutor you myself.” She started to walk away.
“What?”
Lark turned back. “Give me a ride home and we can talk about it some more. You came here tonight in a car, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“So where is it? Come on. Let’s go.”
She turned and continued on toward the parking lot. I hesitated and then had to run a few steps to catch up with her.
“You always ask rides of people you’ve just met? Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”
Lark laughed and quickened her pace. “First of all, you’re not some random stranger. Our little brothers are best friends.”
“True.”
“Besides, you’re Amish. That means you’re probably the most decent man in all of Orange County.”
As we neared the parking lot, I could see that it was more than half empty now.
“I kinda wish you had your horse and buggy here, though. That would have been a cool ride home. The only buggy rides around here are at Disneyland.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or not. Was she really comparing a centuries-old way of life, a treasured heritage, an honored tradition, a symbol of separation and submission and simplicity with a ride at an amusement park?
She must have seen the consternation on my face because she added, “You have a horse and buggy back in Pennsylvania, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah. Several of each. Listen, how did you get to the football game in the first place?”
We reached the lot and continued on past the first row.
“I came with my parents. My car’s not working right now.”