by Leila Sales
And then it wasn’t perfect anymore. We were happy for a few minutes, we really, honestly were. And then we stopped being happy.
Now, I set the sledding photo carefully to one side, to uncover the next item in the Ezra file: ticket stubs from a midnight showing of Bottle Rocket at the Plainville Cinema.
Somehow I had gotten permission from my parents to stay out extra late, just to see the movie. It was early March but it already felt like springtime; for the first time in months I was wearing ballet flats and a skirt without tights underneath. I had straightened my hair and stuck a new headband in it. I remembered Ezra acting kind of flustered as he drove us to the movie theater. The whole car smelled like him, like aftershave or cologne or one of those other boy things.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, after he trailed off in the middle of a sentence for the third time.
“Yeah, fine. I just . . .” He shook his head and said in a quiet voice, “You’re just really pretty.”
This was one of my favorite Ezra moments, out of all of them. I never tired of replaying that moment.
We got to the cinema and he bought Sno-Caps for me and Sour Patch Kids for himself. The movie was laugh-out-loud funny, and then after it was over, but before he dropped me off at home, Ezra pulled his car onto a side street and we just went at it, our hands and mouths all over each other, fogging up the windows of his car. It was three a.m. by the time I walked in my front door, and I was prepared to tell my parents that the movie really was that long, if they asked, which they never did.
For someone who’s supposed to be an expert at history, you just suck at remembering what’s real, Fiona said.
Although things actually happen, we don’t remember them the way they actually were, Dad said.
The way things actually were. The way things actually were is that all of that was true. Also true was that, when we got to the movie theater, we ran into a girl named Kimberly, who was on the school paper with Ezra. She was out with a group of her girl friends. When Ezra bought me Sno-Caps, he also bought a box of Junior Mints for Kimberly. He wanted to sit right behind her, so they could spend the time before the movie gossiping about other editors at the paper. I barely knew the people they were talking about, so there was nothing I could say. Kimberly tried to include me in their conversation, a little. Ezra didn’t try at all.
During the movie, I put my hand on Ezra’s knee, and he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t respond, either. He just sat there, staring at the screen, like we were two strangers who happened to be sitting next to each other, and for some reason one stranger decided it was socially acceptable to rest her hand on the other stranger’s knee. During the scene where the characters rob a cold storage facility, Ezra leaned forward and whispered a comment in Kimberly’s ear, and she laughed and laughed. After the movie was over, he insisted that we walk Kimberly to her car before we left.
I didn’t say anything to Ezra about any of this, because what could I have said? He had told me I was pretty, he had taken me to the movies, he wanted to make out with me, and yet for some reason I was jealous of Kimberly. I couldn’t tell him that. It wouldn’t have made any sense.
That’s what really happened. It was all true, the good and the bad, both at once. All of time happens in one moment: 1774 and 1863 and last winter and this summer. And all of a relationship is true in one moment, too. All these things exist and coexist and re-exist.
I closed the Ezra file and set it down on the floor. I climbed into bed with my clothes still on, crawled under the sheet, and remembered April 17th, the day Ezra officially broke up with me. What really happened.
I wouldn’t say I was surprised when he ended things. In fact, I was the opposite of surprised. Within the course of a few weeks, we went from talking on the phone every day to almost never. He stopped texting me every time something reminded him of me, and when I texted him, he wouldn’t respond for hours, or sometimes not at all. He stopped making plans with me; on Friday, I would corner him in Latin class and ask about his weekend, and he would rattle off a series of activities, none of which included me. He chatted with me online still, but less and less, and he kissed me still, but distractedly, as if he was doing me a favor. But still he didn’t break up with me.
I was miserable. I checked my phone and e-mail frantically, reasoning that any communication from him would mean he still cared about me. Fiona was horrified, though I couldn’t tell whether she was more bothered by the way Ezra was treating me, or by the way I was reacting. “In what way, exactly, are you two still together?” she asked me.
“In the way where he hasn’t broken up with me yet.”
“So why don’t you break up with him? You know you’re allowed to do that. He’s treating you like shit.”
“I don’t want to break up with him.”
We were having this conversation during lunchtime. Instead of eating in the cafeteria, I was with Fiona in the filthy first-floor bathroom at school, crying because I had just seen Ezra flirting with Kimberly in the lunch line.
“So you don’t want to break up with him, what, because he makes you so happy?” Fiona asked as I splashed cool water on my eyes.
“Right.”
“Okay, sure. That makes sense.”
“He’s really busy,” I defended him. “He has a huge math test coming up, and you know he’s bad at math. And he’s writing the lead feature for the paper next week. And—”
“I’m really busy,” Fiona exploded. “I have rehearsal for like four hours every day after school, but I still have time to see you. And do you know why that is, Chelsea?”
I didn’t say anything.
“It’s because I make time to see you. Because I actually want to see you. Listen to me: Nobody is so busy that they can’t make time for the people they really care about. Nobody, and especially not Ezra Gorman.”
The situation probably could have gone on like that for weeks longer if Fiona hadn’t taken matters into her own hands. She told me that she instant messaged Ezra one night and said something along the lines of: “Look, if you don’t want to be Chelsea’s boyfriend anymore, that’s fine—even though I think you’re an idiot because Chelsea is amazing and who wouldn’t want to be her boyfriend? But if you really don’t, then no protest here, but for the love of God, will you please actually break up with her so she can start getting over you, because I cannot go on like this.”
The next day, Ezra was waiting for me when I got out of my last-period class. “Can I walk you home?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, like a cow to slaughter. “Let’s do this.”
We spent most of our walk talking about normal things: school and the weather and movies and nothing. When we were a block from my house, Ezra said, “Look, Chelsea, I think you’re great and all, but I don’t . . . want to be your boyfriend anymore.”
“Yeah, I’ve been getting that vibe from you.”
“I was hoping we could just take what we had and tone it down, turn it into a friendship, but, I don’t know, Fiona told me I was supposed to actually break up with you.”
“Sure,” I said.
“I’m serious about us staying friends, though. I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Chelsea. I still care about you.”
“Clearly,” I said. “Clearly you care about me. And my feelings. And all that stuff.”
We had reached my front stairs. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” he asked. “Just because I don’t think we should date anymore?”
I had a million things I wanted to say, so many that I couldn’t say any of them. I wanted to say, No, I’m not mad at you because you don’t think we should date anymore, but I am mad at you for not asking what I think, because it doesn’t matter to you, or to anyone, what I think. I’m mad that you figured you didn’t even have to tell me this, that you could just start ignoring me and that I would get the picture. I’m mad that you would tell me all of this in the same breath as telling me, with a straight face, that you still care about me. And, ac
tually, I take it back—I am mad that you don’t want to date me anymore. And I’m offended, and I love you.
I didn’t say that. I said, “Well, that’s that, then.”
“Give me a hug,” he said, and pulled me in close. I held on to him like I was drowning.
That’s true. That’s what really happened.
History is written by the victors, Dad said. But who was the victor in Ezra’s and my story, and who was the victim?
I fell asleep there, still trying to answer this question. I didn’t even wake up to change into pajamas or turn out the light.
Chapter 20
THE PARTY
Maggie’s family turned out to be—and I do not use this term lightly—filthy rich. They lived in an old plantation house set back from the street, with a wide walkway leading up through the field that I guess counted as their front yard. Enormous, lush trees flanked the porch, which was supported by Georgian columns. The steel frame of an old wagon sat outside, as if to suggest that at any moment someone might start carting around tobacco plants.
“This place puts even your old house to shame,” I commented, as Fiona drove us up the driveway for Maggie’s party.
“I know it.” She parked the convertible, then flipped down the rearview mirror so she could apply more plum-colored lipstick. “I’d be jealous if I didn’t think big houses were tacky.”
“You think big houses are tacky?”
She puckered her lips at the mirror. “No. But I thought it sounded good when I said it. Like maybe I’m not as materialistic as I seem. Did it work?”
“Oh. No. Maybe try saying it to a stranger, though. I probably know you too well for that.”
Fiona shrugged, then opened her car door and swiveled both her legs around in unison so she could get out without flashing her underwear.
“Fi, did your legs get longer this summer, or did that jean skirt shrink?” I asked.
“Neither. I just went to the mall and bought a shorter skirt.”
I rolled my eyes and crouched on my seat, grabbed on to the top of the car door, and vaulted over it to land on the driveway. I stuck my arms in the air, the world’s least talented gymnast.
“You do know that door opens, right?” Fiona asked. “Since it’s a car, and all?”
“What’s the point of arriving at a party in a convertible if you can’t make an entrance?” I countered.
“No one’s watching us make our entrance, though.”
“So?”
“Good point,” Fiona conceded.
We followed the sounds of music and laughter around to the back of Maggie’s house. A lot of Essex kids were hanging out on the back patio, as well as a bunch of people who I didn’t recognize. There was an inground pool with big beach balls floating around in it. A hip-hop song was pumping out of speakers shaped like rocks. It was all very atmospheric, and I say this with the authority of a person whose job is to provide atmosphere.
“Hi, girls!” Maggie ran over to give me and Fiona big hugs. She was wearing—this is true—high-heeled sandals, short-shorts, and a bikini top. This girl did not need a nineteenth-century lady-of-the-night costume. She already was a lady of the night.
“The keg’s over there,” she said, pointing. “Ezra and Lenny are grilling burgers, if you’re hungry. Did you bring bathing suits?”
“Where are your parents?” I asked. “Don’t you have parents?”
Maggie made a you-are-so-lame face at me, then must have remembered that I was, after all, the greatest warrior Essex had ever seen, because she answered politely, “They’re on an antiquing trip in South Carolina this week.”
“An antiquing trip?” I repeated.
“Yes. It’s a trip. Where you buy antiques,” Maggie explained.
“Maggie’s parents collect Colonial memorabilia,” Fiona added.
“They have the world’s largest private collection of Colonial currency, or whatever,” Maggie said. “They left my brother in charge.” She gestured toward a shirtless, muscular guy who couldn’t have been older than nineteen. He was standing with three girls and drinking from a red plastic cup.
“Your brother’s hot,” Fiona noted.
“Ew,” Maggie said, her tone conveying that Fiona was completely correct, but that she, Maggie, could not say so without sounding incestuous. “He’s single,” she added helpfully. “But just for the summer. His girlfriend’s in California.”
“Hmm.” Fiona stared at him.
“Fi,” I said, as kindly as I knew how. “Eyes on the prize, sweetie.”
Fiona sighed, nodded, and turned her attention back to us.
“So did you remember your swimsuits or what?” Maggie asked.
Fiona lifted her shirt to show her bikini top.
“I didn’t know you had a pool,” I said.
Maggie looked confused. “Well, obviously. Otherwise, why would I be having a party?”
“Good point,” I said. “Why would you have a party without a pool?”
“I have a bunch of extra suits on my bed upstairs,” Maggie said. “You can borrow one. You probably wear a smaller top than I do, but that’s okay. If you tie it really tight, I’m sure it will stay on you.”
I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Anne!” Maggie hollered.
Anne had been sitting on the edge of a lounge chair, talking to Bryan. When Maggie called, she trotted over to us.
“Show Chelsea where my room is, okay?” Maggie said. Without waiting for a response, she took Fiona’s arm and led her toward the pool.
I followed Anne inside. She slid shut the glass door behind us, muffling the sounds of the party.
“Maggie’s room is this way,” she said and led me through the kitchen, its walls decorated with large copper pots; into the high-ceilinged front foyer, home to two Windsor chairs; and up the staircase, which was lined with paintings of various regiments crossing various rivers. I was impressed. Collecting antiques is basically what rich people do instead of going to junk shops, and, lord knows, I love junk shops. I don’t know who decides, though, when something is old, whether it becomes a valuable antique or just worthless crap.
“Do you think Bryan is looking kind of cute tonight?” Anne asked.
“No,” I answered.
“Oh.”
“Or was that a rhetorical question?” I asked.
Anne paused on the top step, considering my words. “I don’t know what that means,” she eventually concluded.
We went into Maggie’s bedroom, which, instead of feeling like a high-class Colonial gallery, looked like a normal, modern place for a normal, modern girl to live. I sifted through the mess of bikinis on Maggie’s queen-size bed.
“Why is Bryan even here?” I asked. I felt kind of snubbed that it had taken three years before Maggie had ever included me in a party, and then only because I was the War’s MVP. Meanwhile, Bryan just scored an invitation, no big deal? Bryan?
“I invited him?” Anne said.
“Huh.” I looked for the top to match the polka-dotted bikini bottom in my hand. “Weird.”
“I’m glad you and Fiona finally showed up,” Anne said. “Nat has been asking about her all night.”
“Of course he has been,” I said. “Has anyone been asking about me?”
“No,” Anne answered. Anne is, above all else, a very honest person. “Why don’t they just go out? Does she think she’s too good for him? I don’t get it.”
“I think she’s scared,” I answered, trying to change from clothes into bathing suit without exposing Anne to an unintentional strip show.
“Scared of Nat?” Anne asked dubiously.
“Scared of commitment, I guess. Scared of love.”
“Huh.” Anne looked into the distance, pondering this for a moment, which I used as an opportunity to whip off my underpants and quickly slip into the bikini bottoms. “Have you ever been in love?” she asked me.
“Yes.” I paused. “I thought I was in love, anyway. So I guess I really
was, since I thought it, at the time.”
“And was it scary?” Anne asked.
“Absolutely. Someone can wind up getting hurt. That’s scary.” I tried to adjust the shoulder straps. “A boy once told me that love without heartbreak is just a pretty myth.”
“Did your Civil War boyfriend say that?”
I looked up at her sharply. “What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know. I figured it was either him or Ezra, so . . .”
“Ezra and him aren’t the only guys I’ve ever hooked up with, you know,” I said.
Anne shrugged. “Okay.”
“I’ve had lots of boyfriends before.”
“Cool.” She looked wholly unimpressed.
“I mean, not a slutty number of boyfriends. But not just Ezra and a Civil Warrior, either. Basically, what I’m saying is that I’ve had a normal number of boyfriends.”
“Fine. Are you done changing yet?”
I put my clothes back on over the swimsuit. “But anyway,” I said. “Yes, it just so happens that the one of my many boyfriends who said ‘love without heartbreak is a pretty myth’ was the Civil Warrior.”
“Was he right?” Anne asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He might be. But even if he was right, it’s still worth it. Because before the time when you’re heartbroken, you get to be in love, and that’s worth it.”
We went back downstairs. We had been away from the party for maybe fifteen minutes, but somehow, when we came back, we found Maggie sobbing on a lawn chair with Patience hovering around her, petting her hair and dabbing at her face with tissues.
Anne immediately abandoned me to run over to her friends. I might offer nuanced perspectives on love, but let’s be honest, that could never compete with the excitement of a weeping hostess.
Fiona and Nat were side by side, dangling their legs in the pool. I sat down next to them. “What did I miss?” I asked, gesturing at the huddle of distraught milliner girls.
“Ezra and Maggie had some big fight,” Fiona said. “Surprise.”
