Read an Excerpt

ONE
I’d like to start at the beginning—believe me—but the problem is I don’t know when it began and I don’t know when it will end. I only know the middle, which is now, or more specif ically ten minutes ago, when someone shot General George Washington stone-cold dead.
And today is Christmas Day.
“This is not cool,” says Brandon. “George Washington is only, you know, the Father of the Country.”
Bev says: “Really, Brandon? You think?”
We’re in a stable, I guess you’d call it. This little house for horses. There are stacks of hay, saddles hanging up on a wall, bunches of rope, and a god-awful stench. We’re peering into one of the horse stalls, where General George Washington is lying dead. Wearing his greatcoat, and under that his buff-and-blue uniform. Black boots up to his knees. In the middle of his chest is a large red bullet hole.
I don’t have to tell you what that looks like, do I?
It’s Brandon, me, and Beverly. Beverly is the only Beverly I’ve ever met. I know Emmas, Avas, Chloes, Abigails, and Olivias, but no other Beverly. It’s a name that’s gone out of fashion, like Herbert or Phyllis or Marge.
Bev’s sort of the smart one, though. And Brandon’s sort of the dumb one. He speaks with a slow slacker drawl and brags that he’s failing every class, but Brandon’s no dummy. He just likes to play it that way, for the laughs he gets.
None of us are laughing now. Before us, dead as ye olde doornail, is the guy who’s supposed to become the f irst president of These United States.
They’re even going to name the capital after him.
And the plan for tonight is a little surprise raid on a bunch of Hessians that are camped out in Trenton, across the Delaware River. Which they’re hoping will turn the tide, because up until now, things haven’t been going so great for this little thing they’ve been having called a revolution. As a matter of fact, the whole deal was close to being a total fail. Washington had lost every battle he’d been in up to this point. The British had taken New York, kicked the Continental Army out of New Jersey, and were on their way to conquer Philadelphia. Worst of all, Washington’s men were set to pack up and clear out—their enlistments were over at the end of the year, which was, like, seven days away.
So for Washington, it was one of those now-or-never kind of situations. Do something now, or get hanged later. And, as far as the revolution goes, that would be the end of that. We’ve learned all about it at school. Or at least we learned how things are supposed to turn out. Washington’s Crossing of the Delaware was only supposed to be, you know, like the most important turning point of the entire Revolutionary War. I mean, if it didn’t succeed the United States wouldn’t even exist. But it’s going to be pretty tough for anything to turn out right if the main guy happens to be—you know. Dead.
“Man,” Brandon says. “Would you check this out?” He leans down to make a closer examination.
“Brandon, watch it,” Bev says. “Don’t touch . . .”
“The evidence?” Brandon says. “What do you think this is, CSI or something?” Then he grabs a straw—a piece of straw, that is, from the ground—and dips it in.
In . . . you know. The bullet hole.
Which kind of grosses us out. And kind of fascinates us at the same time. Brandon holds up the straw. It’s red now. Glistening with warm red blood
Then he asks the question we’ve all been thinking. “Is this . . . um . . . body . . . really George Washington? The George Washington? Or is it one of those reenactor dudes?” Now this question might not make a bit of sense to you, but it makes perfect sense to us. Kind of.
“I have a very strange feeling,” I say. “I have the strangest feeling I’ve ever had in my whole life. I know that’s not a reenactor dude. Guys, I am one hundred percent positive we are looking at the real George Washington himself.”
“Yeah, well, let’s check,” Brandon says, and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a crumpled dollar bill. He unfolds, looks at it, and then looks at the face on the ground. “It’s gotta be him,” Brandon says. “It’s a perfect match. He’s the real deal, all right. But he’s also dead. Way dead.”
“Boys,” says Bev. This is how Bev always talks to us, as if we’re just one blobby entity, not two distinct individuals. And trust me when I tell you, we couldn’t be more different. We don’t form any kind of entity. We’re not even friends, exactly. We’ve all just been kind of . . . thrown together.
The Left Behinds, is what we’re called. We know that’s what they call us, because we heard them. In the Dining Hall. One Dining Hall lady said to another Dining Hall lady, “Don’t worry about it, we’ll just have leftovers for the Left Behinds.” Then they both cackled up a storm, it was so funny. They stopped mid-cackle when they saw me and Bev looking at them, holding our lunch trays, and ever since then they’ve had trouble meeting our eyes, as if we’ve done something to be ashamed of. Look—our parents are busy, all right? They’re really, like, successful people, okay? And it’s not as if we haven’t been home for the Christmas holidays before. I’ve been to twelve of them, all in a row.
“Boys,” Bev says. “I don’t think we should be messing around with this. As a matter of fact, I’m beginning to think we should get ourselves away from here. As fast as humanly possible.”
“Away from where?” Brandon says. “This place, or this century?”
You see? I told you Brandon wasn’t so dumb.

TWO
My name is Mel. It’s not really Mel, which would be short for Melvin, which is even more old-fashioned than Beverly or Herbert, but that’s what people call me. I’ll tell you this much: It’s my initials. M and E and L. But I’m not going to say my real name. You might have heard of it, because it’s the same name my father has, and I’m pretty sure you’ve heard of him. He’s super busy, remember? And successful. So I’ll go by Mel, and let’s leave it at that.
You might have heard of Bev’s mom too. She’s a star of stage and screen. Currently appearing six nights a week and twice on Sundays in a play in Los Angeles. Which means Bev has to stay behind with us, because Mommy Dearest doesn’t want her daughter around when she’s “performing.” Which, according to Bev, is only morning, noon, and night.
Her father is a famous actor dude from Argentina, but he’s like completely out of the picture, and always has been. I found this out after Googling Bev’s mom, but don’t tell anyone, because Googling people behind their backs is so uncool. Everyone does it, though. What’s even more uncool is getting caught.
I know all this about Bev because of Google and because I tend to overhear her when she’s on her cell phone—I mean, it’s not like she talks to me at all. Bev, says Bev, hates all of it: Broadway, Los Angeles, stardom, paparazzi, TMZ, ET, the whole celebrity thing. It’s all so totally pointless. And now that her mom’s on the downslope of her career—the play’s in Los Angeles, after all, not Broadway—there’s less and less paparazzi, TMZ, and ET. So her mom is now becoming a former celebrity, which is even worse.
If you’re thinking I have a thing for Bev, you would be wrong. She interests me is all it is, okay? It’s not like I’m obsessing about her or anything. She just happens to be the kind of girl who’s hard not to notice.
For example: do I normally pay attention to what girls wear?
I do not.
Except for Bev.
Because you never know what she’s going to come up with. Like her attitude is clothes? What could possibly be less important?
She’s not consistent, is the problem. So it’s tough to get a f ix on her. One day she’s Little Miss Preppy. The next, Miss Slobberina. Kind of like she just throws on whatever happens to be handy.
That’s what the guys do, but we always throw on the same old stuff. Like now, I’m wearing jeans, sneakers, some T-shirt I found on the f loor of my room, and a jacket. Brandon’s wearing a red hat that has a picture of a snarling wolf on it, with its teeth bared. Brandon will tell you, if you ask, that it’s not a wolf, it’s a lobo, which is the Spanish word for wolf and happens to be the mascot of the University of New Mexico. Classy, right?
Bev, on the other hand, is wearing some pink jacket and earmuffs. Just in case it was going to be cold, which it isn’t, but that’s Bev: practical. Prepared.
Bev is not about looking good, you have to understand.
Oh no.
That stuff is all just so . . . so . . . common.
Gets in the way of her agenda. She’s announced that she’s going to be a biochemist one day and f ind the cure for cancer. That, or save the lives of newborns as a pediatric neurosurgeon. Maybe both. Anything that is useful, practical, and as far away from Hollywood as possible.
And as far away from us.
I know she’s awfully put-upon to have to spend her Christmas holiday with the likes of Brandon and me, but still. You try to talk to her, and it takes maybe three seconds before she cuts you dead and says, “Okay, okay, what’s your point?”
So like right now, Bev doesn’t want to stop and think things through. Or ask any difficult questions, such as, how is it that three kids from the Fredericksville School—or should I say the prestigious Fredericksville School, because no one ever lets you forget it—happen to be in a smelly stable standing over the most important guy in our nation’s history? Who happens to be dead ?
Who, apparently, was shot in the chest like ten minutes ago?
And if this is the real George Washington, and not some lame reenactor dude, that would mean what? That we’ve somehow been transported to 1776?
Which would not be possible. Right? So there’s absolutely no way, no how, that this dead guy in the stall is the real deal. So that should settle it.
And yet . . . and yet . . . why do I keep thinking that he is real, and I’m wrong? “All right,” I speak up. “It’s about time we start freaking out. This is, like, a crime scene, and you’re not supposed to mess with anything. Bev? What do you think we should do?”
We all sort of inventory our surroundings. And we notice some deeply weird stuff. Like one, there are no horses in this so-called horse stable. And two, there’s snow outside. And there’s snow on General George Washington’s boots. But not on our own boots and sneakers.
There was absolutely, positively no snow where we came from. We don’t have snowy Christmases anymore. Haven’t you heard about global warming?
So . . . maybe you can forgive us. For having a little brain fritz. It’s really . . . kind of difficult. . . to process. . . . Here. There. Now. Then.
Now is here, but there was then, but now is 1776 and then was the twenty-first century?
Huh?
We should stop and think this thing through. Before we do anything stupid.
But then we hear something. Trampling through the snow.
People.
Coming our way.
Talking. Which focuses our minds and stops us from asking ourselves any more dumb questions.
We notice the stable has two entrances—one on the left and one on the right.
It takes us about one-quarter millisecond to decide to go right, one-quarter to start moving, and the rest of the millisecond is all we need to get out of there.
And into nothing but snow. A big, vast expanse of white. Brandon leads the way, like a fullback rushing up the middle of the line, making a path for Bev and me. The talking people start running after us.
We can hear them, trampling around back there. Running through snow, in case you didn’t know, is a pretty noisy activity.
And then the people start yelling at us. Yelling, like, really, really loud.
And then I notice something funny. It f igures that I would notice it, since I was the only kid taking German. Bev takes French, Brandon takes Spanish, but I take German, ’cause my dad told me to.
These dudes are yelling, “Diebe, Diebe! Stoppen Sie sofort! Stoppen Sie sofort!” Since I’ve been paying attention in German class, this means something like, “Thieves, thieves! Stop at once!”
But we aren’t, so we don’t.

THREE
As I said, I take German ’cause Dad told me to. Last year I complied with one hundred percent of what he said.
This year? Maybe eighty percent. Maybe more like sixty. I know the compliance factor has been sliding downhill, but then my dad is a demanding kind of guy.
It’s got him to where he is, which is pretty high up there. And of course he went to the Fredericksville School himself, back in the day. As did his dad, and his dad’s dad.
It’s kind of a family thing. Legacy is the term I think I’m supposed to use. So the family legacy is we go to the Fredericksville School, and while there, we rule. I know my dad and my dad’s dad, etc., ruled, because I can see their names up on the captain’s boards in the Nelson Field House. This place is humongous and must have cost twenty million bucks. It’s designed so as soon as you walk in, you say, “Whoa.” There are pools, ice hockey rinks, basketball courts, and the main f ield, which is, like, six acres. All indoors. Two f loors. And lining the walls are these gorgeous wood boards, with gold lettering, with the names of all the illustrious captains of yesteryear’s teams embossed on them for eternity. My grandfather as captain of the fencing team in 1945. And Dad was captain of the lacrosse team in both 1981 and 1982. He was also in the choir, the jazz band, the art club, and the debate team, and he spent a summer in Mali, which is in Africa, on a mission to help the poor.
When he found out I hadn’t taken his orders, I mean instructions, I mean advice, to go out for soccer, join no less than three clubs, try to get the lead in the school play, and f inagle a position on the school paper to make sure my exploits were duly recorded—when he found out I had done none of it, he blew a cork and a gasket.