Historically Inaccurate

by Shay Bravo

  “For the next class we’ll be looking at chapter three and the components of political science, and then we’ll have our first exam, so I hope you’re all keeping up with the reading material.”

  God, I promised myself that I would pay attention to class this time; I have failed Dr. Barton.

  “What did you think of the lecture?” Diane asks as we exit the classroom, the hallway slowly filling up with students.

  “You mean how my nap was?”

  She hooks her arm through my elbow so we don’t get separated by the crowd.

  “Yeah, I totally saw you spacing out. I’m pretty sure Barton noticed, too, but he’s too nice to say anything.”

  “I couldn’t help it. With the way things have been going recently I hardly get any sleep at night.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “I don’t need your sass right now, thanks.”

  We step out of the Liberal Arts Building and onto a concrete path leading to the student union, where we are planning on grabbing lunch. It’s milder today, so some students hanging by the square are wearing what I like to think of as it’s-cold-right-now-but-in-a-couple-of-hours-I-might-be-sweating-my-butt-off-in-cold-weather clothing. The fountain in the middle of the square is on, shooting up splashes of water every now and then as people gather on the grassy areas between the buildings, studying or eating before the next set of classes start. I tell Diane about the next “task” the history club has for me and Ethan.

  “They’re asking you to break the law again. One day someone is going to sue their asses and then all hell will break loose. Not to mention what might happen to your family. You don’t need that kind of heat, Sol.”

  I grimace and let her arm go. “Don’t say that. Even if what they’re doing is stupid, I’m still a member. If something happens it’ll affect me too. The club wouldn’t do anything to truly put me in danger.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. But I hope nothing happens to you, or Carlos, or Ethan.” Diane sighs.

  “I honestly feel bad I got him involved.”

  “Don’t.” She grabs my shoulder, stopping me in the middle of the walkway. “He did it to himself. If he didn’t want to get involved he would have called the cops on you.”

  She’s right—in a way I know this, but it still doesn’t feel right. It never felt right from the very beginning. When I was given the assignment I told Anna I wouldn’t do it. The Winstons didn’t deserve it. They’re a nice older couple I didn’t know much about, but who always seemed like the perfect image of grandparents—those I never got. After Mom and Dad eloped and moved to California, I heard very little from either set of grandparents. I know Dad’s mom lives in Texas, and is also an illegal immigrant, and while he’s mentioned we should visit her, we never have.

  The Winstons were that picturesque old couple who would wave back at me if I waved at them when I walked home.

  And yet I did it, telling myself it’d be okay because it wasn’t really breaking in if I had a key. It wasn’t really stealing if I left a fork for a fork. I wasn’t really there in the first place if no one caught me.

  Even now I’m not too sure why I did it. I tell myself it was because it was a requirement for a club that aligned with my major. Sometimes I think I only wanted some excitement back in my life. Anna asked me if I would feel guilty if I hadn’t been found out by Ethan, and honestly at this point I’m not even sure, but when Ethan said his grandparents didn’t deserve it, I completely agreed. They didn’t, and I feel responsible. Perhaps it’s because I’m Catholic and think all my sins follow me around like some sort of emo backpack.

  “It’s strange that after everything that’s happened he’s still putting himself at that sort of risk when he had nothing to lose but the key,” I say as we resume our walk, the double doors to the union offering the AC and food we’re craving. “He changed the locks so the only reason he’s going through with this is because he’s stubborn.”

  “Like you.”

  “Hey.” I stop, looking at her. “Whose side are you on?”

  Diane drapes an arm over my shoulders and pushes us forward.

  “I’m on your side. All I’m saying is that maybe he saw something in you that reminded him of himself. Who knows? Maybe the boy is into you. What if all of this is an elaborate plan for getting laid?”

  “He could have asked, I wouldn’t have said no.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a ten when wearing a swimsuit.” I wink. “Daddy material for sure.”

  “Ew! Don’t say that! Gross me out.”

  I buy a burger combo at the McDonald’s in the union, Diane gets a vegan burger from a vegetarian and vegan restaurant the college added after enough students petitioned for it. We eat by the big floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the garden that separates the building from the library, which is my next destination, since I work until five today.

  As we’re eating, I send Mom a message, telling her what my plans are for the week and all that good stuff. Sometimes she sends me little videos about mothers and daughters, or puppy compilations she found on Facebook—little things that keep our conversations as lively as possible. Sometimes I forget to message her all day and I feel bad when she asks me if everything is all right when nighttime comes around. I can’t help feeling like a bad daughter whenever I forget to talk with her; I feel like I’m hurting her without meaning to.

  “If you guys do go through the whole museum thing, when will you be doing it?” Diane takes a bite out of her burger.

  I swipe away all my notifications, trying to declutter the bar at the top of my phone.

  “Next Saturday, the day the club meetings are held.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “I’ve never been ready. I don’t think Ethan is ready, either, but what can we do?”

  “Quit?”

  “Hilarious.”

  “Hey, at least I try to lead you onto the right path.” She holds up her food. “You might thank me one day when you’re out of this mess.”

  “Quitting isn’t easy, Diane.”

  “That sounds exactly like something a drug addict would say—what are you doing this weekend?”

  Waiting for a few students to walk by us with their trays of food, I take a bite of one of my fries before responding. “You mean aside from illegally overstaying at the museum and ringing the bell at midnight?”

  “Yes, aside from that.”

  “Studying for the exam we have next week.”

  “Come to the bar with me and my lady friend.”

  “Are you guys sleeping together already?” I notice she avoided using the g word.

  “No, of course not. I don’t want to rush things, but I told her about you, and we were planning on going out this weekend. You could bring Carlos.”

  “I can’t drink, Diane.”

  “You don’t have to drink at a bar.” I give her a look. “Or we could do something else. I need you and your relationship-sensing eyes. Come on, Sol, you’re my friend, you should meet the girl I’m talking to.”

  I once told Diane that I could sense when a couple would stay together or not. It’s not witchcraft—it’s easy to see by the way they interact—but she has called me a bruja ever since.

  “Sure, if I don’t end up in jail this time. I’ll bring Carlos so I don’t have to be the awkward third wheel.” She beams at my comment as we continue to eat in the midst of the chaos of the food court.

  “How was your day?” Dad asks, spreading some salsa verde over the eggs I made him for dinner. I scoop some refried beans onto my plate and sit down next to him on the couch. We bought two little foldable tables we can place in the living room that are more space efficient than our actual kitchen table in the corner. In fact, we’ve mentioned getting rid of the kitchen table and the two remaining chairs to each other, in order to have more s
pace in the apartment. We just haven’t gotten around to it.

  “Bien,” I answer, reaching for the tortillero and grabbing a corn tortilla. “Tiring, as usual. How was yours?”

  Dad sighs, shaking his head as he scoops some food up. “You know how it goes with my boss.”

  “I’m guessing the project is not going well?”

  “The project is going well. We’re actually looking to finish by the end of the month. The problem is the money and how they don’t want to pay some of the workers what was promised to them.”

  “Are the workers they don’t want to pay the same illegals?”

  “Of course.”

  Dad gets paid well and on time because he’s a resident. It’s the reason he has stayed in the construction business for so long, but some of his co-workers are working long hours under the sun and rain and not getting paid what they’re promised because they don’t have papers and can’t tell anyone about the unfair treatment. People seem to think that the moment one of us gets paid more than the minimum wage it’s a personal attack on their livelihood.

  We eat for a moment, listening to the news anchors speak among each other on Univision.

  “I was thinking of visiting Mom over Christmas.”

  Dad looks at me. I sigh, sitting back to drink my apple juice.

  “Look, Soledad, it’s not that I don’t want you to go . . . things are getting ugly right now, especially on the highways.”

  “Things have always been ugly.” It’s unfair that classmates go to Mexico and come back unscathed, and even share wonderful pictures of their time there. Carlos always asks if I want snacks or presents from his trips, and mentions taking me in his luggage the next time. I feel so disconnected from an entire country because of my parents’ fear. “Mom is living there fine.”

  “Your mom lived in Mexico when she was a little girl, she knows some things you don’t, especially because she was raised by your grandparents. Anyone can see you and tell right away that you’re not from there.” I sit back, my appetite gone. “If things simmer down we can think of doing a family trip, but I don’t want you traveling by yourself.”

  It’s frustrating, not truly feeling accepted in one country or the other.

  “Just yesterday one of my co-workers told me an entire family disappeared outside Monterrey about two weeks ago. They haven’t found them yet,” he continues.

  “It’s ugly, I know” Similarly to my appetite, my mood has faltered, but I have to eat or Dad will feel bad. “I miss her, though.”

  “I know, corazón.” He places his hand over mine. “She is with us in spirit, and we want to make sure you are safe.”

  I push my food around, thinking about Mom living in Monterrey. How she says it’s beautiful. It has its downsides, of course, and her pay is so small that she wouldn’t be able to afford her apartment were it not for the monetary help Dad sends her each month, not to mention the cost for public transportation and the traffic. She’s also been followed to the bus station before, and she suspects someone tried to kidnap her once.

  But she says it’s beautiful, and enjoys seeing the Cerro de la Silla from her window in the morning and grabbing a coffee on her way to work. Says she’s gotten somewhat used to the lifestyle.

  Safe.

  I wonder what Dad means by that word, because it doesn’t feel very safe that I am risking my academic record, reputation, and their trust to stay in a stupid club.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The van is deadly silent as we make our way down the highway. Ethan and I sit in the back. Scott is driving and Anna is in the passenger seat reading through some messages on her phone. I feel like I’m sweating but I know I’m not, or at least I hope I’m not. I press the back of my hand against my temple, but it doesn’t feel wet.

  “Hey, you guys mind if I listen to some music?” Scott says.

  I clear my throat before answering. “Sure, man, go for it.”

  Within seconds Lionel Richie’s “Hello” starts playing. I love this song; I would be swaying and singing along to it if I wasn’t sitting in a van driving to another location in which I’m supposed to break the law. Not necessarily the definition of a fun school field trip in my opinion.

  I turn to Ethan and notice he’s watching me.

  Lionel’s voice soothingly plays in the background and it’s then that I notice how strangely close Ethan and I are to each other. My face feels hot and my stomach twists as the headlights of the car behind us softly outline his features.

  “Are you okay?” Ethan whispers.

  “Just nervous.” My hair is in a tight bun so I can’t play with it to distract myself from the close proximity we’re in. “I hope this all goes well.”

  “It will.”

  “And I should trust you because?” I want to make it sound playful but the tension in the vehicle makes it difficult.

  He shakes his head. “Don’t trust in me. Trust in us.” He reaches over and takes my pinkie with his. “We’re in this together, and we’ll get through it.”

  “Are they going to kiss?” Scott asks, and it takes me a second to realize he can see us in the rearview mirror.

  “I think they were before you interrupted them,” Anna responds, leaning over the console and smiling at us. “Don’t worry, you guys will have more than enough time to bond in the museum, but make sure to keep it quiet.”

  “How is this really going to work?” Ethan moves back against his seat, disbelief in his posture.

  “I thought you both read the letter.” She smirks.

  “It wasn’t very good at explaining what we are supposed to do, especially how to find the forbidden area of the museum.”

  “Oh that,” she huffs. “It’s easy. You guys will enter the museum through the back, with passes of course, so if they find you, you lie and say you got lost. The closest exhibit to the bell tower is going to be east of where you guys first enter. It’s still under construction, so when you see posters for”—she looks something up on her phone—“Mexican Culture from the Late 1800s, you’ll know you’re near. It’s off limits to the public but you two are lovebirds who feel adventurous.” She winks. “Get creative, you’ll have to hide in an office or somewhere dark until the lights go out at eleven thirty.”

  “That’s a whole hour and a half after the museum closes,” Ethan protests.

  “You wanted something safe, didn’t you, Ethan?”

  He’s glaring so I take his hand, lace my fingers with his, and give him a squeeze of reassurance.

  “We’ll be okay,” I mumble, though even I am not too sure about that.

  Westray’s historical archive originally commemorated veterans of World War II, but eventually became a museum for all things related to the city. Slowly but surely it acquired different exhibitions that went around the country, and thus became a source of civic pride. It was built on top of a Catholic church that was left ruined and abandoned after a fire.

  I have fond memories of the archive—whenever my parents didn’t know what to do on the weekend, they would bring me here to see the new exhibit or explore the galleries. Later on, in high school, I’d come and volunteer from time to time; teachers always said volunteer hours were good for college applications. It’s the type of place that you can always go to if you feel stressed or anxious. When Carlos mentioned I could volunteer here for community hours for the club it only seemed another incentive to join.

  Time does not pass in the archive. There are things that always stay the same—artifacts from the town that will never leave and offer a sense of reassurance that some things don’t change. For example, the mining and precious metals exhibits, the classes on the geology of California, different eras throughout time in the area, and the like. The archive even host shows and exhibitions for local artists.

  At this time of night there are few people left in the building. My heart beats quickl
y in my chest as we slip in through the west fire exit. On this side of the building the history of Westray is explored, from its humble origins as a mining town, to the resources used throughout the twentieth century, to the materials it provided for World Wars I and II, to the expansion of technology.

  We walk around a train car in the dimly lit room. The echo of a record playing fills the halls as we make our way around the seemingly empty building. I can’t say the archive attracts a lot of visitors, so it does have an eerie vibe this late at night, with the music playing in the empty natural resources area.

  “Remain calm,” I whisper to myself, taking a few steps toward the hallway.

  “I am calm,” Ethan whispers behind me and I nearly scream. I knew he was there, but I didn’t expect him to be close. “Remember we have a pass, and that we entered through a blind spot.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  It’s hard not to look suspicious when both of us are wearing black clothes, in case we have to blend in when the lights go out. My jeans have fake pockets on the front and it’s annoying that I can’t carry anything in them (but they were cheap and looked good when I first got them), so I slip my phone inside my jacket pocket and pretend I’m looking at the train. Ethan walks near me, his shoulder brushing against mine.

  Anna told us to look like a couple. As a volunteer, I’ve been on the last shift and know they announce that the archive will close about thirty minutes beforehand, then at fifteen, and finally at ten. We plan to hide until the guards and guides stop doing their rounds.

  “I didn’t know there were mines around here,” Ethan says as we casually walk together along the exhibit. There is a film about mining somewhere close to us, the voice of an older man filling the hall as we silently make our way across.