Historically Inaccurate

🌥 S I X 🌥

I shrug, passing her the notes I've written on the short story, "True, but I'm already in it."

"You know, that sounds closely like something someone who is in a cult would say."

"Oh, fuck off, I told you he said that."

"I mean, he's not wrong."

He's not, it's truly annoying how many things I can agree are logical about his arguments. I know I'm on the wrong about, well, most of the things we have argued about so far, from entering his house to the complete lack of legal bindings the club seems to have; and while I consider myself to have a good moral grounding, I can't say I know where the lines are drawn in the HIstory Club. Shaking my head, I take a sip from the nearly cold coffee I still have.

"Here's the thing," I say once I place my cup down, "the school's clubs are shit."

Diane leans back, nodding in agreement.

"We have an anime club, for Christ's sake, and I'm not shitting on anime, I love my good old Dragon Ball Z and Soul Eater as much as that guy in the dark corner does, but you have to admit that writing "president of the Anime Club at Westray College," does not sound appealing on anyone's resume.

"When I applied to the History Club I didn't know that I'd have to break into the Winston's house to 'gain' my seating, I don't think anyone does, and while I am not the person to come talk to when it comes to being traditional, I don't think, or I didn't think at the time, that there was much to do about it. Carlos -- I've told you about Carlos -- went to the middle of town and climbed on top of the Founder's statue while only wearing underwear, it was two in the morning in January. Anna, the President, managed to get on the roof of the school, I don't know how, and draped a giant picture of Obama --"

"Wait, that was her?" Diane seems surprised, not that I can blame her, no one knows who does what when it comes to the club until you're in it, I'm technically breaking policy by mentioning it to my friend, but considering the vice president is also my best friend I don't feel like I have much to fear.

"I don't even know how they got the Winston's key in the first place," I tell her, lowering my voice as a small group of guys pass by our table, "all they told me was that I had to get a fork, and I did, and now I'm in this mess."

"Well you did a good deal in getting "in this mess.""

"Diane."

"I'm just saying."

"Okay, yes I fucked up, but here's to hoping that it all gets fixed."

"And that you won't go to jail."

"Diane."

"I'm serious, I don't want you going to jail, who am I going to bother when you're gone?" She bumps her cup of coffee with mine as I shake my head, trying to concentrate back on our project, after all, Charlotte Gilman is way more interesting and a lot more important than my ever existing fear of the authorities coming to get me.

🌥

I get the first message around six in the afternoon. I have just finished my shift in the library and I am more than ready to go home when I feel the vibration against my thigh and for a moment I think it's mom just before I realize that it's too early for her afternoon classes to be done.

I reached into my pocket, the dread of already knowing who it is slowly creeping up my spine as it has for the past few days. I try to reassure myself thinking that it might be Anna with news of the Club, or perhaps Carlos asking whether or not we're going to order pizza and marathon the newest season of Peaky Blinders, but I know deep inside who it is.