The Voting Booth

by Brandy Colbert

  Marva tips her head toward the ceiling and closes her eyes. “Alec isn’t voting. Like, he’s registered and filled out his sample ballot, and he’s still not voting. After months of campaigning with me and discussing how important this election is. And it’s not like he only cared about it after we were dating. He was really into politics before we even got together.…That’s a big reason I started liking him.”

  “What’s his deal now?”

  “He’s suddenly concerned about voting in a two-party system.”

  I snort. “White guy?”

  Marva’s eyes fly open. “How did you know?”

  “Because Black and brown people don’t have that kind of luxury.”

  “Plenty of Black and brown people don’t vote either,” she says, her voice tight.

  “Of course. But the reasons are different,” I say slowly as my finger-drumming tapers off. “You’re not the only one who knows about voting. Black and brown people vote more than we get credit for, first of all. We’ve stopped a lot of assholes from getting into office and voted out plenty, too.”

  She nods, as if to say, Fair point.

  “But the people who don’t vote…a lot of them think it’s because their vote won’t count. Or because they know the entire government is rigged against them. You can’t blame them, can you?”

  Julian and his friends used to talk about this a lot. They’d have huge, sweeping arguments just about every time they got together, whether at our house or one of theirs. Sometimes it got so loud and heated that I wondered if it was gonna come to blows, but they’d always walk outside or into another room to cool off before it got to that point. They always remembered they were fighting for the same thing.

  “No, of course not,” Marva says, sighing. “I just don’t want you to judge him because he’s white.”

  “Who said I’m judging? I made an observation.” I shrug, looking out the windshield at a woman in yoga pants talking on a Bluetooth as she paces in front of Drip Drop. “And if it makes a difference, my mom is white.”

  It’s funny to see who’s surprised by that info, and then how they handle it. White people usually seem shocked, because I look like any other Black person they know—darker skin than theirs, curly hair. But Black people have different reactions. A lot will say they knew right away, others seem like they couldn’t care less, and then there’s the few who give me a look of betrayal, like my blood is tainted. They’re usually the same people who say we haven’t had a real Black president, just because our first one had a white mom.

  Marva grabs her keys from the console, sliding her phone in their place. “How is that?”

  “Having a white mom?” I grin. Leave it to her to have the most surprising reaction of all.

  “Yeah. And a Black dad, right?”

  “Right. Uh, I don’t know. Fine, I guess? She’s the only mom I know.”

  “Is it weird that they’re divorced now?”

  “Nah. I mean, not really. You’d have to be living on another planet not to see that one coming.” I clear my throat. “But they didn’t split up because of the interracial thing, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking.”

  But she says it so quickly that it must be exactly what she was thinking.

  The thing about my mom is that she knew what people thought about her when she got with my dad. She’s been honest with us from jump, saying how it wasn’t easy, even with people she thought were progressive and open-minded. But she also vowed not to be a white person who raised her mixed kids without knowing anything about Black culture, like our history and how to do our hair. She’s not perfect, but she tries pretty fucking hard to do right by us.

  “Things gonna be okay with you and your dude?”

  “I don’t know,” Marva says quietly. “I’m almost positive he thinks this is some small disagreement. That we’ll be totally fine after the election. But…I’m not sure how I can look at him when I know he didn’t even try to do his part.”

  “Maybe he’ll come around if you just talk to him again,” I say. “Sounds like you, uh, have a pretty good thing.”

  I don’t know who I think I am, trying to give dating advice when I basically have the least experience ever with dating. Or talking to girls. Or fixing things when I mess up.

  “Maybe,” Marva says. But she doesn’t look convinced.

  Just as she’s putting her keys in the ignition, she glances out the driver’s side window and yelps. The Bluetooth woman is standing by the car, waving frantically at Marva.

  “Mrs. Thomas?” Marva says, dropping her keys. They land with a metallic thud at her feet.

  She closes her eyes and grumbles under her breath.

  MY DAD’S COWORKER, MRS. THOMAS, TAPS ON the glass, a grin splitting her face and a Bluetooth piece strapped behind her ear. I slowly push the ancient button to roll down the window and force myself to meet her smile with one of my own.

  “Marva? I thought that was you!” She practically pokes her head into the car. “What are you doing here?”

  Rhetorical questions should be banned.

  “Um, just getting some coffee.” I gesture toward the front of Drip Drop, as if that’s the answer Mrs. Thomas is actually looking for.

  “Oh, well, me too, though I really shouldn’t.” She gestures to her yoga pants. “I just got done with a workout, and this is totally counterproductive, but I will always choose coffee over one of those twenty-dollar juices.”

  I don’t dare glance at Duke. The last thing I need to do is draw any more attention to him than necessary.

  As if Mrs. Thomas is reading my very thoughts, she cranes her neck to see past me. “Hi, there!”

  “Hey,” Duke says, nodding at her. When I finally look over, I almost laugh at the bemusement plastered on his face.

  “How do you two know each other?”

  I stifle a sigh. I’ve known Mrs. Thomas almost half my life. A ten-minute conversation with her at the marketing firm’s summer picnic is enough to leave me exhausted for days. She’s not going to leave until I give her what she’s looking for.

  “Duke, this is Mrs. Thomas. She works with my dad. Mrs. Thomas, this is my friend Duke. We’re on a mission for democracy.”

  Her perfectly plucked eyebrows knit together. “Excuse me?”

  “Voting. He had some problems with his ballot, and I’m helping him.”

  “Oh, isn’t that nice of you, hon!” She breaks into a smile again and pushes her chest out as she points to the I VOTED sticker on her tank top, her cleavage uncomfortably close. “I went early, before yoga. I was worried there’d be a line, but I got right in, filled in my circles, and was the first one to show up for class.”

  I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. It doesn’t seem fair that Mrs. Thomas has already cast a vote and been to yoga class and we’re still trying to get Duke to the right polling place.

  “Well, I’d better get going. That spa appointment won’t wait forever.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink. “I figured why not treat myself to a day off since I’ve done my part today, you know?”

  “But there’s more you could do,” I blurt before I know what I’m saying.

  I bite my lip. When we first started getting to know each other, Alec thought it was so cute how I do that sometimes. You’re so passionate, he’d say, giving me a soft smile. And it felt special. Like he’d never smiled at anyone but me that way.

  “What was that, hon?” Mrs. Thomas says.

  “It’s just that, well, if you have the day off, you could always see if anyone in your neighborhood or at senior centers needs a ride to the polls. Or—”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, hon,” she says, tapping her Bluetooth. “I’ve got a call coming in and need to take it.”

  “But, Mrs. Thomas—”

  She’s snaking her head out of my car, though, just as fast as she slid into our space. “Tell your parents I said hello, though I’m sure I’ll see your father at work tomor
row. Nice to meet you, DeAndre!”

  Duke stares at her, openmouthed, as she power-walks to her giant SUV at the back of the lot. “Is she for real?”

  I let out the sigh I was holding in the whole time she was standing here, but I don’t feel any better. “Entirely. And she is absolutely going to tell my dad she saw me sitting in the car at Drip Drop with a guy when I should have been in school.”

  “Your folks gonna lose their shit?”

  I shrug, trying to appear calmer than I feel. “I don’t know. I’ve never skipped before.”

  Duke’s jaw drops. “Wait, what?”

  “Yeah. I…like school.”

  “Me too, but this isn’t my first time skipping out on it.” He pauses. “Seems like we should do something special to commemorate it.”

  I look at him. “You want to celebrate my truancy?”

  He shoots me a lazy grin. “Well, the first time only happens once, right?”

  “You’re ridiculous.” I shake my head and finally turn the key in the ignition, checking my mirrors. “And we still have to get to the school and sort out this whole voting thing, remember?”

  “Got it, boss,” he says in the most serious of voices.

  But when I look back over, there’s a smile in his eyes.

  “Thanks, DeAndre.” I try to hide mine as I put the car into reverse.

  DUDE, HALF MY HOMEROOM IS COMING TONIGHT—WE GOTTA KILL

  I stare down at Anthony’s text, shaking my head like I’m coming out of a fog. Like this whole thing with Marva is happening in some existence outside my regular life. I usually can’t think about anything except our gig the day of the show. Did I really just forget about it?

  And then my mind goes where I’ve been trying to avoid going all day. I wonder if Kendall’s gonna be there. She’s the band’s manager, so technically she’s supposed to be at all our gigs. But with the way I handled things between us, I wouldn’t be surprised if she quit just so she wouldn’t have to see me outside of school.

  Bet, I send back to Anthony, then reach into my bag to make sure my drumsticks are still there. It’s corny, carrying them around like some asshole who wants everyone to know they’re in a band. I don’t take them out at school except for lunch, and only sometimes. Drumming calms me down. Gives me something to do with my hands and mind.

  “What’s that?” Marva asks without turning her head. She doesn’t miss a damn thing, even when she’s driving.

  “Uh, just my sticks.”

  “Your what?”

  “Drumsticks. I’m in a band.”

  A strange look comes across her face, like she’s just stumbled on a complex math problem that’s gonna take some time to process.

  “What kind of band?”

  “Indie rock? My boy Anthony raps on a couple of our songs, too, but we’re mostly rock. For now. We’re still trying to figure out our sound.”

  Jesus. Guess I need to get better at pitching us.

  “Interesting,” she says, looking both ways before pulling the Volvo out onto the busy street in front of Drip Drop. “What’s the name?”

  “Promise not to laugh.”

  “I promise,” she says with a straight face, her gaze focused on the car ahead of us.

  “Drugstore Sorrow,” I mutter.

  Marva cackles so long and loud it makes me smile, too.

  “So, you’re shit at keeping promises. Good to know.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, finally catching her breath as she grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding her up. “It’s just so weird. Where did you come up with that?”

  “Our lead singer, Svetlana. She swears it’s so memorable that we’re going to have a huge following as soon as more people hear us play.”

  “I mean, no offense, but it sounds like she got it from one of those random band-name-generator sites.”

  I look away as Marva bites her lip. It’s such a small gesture, probably something nobody but me would even notice. But it makes me think about her mouth and how I like her mouth…and then how she has a boyfriend, and I’m not supposed to be noticing and liking her lips like that.

  “That’s what I told her,” I say, staring out my window instead. “She didn’t exactly deny it.”

  “So, you play drums. That’s pretty cool. Do you play in the school band, too?”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Well, okay, then!”

  “Sorry. I’m just not that into organized stuff like marching band or sports. I’d rather do my own thing. I’m self-taught, mostly. I’ve taken some private lessons, but I’m pretty sure I learn more by just banging it out on the kit at home.”

  “Who are your favorite drummers?” she asks, making a quick lane change to pass a slow-moving car.

  My eyebrows go up. “You know drummers?”

  “Not really. But you do.”

  “Dave Grohl, Neil Peart, Ringo, Elvin Jones,” I rattle off. “But Questlove is probably my favorite.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, he’s dope as hell. Talented. Versatile. But he’s also a big Black dude with a big ’fro, so I’m kinda biased.” Even though I don’t have a ’fro. Yet. Been thinking about growing it out, though.

  She makes an abrupt stop at a red light. The kind of stop where Ma used to throw her arm across the passenger seat to make sure nobody was hurt, even if Ida and I were sitting behind her in our car seats. Marva doesn’t seem worried about my safety, but she looks over. “Do you have any favorite woman drummers?”

  “Sure. Sheila E. Cindy Blackman.” I pause. “Janet Weiss.”

  Marva looks impressed for a whole two seconds before she frowns. “Well, you don’t deserve any awards for knowing their names.”

  I laugh. “I know more than their names. Want me to go through their greatest hits? Best drum solos?”

  “Maybe later. How long have you been playing?”

  “A couple of years. My therapist suggested—”

  I snap my mouth closed. Loose lips, man.

  Marva doesn’t bat an eye, though. “Suggested what?”

  I swallow. I usually don’t let that slip. Especially not with someone I just met.

  “She, uh…suggested I take up something. A hobby. After my brother died.”

  “Oh.” Marva’s eyes get big. “Right.”

  The car feels way too quiet. I stare at the radio knob, wondering how pissed she’d be if I turned on something right now.

  “I thought it was bullshit at first. Busywork so I wouldn’t realize how fucking shitty it was that my brother was gone. But music was the only thing that made sense, and drummers had always been my favorite. So I figured why the hell not.” I twirl a drumstick in my left hand. “We have a gig tonight. Drugstore Sorrow. Our first paying one.”

  Marva raises her eyebrows. “A gig on election night? Bold.”

  “It’s an all-ages show. I don’t think most of the people coming to see us are gonna be thinking about voting.”

  It’s pretty clear from the look on her face that she believes everyone should be thinking about it. And her voice…Every time she talks about voting…It’s so full of…well, passion. Like she can’t imagine anyone else not feeling the way she does about this. Like she’ll work for the rest of her life to make sure they do.

  “He’d like you,” I say before I even realize the words are coming out of my mouth.

  The light turns green, but she doesn’t go right away. “Who?”

  “My brother. Julian.”

  Marva still doesn’t push on the gas, though. Not even when a car behind her honks.

  “How do you know?”

  I pause. “You’re cut from the same cloth, my ma would say. Julian was…determined. No matter how tough shit got. He never quit.”

  She swallows and looks me square in the eyes. “Thanks.” Her voice is softer than I’ve heard it all day.

  And, I think, a little proud.

  SOMETIMES I COULDN’T STAND MY BROTHER.

  It’s not easy gr
owing up in the shadow of someone who everybody thinks is damn near perfect. Julian didn’t think that about himself. At least, I don’t think so. He was always talking about how people and society are works in progress, and I’m pretty sure he counted himself in that, too.

  But I’ve never seen anyone so selfless in my whole life. Sometimes it felt like he wasn’t even real, let alone my brother.

  He was seven years older than me. He used to call himself the Great Experiment, because our parents waited so many years after he’d been born to have more kids. He thought it was because even though they acted all proud about their relationship and like they didn’t care what other people thought, they were still freaked about bringing a mixed kid into this world. I think it’s because he was so perfect they were worried other kids wouldn’t live up to him.

  Julian was cool to me, though. He never dismissed me just because I was so much younger.

  I’ll never forget this one time we went to McDonald’s. He was watching me while Ma and Dad worked, and he told me we were going on a field trip. We met up with a couple of hard-looking dudes who seemed old at the time, but I later realized were probably about my age now. I was nine, and once Julian set me up with a Happy Meal and a game on his phone, I zoned out.

  Later, in the car on the way home, I looked up from my game and turned to him. “Who were they?”

  Julian stared straight ahead as he drove. “Amari and Tariq. I introduced you, remember?”

  “Yeah, but who were they?”

  He didn’t say anything for a long time. I was starting to think he hadn’t heard me when he finally answered. “Gang members.”

  My mouth dropped open. “They’re in a gang?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why were you talking to them?” I didn’t know much about gangs, but I knew what they were and what they did, and that we weren’t supposed to be talking to anyone who was part of them.

  “Because I’m trying to build peace.”

  “They looked scary.” I thought back to their skin covered in tattoos and the deep frowns embedded in their faces.

  “People are complicated, little homie,” Julian said, glancing over. “Nobody is all angel or devil. Dialogue between groups is good. Remember that.”