by Leila Sales
I remembered how one of my friends at school had started going out with one of the popular guys last fall. It was a huge scandal. Fiona and I gossiped about it constantly. Our group of friends cut her out almost entirely. We didn’t like the popular kids, because they were casually mean to us, and shallow, and manipulative. And if this friend of ours was going to date one of them, then obviously she just wasn’t the person we had thought she was, and we didn’t want anything to do with her.
And we weren’t even at war with the popular clique. We just didn’t especially like them.
“No one would have to know,” I suggested to Dan.
“But we would know.”
Which was true, of course. Already, I felt ashamed of what we had done—and we had barely done anything.
“Is it worth it?” he asked again, but I didn’t know the answer.
“I wonder if this ever happened during the historical wars,” I said as we started walking together back up the hill from the creek. “Did a Patriot ever make out with a Loyalist? Did a Confederate soldier ever have a thing for a Northern woman?”
“I’m sure they did,” Dan answered. “If there’s one common thread throughout all of history, it’s that people have always fallen for the wrong people.”
I gave a little laugh. “Somehow they didn’t mention that in Essex’s historical training.”
“When am I going to see you again?” Dan asked.
“Do you think we should see each other again?”
“No,” he said. “Of course we shouldn’t.”
“Right.” I felt so sad all of a sudden, so trapped. “Let’s exchange numbers, anyway. Just in case we later find out that we should see each other again.” So we did. And those ten numbers that I knew I could never dial helped a little, but not enough.
“Look, Chelsea, I meant what I said.” Dan grabbed my hand, interlocking my fingers with his. “I guess it doesn’t make any difference. But I really do want to.”
We held hands all the way back up the hill, until we came into view of the big field, busy with reenactors. Then we immediately dropped our hands apart and walked away in opposite directions.
Chapter 12
THE UNDERCOVER OPERATION
So I said to Mike, ‘Look, the King had porphyria. All the studies point to that explanation. It explains why he had his worst attacks of madness when he was older. It explains why his medical treatment just made him act crazier and crazier. To my mind, there is no doubt.’ And do you want to know what Mike said?”
This was my father talking, obviously. We were out to dinner at the Italian place in the mall—me, Fiona, and my parents. My father had talked for roughly eighty percent of the meal, Fiona was sneaking in at around fifteen percent, and my mother and I were tied for dead last.
“Do you want to know what Mike said?” my father repeated. He was already laughing. I could tell that, whatever Mike had said, it was a doozy.
“What did Mike say?” Fiona rose to the bait, claiming her dwindling corner of the conversation.
“He said—listen to this! ‘Then you must be out of your mind’! Get it? Because King George was out of his mind? Ha!” To the approaching waitress, “No, I’m still working.”
“Wow,” I contributed.
“Mike still thinks the King had a ‘simple case of mental illness.’ As though mental illness is ever simple! He says—honey, listen to this.” Dad laid his hand on Mom’s arm. “He says claiming that the King drove the Colonies out of his empire because he had porphyria is the same as claiming that El Greco painted elongated figures just because he had astigmatism!”
“Well, El Greco might have had astigmatism,” Mom pointed out. Yes, that would be seven times the number of words that I said. Assuming you count “El Greco” as two words.
“That’s exactly what I told Mike!” Dad crowed.
I gave Fiona a why is this my life? look. Fiona smiled back beatifically.
“What do you think, Elizabeth?” Dad turned to me.
“Um, my name’s still Chelsea. Remember, you named me that yourself? When I was born?”
But pesky details cannot deter my father from his quest for historical truth. “Why do you think King George went mad?” he asked again. This was a test.
“What are my options?” I asked.
“Because he had a metabolic condition. Because he had bipolar disorder. Because he had lead poisoning.” Dad ticked them off on his fingers. “No, I’m still eating”—to the waitress.
I knew what answer Dad was looking for, but still I couldn’t give it to him. “Does it matter?” was what I said instead. “I mean, if he was crazy, does it matter why he was crazy? If the outcome’s the same?”
Does it matter why we’re at War with Reenactmentland? We just are, and that means Dan can’t kiss me, and that’s all there is to it. Does it matter why Ezra broke up with me? No, because we are not together, and I could know every little thing, and still we wouldn’t be together. Does it matter why King George was crazy? He just was, and he’s dead now, and we will never put together the pieces.
This was the wrong answer for my father, obviously, who shook his head with disgust and muttered about how I “disrespected the past” and excused himself to the bathroom. The waitress saw her chance and swooped in to clear his plate.
“Can we see the dessert menu?” I requested.
“Are you really hungry for dessert?” Mom asked, clutching her stomach.
“Yes!” Fiona and I said at the same time. “Mom,” I went on, “we are becoming ice cream connoisseurs this summer. I already explained this to you.”
“Ah, yes.” Mom sighed. “Now that you mention it, it seems that I do remember something about ice cream connoisseurs.”
“And we can’t be connoisseurs if we don’t eat ice cream,” Fiona continued.
“Then we will just be like normal people,” I agreed.
“And no one will respect our expertise,” Fiona concluded.
So we ordered a scoop of every flavor on the menu. The vanilla was the best, which was surprising. Usually vanilla provides a good base for hot fudge or nuts, but unadorned vanilla rarely impresses me. I once read that vanilla is the most popular flavor of ice cream, but I don’t believe that—if vanilla is the most frequently ordered, that must be because it’s the most readily available, not because it’s truly the most loved.
“Is this vanilla bean ice cream?” I asked the waitress.
“I’m not—” she began.
“Well, obviously it’s made from vanilla beans; it’s vanilla flavored,” Fiona said, rolling her eyes.
“I know that, but vanilla and vanilla bean are two different flavors, and vanilla bean is a much more intense experience. Is this vanilla bean?”
The waitress looked uncomfortable. “I can ask the chef—”
“Is it gelato?” Fiona demanded. “It feels much softer and meltier than normal ice cream. Like gelato.”
Fiona’s family went to Italy two years ago, and ever since then she hasn’t shut up about Italian gelato and how it is this amazing taste sensation and how no American gelato knockoffs can even pretend to compare.
“Fiona, if this were gelato, don’t you think they would have mentioned that on the menu? Don’t you think that would be a selling point?”
The waitress said, “I’m not sure I know the difference between vanilla ice cream and vanilla gelato . . .”
Fiona’s and my jaws dropped. “Oh my God,” I said.
“They are two totally different things,” Fiona said.
“See, when you talk about freezing points . . .” I said.
My parents dragged us away.
“That waitress was flirting with me,” Dad announced once we were out of the restaurant. He said it in his “whispering voice,” which meant it was still loud enough for the waitress, all of her coworkers, and the shoppers at every other store in the mall to overhear.
“Ew,” I said. “She was not.”
Dad chuckled w
ith delight over how hot and eligible he imagined himself to be. “She kept coming over to ‘try to collect my plate’ . . .”
“Because that is her job,” I reminded him.
“And the way she looked at your mother? Pure jealousy!” Dad slipped his arm around Mom’s waist. “Poor thing. I left her a big tip.”
“Mom, are you going to let him get away with imagining this nauseating affair de coeur with the nineteen-year-old waitress at Basta Pasta?”
But for no good reason, my mother doesn’t mind that Dad is delusional. “He’s a handsome man.” She kissed his cheek. “I wouldn’t blame any woman for flirting with him.”
Fiona giggled. This must all be so hilarious when you don’t live with it every day.
Once in the parking lot, we let my parents get ahead of us so we could talk without them overhearing. “You’re in a good mood tonight,” Fiona said to me.
“What makes you say that? The part where I didn’t scream at my father in the middle of a crowded restaurant?”
“Sure, that part. I don’t know, you just seem unusually smiley. Kind of soft around the edges.”
“Hmm,” I said.
“Anything going on you want to talk about?” She nudged me with her hip. “Any boys?”
I looked at her. I wanted to tell her, Yes, I went to Reenactmentland, and I had a really great time with a really great guy. I had never in my life not told Fiona about a kiss.
Except I knew what Fiona would say. She would accuse me of being Benedict Arnold again. She would worry about the War, and if I had told Dan anything that they could use against us.
And as much as I was excited about kissing Dan and wanted the world to know, I also didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to admit this to anyone, because it was wrong.
So I just laughed at Fiona and said, “What boys? I still don’t know any. You’re spending too much time with the milliner girls. I’m in a good mood because we’re winning the War, that’s all.”
“Sending those British troops over there on the Fourth was a genius move,” Fiona agreed.
“You know what they say: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“Except in this instance, I think it’s like, my enemy is actually my friend if I have another enemy who is also the enemy of my first enemy.”
“Totally,” I said. “That’s totally what it’s like.”
We got in the car and my father began to drive toward Fiona’s house. “Chelsea,” Dad said, all of a sudden putting on his somberest, most silversmith-ish voice. “Your mother and I need to talk to you about something.”
“Am I in trouble?” I asked. It definitely sounded like I was, only I hadn’t done anything wrong recently. Other than . . . Oh, right. Going to Reenactmentland. To visit a boy who could never, should never be mine. My guilty conscience kicked into high gear. I would make a terrible criminal. My father hadn’t even accused me of anything yet, and already I felt like throwing up and confessing to everything. Or maybe confessing first just to get it out there, and saving the throwing up for afterward.
“Chuck, I thought we were going to wait until we had dropped off Fiona,” my mother murmured.
“Don’t worry about that,” Fiona said. “Whatever it is, Chelsea will tell me all about it later. So you might as well talk about it while I’m here, to spare her some time.” She smiled at me reassuringly.
This is my parents’ favorite tactic, by the way. To go through all of dinner acting like everything is fine, and then to bring up a serious, horrible issue once I’m trapped in the car with them. That’s their guarantee that I can’t run away. They broke the news to me about how “Someday, you will be a woman, and you will get your period” on a three-hour road trip to Washington, D.C.
“Chelsea, we found something in your room,” Dad said.
From his tone, the only follow-up I could imagine was “drugs” or “pornographic magazines.” Except that I didn’t own any drugs or porn.
“What were you doing in my room?” I demanded, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the War, it’s that the best defense is a good offense.
“I was looking for my gray belt,” Mom replied.
“Well, that’s not even in my room.”
“I noticed that. Where is it, by the way?”
I pondered that for a moment. “I don’t know. Fi, is it at your place?”
“Maybe?” Fiona said.
“Can we focus on the issue at hand?” Dad snapped.
“Right. Okay, so you snuck into my room, into my private space, to look for something that wasn’t even there, and you found . . . something.”
“But not my belt,” Mom contributed.
“We found two historical costumes that look remarkably like . . . Well, there’s no way to couch this in polite terms. They’re Civil War uniforms, Chelsea.” Dad cleared his throat. “You have two Civil War uniforms in your closet.”
“Oh,” I said. “Those.” I had a sudden vision of my closet door hanging wide open, the Undercover Operation uniforms center stage, with all my clothes spread out on my bed as I tried to decide what to wear to see Dan.
“Chelsea, do you want to stop reenacting the Colonial times and start reenacting the Civil War?” Mom asked, and I could hear in her voice that no question could pain her more. “I know you were thinking about not coming back to Essex this year, but I just never imagined . . . Were you trying to tell us that you didn’t want to work at Essex because you wanted to work across the street?” She paused. “Over there?”
“No!” I protested.
“Denial,” Dad noted, gung ho about staging this intervention. “You’re sixteen years old, and that’s mature enough to make your own decisions, some of the time, but in this instance your mother and I both feel that you’re making a serious mistake. Which war fought for equality and democracy, the foundation of our society? Meanwhile, which war had casualties exceeding the United States’ losses in all our other wars combined? Which document do you hear quoted more often: America’s Declaration of Independence or the Southern States’ Declarations of the Causes of Secession?”
Okay, whoa, attack of the rhetorical questions!
“Who’s pictured on the penny?” Dad went on. “Abraham Lincoln! Who’s pictured on the quarter? George Washington! A quarter is worth twenty-five times as much as a penny, just as the American Revolution is worth twenty-five times as much as the American Civil War!”
“Oh my God,” I said. “Dad, do you have porphyria or something?”
Next to me, Fiona was shaking with silent laughter.
Mom’s turn: “Honey, we love you, and we’ll love you no matter what. But I feel so disappointed that you would choose the Civil War over the community that you were raised in, that has always supported you.”
I wanted to bang my head against a hard surface. This thing with Dan was making me careless. That was the problem. I saw one cute boy, and then all of a sudden I couldn’t even remember how to keep a secret from my parents.
“Wow,” Fiona spoke up. “Chelsea and I had been thinking about joining the Civil War. We weren’t sure, but we were considering it. But you’ve brought up so many persuasive points that we hadn’t thought of. I’m really feeling now like I don’t want to quit Essex.”
And this is a credit to Fiona’s talents as an actress: She sounded one hundred percent genuine. That is how good she is.
So I took the cue and said in my best acting voice, “Gosh, I feel silly now for even thinking about leaving Essex.”
We dropped off Fiona, who gave me a good luck/I’m so sorry pat on the shoulder, and my parents continued their pro-Colonial propaganda the rest of our drive home. I bit my tongue and agreed with everything they told me. This is probably what it’s like when you’re a heroin addict, and your parents try to convince you to quit smoking cigarettes.
At the end of the drive, I said to them, “I’m really not going to join Reenactmentland. I promise. It was just a dumb phase. You know how teenage
rs are.”
We went into our house. I paused on the stairwell up to my bedroom. “Um,” I said, all casual, “where are those Civil War costumes now?”
“We gave them to Reenactmentland,” Mom said.
Dad snorted and muttered, “As if they deserve them.”
“Oh, Mom,” I said, horrified. “No, you did not. Please tell me you’re joking.”
“We’d want them to do the same for us. These are wonderful costumes and they belong with people who will wear them well,” Mom said firmly. “That’s just not you.”
I stared down at her for a moment, but I didn’t speak. There was nothing I could say. Then I retreated to my room to call Tawny and report that our army had lost some ground.
Chapter 13
THE TOP FIVE
Saturday evening, after Essex had closed for the day, we were having a War strategy meeting.
Okay, no. Not quite true. It was indeed Saturday evening, and we were going to have a War strategy meeting. But Tawny was running late. Until she showed up, we were all waiting for her out by the creek, playing Top Fives.
“Lenny, Nathaniel, Ezra, Robert, and, um . . .” Anne twirled a strand of hair around her finger and gazed up at the night sky, trying to think of her fifth name. “Bryan,” she said at last.
I made an involuntary gagging noise. Both Anne and Bryan glared at me.
“Well, you have to have five,” Anne defended herself.
“Bryan’s turn,” Patience declared. Patience is usually the person in charge of Top Fives.
Bryan squinted his eyes and rested his chin on his fists, deep in contemplation. “Hmmm,” he drawled. Hardly anyone ever asked for updates on Bryan’s Top Five because no one cared. Now that his moment had come, it was obvious he was going to drag it out for as long as possible.
“Fiona,” he began at last, “Rosaline, Caitlin, Patience, and Anne.”
“Whoa,” Fiona said. “Stop the presses. When did Chelsea get knocked out of your Top Five, Bryan?”
I wasn’t going to complain, but I had been wondering the same thing. When the boy who has had an untreatable crush on you since you were eleven years old suddenly ousts you from his Top Five, you know you’ve hit rock bottom.