Past Perfect (13 page)

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
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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 squab-bling 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 wanted 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?”

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“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
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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?” Dan blinked. “You’re not seriously holding that thing hostage, are you?”

“Why not?”

“We captured your General and Lieutenant, and you captured my
sweatshirt
. Have you ever even been in a war before?”

“Well, if you don’t want it . . .” I pulled on the hoodie over my tank top, shoved up the sleeves to stop them from dangling over my fingertips, and walked out of the tent.

I made it about three yards away before Dan caught up to me. “What exactly do you want for it?” he asked.

“I haven’t decided yet. I’m willing to bargain.” Dan groaned. “Let’s go for a walk. Let’s talk this out.”

“Sure,” I said. “Unless you’re worried about people seeing us together.”

“I am.” He took my elbow. “That’s why we’re going to walk down by the creek.”

“
That
hurts my feelings,” I protested as he led me past tents bustling with clothing, pottery, and dry goods vendors.

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“And you’re wearing an enormous hat, and sunglasses the size of basketballs, because you
want
to be seen with me?” Fair point. “Are you taking me down by the creek so you can drown me in a place where no one will hear me scream?”

“Maybe.” He half-grinned. “Do you trust me?”

“I don’t trust Civil Warriors.”

I followed him out of the big field, over a grassy hill, and down through some trees to the creek. We were the only people there. We walked along quietly for a moment.

“You know, if you just keep following the water, eventually you wind up in Essex,” I said.

“I do know that. Two living history villages set along the same creek. The only difference is which side they’re on.”

“And which century.”

“And that,” he agreed.

“So why
do
you guys hate us so much?” he shot back.

“Why do you hate
us
so much?”

“I asked you first.”

Dan was quiet for a moment, thinking, as we walked through the bluebells and Queen Anne’s lace alongside the stream. Then he asked in reply, as if this cleared up everything, “Well, why did Biggie hate Tupac?” I shrugged. “I don’t know, why?”

“I don’t know why, either,” Dan said, “but I would guess it’s because they were both doing pretty much the same thing at pretty much the same time.”

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“And they got jealous?” I suggested.

“Sure, or they felt threatened, like, ‘This world is big enough for only one of us!’”

“‘This town is big enough for only one American living history settlement,’” I said. “Sure. I buy that.”

“Or, why did the Patriots hate the British?”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s a really complicated question.

Part of it was their concern about taxation without representation, as I’m sure you learned in school. It also had to do with philosophical developments of the time. After studying so many Enlightenment thinkers, the Patriots had big ideas about natural rights and the social contract, and under British rule—”

“Never mind,” Dan said. “Bad analogy. I was thinking that maybe we hate you guys for the same reason that the Patriots hated the British, but I’m going to say that’s unlikely, since the Enlightenment has nothing to do with it. As far as I know.”

“Then how about, why did the Montagues hate the Capulets?”

He shook his head, flopping his hair a bit over his eyes. I wanted, suddenly, to reach out and brush it away, but then he fixed it himself. “I read that freshman year,” he said. “I don’t remember.”

“They don’t remember, either. They just do. They just always have. ‘Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair
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Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.’” I quoted.

Dan laughed, and I blushed and looked down at my sandals as we kept walking. “Now, that’s what I’ve always imagined it’s like in Essex,” he said. “A bunch of genteel Virginians, sitting in parlors and quoting Shakespeare.”

“For your information, I can’t thank Essex for that one. My best friend Fiona played Juliet last year. After you sit through enough performances, you start to memorize lines whether you want to or not.”

“That’s an impressive commitment to a friend,” Dan noted.

“I guess. Or it’s just that Fiona would have killed me if I’d missed a single show.”

“Is Fiona the other girl we kidnapped?”

“No, that was Tawny.” I didn’t want to reveal too much information about Tawny, in case I accidentally told Dan something the Civil Warriors could use against us. But I couldn’t help saying, “She’s great. She could win this War single-handedly.

The rest of us are probably just holding her back.”

“It’s cool that there are black kids working at Essex.”

“Uh, I don’t think it’s particularly
cool
or
uncool
, except insofar as ‘being racist’ is not super-fashionable these days.

I don’t know if the Civil War got that memo yet. About how racial discrimination is passé.”

“Oh, we got the memo. But everyone’s still concerned
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about, you know”—Dan made air quotes with his fingers—

“authenticity.”

“Believe me, Tawny is as authentic as they come.”

“I believe you. Does she know you’re here, consorting with the enemy, right now?” Dan asked.

I didn’t reply, just sat down on the grassy slope leading down to the creek. I felt guilty, all of a sudden.

Dan sat down next to me. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” I asked. “Consorting with the enemy? It sounds really bad when you put it like that.”

“Sure,” he said. “We’re consorting. We’re cavorting.

We’re . . .”

“Carousing?” I suggested.

“Okay, if you want, we can carouse.”

I sighed and started picking petals off a flower. “Tawny would not be happy to hear that I’m carousing with the enemy.”

“So is that why you ignored me at Abbott’s?” I’d been hoping we could pretend like that hadn’t happened. “Um, yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I just . . .

panicked.”

“It
was
rude,” Dan agreed, but he bumped me with his shoulder, so I could tell it was okay. “Well, if it makes it any better,
no one I know
would be happy to hear that we’re carousing.”

“I’m not too happy about it myself.”

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“Oh.” Dan’s voice was surprised, and a little hurt. He looked away.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “You’re . . .” Clever.

Interesting. Hot. “Nice.”

He snorted. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been described that way before.”

“Look, I just meant that Essex is important to me. It’s where my family and friends are. I’ve grown up there. I don’t love feeling like I’m betraying them by being here.”

“Yet here you are.”

I hugged my knees to my chest and echoed, “Yet here I am.” Just to return a sweatshirt, obviously. To return a sweatshirt and gather information that we can use for the War.

Purely innocent.

“Who was that guy who rescued you?” Dan changed the subject.

I purposefully misunderstood him. “There were a few of them. Lenny, Ezra, the girl was Caitlin . . .” Dan was shaking his head. “Which is the one who picked you up and threw you over his shoulder like you were some wounded maiden and he was Fabio?”

I giggled. “Ezra.”

“What’s his deal?”

“Oh . . .” I stared across the river and shrugged. “He’s, you know, my ex-boyfriend.”

“Figured.”

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“What, it’s that obvious?”

“No, it just seemed like you two had some kind of history.

I mean, to someone who’s paying attention, it’s fairly clear that something is or was going on there. The way you reached out your arms to him after they untied you.”

“Did I do that? I don’t remember. Anyway, whatever. We were together a long time ago.” I didn’t want to discuss Ezra with Dan. They existed in separate worlds, and I wanted to keep them that way.

“Why did you guys break up? If you don’t mind my asking.” I didn’t mind Dan’s asking, exactly, but I also didn’t know how to answer him. I had never known why Ezra and I broke up, though I had thought about it, of course, thought about it until I drove myself—not to mention Fiona—crazy.

To just come out and ask Ezra
why
seemed like it would give him too much satisfaction. So it ended and I don’t know why. So what? So many things come to an end—dinosaurs, my mother’s garden, British Colonial rule. Who knows why?

Who would care enough to ask?

“I’m not sure,” I said to Dan now. “He decided one day that he didn’t want to be my boyfriend anymore, and that was that. I think he just . . . got tired of me.” There was a hollow feeling in my chest, which had been there since our breakup, which never fully went away.

“Did you get tired of him?”

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I was so surprised that I let out a quick burst of laughter.

“Of course not.”

“What a dick. Do you want me to punch him for you? I could say it’s part of our War effort.” I smiled. “Thanks, but don’t bother. I don’t care about it.”

“If you say so.” Dan leaned in close and asked, “Was he your first?”

“What?” I whipped off my sunglasses. “Oh my God, did you actually just ask me if I lost my
virginity
to Ezra? Dude, I like
barely
know you.”

Dan busted out laughing. “All I meant was, was he the first guy you ever fell in love with.”

“Oh.” I felt myself turning red. “Well, then you should have
said
that.”

“I know, I could have said that . . . but the expression on your face was priceless.”

I smacked his chest with the back of my hand, and he col-lapsed backward into the grass, pretending I had really hurt him. We both laughed, and then he said, “I have a theory that the first person you fall for creates a model for how you approach relationships going forward. Like, it frames how you’ll look at every person who you date after that. So that’s why I asked. Does that make sense?”