Historically Inaccurate

by Shay Bravo

  “I’m merely trying to be clear. I’m part of a club. We are pretty normal aside from our induction ceremonies, and they would like me to, well, recruit you.”

  A good five seconds passes and his face does not move. “Are you part of a cult?”

  “Open the envelope and read the letter, Ethan.”

  Surprisingly, he does, and carefully, breaking the wax seal first and taking out the hot-pressed paper on which the letter is printed. They say the letters are written by hand, and if they are, the person who writes them has perfect handwriting—and I know for a fact that it wasn’t Carlos because his scribbles can barely be described as a form of human communication. I’m glad he was born after the invention of computers or he would have had a big problem.

  Ethan’s eyes sweep over the page before looking at me, then go back to the paper. His eyes slowly narrow.

  “What does this mean?”

  “Did you not read it?”

  “Don’t try to joke around.”

  Sitting back, I resist the urge to mess up my hair. I don’t blame him; I’d be asking questions, too, but I have too much homework and too little time to be worrying about these kinds of things. Saint Gemma Galagani, patron saint of students, has failed me. Because yes, while I don’t necessarily believe in saints, I wouldn’t turn down some holy help with my grades.

  “Joking is my coping mechanism,” I mumble, straightening up.

  “What?”

  “Irrelevant. Look, have you tried changing the locks?”

  “I did, the day after you broke in.” He is far from amused, though who can blame him?

  “Then why do you want the key?” I ask.

  “If you guys, this club, managed to get it once, what is stopping them from doing it again? I’ll keep asking questions until I meet your president. There should be a stop to this nonsense.”

  “Then join the club.”

  “Are you listening to yourself right now?” Ethan’s on the verge of flipping the table over or slamming his face against it. I surreptitiously take out my phone to record whatever he does.

  “Want to see the president and ask her how we work? Great, you already have the invitation—”

  “To join your illegal activities?”

  “It’s your choice, and it’s not entirely illegal if I had a key.” His shoulders tense. Sass won’t get me anywhere with this one. “Ethan, I am sorry about what happened, but they won’t let me hand over the key unless you either join or manage to convince my president.”

  “Aren’t you scared of what could have happened if I owned a gun? You could be dead because of a club.”

  Well, damn, when you put it like that.

  “I can’t make you another offer. You take it or leave it.”

  “This is bullshit.” He shakes his head, crumples the letter, and drops it on the table. Shouldering his backpack, he struts out of the coffee shop without a second glance at his forgotten drink.

  Once I hear the jangling of the little bells by the door, I let my head fall on top of my arms. The fact that I only managed to sleep three hours last night because I was catching up on the readings for my classes does not help at all. On the one hand, I wonder if I managed things as I should have; on the other, I simply cannot gather enough fucks to give.

  It’s unfair—I should care, and there is a pang of guilt in my chest that makes me wish I could take the key from Anna and give it to Ethan, but there is no drive in me to do so.

  I used to look forward to the future. I wanted to learn to drive, get into college in a different state, travel, and figure out my life. The kicker is that I could still do all that, but it doesn’t feel right anymore. It feels like turning my back on my family, and I’m not sure why it does. Seeing my father sitting in that hospital chair. Seeing Mom at the airport. It’s as though the universe was asking me to do something but I couldn’t. Everything happened so fast and all I could do was watch in horror.

  Last year it felt like my whole life stopped.

  But it can’t stop, though—homework doesn’t stop, my job doesn’t, either, and while I’m dragging myself through my life, I can’t make myself care for a boy who has already changed the locks to his house.

  But that’d make me a bad person, wouldn’t it?

  Sighing, I look over at the pastry case. A muffin isn’t going to solve my problems, but it sure as hell would sit well with my stomach, empty after riding my bike all the way here only to have the letter thrown back at me.

  After buying a chocolate muffin and an iced latte, I head out of the café, stopping by the table we sat at and grabbing the crumpled remains of Ethan’s letter. Outside, the sun is shining bright and the breeze is nice and cool. WCC is made up of a cluster of buildings that were designed by someone who loved clear windows and concrete. It looks modern, for sure, and the sugar pines bring up the lumberjack-chic aesthetic. It wasn’t a bad choice for schooling; Dad didn’t even get to go to school.

  I’m aware that I am more privileged than some people in my situation. In some cases, people like me don’t get to go to college at all, and the fact I am able to get an education and have a job, even with the financial stress in my household, is great. But as I look around the campus, at the students beginning their daily routines, I can’t help but feel like things could have been better had none of this happened. As if somewhere in an alternate universe there’s another Sol, living her best happy life, and I’m jealous of that. Envious of what could have been.

  Of course, this leads back to guilt, and feeling bad, and wanting to look for those people who are happy right now. Hence social media and watching internet videos that assure me there are people with perfect lives out there rather than wallowing in my own pity party.

  Right now, though, I have to make my way to class, which I am early for, though at the very least I get to enjoy my overpriced food and walk around campus. I grab the small taste of happiness the simplicity of a calm Tuesday morning can bring.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Diane’s major might be biology, but she watches enough shows and movies for it to be film theory. We’ve tried to watch TV series at the same time but she always ends up finishing them before I can. So we’ve started to watch one movie a week on our own time and talk about it once both of us have seen it. However, with everything going on, I have not gotten around to doing even that.

  Her coral-colored coat differentiates her among the other students as I come to a halt close to the bike rack outside of the library. It’s Wednesday, which means I’ve had the weekend and a couple of more days to watch what she told me to, but we both know by my lack of messages about it that I have not. The expression on her face as she approaches me is enough for me to assume a defensive stance as I grab my backpack and prepare to shield myself from her wrath.

  “Soledad Gutierrez.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you, or did you not watch it?”

  Putting my backpack down and turning fully toward her, I grab hold of both of her shoulders, hoping our friendship won’t end the second I say, “No, I’m so sorry.”

  “Sol!”

  “I was busy, okay? Things are kind of complicated because of Ethan. I swear I’ll watch the movie tonight, after I finish my essay.”

  That’s a lie. Ever since starting school here I haven’t had a lot of time to watch things, especially since most of my waking time is spent doing things at home, at the club, or at school.

  “It’s the greatest thing ever, I can’t understand how you haven’t watched it yet. I need you to catch up in time for awards season.” We walk into the library as a gaggle of students tries to push their way out the door. This creates an awkward shoving of bodies that is only experienced by those who have camped outside of Best Buy for three days before Black Friday.

  I usually don’t like coming to the library when I’m not working, but I have to
work on a research paper for our history class. It was due a week ago but our professor extended the deadline, so I can’t complain. Lenient teachers are a gift from heaven.

  The doors of the elevator whine open to reveal the third floor. This area holds most of the computer equipment and the tables that allow groups to meet among the bookshelves and old video-tapes. While the place is supposed to be silent, there is a persistent murmur among students that is not allowed elsewhere. It is something of a relief, as most of the time this place is as silent as a corpse.

  We set up our study station at one of the tables closest to the floor-to-ceiling windows. I take off my jacket and take out the folder in which I have the notes for the book we’re researching: Twelve Years a Slave. Rebel men and, especially, women from the past have always fascinated me. Solomon Northup stood by what he knew was right and didn’t lose hope, even after being kidnapped and sold into slavery for twelve years. His story is one of many from the mid-1800s when the rising tension between the Northern and Southern states was about to break into full-on war.

  “What happened with Ethan?”

  If only for a moment, I don’t want to talk about Ethan anymore; all I want to focus on is studying, but his name has been haunting me ever since yesterday. Diane has been keeping up with what’s happening in the club and at school, and at the moment, she feels like a tether to normalcy.

  “I think it’s over, but I’m not sure. He left without taking the invitation to the club.”

  “You’re still crazy for joining that club.” She takes out a highlighter from her bag, one of those Mildliners that you see on those aesthetic boards on the internet that were the only reason you started a planner before you gave up because your handwriting was hideous.

  I shrug, passing her the notes I’ve written on the story. “True, but I’m already in it.”

  “That sounds like something someone who is in a cult would say.”

  “Oh fuck off. I told you Ethan said that.”

  “He’s not wrong.”

  It’s truly annoying how many things are logical about their arguments. Shaking my head, I take a sip from my nearly cold coffee.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say once I place my cup down. “The school’s clubs are shit.”

  Diane leans back, nodding.

  “We have an anime club, for Christ’s sake. I’m not shitting on anime, I love my good old Dragon Ball Z and Attack on Titan as much as that guy in the dark corner does, but “President of the anime club at Westray Community College” does not sound appealing on anyone’s resumé.

  “When I applied to the history club I didn’t know that I’d have to break into the Winstons’ house to get in. Carlos went to the middle of town and climbed on top of the founder’s statue while only wearing underwear at two in the morning in October. Anna, the president, managed to get on the roof of the school and draped a giant picture of Obama—”

  “Wait, that was her?” Diane seems surprised, not that I can blame her. No one knows who does what when it comes to the club until you’re in it. Technically, I’m violating policy by telling her, but considering the vice president is also my best friend, I don’t have much to fear.

  “People have broken into the office of the college president and stolen key documents before. They’ve skinny-dipped in the fountain at the square, they’ve—I don’t even know how they got the Winstons’ keys in the first place.” I lower my voice as a small group of guys pass by our table. “All they told me was that I had to get a fork, and I did, and now I’m in this mess.”

  “You’re partly responsible for this mess.”

  “Diane.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Yes, I messed up, but here’s to hoping that it gets all fixed.”

  “And that you won’t go to jail.”

  “Diane.” I press my fingers to my forehead; we’re both aware what she’s saying is getting to me and while she is totally in the right, it doesn’t help me right now.

  “I’m serious, I don’t want you going to jail. Who am I going to bother when you’re gone?”

  “Okay, I get it, thanks! Can we get back to the paper?” Maybe this is all a string of bad decisions that I made because of wanting to be a part of something else, and it will come back to bite me in the ass, but I don’t need a reminder of it when there’s a time to be a normal student.

  Around six in the afternoon on Thursday I get the first message. I have barely finished my shift in the library, and I am more than ready to go home, when I feel the vibration against my thigh. For a moment I think it’s Mom, before I realize that it’s too early for her afternoon classes to be done.

  I reached into my pocket, dread slowly creeping up my spine. It might be Anna with news of the club, or perhaps Carlos asking whether or not we’re going to order pizza and hang out one of these days, but I know who it is.

  I should have made his notification sound different so I would know when he was reaching out. I unlock my phone and lower the notification bar to see what he sent before I make the mistake of letting him know I’ve read his message.

  Ethan: Where do you guys meet?

  Holding back the urge to answer with something sarcastic, I text him our room number and the times we meet during the weekend and then put my phone away as soon as I can.

  The air is nice and crisp this time of the year—cool, but not cold enough to require a scarf. I place my backpack in the back basket of my bike and move to unlock the padlock. Earlier today the rack had been so full I had to chain my bike to the very last pole, and I’d prayed I wouldn’t get a ticket.

  As soon as the chain is undone, though, the bike goes down along with all my precious cargo, including my laptop.

  “Oh shit, oh no.” I kneel, the air leaving my lungs as I nearly rip the zipper out of the fabric. It’s not like I have a MacBook or something like that. Even with a job, I don’t have the kind of money that would allow me to get an Apple product, let alone one of their laptops.

  My computer appears to be okay, or at least there is no big crack running across the screen. Relieved, I put it back inside my backpack and sling the latter on before righting my bike and finally moving it away from the rack and onto the sidewalk.

  I feel a vibration against my thigh. Ethan will have to wait until I get home before I can start worrying about everything else that is going wrong with my life.

  Though I restarted it three times, the screen on my laptop says Your PC ran into an error that it couldn’t handle and now it needs to restart. Sure, I might relate to my computer because of that message, but it still does not fix the fact that I do not have the money to get a new laptop.

  Michi meows next to me, pushing her head against my lower arm. When I don’t respond she sits on my keyboard and stares deep into my soul with eyes that say, “Feed me.”

  My parents are going to give me the talk about how I can’t have nice things for more than a couple of months before I break them. Which is kind of true, but I don’t need them to rub it in. There were a couple of cheap Walmart cameras I convinced them to buy for me when I was younger that could attest to that, as well as a few Christmas presents, but now that I earn my own money, I buy my own things, and I break my own things, which hurts twice as much than if they’d been gifts.

  But earning my own money hasn’t changed much. Money goes to bills to ease Dad’s struggle of taking on all the bills in the house and then sending some money to Mom. With the utility bills and a couple of outings with my friends every month, I’m looking at about sixty dollars I can put into a savings account.

  Out of the three months I’ve worked, minus three weeks in the middle for winter break when the library was completely shut down, that leaves me with about two hundred dollars that I’ve stashed for going to visit Mom in the future. Money that’s now lost because I’ll have to get a new computer from what it seems. I’m back to sq
uare one once more. It’s like the universe loves sticking its middle finger up at me no matter what.

  Groaning, I pick Michi up, who meows in protest, lie down on my bed, and place her on my stomach as I pet her head.

  I could look for old computers in pawn shops, but my first laptop was from one and it died a month later. While the library does offer a computer lab for the majority of the day, I still need a computer for my online class and the essays I write at two in the morning.

  Instead of feeding my cat and making dinner for Dad and me, I grab my phone and text Diane.

  Me: If I give you five dollars, will you run me over with your car?

  She’s used to my morbid jokes. What keeps me going is humor and the reminder that one day all humanity will cease to exist. I put my phone down and stare at the ceiling. Diane answers nearly immediately. One look at my screen nearly makes me forget about my laptop.

  “Shit.” I sit back up, Michi offended that I dared to move when she was falling asleep comfortably on top of my chest.

  I didn’t text Diane.

  Ethan: Are you okay?

  I begin to type a long message somewhere along the lines of “Oh, well, my computer is dead, and I’m hungry, and my cat won’t love me because I knocked her over” before I realize what I’m doing and quickly delete it.

  Me: Sorry lol that was meant for someone else

  Ethan: You didn’t answer my question

  I’m confused but then I scroll up to the message I had ignored all afternoon. He asked me whether or not we could get together before the club meeting this week.

  Me: Sure, I can meet you there with a friend

  Ethan: Sounds good

  I put my phone down. Michi approaches me as it dings again.

  Ethan: Also, bribing people to run you over is a bit dark. Have you tried ice cream?

  Me: lmao I’ll try some, thanks

  This time when I shut my phone I take Michi in my arms, get up from my bed, and walk to the kitchen to get her and myself some food.