Past Perfect
Page 10
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.
“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?”
“Why do you hate us so much?” he shot back.
“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.”
“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 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 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
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 collapsed 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?”
“I guess so . . .”
I thought about Dan’s question. I was no Fiona Warren, but I’d dated a few guys before Ezra. A brief summer romance with a pensive, historically minded blacksmith’s assistant. My freshman-year boyfriend, who was adorable and earnest and devoted and who had probably never read an entire book cover to cover, including Goodnight Moon. The first boy I ever kissed, when I was twelve, who I supposedly “went out with” for three weeks, even though we never actually went anywhere, or even spoke to each other. The guy I dated in eighth grade, who was the region’s best speller, but who never had time to do anything with me other than study spelling words. All good people, who went on to make other girls very happy.
My dumb, adorable freshman-year boy started dating a dumb, adorable cheerleader right after he and I broke up, and they’re still in dumb, adorable heaven. My first kiss now spends his time writing and filming artistic movies with his girlfriend. In ninth grade, the region’s best speller found the region’s sixth-best speller, and they would sit together and quiz each other on words for hours.
These are all good people. I know they are. And I, unable to hold on to anything good, threw each one away, or let each one slip through my fingers like water.
Ezra was the only one I really tried with, really wanted to keep. But even trying, and wanting, didn’t save anything. That was the only loss that actually counted for me.
“Yes,” I said to Dan, “Ezra was my first. First love. First heartbreak. First everything.”
“Well, you can’t have heartbreak without love,” Dan pointed out. “If your heart was really broken, then at least you know you really loved him.”
“I suppose that’s true. But you can have love without heartbreak. Why didn’t I get to have that kind?”
Dan rolled his eyes and leaned back on his elbows. “I think love without heartbreak is a myth. A pretty myth, but the kind of myth that ultimately makes us all feel worse about ourselves because we’re somehow not able to make it come true.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from personal experience.” I pushed up the sleeves on the hoodie. It was too hot for sweatshirts.
“I’ve never been in love like that. I guess I’m speaking from my personal experience with my parents.”
“Not a great relationship there?” I guessed.
“Really not. My dad took off a few months ago. Technically, this is a good thing, since he was breaking my mom’s heart in very small ways each day that he stuck around. But then he broke her heart in one final, big way when he left. Like I said, technically, it’s for the best. But no one looks at their lives technically. I don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am too. If he were still here and everything between them was still fine—technically fine, that is, since it hasn’t been actually fine since I was really little—but if he were still here, then I wouldn’t have to be. I would be touring with my band this summer. I’d be, right this moment, probably asleep with two other guys in the backseat of the van, or eating eggs at a diner in rural Pennsylvania, or practicing for a gig . . .”
“But instead you’re stuck sitting out by the creek with me,” I finished for him.
“Aw, this part is okay.” He playfully shoved my shoulder, and I had to resist the urge to grab hold of his arm. “It’s the rest of it that I can’t handle. Feeling like I have to be here. The only things that really matter to my mom are family and Reenactmentland. I’m not going to take either of those away from her. She’s batshit, though. She keeps telling people that her husband isn’t here because he’s fighting the Yankees in North Carolina . . . and of course she knows that it isn’t actually the Civil War, and that Dad’s not actually fighting anywhere . . . but sometimes she acts like she believes it. Because she wants to. Everyone else plays along with her, even though they all know that he got fired at the end of last summer.”
“That’s rough,” I said. I couldn’t imagine what my father would do if Essex fired him. Essex was his life. “What did he do to get fired?”
Dan shrugged and looked away. “Some stupid political issue. It doesn’t matter.” He quickly changed the subject. “Why are you in the reenacting business? If not to keep your mother from having a meltdown?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not a huge history buff or a natural performer, but I don’t mind it, as a job. I like the people—with a few notable exceptions. My best friend is there, and she wants me there. My parents want me there.” All of these reasons were completely true, but they weren’t quite enough. After Dan had opened up to me about his father, I felt like I owed him some honesty. So I said, “Fiona says that I have trouble moving on. That I cling to the past.”
“‘The past,’ meaning 1774?” Dan asked.
“Sure, 1774, or six months ago, or four summers ago . . . I wasn’t going to come back this summer, but I did, and it’s not entirely because Fiona or my parents asked me to, or because I didn’t know if I could find a better job. It was also because I knew that I would miss it. I’d miss the way my life used to be, when I worked there. I always miss the way my life used to be, and the best way to prevent that is to not change my life very much. I don’t know.” I leaned back onto my elbows, too, so that our arms were nearly touching. “I guess I don’t handle change very well.”
“I think most people don’t handle change very well.” He looked at me. “Of course, this is a change. You’re hanging out in the Civil War—and not even to hide telephones in our trunks!”
“Ha. Yeah, this is a change.”
“And how would you say you’re handling it?”
“So far, better than expected.”
We sat there for a long moment, just staring into each other’s eyes. All I could think about was the nearne
ss of him.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Dan broke the silence, his voice low. “We would both get in trouble.” He stood up. “Let’s go back.”
“We shouldn’t be doing what?” I scrambled to my feet. “What exactly are we doing?”
“This.”
“You mean consorting?”
“Sure, consorting. Cavorting. Carousing.” He paused to take a deep breath. “Kissing.” Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to mine. His lips were warm and soft, moving against my own. And then I was kissing him back, and I closed my eyes to block out everything else except this, this here and now.
A noise that sounded like zippering made me pull away. “What—” I began, before I realized that I had heard a zipper. Dan had tugged down the zipper on his hoodie, and now, with an expression of wide-eyed innocence, pulled it off my arms and quickly put it on over his uniform.
I was still breathing hard from our kiss, but I managed to get out, “Do you undress all the girls that fast?”
“No,” he answered. “Honestly, I’ve never been in quite this situation before.”
I wet my lips. “Did you kiss me just to distract me? Just so you could get your sweatshirt back?”
Dan shook his head slightly, his eyes fixed on mine. “No,” he said quietly.
I wanted him to come back. My mouth, my whole body, wanted him back. I wanted him to hold me, wanted his arms wrapped around me here, in the tall grass, with the water rushing by and the sunlight shining down upon us.
But that’s not what happened. In my life, that’s never what happens. What happened was that he turned to go, like there was nothing between us.
“Dan!” I said, and he turned back around. But then I didn’t know what to say.
“Chelsea.” He ran a hand through his hair so it stuck up in tufts. “I want to. God, obviously, I want to. But think what all our friends would say. Think what your Tawny and Fiona and all of them would do if they knew their Lieutenant and a Civil Warrior were together. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I met you. Is it worth it?”