Historically Inaccurate Read online

  Historically Inaccurate

  Shay Bravo

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Dedication

  Para mis padres y mis hermanas.

  Por siempre creer en mí.

  CHAPTER ONE

  There is a fifty-fifty chance that I will go to jail because of what I’m doing right now. Is it a good idea? No. Which shows what a fool I am. But don’t just blame me, also blame the stupid system of societies and their initiations—at least the one at Westray’s community college.

  The door handle clicks and turns, confirming the key they gave me was, in fact, the key for this house. This raises two slightly worrisome questions: Why does Anna have a key to the Winstons’ house? And why do the people at the history club want a fork?

  Granted, they might want an old fork. You’d expect an old house to have antique forks, but Anna wasn’t that specific. The letter Carlos handed me after my meeting with her just told me to get a fork from the kitchen, take a selfie, and get out of the house—with the fork, of course. All of that to get into the club. It’s not even a nationally recognized club, but it fills space on my resumé.

  The Winstons’ house is not the fanciest in our town. It’s two stories, made out of sturdy wood and with a sloped roof reminiscent of early twentieth-century architecture. They bought the house in the ’70s for a ridiculously low price since the building was nearly falling apart. They got a plaque for remodeling the place, and with time the neighborhood grew around them, including my parents’ old house—they moved to Westray after they eloped.

  Mrs. Winston has a pretty big garden planted in front of her house, which extends to the back. As a little girl, I would ride my bike down the street and see her working in that garden in front of that beautiful house that I’d never step a foot into. She should be well into her eighties now, but even back then her energy for gardening surprised me. My family lived in this neighborhood for a while, before what happened a year ago, when we had to move from a house to one of the few apartment buildings in town. It’s a nice area of Westray, where the trees grow tall and the grass always seems greener. I only have fond memories of this neighborhood.

  I shake my head, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. If I wasn’t being lied to by Anna, the club president, the Winstons go to bed pretty early. The darkness of their corridor should mean they are asleep; I hope it doesn’t mean they’re lying dead somewhere.

  My phone buzzes inside the pocket of my jeans and I nearly jump out of my skin.

  Anna: Sol, you’ve been standing in the same spot for like an hour. Are you doing this or not?

  I glare at my phone and drop it back in my pocket. She can think whatever she wants—I’m taking my sweet time doing this if it means I won’t leave the property handcuffed.

  College kids do stupid stuff like this, right? Besides, white guys get away with much worse stuff. Forget the fact I’m not a guy—or white, for that matter.

  Straightening up, I turn on the small flashlight I brought with me so I wouldn’t get distracted by whatever might pop up on my cell phone. The hallway comes to life with portraits of people I don’t know and decorations of cats in various styles. The narrow hall leads to a small living room where more pictures and a couple of plants adorn nearly every surface. A fat calico cat is sleeping on one of the couches; it perks up when I slowly step around it then goes back to dozing like nothing happened.

  The house smells like old people. Visit your grandparents or (in case they’re no longer with you) a local retirement home, and you’ll understand. And they’ll appreciate the company.

  The living room connects to a dining room via a small foyer that also faces the stairs; the hallway I just walked through seems to serve as a way to connect the living room to the backyard and a small bathroom. In the dining room is a table with six chairs and a small bowl holding fake bananas, apples, and shiny grapes. An archway leads to a buttercup-yellow kitchen with white cabinets and clean, dark countertops, where a vase of sunflowers rests on a smaller table. Not even when Dad and I both clean our home together does it end up as spotless as this place, old-people smell aside.

  Next to the refrigerator, and right beside a door (possibly leading to the garage) is a decorative spoon and fork set that is large and sturdy enough to knock out a man. While it would make a nice gag to take a picture with those and skedaddle outta here, I’m pretty sure the people at the club would bitch at me for it.

  I toe my way to the drawers and open the one closest to me slowly, but there are only spatulas and other large utensils. Closing this one as silently as possible, I move to the next one, closer to the sink, and slide it out. Forks. Other cutlery is also stashed inside the small drawer, making me feel like I’m in an Indiana Jones movie and I’ve just uncovered a treasure chest.

  Grabbing one of the bottom forks, I take out my phone, open up my camera app, and quickly take a selfie before slipping both in the back pocket of my jeans. Looking over my shoulder to ensure there isn’t a startled eighty-year-old ready with a pickaxe, I extract a dollar-store fork from my right boot. It doesn’t feel or weigh the same as the fork I’m stealing, but I place it inside the drawer, close it, and walk back the way I came.

  Someone turns on the light in the dining room.

  Fork still in hand, I freeze, gaping at the guy standing under the arch between the foyer and the dining room.

  He screams.

  Shrieking, and then ducking in time to avoid what he’s chucked at me (I’m pretty sure it was his phone), I push a chair in his way as he rushes forward. The instant he falls down I book it out of there.

  My breath rushes out of my body when my stomach slams against the railing of the staircase.

  “Hey!” the guy shouts, scrambling up.

  Instead of running to the door where I originally entered, like any person with common sense would, I panic and make a split-second decision to climb up the stairs.

  Sprinting to the first door along the hall, I cross myself—praying there’s no eighty-year-olds sleeping inside—and enter, quickly closing the door behind me and bolting it.

  Turning on my flashlight, I sigh in relief.

  There is a messy bed in the middle of the room, a desk on one side, and a chest of drawers on the other. The walls have a few posters and decorations, but what is most important is on the left side of the bed.

  A window.

  A loud knock on the door makes me jump in the spot.

  “Hey, open the door!” the guy screams.

  “Look I’m not here to steal anything!” Slowly, I back away from the door, getting closer to the window.

  “Like hell
you’re not!”

  “I swear, I just needed a fork.” The latch of the window is tight, and my fingers protest in pain as it opens.

  There is a pause in the loud hammering on the other side of the door. “What?”

  With a grunt, I push the window open. A tree is nearby, and I can survive a jump to one of the branches, I think. “What what?”

  “What did you just say?”

  “I only came for the fork.”

  “A fork?”

  “Yeah, that thing you use to eat with—”

  “I know what a fork is!”

  “Then why the hell do you ask?”

  A small flower box sits below the window and then the slanted roof follows. I could slide down, but that would be more likely to end with a broken leg.

  There is a sudden click, and I turn around to see the guy standing by the door, a multitool in hand, the doorknob on the floor.

  I take the fork out of my pocket and hold it out for the guy to see.

  “Look, I’m just taking the fork, I swear.” Reaching for the window, I put a foot over the ledge and climb up.

  “Whoa, what are you doing?” He comes closer and I take a step back and nearly fall out, grabbing the inside of the window.

  “Stay back!” I swing the fork around like a weapon. “I am going to fall and die, and it’ll be your fault.”

  “You broke into my grandparents’ house!”

  “For a fork!”

  “What do you want it for?”

  “I’m—that’s none of your business.”

  “Is this some stupid high school prank?”

  I gasp, nearly losing my grip on the window frame. The cool January air chills the back of my neck. If it wasn’t for the fact that my body could plummet to the ground at any moment now, the breeze would feel nice. Carlos did mention it was a great night tonight on the way over, before Scott interrupted him with “. . . to commit a crime.”

  “High school? Do I look like a high schooler?”

  “You sure act like one.”

  “You little—” I look at the tree. “This conversation is over.”

  I shove the fork into my boot this time and cross the window sill with a deep breath, letting myself fall partially on my side to protect my phone and my foot with the precious cargo. The dark shingles are wet with dew and excruciatingly cold. Wearing black jeans was a bad idea. As my body slides at a faster velocity than I expected, all that comes to mind so I can make the jump from the roof to the tree is to stick my heel out. Said heel gets jammed in the drainpipe and gives me enough of a break to leap and body slam a branch.

  This, of course, sounds fancier than what actually happened, which was me screaming the whole way until I met the painful embrace of an oak tree.

  Shouting comes from the window but the blood rushing in my ears is too loud for me to pay attention to it. Instead, I focus on the tree. Some of its branches have been pruned recently, and they stick out in strange places, like tiny ladder steps.

  “Oh good, you’re not dead.”

  The guy looks out of the window, his curly hair moving slightly in the breezy night. “I thought I’d have to call my grandparents to tell them there was a corpse in the garden—now I’ll only have to tell them you broke into their house.”

  “Here’s the deal.” My arms are about to give out; the tree bark bites into my skin. “You never saw me, and this didn’t happen.”

  “Are you taking the fork?”

  “I’m taking the fork.”

  My foot slips and the shock of the fall rips a scream from my throat. Rolling and covering the back of my neck is all that I manage as the roots of the tree meet my body. White flashes behind my eyelids and pain blooms in my left leg, but when I open my eyes, I’m still in one piece and no limbs seem broken.

  “Oh shit! Are you alive?” he shouts from above.

  Carefully, I flex my fingers, assuring myself nothing’s damaged, and get up. My leg protests mildly but it’s nothing I can’t look at later. Patting my butt, I confirm my phone is in place. All I can hope is that the screen didn’t crack, because I can’t afford a new one.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Serves you right.”

  “Being fine?”

  “Nah, falling down.”

  The amusement in his voice makes me scoff, and my retaliation is lifting a single finger at him. The guy raises both of his hands, flipping me off too.

  “Like I said, this never happened.” Behind the tree is the gate I used to enter the garden. Close to a small shed and a vegetable patch, the path is decorated with stones, and leads to the gravel alleyway behind the house.

  “I heard you the first time.” He leans against the window ledge, looking thoroughly entertained.

  “I mean it this time.”

  “I’m calling the cops.”

  I limp my way to the gate, trying to ignore the laugh coming from the second floor when I halt.

  “Can you close the back door? I think I left it unlocked.”

  “Wait, you have a key for the house?”

  I run, ignoring the pain emanating from my leg.

  “Hey!”

  “This never happened!” I push the gate open and step into the alleyway.

  Someone grabs my arm and yanks me away from the fence. If it wasn’t for my handler’s blue hair, I would have screamed. We race down the alleyway, steps quickly filling the street as more people join our small entourage.

  Turning sharply to the left, we sprint down the sidewalk, feet splashing through puddles every so often, until we reach the maroon soccer mom–looking van that got us to this side of the city a mere half an hour ago.

  Anna pushes me inside the back of the van while the other members of the club climb into different spots. The driver is Scott, who works at Pizza Hut—which explains the faint scent of marinara and mozzarella cheese.

  “Why were you screaming?” Anna asks as soon as Scott gets the van going. “More Than a Woman” by the Bee Gees plays on the radio.

  “You sent me on a suicide mission for this!” I shove the fork into her hands. “And didn’t remind me the Winstons had a grandchild. Why do you want a fork? This doesn’t even look like a hazing.”

  “Do you want to be hazed?” Carlos asks from the seat behind us.

  “Callate, Carlos.” He’s my best friend—technically the reason I’m here to begin with. Said he couldn’t miss seeing how I pulled this off.

  “At least you didn’t have to take a picture on top of the city founder’s shoulders.” That had happened last October, and he had done it only wearing underwear, which made the pictures he showed me later slightly more amusing. His comment doesn’t calm my anger.

  “You didn’t have to break into a house.”

  “That’s strange, no one was supposed to be—Did he call the cops?” Anna puts the fork inside her bag. She has a dark-orange jacket on that she really should not have worn if she was planning on breaking the law.

  “No . . . at least I don’t think so.”

  Scott takes a sharp left, the streetlights blurring past us as he bobs his head up and down to the music. The downside of being in the very back of his car is that there are no seat belts, and with his driving skills, the most I can do is hold on to the back of Carlos’s gray seat for dear life.

  “Then you should be fine. How old did he look?”

  “Between eighteen and twenty-two, I guess.”

  “When you said grandchild I thought of a six-year-old or something,” Scott says from the driver’s seat.

  “Dude, why would I be screaming for my life? If it had been a six-year-old I could have lied and told him I was the tooth fairy.”

  He lifts his index finger at me, maintaining his eyes on the road.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. Send me the picture and
you should be all set.” Anna brings my attention back to her, a car honking at us as Scott goes through a yellow-turning-red light.

  “Why do you guys even do this?”

  “It’s fun,” Scott says.

  “And you’re here safe now,” Carlos adds.

  “And it’s been done since the club started.” Anna hits my leg with hers. “You’ll be fine.”

  As long as the guy doesn’t sue me. I bite the edge of my thumbnail, anxiety pooling in the pit of my stomach. All that there is to do now is wait for tomorrow and see what happens, but as the van reaches the entrance to Westray Community College, or WCC as we call it, I can’t help but feel like this won’t be the end of seeing the Winstons’ grandson.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The kitchen is half of our living area, so Dad and I usually eat sitting on the couch. The window over our sink faces east, and in the morning rays of sunshine beam through the small rectangle. Whenever I can’t sleep, I get up extra early, make a pot of coffee, and stare out of the window for long periods of time with a warm mug between my hands, like today.

  We have a small balcony to the side of the apartment, but I remember being small and seeing my mother do the same at our old house, holding her cup of coffee and taking the morning light by the kitchen window. Two birds are perched on the high wires that pass above the duplex. Breathing out close to the glass, I carefully draw a third one over the fog.

  “Buenos días.”

  One of the birds flies away.

  “Buenos días.” Yawning, I turn to look at my father as he walks over and places a good morning kiss on my cheek.

  “It’s Monday. Why you look so tired?” He smiles and moves over to the counter where a green mug is already waiting for him next to the pot of coffee.

  Trying not to think of all the shenanigans I got up to last night, I take a sip from my own cup. “Mondays are reason enough to look tired.”

  My father has an uncanny ability to crave work like an addict, working forty to fifty hours a week on construction projects and finding little things he can do on the weekends to make himself busy. Thankfully, he sleeps like a rock, so I didn’t have any problems last night when I snuck into the apartment around two in the morning.