The Voting Booth

by Brandy Colbert

  “Marva.” His voice is so soft I’m worried my tears are going to come back if he keeps talking that way. “Of course we can go look for your cat. You’ve been driving my ass around all morning, even though this is all my fault. The least I can do is help you look for her.”

  “You don’t have to help me, but I just—”

  “You helped me. Now it’s my turn to help you. Come on,” he says, holding out his hand.

  I hesitate for only a moment before I take it and stand.

  I FIGURED SHE’D DRIVE EVEN MORE LIKE A BAT out of hell now that there’s an actual emergency, but Marva pulls out of the school parking lot at a normal speed. She tugs on the pink braid so much, I wonder if it’s going to tear right out of her head. I don’t know what to say, so I keep quiet. And ignore how Ma said We have a lot to talk about later.

  Marva lives pretty close to me, which kind of freaks me out. Yeah, we were at the same polling place, but it’s weird to think of her living just a mile away all this time. Have I seen her before? I glance over. Nah, I’m sure I’d remember her.

  Marva turns into a cul-de-sac, slows down, and parks in front of a two-story gray house with white shutters. The outside looks like a home-and-garden magazine, with boxes of flowers under the windows and rosebushes by the porch. It’s not as big as our house, but it is bigger than the one we had in our old town. Our house seems too big now that it’s just me, Ma, and Ida. Sometimes I hear Ma pacing around at night, her house slippers scuffing down the hardwood floors like she has somewhere to be. Over and over again. She used to pace like that when she knew Julian was at a protest that had gotten out of hand.

  “Want me to wait out here?” I ask just before Marva jumps out of the car. She almost forgot to take off her seat belt.

  I can see her thinking through that scenario. There’s a car in the driveway, so her dad is probably still here. How is she going to explain me? Ma and Dad were used to strange people being in our house all the time when Julian was around, because his apartment was too small for meetings. But I don’t know about other people’s parents.

  “No, come in. It’s just my dad.”

  I slip my sticks in my back pocket before I get out and follow her up the path. She moves fast. She’s already inside before I make it to the porch. She leaves the door open and I hustle up the steps to catch up with her.

  When I get inside, she’s calling out, “Dad? Are you back? Did you find her?”

  “In the kitchen, honey!” a voice calls.

  Her dad is standing by the sink with his shirtsleeves rolled up, drinking a glass of water. The kitchen is bright yellow with a fruit bowl full of lemons on the counter and tons of pictures and papers stuck to the fridge door.

  Marva’s shoulders sag as she stands in the doorway, looking at him. “You didn’t find her.”

  “I didn’t.” He rubs his eyes, closing them for a few moments. “I’m so sorry, Marva.”

  “It’s okay. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. She’s never even looked like she wanted to go out before. I don’t get it.”

  When her dad opens his eyes, he stares at me and jumps a little, like he’s just now registered I’m standing behind her. That’s new. Normally I’m the first person people notice. “Who are you?”

  Marva sighs and waves her arm in my general direction. “This is Duke.”

  “Duke?” he repeats, like he needs to sit with it for a minute.

  “Duke Crenshaw,” I say, nodding. “Nice to meet you.”

  He squints at me. “Do you go to Salinas Prep?”

  “No…Flores Hills High.” I crack my knuckles at my side. Is Marva going to explain what’s going on before he freaks out about why I’m standing in his kitchen in the middle of a school day?

  “Ah,” he says, nodding back at me. “Didn’t think I’d seen any brothers around Salinas.”

  “Dad, this isn’t really the time for small talk,” Marva says, and she sounds like she’s near tears. I think she was crying earlier, when I found her on the bench outside, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t want me to see that.

  Her dad’s face changes and I know that look: Please don’t cry in front of me, because I don’t know what to do. He runs a hand over his chin and says, “It’s going to be okay, Marva. Selma has a great life. She probably just wants to see what’s out there and she’ll come right back.”

  “We still have to keep looking for her,” she says in that choked voice, and I wonder if she’s actually crying now.

  “I know, honey. Of course we do.” He walks over to her, wraps her in his arms, and rubs her shaking back. “Of course.”

  My phone buzzes. Feels rude to pick it up here when Marva is so upset, so when it’s clear her dad has this whole “comforting” thing covered, I duck into the attached dining room to see who’s texted.

  It’s my dad. And after what Ma told me today, I’m pretty sure he’s not texting just to say what’s up.

  I open the message quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid to minimize the pain. And…yeah, he’s pissed.

  I know about your sister’s little incident

  And I know you had something to do with it

  Man, today is not my day.

  I’VE NEVER REALLY FELT LIKE THE MIDDLE KID. Since there’s such a big age gap between Julian and Ida, I’ve always felt like Ida’s big brother and Julian’s little bro. But never the middle.

  Julian was out of the house by the time he was eighteen. Ida was only eight when he moved out, and even though he was still there a lot, she didn’t spend much time with him. He was usually holding meetings or on the phone or jumping up from the dinner table before we were done because he was always double-booking.

  When he died, Ida said she felt bad, like she should be more upset than she was. “But I didn’t know him,” she whispered to me as we sat on the porch of our old house, watching people leave the repast. “He was like a stranger. I…I love him, and what happened to him makes me sad, but I don’t think I feel like the rest of you do.”

  I looked at her. She blinked back at me. Then I put my arm around her because even if I didn’t understand what she was feeling, it couldn’t have been easy to say something like that.

  Ida and I aren’t best friends or anything, but we talk sometimes. We have different groups of friends. I hang with the musicians and stoners, and she kicks it with the activists at FHH. Which is funny because she didn’t really know Julian, but she’s following in his footsteps. And Ma hates it.

  They got in a big fight at dinner a couple months ago, when Ida announced she was going to a protest that weekend with the social justice club.

  “No, you’re not,” Ma said as she took a bite of chicken and rice. She didn’t even look up.

  Ida glanced at me and cleared her throat. “Ma, come on. It’s just a protest. Julian went to those all the time.”

  “You are not Julian. You are my little girl, and you’re not going.”

  “I’m not a little girl,” Ida grumbled. She stabbed at her plate so hard I was sure she’d break through it with her fork.

  A few weeks ago, as soon as we got in the car for school, she said, “I need you to do something for me.”

  I was suspicious right away. Not because she asks for stuff all the time, but because she doesn’t. Ida may be three years younger than me, but she’s more independent than most people I know. She’d do everything herself if she could.

  “What’s up?” I asked, glancing in the rearview mirror before I pulled out of the driveway.

  “I’m going to a protest this weekend, and I need you to drive me and pick me up.”

  “You can’t get a ride from someone in the club?”

  She swallowed. “It’s not an official club event. Just some of us going on our own, and so I need a ride.”

  “Come on, Ida. You know Ma and Dad don’t like you going to those things.”

  “Those things?” She crossed her arms. “Okay, first of all, you didn’t even ask what the protest is for.”


  I stopped the car at the end of the driveway. I don’t like her yapping in my ear on a normal day, but it seemed like this was something I actually needed to listen to.

  “What’s the protest for, Ida?”

  “We’re sitting in at Congressman Haywood’s office to oppose his stance on abortion.”

  “Ida.” I paused. “You sure you want to get involved in that?”

  “He’s anti-choice, Duke. He wants women to carry babies to term, like, no matter what. He doesn’t care if they’re sick or the baby is sick or if it’s just not something they want to do! Do you think it’s okay that some old man is trying to legislate what women choose to do with their own bodies?”

  I shrugged, my hands back on the steering wheel. The car was still idling at the end of the driveway.

  “What does that mean? Either you do or you don’t think it’s okay. Spit it out, big brother.”

  “I mean, I don’t think women should have to have babies if it’s going to kill them,” I said. “Or if they’re, uh, forced to do things against their will…”

  Ida sighed. “Rape. The word is rape. You can say it, you know.”

  I swallowed hard. Ida always spoke her mind, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to my little sister schooling me like that.

  “O-kay, I don’t think women should have to have a baby if they’re raped either.” I coughed, already knowing I shouldn’t say what I was going to say but going through with it anyway. I’m good at that. “But I dunno. I guess…I don’t really believe in it for other situations.”

  Ida let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t believe in it? News flash: It still happens. All over the world. Legal or not. And anyway, why should I give a shit about what you think?”

  My eyes got big.

  “I mean, I do, Duke. You’re my brother. I respect you.” She paused. “But you don’t have a uterus. And you don’t know what it’s like to be a woman. So, no offense, but if you’re going to spend the whole day judging me, I’ll just find another ride.”

  Damn. She was right. I didn’t know what it was like. And I guess I hadn’t thought much about it before. I’ve never even had sex, so that kind of stuff always seemed like it wasn’t my problem.

  Maybe this was one of those times I should just shut up and help my sister.

  “So you need a ride there and back?” I mumbled, staring at the dusty dashboard.

  “Yeah, and…well, it’s an act of civil disobedience, so…”

  I blew out a whoosh of air. “So there’s a chance you could get arrested.”

  Julian was no stranger to that.

  She nodded.

  “You sure you don’t want to tell Ma? Have her go with you?” I thought she might take it better than our dad. Maybe.

  “No,” Ida said firmly. “And you’d better not either. You’re eighteen, Duke. An adult. You have all the same rights as Ma and Dad.”

  That didn’t mean I had any idea what I was doing. Most of the time I felt like Ida had her shit together more than me. But all I said was, “Okay. I got you.”

  “Yeah?” She looked at me with wide, hopeful eyes. Like I was her goddamn hero or something. Little sisters, man…

  “Yeah.”

  She sat back in her seat with a big, dopey smile. “Thanks, big brother.”

  I looked away. Put the car into reverse again, swinging out of the driveway before I glanced at her and said, “Fine. But if they ever find out, I’ll deny everything.”

  I CAN’T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I CRIED IN front of anyone, and I feel foolish as soon as the sobs let up enough for me to breathe. Squeezing out a couple of tears in front of the elementary school was one thing, but this? When I pull away from Dad’s arms, the shoulder of his shirt is soaked.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, grabbing a paper towel from the roll on the counter. I wipe my eyes and cheeks with it before tossing it into the trash can.

  “Honey, I’m sorry,” Dad says, and he looks it, even beneath the tired dark bags gathered under his eyes. “Truly. Should we split up and try to find her? I’m game to go back out again.”

  “Yes, I was thinking that Duke and I could—” I turn around to face him, even though I’m beyond embarrassed that he witnessed my crying. Except he’s not there.

  He’s in the dining room, pacing back and forth. He stops for a moment, framed in the doorway, staring silently at his phone.

  I turn back to my father, who’s looking at him curiously. “How do you two know each other again?”

  “Just…from around the neighborhood,” I say, thinking about how we were registered at the same polling place. Or how he was supposed to be registered there. “I think we should figure out a plan for the search party.”

  It may be generous calling three people a search party, but it’s better than just Dad or me. I whip out my phone and pull up the maps app so my dad won’t be tempted to ask more questions, like why I was able to get out of school and back home so quickly.

  Duke walks slowly into the kitchen a couple of minutes later, wearing a look I don’t quite recognize. It’s not good, whatever it is.

  “Everything okay?” I ask as he walks over to stand near me.

  He gives me a weak smile. “You ready to look for this cat?”

  And we do. We look everywhere for Selma.

  Dad takes the area west of French Street, and Duke and I head in the opposite direction, turning right out of the cul-de-sac by the Lehmans’. Together. The neighbors know Dad and me, but I know how people are in this neighborhood when they see a strange Black person walking around, as if we don’t have the right to be everywhere white people are without a permit, so I think it’s safer if Duke stays with me. He doesn’t object.

  “Has she ever run off before?” he asks when we’ve walked three blocks.

  “Never,” I say.

  We’re calling her name, looking under bushes, peering up at trees. I ask anyone we come across if they’ve seen a cat fitting her description, but everyone shakes their head, apologetic. After about twenty minutes, I pull up a photo of her to show people, making sure it’s not one of the heavily posed ones from Selma’s social media. Duke looks at it but doesn’t seem to recognize her from the Eartha Kitty account. Thank god.

  After an hour, I’m beginning to lose hope. And that makes me cranky. Giving up is not in my nature, which I think is pretty obvious to anyone who saw me canvassing for the election. But it’s hot. And I’m hungry. And tired. And Duke and I still have to get back to the church so he can register.

  Dad calls just as I start thinking about turning around. “I wish I had better news,” he says, “but I haven’t seen her, honey. Neither has anyone else. I think we might need to call it a day for now. Or an afternoon, at the very least.”

  “Okay,” I say in a quiet voice.

  Duke stands a few feet away, leaning against a tree. He’s staring at a blue house across the street.

  “Meet me back at the house and I’ll make us all some lunch. That is, unless you have other plans?”

  I think that’s my dad’s not-so-subtle way of hinting that he hasn’t forgotten I’m supposed to be in school, but I play dumb and say we’ll see him in a few.

  I hang up and follow Duke’s gaze. “Why are you looking at that house like that?”

  “I think I know it. I mean, I was there not too long ago.…”

  “How far away do you live from here?” I ask, suddenly wondering if I could have known Duke from around the neighborhood all this time. But wouldn’t I have noticed him? He’s hard to miss…and not just because of his size. My neck is heating up and I’m annoyed with myself for daring to flush with embarrassment in a time of crisis.

  “Just about three blocks that way,” he says, pointing. “Drugstore Sorrow played a gig at this house.”

  “Bad gig?”

  He’s actually grimacing.

  Duke shrugs and I don’t press him. I’ve got Selma on the brain.

  When we get back to my house, Dad is already home, putterin
g around in the kitchen. He does most of the cooking since he keeps more regular hours than Mom. I think he likes it, though. I never hear him hum except for when he’s in the kitchen, and lately, he’s taken to dancing around, especially when he’s making his favorite dishes. Normally I’d be embarrassed that Duke is witnessing this, but I’m too tired to care.

  I set out plates while Dad makes fried bologna sandwiches. It’s not a coincidence. They’re my favorite sandwich, so he usually makes them when I need cheering up. Like the time I got a C+ on my chemistry test, even though I’d studied for weeks beforehand. Or when I got passed over for the internship at the mayor’s office last summer. I ate a lot of bologna sandwiches my freshman year.

  I remember the first time we made them for Alec. He was horrified at first—“You fry bologna?”—but as soon as he had his first bite, he was asking for another sandwich.

  “We can only get away with this when Marva’s mom isn’t home. She loves them but says that doesn’t outweigh how unhealthy they are,” Dad says, sliding plates in front of Duke and me.

  He squeezes my shoulder before he goes back to the stove. “And they’re only to be eaten with wads of paper towels, not fancy napkins.”

  “I’ve never had one,” Duke says. He pulls his drumsticks out of his back pocket and sets them on the table next to his plate. I wonder why he carries them with him when they could’ve stayed in his backpack. Are they like a security blanket?

  Dad’s head whips around to stare at him as he throws another piece of bologna into the skillet and cuts a slit in the middle. “For real?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think my mom’s ever bought bologna, and my dad’s on a steady diet of takeout since the divorce.” He snaps his mouth closed like he’s said too much, but I kind of want him to keep going. That talk with his mom didn’t look so good.

  “Well, I lived on these at Morehouse,” my dad says. “I could eat for a whole week for less than ten dollars.”