Shay Bravo - Historically Inaccurate

There is a fifty-fifty chance that I will go to jail because of what Im doing right now. Is it a good idea? No. Which shows what a fool I am. But dont just blame me, also blame the stupid system of societies and their initiationsat least the one at Westrays community college.

The door handle clicks and turns, confirming the key they gave me was, in fact, the key for this house. This raises two slightly worrisome questions: Why does Anna have a key to the Winstons house? And why do the people at the history club want a fork?

Granted, they might want an old fork. Youd expect an old house to have antique forks, but Anna wasnt that specific. The letter Carlos handed me after my meeting with her just told me to get a fork from the kitchen, take a selfie, and get out of the housewith the fork, of course. All of that to get into the club. Its not even a nationally recognized club, but it fills space on my resum.

The Winstons house is not the fanciest in our town. Its two stories, made out of sturdy wood and with a sloped roof reminiscent of early twentieth-century architecture. They bought the house in the 70s for a ridiculously low price since the building was nearly falling apart. They got a plaque for remodeling the place, and with time the neighborhood grew around them, including my parents old housethey moved to Westray after they eloped.

Mrs. Winston has a pretty big garden planted in front of her house, which extends to the back. As a little girl, I would ride my bike down the street and see her working in that garden in front of that beautiful house that Id never step a foot into. She should be well into her eighties now, but even back then her energy for gardening surprised me. My family lived in this neighborhood for a while, before what happened a year ago, when we had to move from a house to one of the few apartment buildings in town. Its a nice area of Westray, where the trees grow tall and the grass always seems greener. I only have fond memories of this neighborhood.

I shake my head, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. If I wasnt being lied to by Anna, the club president, the Winstons go to bed pretty early. The darkness of their corridor should mean they are asleep; I hope it doesnt mean theyre lying dead somewhere.

My phone buzzes inside the pocket of my jeans and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Anna: Sol, youve been standing in the same spot for like an hour. Are you doing this or not?

I glare at my phone and drop it back in my pocket. She can think whatever she wantsIm taking my sweet time doing this if it means I wont leave the property handcuffed.

College kids do stupid stuff like this, right? Besides, white guys get away with much worse stuff. Forget the fact Im not a guyor white, for that matter.

Straightening up, I turn on the small flashlight I brought with me so I wouldnt get distracted by whatever might pop up on my cell phone. The hallway comes to life with portraits of people I dont know and decorations of cats in various styles. The narrow hall leads to a small living room where more pictures and a couple of plants adorn nearly every surface. A fat calico cat is sleeping on one of the couches; it perks up when I slowly step around it then goes back to dozing like nothing happened.

The house smells like old people. Visit your grandparents or (in case theyre no longer with you) a local retirement home, and youll understand. And theyll appreciate the company.

The living room connects to a dining room via a small foyer that also faces the stairs; the hallway I just walked through seems to serve as a way to connect the living room to the backyard and a small bathroom. In the dining room is a table with six chairs and a small bowl holding fake bananas, apples, and shiny grapes. An archway leads to a buttercup-yellow kitchen with white cabinets and clean, dark countertops, where a vase of sunflowers rests on a smaller table. Not even when Dad and I both clean our home together does it end up as spotless as this place, old-people smell aside.

Next to the refrigerator, and right beside a door (possibly leading to the garage) is a decorative spoon and fork set that is large and sturdy enough to knock out a man. While it would make a nice gag to take a picture with those and skedaddle outta here, Im pretty sure the people at the club would bitch at me for it.

I toe my way to the drawers and open the one closest to me slowly, but there are only spatulas and other large utensils. Closing this one as silently as possible, I move to the next one, closer to the sink, and slide it out. Forks. Other cutlery is also stashed inside the small drawer, making me feel like Im in an Indiana Jones movie and Ive just uncovered a treasure chest.

Grabbing one of the bottom forks, I take out my phone, open up my camera app, and quickly take a selfie before slipping both in the back pocket of my jeans. Looking over my shoulder to ensure there isnt a startled eighty-year-old ready with a pickaxe, I extract a dollar-store fork from my right boot. It doesnt feel or weigh the same as the fork Im stealing, but I place it inside the drawer, close it, and walk back the way I came.

Someone turns on the light in the dining room.

Fork still in hand, I freeze, gaping at the guy standing under the arch between the foyer and the dining room.

He screams.

Shrieking, and then ducking in time to avoid what hes chucked at me (Im pretty sure it was his phone), I push a chair in his way as he rushes forward. The instant he falls down I book it out of there.

My breath rushes out of my body when my stomach slams against the railing of the staircase.

Hey! the guy shouts, scrambling up.

Instead of running to the door where I originally entered, like any person with common sense would, I panic and make a split-second decision to climb up the stairs.

Sprinting to the first door along the hall, I cross myselfpraying theres no eighty-year-olds sleeping insideand enter, quickly closing the door behind me and bolting it.

Turning on my flashlight, I sigh in relief.

There is a messy bed in the middle of the room, a desk on one side, and a chest of drawers on the other. The walls have a few posters and decorations, but what is most important is on the left side of the bed.

A window.

A loud knock on the door makes me jump in the spot.

Hey, open the door! the guy screams.

Look Im not here to steal anything! Slowly, I back away from the door, getting closer to the window.

Like hell youre not!

I swear, I just needed a fork. The latch of the window is tight, and my fingers protest in pain as it opens.

There is a pause in the loud hammering on the other side of the door. What?

With a grunt, I push the window open. A tree is nearby, and I can survive a jump to one of the branches, I think. What what?

What did you just say?

I only came for the fork.

A fork?

Yeah, that thing you use to eat with

I know what a fork is!

Then why the hell do you ask?

A small flower box sits below the window and then the slanted roof follows. I could slide down, but that would be more likely to end with a broken leg.

There is a sudden click, and I turn around to see the guy standing by the door, a multitool in hand, the doorknob on the floor.