I felt a kick in my shin. Link was hunched over the desk, so Mr. Lee couldn’t see his face. “Dude. Who do you think is in all those cars?”
“Mr. Lincoln, would you like to tell us what happened next? Especially since your father will be commandin’ the Cavalry tomorrow?” Mr. Lee was staring at us with his arms crossed.
Link pretended to cough. Link’s dad, a browbeaten shell of a man, had the honor of commanding the Cavalry in the Reenactment since Big Earl Eaton died last year, which was the only way a reenactor ever advanced in rank. Someone had to die. It would have been a big deal in Savannah Snow’s family. Link, he wasn’t too big on the whole Living
History scene.
“Let’s see, Mr. Lee. Wait, I got it. We, uh, won the battle and lost the war, or was it the other way around? ’Cause around here, it’s hard to tell sometimes.”
Mr. Lee ignored Link’s comment. He probably hung the Stars and Bars, the Confederate flag, in front of his house all year round, I mean his doublewide. “Mr. Lincoln, by the time Hatch and the Fed’rals reached Honey Hill, Colonel Colcock—” the class snickered, while Mr. Lee glared. “Yes, that was his real name. The Colonel and his brigade of
Confederate soldiers and militia formed an impassable battery a seven guns across the road.” How many times were we going to have to hear about the seven guns? You would have thought it was the miracle of the fish and the loaves.
Link looked back to me, nodding in the direction of Main. “Well?”
“I think it’s Lena’s family. They were supposed to be coming in for her birthday.”
“Yeah. Ridley said somethin’ about that.”
“You guys still hanging out?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“Yeah, man. Can you keep a secret?”
“Haven’t I always?”
Link pulled up the sleeve of his Ramones T-shirt to reveal a tattoo of what looked like an anime version of Ridley, complete with the Catholic schoolgirl mini and knee socks. I was hoping Link’s fascination with Ridley had lost some steam, but deep down I knew the truth. Link would only get over Ridley when she was good and done with him, if she didn’t make him jump headlong off a cliff first. And even then, he might not get over her.
“I got it over Christmas break. Pretty cool, huh? Ridley drew it for me herself. She’s a killer artist.” The killer part I believed. What could I say? You tattooed a comic book version of a Dark Caster on your arm, who by the way has you under some kind of love spell and who also happens to be your girlfriend?
“Your mom is gonna freak when she sees that.”
“She’s not gonna see it. My sleeve covers it, and we have a new privacy rule in my house. She has to knock.”
“Before she barges in and does whatever she wants?”
“Yeah, well, at least she knocks first.”
“I hope so, for your sake.”
“Anyway, Ridley and I have a surprise for Lena. Don’t tell Rid I told you, she’ll kill me, but we’re throwin’ Lena a party tomorrow. In that big field at Ravenwood.”
“That better be a joke.”
“Surprise.” He actually looked excited, as if this party was ever going to happen, as if
Lena would ever go, or Macon would ever let her.
“What were you thinking? Lena would hate that. She and Ridley don’t even speak.”
“That’s on Lena, man. She should get over it, they’re family.” I knew he was under the influence, a Ridley-fied zombie, but he was still pissing me off.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just stay out of it. Trust me.”
He opened a Slim Jim and took a bite. “Whatever, man. We were just tryin’ to do somethin’ nice for Lena. It’s not like she has that many people willin’ to throw her a party.”
“All the more reason not to have one. No one would come.”
He grinned and stuffed the rest of the Slim Jim into his mouth. “Everyone will come.
Everyone’s already comin’. At least, that’s what Rid says.”
Ridley. Of course. She’d have the whole damn town following her around, like the Pied
Piper, at the suck of her first lollipop.
That didn’t seem to be Link’s understanding of the situation. “My band, the Holy Rollers, are gonna play for the very first time ever.”
“The what?”
“My new band. I started it, you know, at church camp.” I didn’t want to know anything else about what had happened over winter break. I was just happy he had made it back in one piece.
Mr. Lee banged on the blackboard for emphasis, drawing a big number eight in chalk. “In the end, Hatch could not move the Confederates and withdrew his forces with a count of eighty-nine dead and six hundred and twenty-nine wounded. The Confederates won the battle, only losin’ eight men. And that”—Mr. Lee pounded proudly on the number eight
—“is why you all will be joinin’ me at the Livin’ History Reenactment of the Battle of
Honey Hill tomorrow.”
Living History. That’s what people like Mr. Lee called Civil War reenactments, and they weren’t kidding. Every detail was accurate, from the uniforms to the ammunition to the position of the soldiers on the battlefield.
Link grinned at me, all Slim Jim. “Don’t tell Lena. We want her to be surprised. It’s, like, her birthday present from the two of us.”
I just stared at him. I thought about Lena in her dark mood and her orange prison jumpsuit. Then, Link’s no doubt terrible band, a Jackson High party, Emily Asher and
Savannah Snow, the Fallen Angels, Ridley, and Ravenwood, not to mention Honey Hill blowing up in the distance. All under the disapproving eye of Macon, Lena’s other crazy relatives, and the mother who was trying to kill her. And the dog that allowed Macon to see every move we made.
The bell rang. Surprise wouldn’t even begin to describe how she would feel. And I was the one who’d have to tell her.
“Don’t forget to sign in when you arrive at the Reenactment. You don’t get credit if you don’t sign in! And remember to stay inside the ropes of the Safe Zone. Gettin’ shot won’t get you an A in this class,” Mr. Lee called as we filed out the door.
Right about now, getting shot didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.
Civil War reenactments are a seriously strange phenomenon, and the Reenactment of the
Battle of Honey Hill was no exception. Who would actually be interested in dressing up in what looked like really sweaty wool Halloween costumes? Who wanted to run around shooting antique firearms so unstable they had been known to blow people’s limbs off when fired? Which is, by the way, how Big Earl Eaton had died. Who cared about recreating battles that happened in a war that took place almost a hundred and fifty years ago and that, in fact, the South didn’t actually win? Who would do that?
In Gatlin, and most of the South, the answer would be: your doctor, your lawyer, your preacher, the guy who fixes your car and the one who delivers your mail, most likely your dad, all your uncles and cousins, your history teacher (especially if you happen to have Mr. Lee), and most definitely, the guy who owns the gun shop over in town. Come the second week of February, rain or shine, Gatlin thought about, talked about, and fussed about nothing but the Reenactment of the Battle of Honey Hill.