by Leila Sales
“Maybe he’s scared,” I offered.
“Oh, please,” Fiona scoffed. “I’m not scary.”
“Sure,” I said. “You’re just gorgeous—”
“Only if you’re into brunettes,” she argued.
“And rich—”
“Not anymore.”
“And charismatic—”
“Eh, it comes and goes.”
“Oh, and you’ve made out with practically every worthwhile guy at school.”
“At least twenty percent of them were drunk at the time.” She fluttered her long lashes.
“Right, so I can’t imagine why Nat would be scared of you. Plus, Fi, you just hooked up with a British soldier. Like two days ago. So maybe Nat has some reason to believe you’re not that into him.”
“He didn’t need to know that I was making out with a British soldier,” Fiona said. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. But no, someone here just had to tell him.”
“Sorry!” Anne bleated.
“It’s truly a wonder that anyone ever manages to date anyone,” Fiona observed. “When you think about how complicated it is.”
“How about you and Bryan, huh?” Patience nudged me so hard that it hurt. “He’s obviously still carrying that torch for you.”
I rolled my eyes. This is how the milliner girls are. Constant boys and dating and hookups and crushes, like there’s nothing else going on in their lives. Maybe there’s really not. I don’t know how Fiona stands working with them.
Of course, I’d spent an unhealthy amount of time over the past few days thinking about Dan Malkin. But at least I knew it was unhealthy.
“What’s wrong with Bryan?” Maggie asked me. “Okay, he’s a little weird, but I think you guys would make a cute couple.”
I blanched. This was probably the worst insult I had ever received.
“Speaking of cute couples,” Anne said to Maggie, “do you know where you and Ezra are going tomorrow night?”
Maggie glowed. Maybe it was just the sweat or something, but she positively glowed. “He won’t tell me,” she said. “Just that it’s a surprise and that I should look cute, like I always do.”
A collective sigh from all the girls, except for Fiona. And me. Fiona stared down at the mud. I stared at her. Come on, Fi, just look up and tell me that it’s nothing. Tell me that nothing’s going on.
Maggie was on a roll. “He bought me candy from Belmont’s yesterday. Seriously. A little box of truffles, all wrapped up with a bow and a note about how he couldn’t wait to see me. He’s so sweet, guys, it’s unbelievable. And did I tell you what he said when we were watching the Fourth of July fireworks together?”
“Yes,” Patience and Anne chorused.
“Like eight times,” Patience added.
Fiona was still refusing to look at me. And I could have let that be my answer, but I had to know for sure. “Ezra who?” I asked, in my best attempt at a normal voice.
“Ezra Gorman,” Maggie answered. “You know, the new guy who works in the magazine? The hot one?” She gave a loud, braying laugh.
“Of course Chelsea knows, idiot,” Patience said. “She used to date him. During the school year.” Patience goes to school with me and Ezra. Maggie does not.
Maggie stopped laughing. “Is that true?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You just have a thing for people’s ex-boyfriends, don’t you?” Patience asked her.
“Well.” Maggie shrugged. “Everyone is someone’s ex-boyfriend.”
“It’s okay,” I said, even though no one had asked me whether it was okay or not. “It was a long time ago.”
“He’s a great guy,” Maggie offered, like my consolation prize was that I had great taste in guys.
So I said, “Thanks.” And then I tried to get out of the treading pit, but in the process I dropped the hem of my petticoat into the mud.
“Ugh,” Anne said, with great sympathy. “It’s so hard to get mud off these clothes.” All the girls nodded in solidarity.
“You’re right,” I said, pulling on my stockings without even bothering to wipe the mud off my feet. “It is really, really hard.”
A family of moderners showed up then, exclaiming, “Look at the Colonial girls in the mud!” The milliner girls posed and pouted and splashed around while the moderners took photos, and I made my escape.
Fiona caught up to me on the small road behind the brickyard. She was barefoot, holding her boots in her hand. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine.” I stopped walking and gestured toward my muddy dress. “I was going to have to do laundry one of these months, anyway.”
“I meant about the Ezra and Maggie thing.”
“Oh.” I played with the drawstrings on my petticoat. “You knew already.”
“Yes. I work with her. I can’t help but know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Fi?”
“I didn’t think you could handle it.” She gazed at me steadily.
“Then you were wrong. I can handle it. Look at me handling it.”
“Chelsea—” Fiona began.
“Seriously, what does it have to do with me? If he wants to date Maggie, or anyone else, how is that my concern? If he wants to buy her candy, and include a note, does that mean anything to me? We broke up months ago. It’s not like he’s cheating on me. It’s not like he needs to ask my permission. His love life is none of my business, and I don’t care.”
“Well,” Fiona said, “that was very convincing. Color me convinced.”
I kicked a pebble and said nothing. Ezra gave me a box of chocolates once too. It was for our two-month anniversary. Who the hell remembers a two-month anniversary? Ezra Gorman, that’s who. And there was a note with my truffles too. That’s not original. It said, “The past two months have been the happiest of my life. Let’s have so many more. Love, Ezra.” That was in the Ezra file too, if I ever needed to look at it, if I ever managed to forget what it said.
What, had I thought I was the first girl, or the last girl, or the most important girl? I am everygirl. I am this easily replaceable.
“I thought I was happy on the Fourth of July,” I said quietly. “I didn’t see Ezra once, and I barely thought about him at all. And now that I know that the reason why I didn’t see him is that he was off with Maggie, well . . . It’s like now it turns out it wasn’t such a great day, after all.”
Fiona shook her head. “That’s revisionist history. While it was happening, it was a good day. You were happy. You shouldn’t let whatever Ezra was doing ruin that for you.”
“I know that I shouldn’t,” I said. “But I do. I can’t help it.” I leaned against the low fence bordering the road.
Fiona said, “Yes, he’s moving on. Yes, it’s sad. But he’s not the only one who can do that, Chelsea. You can move on too.”
“I’d be glad to,” I said. “How?”
“Just . . . stop thinking about how it used to be all the time. Live in the present.”
I laughed bitterly. “What does that even mean? It’s hard to live in the present when the ‘present’ is two hundred fifty years ago. It’s hard to live in the present when my job is literally called ‘living history.’ And I’m really good at it. I’ve spent most of my life perfecting the craft of living history. I have no practice at living in the present.”
“Not that you asked me,” Fiona said, “but I think a good start at living in the present would be going on a date with someone else.” She leaned against the fence beside me and started to put her boots back on.
“No one else wants to date me.” Briefly, I pictured Dan. But that wasn’t real. That was only wishful thinking. I had sabotaged that before it could be anything more than a note saying, basically, “Give me back my belongings so that we’ll never have to deal with each other again.”
“Bryan Denton wants to date you,” countered Fiona.
“Gross. Bryan is, for all intents and purposes, an amphibian. Given the choice, I wou
ld rather go on a date with an actual toad.”
Fiona nodded—this was a hard point to argue. “Jared Fitch asked you out after Ezra.”
“But, as we discussed at the time, Jared and I have literally nothing in common. He asked me to go out bowling with him. And what is the one sport I hate most in the world?”
“Boccie.” Fiona volunteered, lacing up her boot.
I furrowed my brow. “I’ve never played boccie.”
“It’s like bowling, only worse.”
“See, I rest my case. On my first date with Ezra, we went to see a concert of one of my favorite bands, who also happens to be one of his favorite bands. That is a first date. I can’t believe you’re presenting Jared like he was ever a viable option.”
“Okay, Ari Hester.”
“Has no interest in me.”
“False. Ari would have asked you out this spring if you had given him half a chance. Why else do you think he was always hanging around outside of your locker, asking you what the math homework was?”
“Because otherwise he would have failed math?” I suggested. “Anyway, Ari, good guy, unbelievably boring. Have you ever tried to have a conversation with him?”
“Have you?” Fiona countered. She straightened up from her shoes.
“You know how there are some people who can light up a room just by walking into it? You, for example. Ezra, for another example. Well, Ari sucks the light out of a room by walking into it. He starts to speak, and you become aware of how drab and pointless all of life is.” I mopped the sweat off my forehead. “It’s very depressing.”
“Fine, forget dating. You could have at least made out with that Redcoat on the Fourth. No strings attached.”
“I didn’t feel like it.”
“What I hope you’re noticing here,” Fiona said, “is that some boys do want you. You just don’t want them, because they are not Ezra Gorman.”
“Look, Ezra was amazing.”
Fiona snorted.
“I’m serious. You heard Maggie going on about how he’s taking her on a surprise date and telling her she’s adorable and whatever. Why should I go from a guy like that to a guy who wants to spend his life rolling a ball down an alley?”
“Because you need somebody new so you can get over Ezra and move on.”
“Do I need somebody new?” I asked. “Can’t I just be a liberated woman and not have my day-to-day happiness be dependent on boys?”
“Absolutely,” Fiona said. “By all means, be a liberated woman. But you actually have to do it. You have to start making yourself happy now. Because I’m getting sick of watching you be unhappy. This summer is supposed to be about us, remember? Us having fun. Us being friends. Not you moping.”
“Enough.” I felt stung. “I’m not moping. I am transcendently happy. We’re winning the War, and nothing could be more fulfilling. And I get to spend my summer in the company of my wonderful best friend, in thirty pounds of clothing, in three-hundred-degree heat. It’s all fantastic. And now I am going to return to my graveyard. The land where dreams and Colonials go to die. This has been an intense amount of advice for one lunch hour. How exactly did you become such a relationship expert?”
Fiona made as if to swish her hair, then remembered it was all pinned up under her mobcap. “I watch a lot of movies,” she answered.
“That’s true.”
“Really, Chelsea, if you spent as much time as I do thinking about movies, then you’d know everything there is to know about love. And if I spent as much time as you do thinking about the past, then I’d probably be a lot better at my job.”
“But, instead, I’m supposed to think about the present.”
“Right. I think the present should be our main summertime focus.”
“Also, ice cream,” I reminded her.
“Yes,” Fiona said as we continued our walk down the road. “Also ice cream.”
Chapter 11
THE TRAITOR
A few days after my conversation with Fiona, I made a decision: I was going into Civil War Reenactment-land. Not as a hostage. Not as a saboteur. Not as a spy.
I was going into Civil War Reenactmentland to return a sweatshirt.
In front of my bedroom mirror, I rehearsed what I would say if anyone from Essex saw me across the street. “It’s my day off and I got bored. Thought I’d go just for a laugh.”
Right, because that sounded like the kind of thing I’d do.
“I’m returning this sweatshirt to one of the Civil Warriors who kidnapped me.”
True, but unacceptable. If anyone knew I had a sweatshirt from the Civil War, we’d have to find some way to use it against them.
“I’m going to scope out their territory and report back on any weaknesses.”
That would have to be my answer. That was the only answer my friends would accept.
I sighed and made a face at my reflection. Please, just don’t let anyone see me.
This was the first full day I’d worn modern clothes in what felt like forever, and I was overwhelmed by choices. I dumped pile after pile of clothes onto my bed. Practically the only items left in my closet were the recently completed Civil War uniforms that had been put in my care until the day of the mission.
I pawed through my options. I could wear open-toed shoes! As if it were summertime! I could wear earrings! I put on a pair of dangling, interlocking silver hoops, just because I could. I could even paint my nails but decided, regretfully, that it wasn’t worth it, since I’d just have to remove the polish before I went back to work tomorrow. Mr. Zelinsky always carried around a bottle of nail polish remover to help out the girls who conveniently “forgot.”
I had stupid tan lines from my costume. There was a square cut-out across my chest that had turned a lovely bronze, while the rest of my skin was as pale as winter. I put on a pair of short-shorts and hoped one day of full-on sun exposure would help my legs perk up.
It’s not even that I think I look better tanned. I don’t. It’s just that being tan makes me feel like I have accomplished something quantifiable with my time outside.
I spent a while on my makeup, then washed off nearly all of it, because I didn’t want Dan to think I’d gone to any lengths to impress him. I was just returning his sweatshirt. That’s all. Common courtesy.
Finally, I put on a floppy sunhat and big sunglasses. This was my disguise, so that when Civil Warriors glanced at me, they wouldn’t immediately recognize me as Elizabeth Connelly, the silversmith’s daughter and the Colonials’ Lieutenant.
One final look in the mirror. I looked like a pasty-skinned, hat-and-shades-wearing sun-phobic. Fine. At least my earrings looked good.
I biked in the direction of Essex, but then turned left instead of right, past a garish sign proclaiming, “Welcome to Civil War Reenactmentland, winner of the Barnes Prize for Historical Interpretation!” I made a mental note that we needed to find a way to target that sign in an upcoming attack. Maybe graffiti.
I pulled the brim of my hat down low over my eyes while buying an entry ticket, and no one shouted anything like, “That girl is a Colonial! Don’t let her in!”
Also, by the way—the Reenactmentland entry fee? Not cheap. I was probably spending more money on returning this sweatshirt than it had cost Dan in the first place.
Reenactmentland barely resembled the barren place where I’d hidden telephones less than a week earlier. Under the midafternoon sun, it was swarming with families of squabbling moderners, summer-camp groups in matching T-shirts, couples holding hands, and people in period dress cutting purposefully through the crowd. For all intents and purposes, it looked like Essex.
I stood still for a moment, trying to orient myself toward the big field where Dan’s tent had been set up. A little boy, focusing on his Popsicle, crashed into my legs.
“Michael, say sorry!” his father scolded him.
“It’s fine,” I said, and they pressed on.
It was more than fine, actually. It was remarkable. No one wante
d to take a photo with me, no one asked me for directions. I just blended in.
The crowd swept me along until I came to the big field of tents. I walked into a few different ones before I found Dan, crouched down to explain a bayonet to a wide-eyed little girl.
In his suspenders, loose-fitting vest, and felt hat, he looked even better than when I’d seen him in a T-shirt and cut-offs. What can I say, I have a thing for guys in period dress, okay? That’s just who I am.
He glanced up from the moderner, then did a double take when he noticed me. “Chelsea?”
“Hey.” I waved.
He stood, towering over the little girl. “What are you doing here?”
“Um . . .” I suddenly got a fluttery feeling in my stomach. This was a bad idea. Why was I the last one to understand that this was a bad idea? “I wanted to return your sweatshirt.” As proof, I held it out to him.
He looked pointedly at me, then at the moderners. I slowly dropped my arm to my side.
“Mama, I’m hungry,” the girl whined.
“Okay, sweetie. We can get lunch.” To Dan, the modern woman said, “Thanks for your time,” and she pressed a five-dollar bill into his hand.
“You guys get tips?” I asked once they were out of range. “No wonder you could afford to buy credit for a bunch of cell phones that you’re never going to see again.”
“Unlike some historical interpreters, we earn tips.” Unsmiling, he reached out his hand. “I’ll take my sweatshirt now.”
I am an idiot. I’m simply an idiot. Dan hadn’t called me to say, “Do you want to go out on a date with me.” He had called to say, “Do you want to give me back my stuff.” He hadn’t sent a note asking about his sweatshirt because he secretly wanted to kiss me. He had sent a note asking about his sweatshirt because he wanted his sweatshirt. As Fiona sometimes tells me, boys are not that complicated.
And if Dan had ever wanted anything more, then I had killed that by ignoring him at Abbott’s. That had been my one chance to confront him not as warring reenactors, but as two people, a girl and a boy, and I had killed it. I am the Charles Manson of relationships.
I was all set to give him the hoodie, walk out of Reenactmentland, and chalk up Dan Malkin as just another failure in my so-called love life—but then I stuck the sweatshirt behind my back and said, “What’ll you give me for it?”
