Historically Inaccurate (Wattpad Books Edition)

Chapter One

There is a fifty-fifty chance that I will go to jail because of what I'm doing right now. Is it a good idea? No. Which shows what a fool I am. But don't just blame me, also blame the stupid system of societies and their initiations—at least the one at Westray's 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. You'd expect an old house to have antique forks, but Anna wasn't 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 house—with the fork, of course. All of that to get into the club. It's not even a nationally recognized club, but it fills space on my resumé.

The Winstons' house is not the fanciest in our town. It's 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 house—they 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 I'd 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. It's 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 wasn't 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 doesn't mean they're lying dead somewhere.

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

Anna: Sol, you've 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 wants—I'm taking my sweet time doing this if it means I won't leave the property handcuffed.

College kids do stupid stuff like this, right? Besides, white guys get away with much worse stuff. Forget the fact I'm not a guy—or white, for that matter.

Straightening up, I turn on the small flashlight I brought with me so I wouldn't get distracted by whatever might pop up on my cell phone. The hallway comes to life with portraits of people I don't 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 they're no longer with you) a local retirement home, and you'll understand. And they'll 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.