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The first rule of the History Club should really be: Do not trust the club.

But there are times that it just seems too easy to trust it, too normal. Like Ethan and I didn't break into a public building a couple of days ago, and I didn't break into his house a month beforehand. Time sure flies when you're breaking the law, am I right?

So when I get a message at six in the morning, on a Tuesday of all days, about a fundraiser opportunity coming up, I couldn't help but squinting in disbelief at the bright screen of my phone. It's just too normal, I'm sorry for having trust issues on top of my abandonment issues and social anxiety, but that shit is way too normal for our little cult.

Anna: Morning members :D I just want to remind all of you that this upcoming weekend there'll be an opportunity to join the WRC festival of the arts! We'll be selling some goodies and spread the good word of the club around. If you'd like to get a couple of community hours make sure to message me so I can add you to the roster (:

My first instinct is to massage her a quick "Bruh wtf" because she never even mentioned us being a part of the festival, but my exhaustion wins in the end and I simply put my phone down and go back to sleep.

The next time I wake up it's because my cat is on top of my chest pawing at my face, not clawing me, but certainly asking for attention.

"Concha, I'm trying to sleep." I push her off, but this only makes her meow harder at me. "I'm not feeding you, go away."

That doesn't seem to appease her.

"Fine, fine" The fact that I'm taking with my cat doesn't make me question my mentality at all, but getting up at eight in the morning surely does. I grab her by the belly and pick her up before marching out of my room and into the kitchen where dad is stirring a cup of coffee.

"¿Te caiste de la cama, o que?" He asks sounding too surprised for my liking.

"No, I didn't fall from my bed, this one just wouldn't shut up." I set Concha down in front of her bowl before opening one of the lower cabinets that contain her food, her ears perk up as soon as she hears me opening the can. To be completely honest, I don't know what kind of cat Concha is, she was a birthday gift nearly four years ago from my parents. A light brown tabby cat, whose white and brown stripes reminded me of how conchas, the pastries, looked, now she's a bit round like them as well.

"You should put her on a diet, she's all fat now." Dad hadn't been too happy about keeping her indoors, he's not allergic per se but apparently didn't want the fur flying all around, or something like that, and said outdoors was a perfect place for a cat to roam and be free. I really wanted an indoor cat, though, one to cuddle and buy a cat tree and all those things that will give me an idea of what my life will be like when I'm eighty and alone and my only companions are my thirty eight cats.

Historically Inaccurate ✓Where stories live. Discover now