Historically Inaccurate

🌥 F O U R 🌥

"What about Spanish?"

"Yo no hablo Espanol."

"Well, then," Anna says, "before Scott starts speaking in Vulcan, we should get the meeting started."

"The master has spoken." Scott gets up, dusting off his shirt.

"The mistress," Ophelia corrects.

"The empress," Alan intensifies.

"The fairest of them all." Carlos takes a swing of his coke.

"I hate you all." Anna says, but she's laughing as she does, sitting on the desk as the rest of the club members take a seat in front of her. I sit next to Carlos sticking out my tongue like an immature seven year old for all the stupid threats we made at each other. He sticks his out back at me.

As odd and ridiculous as our club is, there are still some things they do the old way. We need community credit hours so we help out at school events and advertise ourselves as much as possible. At least that's as much as I've learned so far. There's volunteering options at the local museum and the History department at the school, we have fundraisers and club parties every now and then. Really, the only weird thing about our club is our induction process.

"So, our dear Soledad finally completed her challenge last week," rummaging through her  bag, Anna takes out a printed picture of the selfie I sent her last Saturday. My side still hurts from the fall from the tree outside Ethan's house.

I know that it's all in my head, but my phone feels a bit heavier inside my jeans' pocket (which, I'm wearing under my nun costume in the case I either needed to change quickly or had to run from an angry mob). Ethan Winston has sent me a total of three messages in the past four days asking whether or not I had retrieved his house key, none of which I have answered, mind you. I know that's kind of a bad thing to do, I mean I was the one that broke and entered into his grandparents' house, but I'm not about to give him concrete evidence via text messages so he can show it in court.

"And now she is an official History Club member," Anna begins a small round of applause.

After this we discuss hours and Carlos — who is the vice president of the club—  and I sign up to help at the history department, we begin taking food and drinks.

"Remember to ask your professors whether or not you can make an announcement about the club," Anna mentions, taking out a piece of onion from her pizza slice, "we need three more members to meet the standards."

"What standards?" I ask, to what Ophelia nods to.

"We need a certain amount of members to meet the school's standards and to be considered a school organization. If we don't have that we don't get funding and we might not be able to participate in certain school events." Carlos shrugs, "Or something like that."

Alan, our unofficial graphic designer (because he's the only one of us that can draw anything aside from stick figures and owns a copy of Photoshop), hands us all a couple of posters before he leaves. They are designed to look like Victorian era ads and would grab my attention if I were to walk by it.

THE HISTORY CLUB

Afraid of never being satisfied?

Thirsty for spending time with dead people at the local museum?

Trying to find a way to kill time because you're a lonely history nerd?

Fear no more! We've got the right answer for you!

Meet us every Saturday at 10 AM at  LA 135