Past Perfect

by Leila Sales

  “I did live in Georgia until I was ten,” he said. “So I am, by definition, a slave-owning, Confederate flag-flying, coverall-wearing bumpkin.”

  “Hey,” I said, “not my fault. If you don’t like the stereotypes, you might want to get out of the Civil War reenacting business.”

  “Ah, but if I did that, I would miss out on scintillating conversations like this one.” He flashed me a grin.

  “Well, you’d better watch it this year. We’re going to kick your ass.”

  “I like that spunk of yours, but, so far, it seems like we are the ones doing all the ass-kicking.”

  “Just wait. We have our own plans.” This sounded like the sort of threatening, mysterious thing a Lieutenant would say, even though the only plans I’d heard referenced so far involved the phrase “uterine lining.” Presumably, Tawny had some non-uterine plans, and I’d find out what they were. Just as soon as I wasn’t kidnapped anymore.

  “Really. What exactly are these ‘plans’ of yours, Elizabeth Connelly?” Dan asked. “Or, sorry, do you prefer to go by Chelsea?”

  I caught my breath. It was one thing for this guy to know my Colonial name. That was part of the game. But my real name was different. “You can’t know that from visiting Essex last summer,” I said.

  “We have superior War intelligence.” Dan arched his eyebrows, seeming to enjoy my surprise. “We know everything.”

  “Oh, really? What else do you know?” I challenged him.

  He ticked off on his fingers, “One, that you come from a family of reenactors; two, that you’ve worked at Essex for a million years; three, that you’re sick of it; and four, that you don’t know how to get out. So, is any of my intel wrong?”

  I didn’t say anything. That was more than pretty much anyone knew about me, except Fiona.

  “It’s cool,” he said, “you’re not the only one. My mom and both my sisters live and breathe the Civil War. So I know how these things go.”

  “I guess you’re just the expert on me, then.”

  “I guess I am. Just like you already know that my basketball game sucks. So tell me.” He leaned forward on the tree stump, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me one thing I don’t already know about you, Chelsea.”

  I opened my mouth, but the only reply that occurred to me was You don’t already know that I think you’re cute. And that wasn’t something I could say. That wasn’t even something I should be thinking. He was a Civil War reenactor. He was the enemy.

  “Really?” he teased after I’d been silent for a moment. “You’re that two-dimensional?”

  I shook my head, trying to clear my mind. Now that the phrase you’re cute was on the tip of my tongue, I was having trouble thinking of anything else to say. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. For example, I’m allergic to rope.”

  “Seriously?” Dan leapt to his feet, looking with concern at my bound arms. “What kind of allergic?”

  I couldn’t help it, I cracked up. “I’m kidding, Dan. But would you have let me go, if I’d been telling the truth?”

  Dan shrugged and kicked at a stick, all apathy now. “Dunno. Probably not. It’s War, baby. Allergic reactions are part of our game plan.” He stared at me for a long moment, like he was trying to figure me out. “You Colonials,” he said. “You’re not how I thought you’d be.”

  I could feel my heart beat a little faster. “How did you think we’d be?”

  “Huh.” Dan half-grinned. “Good question. I guess I thought you’d all be . . . bratty. Stuck-up. Superior. Boring.”

  “Oh, then you were totally right, since I’m all of those things.”

  He rolled his eyes. “At least I know I was right about the bratty part.”

  I gave him my best angelic expression, all pouty lips and wide eyes. He just raised his eyebrows at me, one side of his mouth still curled up in a smile. There was a pause as we gazed into each other’s eyes, me tied to the chair, him standing above me. A little too long of a pause. I cleared my throat. “So how did you know my real name’s Chelsea? And don’t give me any of that ‘War intel’ crap.”

  “Oh, that.” Dan waved his hand. “We overheard all the Colonials chanting your name as we came through the woods. It didn’t take any intel at all. Anyone in a two-mile radius would have heard you guys.”

  “Speaking of,” I said. “Was I screaming, like, really loudly when you guys carried me over here?”

  “It was almost unbelievable,” he said, “how loud you were screaming.”

  “I figured. My throat hurts now.”

  “It was cute.” Even in the moonlight, I could see Dan blush suddenly, like he hadn’t meant to say that. “I mean cute like a wild animal is cute. That sort of thing. Like a lion cub, if you think that’s cute.”

  “I do think lion cubs are cute.”

  “Okay, fine, maybe, but they can still tear you to pieces.”

  “I can’t tear you to pieces. My hands are tied behind my back.”

  “Good point. Like a trussed lion cub, then.” He gently punched my arm. “Hey. You have goose bumps.”

  I looked down at my arm. He was right. It was late, after all. It had gotten late and chilly. “Well, I had a sweater, but it’s back at Essex. Along with the rest of my life.”

  Dan started to take off his hoodie.

  “But then you’ll just be cold,” I objected.

  “I don’t mind. After all, you’re the hostage.”

  “Right, but I think the hostage is supposed to suffer more than her captors.”

  “I’m not suffering,” he told me. He leaned over me to drape the hoodie over my shoulders. It was sort of awkward, because of course I couldn’t stick my arms through the sleeves, so I wound up wearing it more like a shawl.

  I held still and watched him concentrate on arranging the hoodie, and I inhaled the night air and his boy smell. “Don’t take this as a compliment, but you actually don’t smell that bad.”

  Dan let out a burst of surprised laughter. “What did you expect me to smell like?”

  “Well . . .” I wrinkled my nose. “I heard you guys soak your uniforms in urine.”

  “So you assumed I’d smell like pee.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But you don’t,” I added kindly.

  “Well, I’m wearing modern clothes right now. I’m wearing a T-shirt. I don’t soak my T-shirts in pee.”

  “Of course not. Good point.” Pause. “Wait, so you do soak your uniform in pee?”

  “Not the whole uniform,” Dan sounded offended. “Just the buttons.”

  “Just the buttons.”

  “Right.”

  “There is a garment which you wear on your body, after first bathing it in bodily fluids.”

  “Just the buttons! To give them an authentic patina.”

  “What the hell is an ‘authentic patina’? Is that a thing?”

  He started to laugh then. I did, too, and suddenly I felt something that I hadn’t felt in months, something that I thought had disappeared with Ezra forever: I felt into this guy. I wanted to spend more time with him, I wanted to get to know him, I even maybe wanted to kiss him. And in that moment, I didn’t care that he came from the wrong time and place.

  Dan paused for a moment with his hands on either side of my shoulders, still holding on to the hoodie, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, and I thought maybe he would kiss me. Maybe it could be so easy.

  Except then someone knocked him to the ground, and suddenly two other people were untying the ropes around my body, and I realized that this was it, I was being rescued.

  “You goddamn cheating farb!” shouted Lenny, the Colonial who was pinning Dan to the ground.

  My arms and legs were free, finally, and then I was being lifted off my feet again, because apparently that was the theme of tonight.

  But it was different this time, because my rescuer was Ezra, and I just wrapped my arms around his neck. “We got her!” he shouted. “Let’s go, let’s go!” So Lenny jumped off of Dan, a
nd the girl who was with them kicked the chair over, and Ezra tightened his hold on me, and we ran through the trees, out of Reenactmentland, and on to the street.

  “Ezra,” I said, once we were out of there, “I can walk. Put me down, for God’s sake.” So he did. He looked sweaty and flushed, but his eyes had a spark in them. If there’s one thing Ezra likes more than competition, it’s winning.

  “What did they do to you?” Ezra demanded. “Are you okay?”

  And I loved that he cared, but I also wanted to slap him. What, Ezra, now you care?

  Somehow when Ezra had carried me away, he had brought Dan’s hoodie with him. So now I put it on properly, sticking my arms through the sleeves.

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk to him until August 7th, because of Fiona’s pointless, made-up, arbitrary time constraint, but I felt like I was allowed to say this, anyway: “You didn’t have to rescue me, Ezra.” And for some reason I felt like crying. “I didn’t need you. I don’t need you. I was doing fine.” I flipped the hood up onto my head and walked away from him, down the road, to Essex.

  Chapter 6

  THE BURYING GROUND

  I got in trouble, of course. I walked in my front door at 12:27 a.m., and my father was sitting in the dark at the kitchen table, waiting for me. He was wearing a bathrobe and slippers, and he looked terrible.

  “Where have you been?” he growled.

  This was a good question to which I had no good answer. “Reenactmentland” wasn’t going to fly.

  “What time were you supposed to be home tonight, Chelsea?”

  “Well, you didn’t set an actual time. Mom just said I was supposed to call—”

  “And did you call?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I stood in the kitchen doorway, shifting my weight from foot to foot. All I wanted was to escape to my room, call Fiona, and go to bed. Why didn’t I call? Because I’d been kidnapped. Why do you think I didn’t call, Dad?

  “Do I or do I not pay for you to have a cell phone so that you can call and tell me when you’ll be home late?”

  I shrugged.

  “Have you been drinking?” Dad demanded.

  “No.”

  “I hope you’re not lying to me, Chelsea. Were your friends drinking? What have we always said about getting into cars with people after they’ve been drinking?”

  “Dad, no one was drinking. Do you want to smell my breath? Here, smell my breath.”

  If I was in trouble for spearheading a War against a band of Civil War reenactors, I’d be like, Okay, fair play, I guess I deserve that. But it was just offensive to get in trouble for drinking, which I wasn’t even doing.

  “Your mother and I have been worried sick. Do you think we wanted to stay up all night, waiting for you?”

  My dad is the master of rhetorical questions. I was tempted to answer, “Yes, I think you wanted to stay up all night, waiting for me.” Or to point out that Mom was clearly asleep in bed, like a normal parent.

  But my dad can be scary. He’s a big, burly man with a big, burly voice, and he smiths silver for a living, plus he’s a PhD in history. There is no point to arguing with him, and I know because I’ve tried.

  “Don’t just stand there and sulk, young lady. Answer me.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to come home late, and I didn’t mean to make you worry. I got tied up in things.” Literally, tied up. “It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re damn right it won’t. You’re grounded.”

  “But Dad, it’s summertime. This is so unfair! How long am I grounded for?”

  He thought about it. “Until Monday.”

  “Wait, so I’m grounded for two days?”

  “Yes,” he said brutally. “You can spend the weekend boning up on your history.”

  “Oh. Okay. Can I go to bed now?”

  He nodded, and we walked upstairs together. Before I went into my room, he kissed me on the forehead. “I’m glad you’re home safe,” he said.

  I got into bed and tried to fall asleep, but there was a restless, buzzing energy throughout my body. It had been one hell of a long day. I had finished school for the year (good), found out my ex-boyfriend was working at my summer job with me (bad), been selected as the second-in-command for our War (mostly good), gotten kidnapped (bad), and met a guy who actually seemed promising (good) . . . except that he was a Civil War reenactor (very, very bad). I felt exhausted and wired, all at the same time.

  My phone vibrated. Fiona. “I’m grounded,” I whispered into the receiver.

  “So are you not allowed to talk?”

  “No, Dad didn’t say anything about that.” My father grounds me periodically, but he’s not very good at it. He mostly just does it to prove that he has control. He doesn’t care about the technical details, like whether I use the phone.

  “Then listen, I just got off the phone with Nat.”

  “Did he declare his love for you?” I asked. I kicked my comforter off my bed and rolled over onto my side.

  “Not yet. He was saying that in the future, whenever we have nighttime meetings at Essex, we need to post guards. We can’t have any more kidnappings.”

  “No kidding,” I agreed. “It sucked. More or less.” I thought again of Dan saying It was cute about me. That part hadn’t sucked.

  “Nat was part of the rescue mission that found Tawny. But—get this—she had already managed to cut through the ropes they’d wrapped around her. Nat said she had a Swiss Army knife in her back pocket, and she got it out and sawed her way through without anyone even noticing.”

  This made me feel bad about myself. The only knives I used were butter knives, and I certainly never carried one around in my pocket. (Like, what, in case there was an emergency butter-spreading situation?) I wanted to be the girl who rescued herself, like Tawny. Instead I’d had to be rescued by stupid Ezra. Stupid Ezra whose body still felt exactly right when he picked me up and carried me away to safety.

  “What was being kidnapped like?” Fiona asked, breathy with excitement.

  “Boring. I just sat there. There was one kind of cute boy, though. One of the Civil War guys.”

  “Really? Tell me about him.” Fiona can focus her attention like a laser when cute boys are involved. At all other times, she’s really hit-or-miss.

  “Well, you might not find him attractive since, you know, he doesn’t have a long, flowing ponytail or anything. But his name’s Dan, and he’s tall and pretty skinny, and he dresses well, and he has this cute floppy hair. And he seems to be literate, or maybe he just likes to carry around books as props.”

  “I’d hit it,” Fiona agreed. “Except that he’s from the Civil War.”

  Quietly, I let out a long breath. “And we definitely can’t date people from the Civil War,” I said. “Right?”

  “Of course right. Hello, we are at War. Dating someone from the Civil War would make you a traitor. Like Benedict Arnold.”

  “How the hell do you know who Benedict Arnold is? I’m very impressed, Fiona.”

  “I saw a movie about him once.” She paused. “He was in the American army for the Revolution but then he defected to the British, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Awesome, that’s what I thought. Don’t be Benedict Arnold, Chelsea! You’re our Lieutenant. Can you even imagine what it would do to troop morale if you, of all people, hooked up with a Civil Warrior?”

  “Calm down, Fi. All I said was that he’s cute. It’s an aesthetic judgment. I’m not actively planning to hook up with this guy. A lot of people are cute. That doesn’t mean I’m trying to make out with all of their faces.”

  Fiona didn’t accept this, since she usually is trying to make out with every cute person’s face. She pressed on, “You two are from different times, and different worlds. It wouldn’t work.”

  “Of course.” I rolled onto my back and gazed up at the ceiling. “Of course you’re right. It wouldn’t work. I never thought it woul
d.”

  As I put on my work clothes on Monday morning, I felt the past ten months slip away from me. It seemed like no time had passed since the last day I had worked at Essex, since the last time I’d put on this dress.

  Every Essex employee gets one outfit. If you want more, you have to buy them yourself, and they are outlandishly expensive. Of course, good reenactors sew their own clothes, but personally I’d rather wallow in the same sweaty garments all summer long than figure out how to use a sewing machine. You have to thread a bobbin or something. It’s very complicated. My father once tried to teach me, and we wound up screaming at each other. Not worth it.

  My gown is forest green, fronted by a matching green stomacher with decorative stitching across it. I wear that over a navy blue petticoat, and under all of that I wear a plain white shift, which looks like an ill-fitting nightgown. Shoes are leather boots, made by the Essex shoemaker, Jonathan Shoemaker. (Colonial name. His real name is Jonathan Shulman. Close enough.) This whole outfit was assigned to me when I was thirteen, and I still haven’t outgrown it.

  My parents and I drove to Essex together. “Tell me, Chelsea, what have you learned from your grounding?” my father asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Um . . .” Should I say, Don’t get kidnapped by hot Civil War boys? Or should I say, I’ve learned that my father is insane? No, that doesn’t count; I already knew that. So I didn’t say anything except “Sorry,” which was fine, since it turned out Dad wasn’t actually looking for an answer.

  We parked in the staff lot hidden behind the magazine, which is the building where the old weapons are kept. Ezra had been assigned to work in the magazine, so I planned to avoid it all summer long. Which actually would be the same as every other summer. I’ve never gotten especially jazzed about Revolutionary War cannons.

  “Are you going to be all right today?” my mother asked, grabbing my forearm.

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Well, just that you’ve never worked anyplace other than with us, and I didn’t know if you were nervous. . . . What if someone asks you a question that you don’t know the answer to, and we’re not there to help?”