The Civil War of Amos Abernathy, page 1
Dedication
For Mom and Dad
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Author’s Note
Sources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Sunday, August 15, 2021
Dear Albert,
Writing letters to dead people isn’t something I usually do, but this feels weirdly . . . right? I don’t know how to explain it exactly. It’s like even as I wrote the words “Dear Albert,” I felt like maybe, just maybe, you could hear me. Which I know is ridiculous, but I sort of need you to hear me.
Ever since I was a little kid, like eight years old, I’ve volunteered at the Chickaree County Living History Park as a nineteenth-century historical reenactor. People like to walk through the grounds and dream about that “simpler time,” but they have NO IDEA. There’s nothing simple about growing and harvesting (and killing) your own food or having to make anything you want from scratch, and don’t even get me started on the lack of indoor plumbing. Not to mention slavery and racism and white people stealing land from Native Americans. I guess what I’m saying is, I get that life back then wasn’t easy.
Don’t get me wrong. I love reenacting—almost everything about it. When I put on my pioneer costume, it’s like time traveling. For a little while there’s no cell phones or social media and it’s just me and a butter churn. The leaves are brighter, the sun’s warmer, the birds are louder.
I’ve always felt like I’ve belonged at the Living History Park. You see, Mom’s been the lead interpreter (which is sort of like the manager) since I was born, so it’s always been a homestead away from home. She organizes all the volunteers and oversees restorations, and I’ve been by her side for almost all of it. The nineteenth century is in my blood.
So, maybe it’s only natural that I have a nineteenth-century pen pal! If I’m being honest, though, I didn’t just decide to begin writing you letters. All of this started because of Ben Oglevie. Maybe I should tell you about him first.
I met Ben in March at this year’s junior volunteer orientation, sitting in an icebreaker circle on the floor of New Hope Church (built in 1874). Most of us junior volunteers have been at it for years, but every now and then someone new shows up. Ben Oglevie was one of only two fresh recruits, so of course Mom put them both in my group, because I’m essentially the one-boy welcoming committee for new volunteers. (Yay for perks of being the boss’s kid.) ANYWAY, Ben’s sitting across from me, all elbows and knees, chin nearly tucked under his arm like a chicken settling in for the night. Cool, cool, cool, I think. Another kid who doesn’t want to be here. (The other new kid, this pale freckled girl named Samantha, quit by the end of May.)
After we said our names and a pizza topping to match (I was “Anchovy Amos”), we went around and shared why we wanted to be historical reenactors.
Samantha: My mom is making me.
(See what I mean, Albert?)
Ben: I like history. Um, a lot.
Okay. Not a my-parents-made-me-do-it kid. Maybe he’s just shy? I could work with that.
Yada yada yada—the get-to-know-you questions went on, until we got to my favorite one: “What historical figure do you think you know more about than anyone else in the circle?”
Samantha: Uh, I don’t know. No one?
(UGH.)
Ben: Abraham Lincoln.
I mentally cracked my knuckles. Um, Abe, one of the most famous people from Illinois, is my guy. So, I said, “Let’s see what you got. When was he born?”
“February 12, 1809. In Kentucky. Near Hodgenville.”
I didn’t ask for city and state—a bit of a show-off, but okay. “How many siblings did he have?”
“Two. Sarah and Tommy.”
The other kids’ eyes bounced between us as I fired off another question. The longer we went back and forth, the more excited I got. Somehow, I ended up crouched like a frog. Ben, though—he started to unfold, limbs relaxing, stretching out.
Since it looked like he was getting too comfortable, I lobbed a real corkscrew. “Abe’s in the hall of fame for what athletic event?”
That was the first time I saw him smile. Kind of crooked. Goofy. But he held my stare. “Wrestling.”
I fell back on my behind and smiled. “Bingo.”
After that display, he pretty much had no choice but to be my friend.
I’d pegged Ben as shy, but it turned out he’s just one of those quiet, observant types that’s thinking a million miles a minute, and all of his thoughts are deep, existential thoughts, not just, “I think I want a turkey sandwich instead of ham.” It might be because he’s homeschooled, but I don’t want to stereotype.
Lucky for me, Ben and I were able to work most of the same shifts (knowing the person in charge does occasionally have its benefits). I introduced him to my best friend, Chloe Thompson, and it was instantly like the three of us had always been together. Ben and I went to most of Chloe’s softball games in April. The three of us became regulars at the ice cream shop downtown—he and Chloe really bonded over their shared passion for coconut ice cream (ewww). We even have a pact to shave our heads if any of us decides to ditch our friend group.
Just kidding. BUT WE SO WOULD.
So, okay, here’s the other thing about Ben . . .
Wow.
This shouldn’t be THAT hard to say. But, I mean, I guess I’ve never said it about anyone I actually know, so . . .
Okay, Amos. You got this.
Here it is: Ben’s cute.
Like, really cute. He’s a little taller than me, and white with blond hair. He has eyes like old pennies, and I mean that in a good way. They’re a million shades of brown—copper and chocolate and mud—and they’re always watching. Sometimes, when he’s working on something, I just like to watch him paying attention to whatever he’s doing. He’s got a dimple on his right cheek. A square chin. And there’s something about the way his neck meets his body, like he just comes together in this seamless way that’s smooth and sharp all at the same time. But it’s his collarbone that really does it for me.
There. I said it.
AAAAHHHHH!
Albert, I’ve thought before that boys, in general, are cute, but I’ve never said a specific boy is cute. Honestly, I didn’t even think Ben was that good-looking at first. The weirdest thing in the world changed my mind. It was mid-June—oh my god, this is going to sound so dumb, Albert—and Chloe, Ben, and I were at the LHP walking from the Wakefield House, this grayish building that used to be a doctor’s office, to the homestead. Ben had a stick, and he was dragging it along the wrought iron fence, which Chloe legit thinks is beautiful—she’s obsessed with anything that comes out of a blacksmith shop—and then suddenly he had two sticks and the tick, tick, tick turned into tick, ticka-tok, ticka-tok as he drummed along the posts.
I laughed. “What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” The sticks jumped from the fence to my shoulders. He grinned and said, “Making music.”
I shook him off and called him weird, still laughing. But that was the moment. It was like waking up. My heart wouldn’t slow down. I got goose bumps. It was weird.
I felt WEIRD.
So, now it’s been months of this me-watching-him-watch-things . . . thing, and I don’t know what to do. I feel like I should have good gaydar, but maybe I’m not gay enough? I don’t know. I’ve been out since fourth grade, but living in the semirural Midwest really puts my abilities to the test. I mean, I’ve got the internet and I’ve watched all of Glee twice, so I know some things about being gay, but it really wasn’t until middle school that I had a sort of community. Our Gender and Sexuality Alliance is awesome, and my friends from the GSA are cool, but none of them are super into history like I am. The point is that I’ve only had so much practice around people like me, so I’m not always sure how to read other people or talk about gay things.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, this happened.
It was Saturday, and Ben and I were sitting on the porch of the Wakefield House. We were playing jacks and laughing about something, and then we both reached for the ball at the same time and our fingers touched for half a second too long to be normal. I pulled my hand back right away, afraid he might freak. (Stuff like that’s happened to me before.)
But his hand kind of stayed there, and then he looked
My cheeks felt like toasted marshmallows. I couldn’t read his expression, so I blurted, “What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
I shook mine right back. “No, not nothing. Why were you looking at me like that?”
“Like what? I was just, uh, looking at your face.”
I thought to myself, Okay, he’s either way weirder than I realized, or . . .
His hand pulled back, dragging a jack between his fingers. His right knee bounced. “I just mean you have a nice face,” he added quickly.
“Thanks?”
Birds chirped. My heart thrummed in my ears. A trio of elderly white women walked by and waved. We waved back. They kept walking.
Then I made things even more awkward and said, “You also have a face that is nice.”
ALBERT.
YOU ALSO HAVE A FACE THAT IS NICE? This was the point where I wanted to crawl under the porch and die from embarrassment, but before I could ooze away, Ben said, “You really think so?”
“I mean, yeah, you have a really nice face. Not that I’m the judge of all faces or that my opinion counts for anything, but—wait, what? Are you laughing at me?” I was saying WAY too much. Sometimes that happens when I’m nervous.
His lips twisted into a squiggle, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his eyes. They were wide and shining and still watching me.
“No, I just—I don’t know, I really like your face,” he said.
I leaned back. The single jack wove between his fingers. He watched it roll over his knuckles, and I watched him watching it, hoping for some clue about what I should say next.
I got nothing.
Finally, I said, “Are you—are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
He twisted to the side, like he was cracking his back, but I’m pretty sure he just wanted to make sure we were alone. He spun back around. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”
My words fell out a syllable at a time. “I think I’m saying that maybe I like your face as much as you might like my face, and that by like I mean like-like, not just like . . . you know, like?”
Ben’s chest expanded with an inhale. He got all pale. His head nodded over and over, and his breath came out in a slow, steady stream.
“Oh.” He sounded hurt. Offended.
I panicked. “I’m sorry if I’m wrong. I didn’t mean to—”
He shook his head. “No, no! Amos, I—I just . . . I’m not . . .” He swallowed.
Aaaaand now my insides were screaming: RUN. FIND A HOLE. BURY YOURSELF FOR ALL ETERNITY. THE END. I pushed off the porch and said, “Never mind.”
He called after me. “Amos! Where are you going? I didn’t mean—”
“Bathroom!” I yelled, not looking back. “Urgent!”
Um, I hate to do this to you, Albert, but the situation has become urgent again.
Be right back!
2
Homestead Exhibit
Saturday, August 13, 2022—9:00 a.m.
Today is either going to be the best or worst day of my life. Even with all the planning this past year, all the research, the thinking, the conversations—the drama—there’s this hollowness I can’t shake. Something’s off. Something’s missing.
No, not something—someone.
I stab a fire-bitten log in the grate with an iron poker.
Freaking Ben Oglevie.
For months now, the boy who got all this started one year ago hasn’t said a word to me. Complete and utter silence. It’s like he never existed, like smoke vanishing in a breeze; but that’s how he showed up, too—the way fireworks just kind of burst out of the darkness.
But that was then. I’m not some naive twelve-year-old anymore. I’m thirteen, a teenager. I know better. Soon I won’t even be a junior volunteer anymore. By nineteenth-century standards, turning thirteen makes me a man. Even though it’s the twenty-first century, we historical reenactors of the Chickaree County Living History Park play by nineteenth-century rules.
Well, for the most part. I hadn’t thought about it until this past year (hello, White Privilege), but until lately we haven’t thought much about the color of a volunteer’s skin. How race plays into our portrayal of history. Slavery and racism were definitely a thing in nineteenth-century Illinois, but here, anyone can live as a free person did, it doesn’t matter the color of your skin. It’s great that we’re inclusive . . . but by being inclusive, we’ve sort of been ignoring the awful truth about our past, and that’s messed up.
Obviously, all of these are rules I’ve come to question. And I don’t know if that would have happened if my friends—friend—and I hadn’t poked around embers of history nearly snuffed out. Maybe if it wasn’t for Freaking Ben Oglevie, we’d all be transitioning to apprentice volunteers without a care in the world.
But now there’s no Ben. And my future as a historical reenactor depends on how everything goes down this afternoon on the main stage. So does Chloe’s, and it’s not her mom who’s in charge. I’ve got extra protection that she doesn’t, and she’s already been through way too much this past year. I poke at a burning log. Three o’clock is six short hours away. Somehow that feels like forever and way too soon.
The fire spits. A fresh whoosh of heat slaps my cheek. I hang the iron poker on the wall of the one-room log cabin.
Today the rules change. For better or worse, and maybe a whole lot worse, Chloe and I are going to make history—change history, make history right—if it’s the very last thing we ever do as historical reenactors.
Gravel crunches. My head turns. For the briefest moment, I think, Ben. But it’s just Darren Blake coming through the back door of the log cabin.
“Gonna get that demo set up?” he says. “We’ve got a summer camp coming through first thing.”
“Yeah, I’m on it.”
Junior volunteers always have an adult volunteer supervising their exhibit, even if they will be apprentice volunteers at the end of the season. . . . Anyway, this morning, my supervisor just so happens to be my band teacher, my percussion instructor, and my mom’s boyfriend. Darren’s a little bit lumberjack, a little bit nerd. White, with broad shoulders and a beer belly. His hair’s thinning, but not in one of those unlucky horseshoes. All in all, he’s not that bad looking, but it’s beyond weird to think of your teacher/your mom’s boyfriend as “attractive.” Gross.
I know I should be used to the idea of them being together at this point, but I’m not.
He looks at me funny. “You doing all right, Amos?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just hot.” And mad. And worried that this might be the last time I ever work at the homestead exhibit. That I’m making life harder for Chloe.
“Tell me about it. I’d be grateful for a little cloud cover.” He peeks out the back door, squinting. “I’m gonna get a fire started in the pit. Holler if you need help with the candles.”
“Will do.” I give him a lazy salute and he disappears out the door.
And thoughts of Ben walk right back in. Even after what he said to me, even after so much silence, I’d rather have him here than not.
I kind of hate that I feel that way.
A log breaks in the flames and a wedge of ruby wood tumbles from the grate. I kick it back in. No way am I going to be blamed for burning down the log cabin that’s been painstakingly patched up since 1826 because I got distracted by thoughts of Ben Oglevie.
I run my fingers through my hair. The dark brown, wavy mess of a mop drips into my eyes. I draw my arm across my forehead, and the blue fabric comes away a shade darker with sweat.
Ew.
It’s got to be close to eighty degrees already, and this freaking fire isn’t helping. I roll back the sleeves of my shirt past my elbows and undo the button below my chin. Wet spots dot my chest and armpits. Normally I’d freak about pitting out, but people visit the LHP for authenticity. From the buildings to the sweat stains, everything is true to fact. Well, except for nineteenth-century racism. And body odor. Thank God Mom hasn’t banned deodorant.
I try to put Ben (and three o’clock) out of my mind by setting up the candle-making demonstration. I go through the day’s schedule in my head. First, I’m stationed here at the homestead exhibit; then it’s off to the Wakefield House; the schoolhouse; the battle reenactment; the printshop; and then, finally, the main stage.
My heart flutters.
