The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington

 

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 specifically 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 first 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.”