Free Past Perfect by Leila Sales Page A

copy of The Great Gatsby . Far be it from authentic, indeed. Throwing in a telephone on top of that seemed unnecessary; these reenactors were screwing themselves.
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    I flipped over the magazine and read the subscriber’s name: Dan Malkin.
    It felt like the whole morning skidded to a stop, just for that moment. Like the birds took a breath between their chirps and the sun paused in its rising. This was where he lived.
    I moved aside the reading material to see what else was in his trunk. For some reason, I wanted to know more about this guy. Anything more. I uncovered some clothes—though not, of course, his gray hoodie, which was still in my bedroom.
    Whoops. I found an iPod, which would be serious contraband at Essex. And I found a photograph, styled to look like a daguerreotype, of Dan leaning against a tree, his arm draped over the shoulders of a girl I didn’t recognize.
    “Chelsea?”
    I dropped the photo as though I’d been caught shoplifting and whirled around.
    “Oh, hey, Nat.” It was just Nat, holding a telephone and tugging at the end of his ponytail.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked.
    “Nothing.” I threw a Mickey Mouse-shaped phone into Dan’s trunk, on top of the photo, and closed the lid. “Let’s head back, it’s getting late.”
    Nothing’s wrong, Nat, because what could be wrong? I just learned that some guy who was already off-limits might have a girlfriend and therefore be even more off-limits?
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    LEILA SALES
    “That guy had an iPod in his trunk,” I said as we walked out of Dan’s tent.
    Nat snorted. “Farb.”
    Of course, Dan was just a nineteenth-century farb who was probably some other girl’s boyfriend. Of course he was; I’d known that all along. There are no surprises here. Suddenly my good jeans felt too tight, and my PUMAs looked ridiculous as I stared down at them.
    We met up with the others in the parking lot.
    “Done?” Tawny asked.
    Everyone nodded solemnly. Fiona yawned.
    “Good.” Tawny smiled for the first time all morning.
    “I’m proud of you guys. These telephones are a super act of modern vandalism. And Chelsea,” she turned to me.
    “Great idea.”
    Tawny’s compliment was like a flower blooming in my heart, crowding out any thoughts of that stupid farb with his fake daguerreotype. I beamed the whole car ride home.
    The rest of the day, in between telling moderners tales of the dead baby hill, I daydreamed about the Civil Warriors discovering telephone after telephone. I pictured the adults at Reenactmentland yelling at them. And the junior interpreters would feign ignorance, blame the moderners, or even own up to it—whatever they had to do to keep the adults from finding out about the War. But as soon as their bosses were out of earshot, the Civil War kids would curse 78

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    us and our brilliance, and they would plot their revenge.
    That’s how war goes.
    By the time work ended for the day, I had already been awake for twelve hours, and I had taken to sitting down and yawning directly in moderners’ faces. Linda didn’t say anything, just looked at me disapprovingly before she left. But she has a disapproving face, so I didn’t take it personally.
    The burying ground was empty, and I was about to go home and pass out for the night, when Ezra walked in through the gate. He was by himself, which made this the first time we’d been alone together since . . . Oh, right, since he broke up with me. I could hear Fiona’s voice in my head, reminding me: is it August seventh already, Chelsea? Well, is it?
    “Glad you’re still here.” He tipped his hat.
    I hated to think it, but Ezra looked good in Colonial costume. Really good. I guess he just looks good in everything.
    I tried to will myself into looking alert and non-sweaty.
    “How may I assist you, sir?” I asked, hoping that, whatever Ezra wanted, it could be accomplished quickly and profes-sionally. Unemotionally.
    But he didn’t get right to the point. He looked