Oliver combed through ten pages of Google results before he found a Penn State University database that had digitized all the individual regimental history. He felt himself slipping into a trance of awesomeness as he scrolled through the index.
Oliver found the 68th’s regimental history first. It was a digitized book, so he had to wait a few seconds for the page to appear every time he clicked forward.
“September 3, 1862,” he said. “Bingo.”
Bookmarking the page, Oliver backtracked to the index and found the 104th’s history—the local regiment Stone should have enlisted with.
“Huh,” Oliver said.
August 25, 1862.
“So you chose not to enlist with your local regiment,” Oliver said to the empty research room. “Instead, you went down to Philly a week later and enlisted with a bunch of strangers. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Mr. Daniels stood in the doorway, scratching his head of white hair.
“Uh, nobody,” Oliver said. “Just thinking out loud.”
“I used to do that too until my wife tried to have me committed.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mr. Daniels scanned Oliver’s Word doc. “This looks interesting.”
“Uh, I guess. I’m kinda stuck, actually.”
“My brother was a detective. He used to say the key to solving a case was talking about it over and over. Let’s hear it.”
Oliver summarized what he had so far.
“So the dates don’t really tell me anything,” he finished. “I still don’t know why Stone would join the 68th—a regiment almost sixty miles from his house, full of total strangers, when his own town formed one a week earlier.”
“I think the dates are helpful,” Mr. Daniels said. “They eliminate your first two theories. Now you can move on to a third.”
“I don’t have a third.”
“No, you don’t.” Mr. Daniels headed back to the study with a wave. “Not yet.”
And Oliver was alone with his big question again.
Why did Stone join the 68th?
Theory #1: Stone didn’t know if he wanted to fight or not when the 104th mustered into service. Later he decided to fight, and found a regiment that was forming—the 68th in Philly.
Theory #2: Stone was so ready to fight that he couldn’t wait for his local town to form a regiment. He went to Philly and joined the 68th.
How to prove:
Look up the muster dates of both regiments to see which one was first
Find a letter where Stone talks about it.
Oliver eyed the shelf across the room with all the Private Stone letters.
“Fine,” he said. “Fine.”
Without Ella, it was pretty much impossible to read Stone’s handwriting. Oliver almost ran out of binder pages looking for one he could actually transcribe.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
December 20, 1862
Mr. Stone,
The papers inform me that Raymond’s regiment is stationed outside the Capital. I pray he is safe and in good health. May this great nation be reunited and your son returned to you safely.But if our Lord should see fit to take him, may you find comfort that He shall witness the fulfillment of the agreement contracted between us.
Your humble servant,
H. Weller
Oliver stared at the author’s name. H. Weller. Why was that name so familiar?
Another line pricked Oliver’s mind.
But if our Lord should see fit to take him, may you find comfort that He shall witness the fulfillment of the agreement contracted between us.
“Him,” Oliver said. “As in you.” At this point, he was weirdly okay with talking out loud to a very dead Private Raymond Stone. “So if you die, this guy is going to fulfill some contract he made with your dad. Or you. The ‘us’ is kind of just hanging there.”
Oliver felt like he’d just found a secret cave high up his Civil War mountain, except the cave was only ten feet deep and totally empty.
“That doesn’t make any sense. At all.”
“Interesting things,” shouted Mr. Daniels from the foyer. “In the most uninteresting places.”
Oliver’s phone went off; his dad was out front. Time flew when you were on the mountain. Oliver put all the documents back and stared at his notes. Most of the page had lines through it.
Before closing the Word doc, he added one more bullet point:
What did Stone agree to????
—CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—
THE HEAD WRITING CONSULTANT
“I like it,” Oliver said.
Ella sunk her teeth into cafeteria pizza as she watched the footage on her giant iPhone screen. The orange sauce matched a stain on her shirt, but not from today. Back to the messy weekday outfits. “It’s missing something.”
Oliver tapped the screen to replay the opening minute of their documentary-under-construction. The black screen faded to blue as their working title appeared: The Wartime Experience of Private Raymond Stone by Ella Berry and Oliver Prichard. Footage of Oliver marching in the park cross-dissolved with him thrusting the bayonet; then he was sitting down against the tree writing; then some shots of his face covered in sweat. Over everything, Oliver’s voice narrated a few lines from one of Stone’s early (and epically boring) letters.
Then the screen went black.
Oliver chewed on his ham sandwich. “It’s fine.”
“It’s missing something,” Ella repeated.
“It’s missing a storyline,” said Kevin, who had peeked over during the first viewing before going back to his typing. “And a little heavy on the cross-dissolve, if we’re getting picky.”
“What do you mean—storyline?” Ella asked.
“You just jump right in with random footage. Does this guy have a home or what? Was he born on the battlefield? What about his past? Does he have a family? A wife? Why is he fighting?”
“It’s supposed to be about his wartime experience,” Oliver said.
“But you need some human interest stuff if you want the audience to care.” Kevin turned over a napkin and drew a really crappy triangle. “This is a story plot: starts here at the bottom with the background—where he grew up, family, all that. Then it starts going up. That’s called the rising action—the war breaking out, his decision to enlist, blah blah blah.” Kevin’s pen reached the peak of the triangle. “This is the climax— the highpoint of the story. Like a battle where he proved his valor or something. Then it goes down to the falling action—he goes home—and ends here at the bottom: the resolution. He marries his one true love. They have ten babies. Whatever.”
“Our soldier died after the Battle of Gettysburg,” Ella said.
Kevin raised one eyebrow really high. “A tragedy . . . hmmm . . .”
“A what?” Oliver asked.
“Your hero dies at the end, which makes it a tragedy.”
“He died of diarrhea,” Oliver said, just to clarify the situation in case that changed Kevin’s definition of “hero.”
“A little messy—pun intended, you’re welcome—but still a tragedy. The kind of story that lives with the reader forever—not like comedies.”
“It’s not supposed to be funny.”
“He means it focuses on death instead of life,” Ella said. “Mrs. Mason said all stories are one or the other.”
“When did she say that?” Oliver said.
“In book club.”
“You’re in Mrs. Mason’s book club?”
“Yeah.”
Kevin snapped a finger and pointed at her. “That’s where I know you from.”
“But you have a D in English,” Oliver said. “Why would you go to book club?”
“I like to read.”
“So you like to read for fun—which means you obviously can read—but you’re almost failing English. Which means you’re definitely almost failing on purpose, right?”
Ella moved the playhead on her phone screen back and forth, frowning. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
She snorted. “Did you forget both car rides with my parents?”
“You’re tanking English because of your parents.”
Firm nod.
“To piss them off?”
“You’re getting warmer.”
Oliver wanted to ask if the reason covered Ella’s general appearance too, but thought that might be pushing it.
Ella bit a nail as she rewatched the opening scene. “Kevin’s right. We need a storyline.”
“Okay.”
Oliver looked at Kevin. Kevin stared back.
Then it hit Oliver.
“Kevin. You should help us. This is kind of your thing.”
“Hmmm.” Kevin clicked his tongue. “What’s the pay?”
“Uh, nothing.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
Oliver took a second to think. “What if I could get you that A in English?”
“Explain.”
“Mrs. Mason won’t give you extra credit for the Wattpad stories because they don’t line up with state standards or whatever. But our project probably does.”
“That’s brilliant,” Ella said. “But we’ll have to get Mr. Carrow on board too. Kevin—what do you think?”
He tilted his head side to side. “If it works, I can spend Resource doing some actual writing instead of wishing for a global disaster.”
“That’s true,” Oliver said.
“Big question: What’s the snack situation at your house?”
“My mom buys Cheez-Its by the barrel.”
“How about drinks?”
“Capri Suns.”
“Variety pack?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Deal.” Kevin thrust out his hand and shook both of theirs. “Consider me on board as Head Writing Consultant.”
“You’re the only writing consultant,” Oliver said.
“And let’s keep it that way.”
Ella stuffed about ten French fries into her mouth and didn’t bother to swallow before she said, “Now. We need a plan.”
—CHAPTER NINETEEN—
THE DEAL
“Good to go on my end,” Oliver whispered to Kevin and Ella as he joined them in Mrs. Mason’s room after school. “I had Carrow look up Kevin’s grades like we talked about and he was pretty impressed.”
“Mason didn’t say much when Kevin explained it. Just a lot of staring,” Ella said. “She was still mad that he was on his phone during Resource.”
“It felt like she was staring into my soul,” Kevin said. “And my soul didn’t meet her standards.”
Mr. Carrow came in and closed the door. “How about this, Mrs. Mason—students asking to do more work. It’s like they’re on a mission to learn or something. I think we should get a raise.”
“They do seem . . . eager,” Mrs. Mason said.
“Okay gang, here’s the deal: Mrs. Mason and I are on board with this. Actually, we think your little collaboration is pretty cool.”
“But there are guidelines,” Mrs. Mason said. “First, and most important: You take the grade you earn. No whining about group dynamics when it’s over. Understood?”
The three of them nodded.
“Second of all, Kevin, I know your parents are concerned about your English grade. They need to know that your A minus could become a B plus if the project grade isn’t what you hope.”
“Mrs. Mason: I hear you and I feel you,” Kevin said.
“I’m only interested in you understanding me.”
“Roger that.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Carrow said. “I’m excited to see what this professional writer comes up with.”
Kevin beamed, but lost the smile when Mrs. Mason picked up his phone. “You know, Mr. Carrow, these cases are very slippery. Students drop them all the time, and the screens break fairly easily. It would be a shame, if—when taking this from Kevin during Resource because he chose to violate the phone policy in my room—it just . . . slipped out of my hand. My grip isn’t what it used to be. Old age, I guess.”
Kevin gulped.
Mr. Carrow was trying to hide a smirk. “A terrible shame.”
Mrs. Mason handed Kevin his phone, but held on when he grabbed the other end. Oliver didn’t see any issues with her grip. “Roger that, Kevin?”
“Roger that,” he whispered.
—CHAPTER TWENTY—
BACKGROUND
“How’s it going?” Ella asked from the couch. She dug her hand into a bowl of Cheez-Its like a backhoe and swung it up to her mouth.
“Good.” Oliver finished rereading one of Stone’s letters on his desktop computer. They’d been waging “Operation Find Some Compelling Background Information” for almost an hour. “I think I got something.”
Kevin hopped up from his sprawled-out position on the carpet to the giant white butcher paper hanging on the wall. Ella had drawn a less crappy triangle that represented Private Stone’s life story plot and filled in what they knew so far: Stone’s enlistment in 1862 and (embarrassing) death at Gettysburg in 1863.
“Lay it on me,” Kevin said.
“It’s not really anything specific, just something Stone keeps talking about.” Oliver did a keyword search for “Father” and picked out the first example. “Like here: Tell Father I do not regret my service. I know he thinks I acted foolishly. And then later he says, Tell Father I miss taking the wheat to Philadelphia with him and seeing the city. And this one—from the deathbed letter Ella found: He spoke often of his father, wanting him to know that he did not regret enlisting even though he never saw the battlefield.”
“Sounds like he had some real daddy issues,” Kevin said.
“Yeah—like his dad didn’t want him to enlist or something.” He tapped his finger on the mouse. “Did he have any brothers?”
Ella shuffled her notes. “Ancestry.com says he only had a sister. Why?”
“He was the only son . . . and he was almost twenty . . . so maybe he was supposed to take over the farm,” Oliver said, stringing the ideas together as he said them. “But then he enlisted instead, which pissed off his dad, who was getting old. That would explain why he keeps bringing it up, right?”
“Ollie: That’s brilliant.”
Kevin started scribbling on the butcher paper. “Now that is some sweet background: A young wheat farmer, set to take over the family business, abandons tradition and heeds Lincoln’s call to save the Union. He leaves his home, his parents, sister—girlfriend maybe, we’ll see—unaware that he will be one of several hundred thousand to make the ultimate sacrifice. Boom.”
“Wait—when I was at the historical society on Sunday I found this letter to Stone’s dad that talks about a contract or something Stone made with this other guy,” Oliver said. “Maybe it’s related to why he enlisted in Philly.”
Ella cut him a glance. “You went by yourself?”
“Yeah. What?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “Does this contract thing really matter?”
“I’ll let you know if I find out.”
Ella leafed through her notes even though there wasn’t any reason to. “. . . Okay.”
“What?”
“I just think we should focus on the important stuff.”
Rebellion rumbled in his gut. “I think this might be important.”
“Okay,” she said. Oliver thought it sounded more like a whatever.
Kevin sprawled out again and helped himself to another handful of Cheez-Its. “I’ll start working that into the script, and you can search
for tranquil farming photos for the opening sequence. Just google ‘Lancaster’ or ‘Amish Country.’ And maybe we can find some Civil War–era pictures of Doylestown. Then our background is set. No more awkward intro that leaves the viewer confused.”
They worked in triumphant silence for a while.
“So your sister really likes the piano,” Kevin said.
“I don’t even notice it anymore,” Oliver said. “Like if someone shaved your eyebrows. At first you’d notice, but then after a while you’d forget.”
“That analogy is very specific and very strange,” Kevin said. “I like it. Can I use it in a story?”
“Sure.”
“Verbal contracts are binding in Pennsylvania, so make sure you’re actually serious about this.”
“You can use it.”
“I think it’s calming,” Ella said. “The piano.”
“A lot better than if I was up there,” Kevin said. “My parents tried to get me to play a stringed instrument— you know, because we’re Korean—so I picked the violin. They gave up after a few months when the neighbors thought I was slaughtering geese in my bedroom. Tried the bass next, but I kept dropping the thing. Turns out I’m not musical.”
“Right. You’re a writer,” Ella said.
Kevin sucked his Capri Sun until it crinkled. “Sure.”
Oliver could tell Kevin was holding something back. “Your parents don’t know you write.”
“Nope.”
“Why not?” Ella asked.
“Because I never told them.”
“What do they think you’re doing on your phone all the time?” Oliver asked.
“Texting. And playing Clash of Clans.”
“You should tell them,” Ella said. “You write better than a lot of adults. I think they’d be really proud.”
“That’s because you’re not Korean. If it’s not math, science, or music, they don’t care. You guys need to brush up on your Asian stereotypes. And I say that as a very proud Asian American.”
Oliver looked at him sideways. Kevin sighed.
“Okay. You know what helicopter parents are, right?” Kevin threw his arms out and spun around. “Hovering above you all the time? That’s what mine are like, except imagine that there are two helicopters and they both have missiles, and those missiles are expectations firing at you pretty much all the time: Kevin, you should be a mathlete; Kevin, you should play the violin; Kevin, why aren’t you first in your Korean language class?”
The Not-So-Boring Letters of Private Nobody Page 7