Past Perfect (10 page)

“Listen,” Dan went on. “Do you want to—Oh, shit. Tourists.

Later.” And the call ended.

I held onto the cheap, cracked phone for a minute, staring out the window in the break room.
Do you want to
. . .

what? ‘Do you want to stop sneaking into my tent and going through my personal belongings?’ ‘Do you want to take your lame Colonial friends and your poor excuses for pranks and get the hell out of town?’ ‘Do you want to, in the immortal words of Marvin Gaye and this cell phone, get it on?’

I turned off that phone and threw it in the trash can. It didn’t matter what Dan had been about to ask me; my answer was no. No, I don’t want to. What I
want
to do is be the best Lieutenant Essex has ever seen. What I want to do is win.

And that meant no chatty phone calls with Civil Warriors.

So I smoothed my skirts, adjusted my mob cap, and headed back out to battle.

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E
ssex flirts with anarchy every day of the year, but on the Fourth of July, any illusion of control disappears, and the village disintegrates into a totally lawless land of petticoated women and uniformed men running wild.

First the British troops show up and set up camp on the Palace Green. I don’t know who the British troops are. They’re not employed by Essex. I don’t know where they come from or where they go after the Fourth of July, and I
definitely
don’t know why they choose to portray a losing team. I feel this way about Civil War Reenactmentland, too. Like—guys, guess what! The Confederate Army
lost the war
! That is why we’re still part of the United States!

PAST PERFECT

Anyway, these regiments of freelance historical interpreters descend upon Essex, and they march around in uniform and party in the taverns. There are skirmishes in the street, and we taunt them in a historically accurate fashion in the hopes of getting them to arrest us.

If you can swing it, getting arrested is the high point of the Fourth of July. Also, the reading of the Declaration of Independence is exciting. (Yes, the Declaration was written two years after Essex is officially set. No, this doesn’t stop us.) Thomas Jefferson, a.k.a. my dad’s friend Mike, stands in the Governor’s Palace, overlooking mobs of tourists, and reads in a booming voice,
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that
all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator
with certain inalienable Rights. That among these Rights are Life,
Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness . . . .”
It sends shivers down my spine every year. It makes me want to get out there and do something
American
. So the Declaration reading is pretty cool. But, all things considered, getting arrested is better.

“Remember when I got arrested last year?” Patience asked.

I was standing with her, Anne, and Fiona, eating ice cream outside of Belmont’s General Store and watching the British troops march down the main road. Independence Day is the only time when we can blatantly eat food in front of moderners without getting in trouble. Like I said: a lawless land.

“I got arrested, too,” Anne piped up.

Patience ignored her. “I was singing ‘Yankee Doodle’ as
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loud as I could. I shouted at them, ‘You’ll never catch me, you lobsterbacks!’ Then I ran away. They got me and tied my hands behind my back and marched me around as a prisoner of war.
Everyone
was taking pictures. It was very exciting.”

“People also took pictures of me when I got arrested,” Anne offered.

“The soldiers who arrested me were
hot
. I don’t know if it was the fake British accents or what, but
roawr
. One of them even got my number before I escaped from their jail.”

“But then he never called,” Anne noted.

“Okay, well, did any of the Redcoats who arrested you even
ask
for your number?” Patience turned on Anne. Anne said nothing. “Exactly,” Patience concluded.

Everything about Patience is pointy, from her stick-straight blond hair, to her angular nose and chin, to her jutting-out hipbones. I know her too well to find her pretty, but I guess she is, in a technical sense. Anne is rounder than Patience, and plain looking. She highlights her dishwater-brown hair as if that might make her look more exciting, but the roots grow too fast for that to work. Maggie is the real beauty of the milliner girls, with thick, dark hair, pouty lips, and curves in the right places. But Maggie was back at the milliner’s, presumably working, though it was hard to imagine anyone accomplishing anything on the Fourth of July.

“I want that one,” Fiona said, gesturing at a British soldier with her spoon.

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“How can you even tell?” I asked. “They’re all wearing the same uniform, and marching in the same gait. They all seem equally hot. Which one are you pointing to?”

“The one with the long hair, see?”

“Fiona,” I said, “you need to get over this hair thing. It’s creeping me out.”

“Down with King George!” Patience hollered.

Three adorable Redcoats descended upon her like flies to honey. Patience giggled and flounced a little until one of them grabbed her and proclaimed, “The King’s name shall not be so blasphemied!” and frog-marched her off.

“Do any of the rest of you ladies have words to say against our king?” the long-haired soldier asked. He looked as men-acing as a teenage guy can when he has a mane of luscious locks tumbling down his shoulders.

Fiona nodded solemnly and beckoned him closer with her finger. He leaned in, and she cupped a hand to her mouth and whispered into his ear. “Enough of that, miss!” he exclaimed, grinning at her. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger and grinned back. “I shall take you to explain yourself to the magistrate,” he announced, presumably for the benefit of any nearby moderners.

Fiona poked me and nodded her head toward the unclaimed Redcoat. He blushed. I blushed. Neither of us spoke. Fiona rolled her eyes and thrust her cup of ice cream into my hand. “I give it a four,” she said to me, though her
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eyes were on her soldier, not the ice cream. “I’ve had better, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Then the soldier placed a hand on her lower back and guided her down the little brick path toward the garden behind the York House. She glanced over her shoulder and winked at me before they disappeared from view. I watched her go, the remains of her rum-raisin ice cream melting in front of me. The available Redcoat skittered away.

Patience and Fiona make it look so easy. To just run off with random cute boys. Unfortunately, the only thing I find easy is lusting after boys who are wholly unavailable.

I could tell Fiona wanted me to flirt with that Redcoat, as part of her “find Chelsea’s true love this summer” scheme.

She probably thought I was being prudish. I did know how to flirt, though. Sort of. Dan and I had been flirting when he called on the phone, or at least I thought maybe we had been. I wished that Fiona knew about that conversation.

But of course she couldn’t. She could proposition a British soldier in broad daylight, in front of everyone, but I wasn’t even allowed to
think
about Dan.

I tasted Fiona’s ice cream. It was only so-so, since I think raisins are gross and desiccated and should stay the hell out of desserts. But I finished it anyway, since mine was all gone, and even the worst ice cream is better than no ice cream.

Though apparently the worst ice cream isn’t better than making out with a long-haired Redcoat.

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“I’m going to stop by the silversmith’s to say hi to my parents,” I said to Anne. “You can come along, if you want.” So she did. Anne likes to follow people.

“Where’s Bryan?” Dad asked me as soon as we stepped into his studio.

“And hello to you, too, Father.”

Dad just raised his bushy eyebrows at me.

“Look, I have no idea where he is. I’m not his keeper, thank God. He’s probably off discussing battleship repair with a British soldier.”

“That boy has a good head on his shoulders.” Dad nodded.

“Yeah, I mean, he definitely knows more about eighteenth-century sexual politics than anyone else I’ve ever met.”

“Find him and bring him back here.” When my dad’s not asking unanswerable questions, he is issuing impossible commands. It’s hard to say which is more annoying.

“I don’t know where he is,” I protested.

“
I
don’t know where he is,” Dad said.

“But I don’t
care
where he is!”

“But
I
do.”

“So why don’t
you
go look for him?”

“Because I am repairing this sugar bowl!”
Dad bellowed at me.

Anne and I left.

“’Bye, sweetie!” Mom called after me. “Come back any time!”

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“Where are you going to look for Bryan?” Anne asked as we headed down the road toward the milliner’s.

“I’m not. He’ll find his way back to the silversmith’s on his own. He’s a big boy. Excuse me!”

A band of British soldiers nearly crashed into us. They’re great at marching in formation, but they seem not to handle obstacles so well. “Long live King George!” they hollered at me and Anne.

“Long live King George!” we shouted back, and scurried around them.

“Are you a Loyalist, then?” Anne asked me. “Wow, I didn’t know that about you! Are your parents Loyalists, too?”

“No,” I said. “I’m just a Loyalist when there are drunk Redcoats around. It’s easier that way.”

“Don’t you want to get arrested, though?”

“Nah. I just got kidnapped like a week and a half ago,” I reminded her. “I’m kind of sick of getting held captive these days.”

“Hey!” A hand clamped down on my shoulder.

“Long live King George, okay?” I sighed as I turned around.

But it was just Nat. “Oh, hi,” I said. “Never mind.” He looked confused. “Where’s Fiona?”

“God, why does everyone think I know where everyone is today?”

Nat shrugged and twirled his ponytail. “No idea. But you
do
know where she is, right?”

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“Yes, of course.” I didn’t elaborate.

“So . . . ?”

Way to put me on the spot. “Um, I think she’s like by York House or whatever.”

“She’s with a Redcoat!” Anne piped up. “He’s cute. Actually”—she peered at Nat thoughtfully—“he kind of looks like you!”

“Oh, right.” Nat’s shoulders slumped. “Thanks. I guess I’ll look for her later, or tomorrow, or something.” Independence Day must be rough for the Essex guys. All these hot strangers show up and make off with the Essex women, but they don’t bring along any British
girls
. That is gender inequality in action.

Nat walked away. “Nat!” I yelled after him. “Do you know where Bryan is?”

“No,” Nat called back, that one syllable somehow wavering with heartbreak and loneliness.

Goddamn theater kids.

Anne and I kept walking. We passed by the courthouse.

Outside of it was the pillory, and lo and behold, who had his hands and head trapped in there but Bryan Denton. You’re welcome, Dad.

Moderners surrounded Bryan, snapping photos. “Can it decapitate you?” worried one woman.

“No,” Bryan answered, sounding unusually depressed about sharing his historical knowledge. “It’s for public shaming. You
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get put in the pillory when you commit a petty crime, and then you’re trapped in here for a few hours, usually.”

“What petty crime did
you
commit?” a man asked, smiling broadly.

“Disrespecting the King,” Bryan answered, sounding like he was going to cry. “No taxation without representation!” But his voice was thin.

“Good day, sir,” I said. Anne and I both curtsied.

“Miss Connelly! Miss Whitcomb!” Bryan struggled to raise his head.

“Mr. Denton, sir, your presence is required by the silversmith,” I said.

Bryan’s eyes bulged, and he twisted his neck from side to side like a beached eel. “Miss Connelly . . .” he said.

“
What,
Bryan?”

“The Redcoats put me in the pillory, and now I’m stuck,” he hissed. “Help me.”

“Oh my God, oh my God!” Anne flew to his side and tried, uselessly, to lift the wood panel off of him. “How did this happen? Are you okay?”

“I am suffering,” Bryan moaned, his head and hands hanging limp.

“Elizabeth, help us!” Anne cried, scraping at the wood with her fingernails.

I cracked up. I laughed and laughed. I had to sit down on a rock, I was laughing so hard.

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“It’s not funny,” Bryan sniffed.

It’s true, I’m usually not a Loyalist. But today? Those British troops were on
fire
. I just wished we could use them to our advantage.

And that gave me an idea.

Leaving Bryan writhing in the pillory and Anne fawning over him, I continued down the road. I bumped into the same British unit from half an hour ago. Apparently they were just pacing up and down the main street on a loop.

“Long live King George!” they yelled, like we hadn’t
just
had this conversation.

“Ditto!” I cried. “Hey, guys, come here. Huddle up.” The troops broke formation and clustered around me.

“Look,” I said. “I know you’re strangers to Essex. But as fellow members of the eighteenth century, we need your help with something. So I’m just going to ask you one question: how do you feel about the Civil War?”

Essex stayed open late that night, for the holiday. Our patriotism cannot be constrained by an eight-hour workday. After the sun set, I sat out on the Palace Green with Fiona and her Redcoat fling and watched the fireworks explode overhead.

Tawny found me there. “Did you hear the news?” she asked, squatting next to me. “Today a unit of Redcoats marched out of Essex, across the street, and straight into Civil War Reenactmentland.”

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“Well,
that
sounds historically inaccurate.” I shook my head in mock horror.