Historically Inaccurate

by Shay Bravo

  “All I will say,” Anna says, putting the envelopes down, “is that Melina, I hope you’re not scared of heights. Angela, I hope you aren’t scared of getting your hands dirty. Xiuying, that you’re willing to lie to someone important. And Ethan”—Anna turns to us, shaking her shoulders a bit as she does—“I hope you’re not scared of the dark.”

  “What do you think that means?” I try not to shiver too much in the passenger seat as Ethan drives us back from the pool party. It’s already ten and I didn’t think much when he asked me if I needed a ride back home; after all, my backpack and bike were still in his car.

  After her cryptic messages, Anna told everyone to go back to enjoying the party and refused to give me any information when I asked. Carlos, damn him to hell, was also not been very helpful. He also offered to give me a ride back home, but after the little stunt he pulled on me today, I lifted my finger at him and marched away with Ethan behind me.

  All Ethan had gotten at the end of the party was a small envelope with the instructions. He was told not to open it until he was home.

  “I don’t know,” he finally says, eyes focused on the road, two hands on the wheel. “You’re sure she promised not to involve me in anything dangerous?”

  “She said she would try to make it as safe as it possibly could be.” The streetlights flash by the window, making neighborhoods and small businesses come to life in the night.

  “I still have a bad feeling about this.”

  I do too.

  “By the way, where is your house?” He slowly comes to a stop at a red light.

  For some reason I thought he was going to drop me off at school. But once I actually pay attention to which area of town we are in, it becomes clear that Ethan is driving around the perimeter of the city instead of cutting back through WCC to get home.

  “Um, you know where your grandparents live?”

  “I live there, yes.”

  The light turns green.

  “I live, like, three streets past that.” I get the feeling that if he was not driving he would be glaring at me.

  “You bike to school every day from that far away?”

  “It’s not that far . . .”

  “That’s at least five miles.”

  “People take morning jogs that are longer than that.”

  “True, but that is still insane.” He sounds impressed. “I wish I could do that. Wait, what do you do when it’s colder outside?”

  “If it’s below the forties I ask my dad for a ride to school. It gives me time to do homework.” In the beginning, Dad wanted me to drive the car to school. Though the back door was nearly falling off, it was still drivable, but with my broken arm, bruised sides, and fragile emotional state after literally losing my mom to the US government, I could not drive the death machine. Every time I got behind the wheel I found myself shaking and being overly scared of what other people could do, especially around the freeway. Dad says it’s something that goes away the more you drive and offers me his truck from time to time, but it’s not the same.

  There’ll be a point in my life when it’ll no longer be an option to simply not drive, and I’ll have to get over it, though I’m aware I’m not there yet. Besides, with the cut in income and having to downsize in the home department, we figured selling the car was the best option for our family.

  So I chose a bike, because bikes are easy. With a bike I don’t have to worry about someone else’s life. If someone decides to hit me, it’s all me.

  “If you ever need a ride to school you can message me,” Ethan says, slowing for a yield sign.

  “You’re being nice. Why?”

  “Can’t I be?”

  “It’s weird.” I lean against the door. My mother’s voice rings in my head telling me the door could fly open and I could fall to my death, so I straighten back against my seat. “I’ve been an ass to you for the past few weeks.”

  “You’re not an ass, you’re just—”

  “A bitch?”

  “Would you quit insulting yourself?”

  “I’m trying to give examples of things people might have called me in the past.” In reality, I’m trying to make him laugh. He’s been tense since Anna gave him that envelope, and part of me wants to see that flash of playfulness he showed before jumping in the pool—it was a breath of fresh air.

  “Those people are the asses for calling you that.” He slowly turns the car onto the street that goes to his neighborhood. “You seem to be under the impression that I hate you when I’m annoyed around you half of the time. Ninety percent of that time, you’re the one who places yourself in that situation.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  The neighborhood around our place has a few speed bumps scattered around. He takes them slowly, and as he’s driving by his grandparents’ street, I sit up a bit to see my old house. There it is, still there. Someone painted it white instead of the pale-green color it used to be when I was growing up. They took out the orange tree my mother planted and the rose bushes have been replaced with hedges, it looks . . . modern. Whenever I go to school I always avoid this street for fear of seeing how they’ve changed it.

  It looks nice, nothing wrong with it. It’s simply not my house anymore.

  “. . . that even when I’m trying to be friendly, you constantly push me not to be for some reason. Do I turn left or right?” Ethan’s voice pulls me back into the conversation.

  “Left, and then keep going straight for three blocks, then turn right. I’ll tell you which apartment building when we get there.” I lift my hand to bite my thumbnail, but quickly move it away. It’s an old habit I’m trying to beat, but it’s hard when I’m under stress. “I’m sorry that you feel like I want you to hate me.”

  “That hardly sounds like an apology.”

  “I’m not entirely good at apologizing.” Looking out the window as we move across the neighborhood, I can’t help but notice how close we live to each other. I could literally walk to his house if I wanted to. Hell, I could have told him to drop me off at his house and I could have biked home, that way he would never know my address. “I guess part of me wants you to be mad at me. I feel like I deserve it.”

  “Because of the whole breaking and entering thing?”

  “Obviously, but also because you’re so nice. You let it go too easily, or at least it felt that way to me. I guess I was never okay with the idea of breaking into someone’s home. I should have said no—then you would have never met me and I would not have to worry about you calling the cops on my ass. But you’re too nice for that, and that makes me feel worse.” The music that has been playing on his radio slowly fades away and it takes me a moment to notice that he was lowering it as I spoke.

  “Soledad.” He says my name weirdly, opening his mouth too much on the “le” part and saying the “so” like the English “so,” but I don’t mind. He says it better than most baristas. “I was furious the night I found you at my grandparents’ house. They were on vacation, and I had come back from visiting a family member that same night. I’ve lived with my grandparents since I was young and never before did I feel so vulnerable in my own home. I thought you had stolen something valuable, and they mean the world to me. I wanted to catch you and make you face the consequences. I probably would have if you hadn’t jumped out the window.”

  I had no idea Ethan has lived with his grandparents since he was young. While I want to ask more about that fact, I know this isn’t the time. It only makes me wonder if we went to the same high school; he’s only two years older than me, though those years sometimes do make a difference in friend groups. Mom always drove me to school, too, so I didn’t take the bus, so we wouldn’t have met there either.

  I push the thoughts away.

  “You’re not making me feel less guilty. You can park here, I live in the next building.” Only the light in the livi
ng room appears to be on, which means Dad has already gone to sleep. “Since you assumed I was dead, did you feel bad for me?”

  “I didn’t think you would die, I thought you might have broken a limb or two.”

  “Lovely.”

  “I’m not saying this to make you feel better, I do think there should be a sense of guilt for what you did, but my night had already been pretty shitty before I saw you. You made it worse and I took it out on you by chasing you.” He laughs and stops the car by the sidewalk near my apartment. “You might think I’m crazy, but after I saw you limping off, I felt better because you made me laugh.”

  “I aspire to be the comedic relief of this story.” His expression makes me breathe a little easier. “So you don’t hate me? Really?”

  “I don’t, you just annoy me from time to time. You’d be way less annoying if you stopped being so self-deprecating.”

  “But that’s what I do best.” I rely on self-deprecation like a crutch. People can’t insult you when you’ve already insulted yourself.

  “I’m sure you can find another hobby. You’re a resourceful woman.” He sits up, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the envelope. “What if we read this now instead of waiting till I get home?”

  “For sure.”

  Ethan reaches for the light and turns it on, then opens the letter and reads it out loud.

  “To Ethan Winston,

  “The Westray Historical Archive is a museum located in uptown Westray that has been a part of the community since April 1963. We are sure that as a history enthusiast you might have visited this historical archive more than once. It is open from ten in the morning to ten at night, holds different exhibitions depending on the time of the year, and has a fee of three dollars for college students. The museum is a Catholic church that was abandoned and restored many years ago, and still holds a fully functional bell tower, though this part of the museum is not open to the public.

  “Your mission will be to ring the bell at the archive at midnight. Of course, it is not an easy feat, and you will not be alone. To do so you will have—”

  He stops, looks at me, clears his throat, and continues, “Soledad Gutierrez’s help in order to complete this task.”

  “Wait, what did you say?”

  “It says you’re going to be helping me.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Give me that.” I take the paper from his hands and skim through it until I find my name. “What in the hell? You will have Soledad Gutierrez’s help in order to complete this task. The two of you are to stay one hour and a half after the museum closes without being detected by security, and make your way to the forbidden area. At eleven thirty there will be a power outage that will last thirty minutes so all security footage will be lost. You two will climb the bell tower. While Soledad takes a video of you, you will ring the bell to signal midnight. There will be an open exit door for you two to get out safely, and a vehicle will be waiting outside of the museum’s main garden.”

  I flip the page around, trying to find any indication this is a joke, but all I find is a detailed floor map of the museum, all three levels. The bell tower is the fourth floor. This is the opposite of safe.

  “This is unreal,” I say. Ethan stares out of the windshield. I put a hand on his arm. “Hey, don’t worry, I’ll fix this.”

  “You don’t have to fix anything, Sol.”

  “I understand that you might not want to become part of the club, but I swear I will get your key back. I can’t promise the fork, but I will—”

  “No, it’s okay.” His eyes shift to me, a streetlight reflecting off the rim of his glasses. “I’m going to do it, if you’re fine with helping me.”

  “You are?”

  “I’ve come this far, haven’t I? Jumped in the pool and all.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.” The only sound following my comment is the hum of his AC. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Anna would get creative with the dare, but this only makes anger crawl up my spine.

  “Me either.” He takes the paper from me and slowly folds it back up. “But I don’t think Anna is going to change her mind, and I am tired of waiting around to see if she does.”

  “Then I’ll help you. I got you in this mess so I will help you get out of it.” I hold my hand up. “Pinkie promise.”

  “I—seriously?”

  “I’m always serious when it comes to pinkie promises.”

  He locks his pinkie with mine. “Pinkie promise, Sol. We’re in this together.”

  “Like High School Musical.”

  He laughs again. It’s nice. “Get the hell out of my car.”

  “That movie deserved an Oscar.”

  “Out of my car, Sol.”

  Huffing, I grab my bag and the plastic bag containing my new swimsuit before opening the door of his car. As I take a few steps along the sidewalk, I notice my bike still hooked up to his car. I point at the back to remind Ethan.

  “Oh right.”

  He helps me take the bike down. The neighborhood is silent at this time of night, the streetlights the only source of light for us to see as he puts the bike rack into his trunk. It’s a nice car, nicer than the one I lost last year, and he keeps it really well.

  “Thanks for the ride, I really appreciate it.”

  “Like I said, if you ever need a lift you can message me.”

  He lingers a bit and I do too. Then I give him a half hug. Later, I will most likely regret it, but it’s something I do with all of my friends, and it feels right at this moment.

  “See you later, Ethan.”

  He gives me a small salute with two fingers to his forehead as he moves back to the driver seat of his car. “Good night, Sol.”

  I wait until he’s gotten back in and done a U-turn in a driveway before I begin walking home. The night is nice, and everything that happened today feels almost like a strange dream. I’m going to be spending more time with Ethan than I first anticipated, but for a strange reason, that doesn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I’m dying. It’s eight in the morning and the professor is droning on about the complexities in the behavioral studies performed after World War II. He has a point, and it is somewhat of an interesting and intriguing topic, considering how much the world was changing at that time, but even then I don’t have enough energy to keep myself fully awake to process half of the things he’s saying.

  I blame Anna because of the stupid dare. It’s unfair that I have to be a part of it, considering that I am already in the club. I want to ask her why she’d do this, to stomp my foot on the ground like an angry eight-year-old and demand a refund because I did not sign up for this—unlike my class, which I did sign up for and for which I am paying.

  “In consideration of Merriam’s and other political scientists’ approach to looking at the individual rather than focusing simply on the government . . .”

  At the very least there are the notes I wrote last night while reading the chapters that I can still highlight during class. Bless Dr. Barton’s soul, he always tries his best to keep the class involved, and it kills me slowly when he asks everyone a question and no one dares to answer it.

  I blame Ethan, too, because of what he said. How I put up these walls and push people away. He’s not wrong. I let my guilt take over and try to fix everything on my own.

  That’s why Tyler broke up with me.

  “Now, we get post-behavioralism, which was a reaction to behavioralism when scientists started going ‘Wait a minute’ . . .”

  There was also the pinkie promise and the hug. I don’t want to dwell on that because it’s way too easy for me to develop feelings for someone. Whenever I develop a crush on anybody I feel physically ill, like at any moment when I’m around them I am going to throw up or faint.

  It’s not like this is the fi
rst time. I’ve had one actual relationship in the past, as well as some “encounters” as Carlos likes to call them, since he was the one who moved the strings for most of them, but the feelings never change. My body won’t let me function normally while I’m crushing on a person.

  It’s silly, and I delayed dating Tyler in high school because it felt strange. Blame it on my vaguely religious parents and the fact that I wasn’t aware Tyler liked me until he stopped me on the way to second period and asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend. I had to go to the nurse’s office right after, and he took it as me being grossed out by him, but in fact, I was so shocked by my own undiscovered feelings that I simply couldn’t answer him. A week later I kissed him after school. I couldn’t concentrate—I liked this boy so much and so quickly that I was second-guessing my emotions.

  In a way, my emotional side is what caused us to break up. I don’t really blame Tyler; he couldn’t handle me being emotionally and physically broken after what happened. I ignored him a lot and became a different person from who I was before the accident. He told me I needed to get over it and keep going with my life, and while now I think I understand what he meant, back then I took it as a direct insult. There was no way to figure things out after that.

  It took an entire summer of meeting strangers and having mixed emotions to realize that maybe I wasn’t meant to meet someone until I figured myself out first.

  The thing is, I am far from figuring myself out, and while I know I don’t have a thing for Ethan, it feels nice to be around him—and he’s good looking, no one can deny that. It’s hard not to develop a crush on him, and I can’t really explain why. It feels good that I’ve met someone who doesn’t know about what happened and isn’t judging me for it, even if this relationship will only last until he has his belongings back.

  I look up at the board, at the Word document with the key words from today’s lesson, trying to figure out what topic we’re on. I wish he would jazz things up with PowerPoint slides, but Dr. Barton believes in the old type of lectures and I’ve been staring at him move his mouth without retaining any of the information he’s trying to give.