The Voting Booth

by Brandy Colbert

  She nods, but she looks sad. I feel bad for her. This day can’t be going like she thought it would.

  “Hey,” I say, “have you thought more about putting up a post on Eartha Kitty’s account? We could do it now, while we’re killing time? I have this app that makes pretty decent graphics. Could have one up in ten minutes.”

  She licks her lips, thinking. I haven’t stopped noticing her mouth, but I feel bad thinking about her like that. She does still have a boyfriend, no matter how shitty things are going. And it’s never cool to go after another guy’s girl. No matter how cute and smart and…something she is.

  Her voice is almost a whisper when she says, “What if people find out I’m the one behind the account?”

  “So what?”

  “I’m…not the kind of person who would have an account like that.” She sees the frown on my face and adds, “Who did you think was running that before you knew it was me?”

  “I guess I never thought about it?”

  “But you were surprised when you found out it was me, right?”

  “I mean, I don’t really know you—”

  “Duke.”

  I shrug, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I don’t know. Yeah, I mean, I guess I would’ve expected it to be someone less serious.”

  “See?”

  “Serious isn’t a bad thing.” Julian was serious. He also liked dad jokes, and Monty Python, and playing harmless pranks he blamed on me. “It doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, too.”

  “But people won’t take me seriously if they know that’s my account.”

  “Come on. You want your cat back or not?”

  She folds her arms in front of her chest.

  “You don’t have to put your address on there. Just give the general area. Open your DMs. Maybe make an email address for anyone who might be able to help.”

  “She already has an email address,” Marva mutters.

  “Perfect. I’ll make a graphic now.”

  I grab my phone, expecting her to stop me, but she doesn’t say a word. Just watches as I pull up the app and get to work.

  The line does move, even if it’s the slowest line in the history of lines. Marva talks to the old man ahead of us some more as I make the graphic. I’m half listening as they talk. He says his name is Clive, and he tells us he’s been voting since the late fifties.

  “You had to be twenty-one then, and people weren’t happy ’bout that, since you could be drafted at eighteen. Didn’t change it until 1970,” he says, shaking his head. “Makes no sense how they were willing to send boys off to war but wouldn’t let ’em vote for the commander in chief.”

  “Still, those were the good old days when everyone used paper ballots,” says the woman in front of him. She’s older, too. A white woman with a wig of gray curls piled on top of her head. “Didn’t have to worry about all this technology and tampering with machines.”

  “I don’t care what they use,” says a woman behind us who overhears. “I just want to get in there soon. I have to get back to work before my lunch break is over, or my boss is going to write me up.”

  “I know the feeling,” a softspoken man’s voice says right after her. “I’ve gotta pick up my kid.”

  “There has to be a better way,” Marva pipes up. “How can we vote in the people who want to make it easier for us to vote if we can’t get in to vote in the first place?”

  “That’s the whole point,” the wig lady says.

  I tune them out for a couple of minutes to look over the graphic. It’s simple. Black letters on a white background with a headline that says:

  EARTHA KITTY IS MISSING

  Clear and right to the point. As many followers as she has, people are gonna start looking for Eartha Kitty as soon as they see this.

  I show it to Marva. She approves it, even though I can see the anxiety in her eyes.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” I say.

  She posts it, closes out of the app, and tucks her phone in her pocket, shuddering. “I hope so.”

  I update the band in our group chat that I’ve been caught up trying to vote, but I’ll be at Anthony’s later to load my gear into the van and head over to the gig. We go on at eight, but we need to be at the Fractal early to warm up. I put the conversation on mute and pocket my phone when they start asking too many questions: Where the hell am I? Is it true some strange girl gave my sister and me a ride to FHH this morning? Because that’s what Ida said?

  Marva and I pass some of the time by playing rock, paper, scissors. Marva is good, and she calls it “roshambo,” which makes me laugh.

  “Where’d you learn that fancy name?”

  “Well,” she says, pausing to crush me yet again with a rock over my scissors, “there’s a story that says it goes back to the comte de Rochambeau, this French guy who commanded the US troops that fought the British. But other people say that’s a myth. I don’t know. I just like the way it sounds.”

  “I’ve never met anyone like you, Marva Sheridan,” I say, laughing as we start up another round.

  Finally, we make it into the church for the second time today.

  “About damn time,” Clive says, shuffling in ahead of us.

  Marva holds my place in line while I walk over to ask a poll worker about same-day registration. She hooks me up with a form and I fill it out at the edge of the table. She looks it over, nods, and initials a couple of boxes at the top.

  “Hand this to the people manning the ballots when you make it up there,” she says, handing it back to me. “And make sure you have your ID along with proof of residency if your ID’s address isn’t current.”

  “I’ve got everything,” I say, patting my wallet. “I’m an old pro at this by now.”

  She gives me a tired smile. I get back in line next to Marva, who gives me the same type of smile when I show her the form.

  Ten minutes later, there are finally, finally only two people ahead of us before we get to the table: Clive and the woman in the wig. And there’s some sort of commotion. The woman is getting loud and the poll workers are trying to calm her down, but she’s not having it. The people in the voting booths start turning around, and the poll workers are standing now, huddled around one another as they all try to calm down the woman. A rumble starts in the line behind us.

  “What’s going on?” Clive calls out.

  “They ran out of ballots!” the woman ahead of him shouts.

  Marva’s mouth drops open. “What?”

  “You gotta be kidding me,” I mumble.

  “This place is a goddamn joke,” says someone a few people back in line.

  “Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain,” someone else chastises them. “We’re in His house.”

  “Um, everyone?” It’s the red-haired woman with the braid from earlier this morning. She’s standing on her tiptoes, trying to get everyone’s attention by cupping her hands around her mouth. I only hear her because of how close we are.

  It’s clear she’s not going to get anyone to shut up, so I stick my fingers in my mouth and blow out a long, steady whistle like Julian taught me. A long time ago, but I never forgot it.

  Marva stares at me. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to do that for years.”

  “It’s not that hard,” I mumble. “I’ll teach you.”

  The woman at the table throws a grateful look my way, then starts talking before she loses the silence. “Everyone, I’m so sorry, but we’ve run out of ballots. We’ve had quite a few voters we didn’t anticipate due to another location’s closure.”

  “So what are we supposed to do now?” Marva asks. “We’ve been waiting here forever.”

  “This is some bullshit,” Clive says, shaking his head. “You trying to tell me I spent all morning figuring out where I had to go, fought my way onto a packed bus to get here, waited in line for damn near two hours, and you ran out of ballots?” He shakes his cane at the woman. “This ain’t right. You know it ain’t right.”


  “Sir, I’m sorry,” the woman says. “Everyone, we’re sorry. We didn’t plan for the unusually high turnout. We will get more ballots, but we’ll have to wait for the city clerk to deliver them.”

  “How long’s that going to take?” Marva asks.

  The woman sighs. “I’m honestly not sure. A couple of hours? Maybe longer?”

  The crowd erupts into one huge, angry roar.

  Beside me, Marva’s whole body sags.

  MY HOPE IS FADING.

  It’s as if I can physically feel it draining from my body, limb by limb. Like I could just sit down on the floor right now and give up, because I can’t believe, after all we’ve been through, that they’ve run out of ballots.

  As I look around, I see a whole variety of reactions: anger, fatigue, defeat. Not one happy face in the crowd. Hopelessness fills the air.

  I don’t even bother saying anything to Duke before I turn on my heel, cut through the line of people behind us, and storm out of the church doors.

  A few seconds later, I hear Duke’s now-familiar footsteps behind me. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, Marva. Hey!”

  I stop but don’t turn around.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” he says.

  And then, suddenly, my hopelessness turns to rage. White-hot anger at this whole backward system that takes full days out of people’s lives just so they can have some say in how their country is run. Clive said it best earlier: This is some bullshit.

  “No, it’s not, Duke. It’s not okay! What the hell are we supposed to do?” I take the biggest breath possible. Let it out. It doesn’t help. I turn around.

  Duke looks as drained as I feel, but his eyes are soft as they land on me. Like in this moment he’s more concerned about how upset I am than the cause of my anger.

  “We’ll come back in a couple of hours and they’ll have the ballots and everything will be fine. I promise.”

  I don’t say anything. I appreciate how he’s trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t help anything. Not for me or that entire crowd of people we just left behind. I turn around and start walking again, away from the church.

  He takes a couple of long strides to catch up with me, and before I can get far at all, I feel his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not over, Marva.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” Keeping such high standards for myself and the people around me means disappointment hits hard when something doesn’t go my way. But this…this is next-level disappointment. With Selma going missing and Alec pissed at me, I needed one thing to go right this afternoon. I wish I could scrounge up that feeling of pride and accomplishment from this morning, after I cast the first vote here. But…I don’t know. It almost feels like an empty vote if not everyone gets the chance to cast theirs, too.

  I face Duke again. You’d never know all the hoops we’ve jumped through so far today by looking at him. He’s so calm. He looks tired from all the running around we’ve done, and definitely frustrated—but with an underlying chill. And I don’t understand how he can just keep his cool like this. “You see how many people are here who still haven’t been able to vote—imagine this all over town. All over the state. All over the country! What Clive said is true. This isn’t right.”

  “I know,” Duke says. “It’s not. But we’re not giving up. We’re just taking a break. Because there’s nothing else we can do now.”

  He’s right. I don’t like that he is, but he’s right.

  “It’s just…I spent so much time over the last two years working up to this point, and so did a lot of other people. And it just doesn’t seem fair that all that work means nothing when the actual day is here.” I swallow hard. “Duke, what if things don’t go our way? What if this country keeps moving backward?”

  “I know,” he says, inhaling. “I know. But this isn’t all up to you to fix. You’ve done more today than most people will do in their lifetimes. Just to make sure some knucklehead like me can vote.”

  That makes me smile. Just a little bit. “Knucklehead?”

  He shrugs. “It’s what Ida calls me. I don’t fight it anymore.” He pauses, then his eyes light up. The brightest they’ve been since we were eating fried bologna sandwiches. “Listen, I think we need a break. From all of this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, can I take you somewhere? It’s not too far, and I’ll drive. I’m a good driver. I promise not to crash the Volvo. And you could probably use a break from driving.”

  I start to say no way am I letting him behind the wheel of my car, when I realize how nice that was. He’s been appreciative of me driving him around today, but offering to take the reins is exactly what I need right now. It’s thoughtful. Kind.

  I give him a look. “Are you just offering because my driving scares you?”

  He grins. “Nah, I’m accustomed to fearing for my life by now.”

  “Very funny.” But that warrants a real smile. I’m getting used to his teasing. I don’t mind it.

  “What do you say? We have to kill some more time anyway.”

  I toss my keys at him before I overthink it. “Fine. But if you put so much as a scratch on the Volvo, I’m sending Terrell after your ass.”

  “Please. Terrell and I are homies,” he says, catching them in his big, cupped hands. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  I don’t like surprises.

  And not knowing where I’m going usually makes me nervous. But after the stress of today, I can’t let myself get too worked up about it. I keep thinking of Selma out there all alone, and all the people we talked to in line who went through even more than we did just to vote today. What if they just go home, frustrated at getting turned away after all they’ve done to get there? What if Selma never comes home? I don’t even have the heart to see how the latest post went over on her account.

  Duke doesn’t say much as we drive. He asks if he can turn on the radio, and when I say yes, he changes it to a rock station. I don’t know the song, but he drums against my steering wheel almost the whole drive. It should annoy me, but I don’t know. It’s kind of cute how he’s so into music.

  Once we’re on the freeway, about twenty minutes outside of Flores Hills, I think I know where we’re headed.

  “The beach?” I ask once I see official signs for it.

  “Yeah. Is that cool?”

  “It’s cool.” I’m not really a beach person, but as Mom would say, I’m not not a beach person. It’s close enough to go, but never my first choice.

  “We always go to the beach when we cut, so I figured why not today?” Duke says. “Doesn’t feel right otherwise.”

  “How often do you skip school?” I ask, incredulous that he has a whole routine planned around it.

  “More than you, I’m guessing.” He grins. “But not too much. It still has to feel like I’m getting away with something, you know?”

  I think I know what he means. Because even though I haven’t set foot in school all day, it feels like I’m getting away with something, too. I don’t really take breaks from problems until they’re solved, and I’ve got plenty of them today. But getting away from them, even for just a little bit, feels like the best thing I can do for myself right now.

  I can’t help but smile back at him. The more time I spend with Duke Crenshaw, the more he’s actually starting to make sense to me.

  THANKSGIVING IS THREE WEEKS AWAY, BUT IT’S hot as hell out today. The heat drops the closer you are to the shore, so by the time we park, walk down to the beach, and get on the sand, I got my arms out at my sides, taking in the breeze.

  “Those things are like propellers,” Marva mutters, ducking. Even though she’s not walking close enough for me to touch her.

  “Try again,” I say, closing my eyes against the breeze.

  “What?”

  And I just get this feeling that she’s giving me a weird look, even though I can’t see her.

  “You think I haven’t heard that one before? With arms this long?”

  When
I open my eyes, she’s frowning. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I’m just saying, every name in the book for someone my size? I’ve heard it. Big Duke. Tiny. Giraffe. Insert just about any ballplayer’s name.”

  She folds her hands into the pocket of her hoodie. “Okay. Sorry for objectifying you, Big Duke.”

  I throw my hands up, staring at her in disbelief. “It’s a thing. Do you know how many times I have to hear How’s the weather up there?” I make a visor with my hand and peer up at the sky like people stare at me sometimes. “It’s annoying.”

  She knocks her elbow against mine—or tries to, but I’m so tall that her arm hits my hip instead and she jumps back a little, surprised. Maybe embarrassed, too, by the way she immediately looks away. Which is all kinda perfect for this conversation.

  “Want to go to the pier?” I ask, following her gaze.

  It’s a small pier, because the beach is small. But there are a couple of gift shops and stands selling ice cream and hot dogs.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. Then she looks at me. “When was the last time you were at the beach?”

  We move down the sand to the water. The closer we get, the better I feel. After Julian died, my therapist asked about places that I feel calm. The beach was number one. There’s something about the ocean. Maybe because it’s one of the only things that makes me feel truly small. It reminds me that there are things bigger than me, the six-foot-three kid with the dead brother.

  “A couple weeks ago,” I say. “Bonfire.”

  That was the last time Kendall bothered to look at me. I deserved it, but I hate the guilt that twists up in my stomach every time I think about what I said to her. And how my dumb mouth wrecked the friendship we’d built over the last couple of years. If it had been any other girl, I probably wouldn’t still be thinking of this. But Kendall…she’s not just our manager.

  I guess I met her at exactly the right time. Food didn’t taste the same. Stuff I used to love, like Ma’s key lime pie and Dad’s famous lasagna, could’ve been dirt, the way I felt. I started being able to tune people out real good, their voices turning to nonsense as they stood right in front of me. People got tired of having one-sided conversations, so they stopped talking to me little by little until everyone eventually just left me alone.