“Sorry, Ma,” I say, staring at the eggs. I love those eggs, but I don’t feel much like eating now. I remember looking at those calendars with Julian.
Can’t wait till you can get in that voting booth, little homie. We gonna change lives. We gonna change the world.
“You’re good kids,” Ma says, squeezing my shoulder. She reaches across the table for Ida’s hand. “You can’t ever forget how important your voices are.”
We wouldn’t be having this talk if Dad were here. He doesn’t like to mention Julian. Not like Ma does. If I wasn’t related to him I might not even know he had a dead son.
We eat our breakfast listening to NPR’s Morning Edition, unable to escape politics for even a second. Dude is blabbing about the assholes around the country trying to stop people from voting and how a lot of them are getting away with it. Ma is back up and at the sink, scrubbing the hell out of the egg pan, but she stops when the show says they think this presidential election is going to be one of the closest races in decades. Her breath hitches when dude says local turnout in our area could be “especially impactful.”
“See? Your vote is vital,” she says, pulling the plates from under our noses as she fusses at us to finish getting ready for school.
Ma is a teacher, so she has school, too. But I guess she doesn’t trust me to go vote after my last class, so I’m off to the polls before homeroom.
“Hey, Ma, I got a gig tonight, so I’m gonna grab food with the band.” I keep talking when I see the look on her face. “But we go on at eight, so I’ll be home to watch results come in. Cool?”
She doesn’t think it’s cool, but I’m eighteen now, so she can’t really do anything about it. Ma’s not the type for You Live Under My Roof talks. She’s better at the What Would Julian Do guilt trips.
Man, I can’t wait to get in that voting booth. If only so the guilt trip will stop.
I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW LONG THIS LINE IS. I DON’T care how nerdy I look—I can’t stop the giant smile that’s spreading across my face as more and more people join behind me.
I’m at the very front, of course. Armed with my first coffee of the day and my completed sample ballot, though I know all the candidates and measures I’m choosing by heart. I’ll be in and out in ten minutes. I have this so perfectly timed that I’ll still get to school with twenty minutes to spare.
I check my phone, but still no text from Alec. What the hell? I guess technically it’s my turn to respond, but what he’s doing is unacceptable. How can he just change like this when he’s been my boyfriend for more than two years?
I glance behind me to see how the line is shaping up. It’s mostly people my parents’ age, but there are a few younger ones, too. No other high school kids, though. I’d like to think that’s because they’re all coming after school, but I’m not that naive. All that time I spent canvassing, phone-banking, and text-banking made it crystal clear just how many people want nothing to do with implementing change in this world.
The guy about a dozen people back might be my age. He’s so tall, though, it’s hard to tell. He has light brown skin, close-cropped reddish-brown hair, and big hands that keep drumming a rhythm on his thighs. He’s wearing giant black headphones, and I wonder what he’s listening to as I turn back around.
The front door to the church opens and a gray-haired woman with a sunny smile props it wide with a doorstop.
“Morning, folks, and happy Election Day! The polls are officially open.”
I swear, I get the chills.
The women behind the check-in table greet me with a smile and point me to the voting booth. I stop and stare. It’s not the first time I’ve been in one—I’ve gone with Mom and Dad several times over the years. But this is all me. My decisions. My chance to try to change the things I’m sick and tired of, just like my hero, Fannie Lou Hamer.
“Everything okay?” asks the woman sporting an auburn braid that trails over her shoulder.
“Oh—yes, sorry.” I sip from my coffee and smile. “I’m just so excited to be here. This is my first time voting.”
She smiles back. “Good on you, doing your part.”
Oh, lady. If you only knew.
I step into the booth and take a deep breath. To orient myself in this moment, but also to take in every part of the voting experience. It smells…musty. I insert my ballot like the woman instructed and flip open the guide. All the propositions and candidates are there, just like I memorized weeks ago. But I can’t help going through each one to make sure the issues I’m really here for are still there. Things my parents say this country has been fighting over for decades: healthcare, gun control, climate change, social justice.…Things that should have been solved decades ago. I take my time to read each paragraph and carefully fill in the circles on my ballot, a surge of pride coursing through me with each vote I make. I don’t know how Alec can say this doesn’t matter.
When I’m done, a man with round glasses takes my ballot and feeds it into the machine. “Thank you for voting,” he says, handing me a giant sticker that says I VOTED. I immediately peel it off, press it over my heart, and say, “Thank you.”
I must have taken longer than I thought, because the guy with the headphones is standing at the check-in desk, talking to the red-braid woman. His headphones are looped around his neck now. The woman scans the list all the way from top to bottom, page to page, until she gets to the end. She looks up at him and shakes her head.
“Sorry,” she says, her face sincerely full of apology. “You’re not on the list.”
“WHAT? ARE YOU SERIOUS?”
Shit. This can’t be happening. Not after Ma’s breakfast lecture, and the memories of Julian, and Ida’s complaining all the way here. I just want to get through this day, get to my gig, and kick ass on my drum solo.
No way in hell am I going home without that damn I VOTED sticker. But more than Ma, I’m scared of Julian. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’m pretty sure he’ll find some way to haunt the shit out of me if I don’t get this done.
The woman with red hair puts her hands up and looks at the line behind me. “I don’t know what to tell you. You’re not on the list. Is it possible you’re—”
“What’s going on here?”
With that tone, I figure some mom is stepping in to help, but when I turn around, it’s a girl my age. I squint at her. It’s the girl who was standing at the front of the line when I got here. I thought maybe she was a volunteer. Something about her looks official, like all she needs is a clipboard and nobody would ever question what she’s doing.
“Excuse me?” says the woman at the table, eyebrows all bunched up.
“You said he’s not on the list?” The girl looks at me now, her brown eyes flashing. “Are you registered?”
“Yeah…” I say slowly.
She turns back to the woman. “Then what’s the problem?”
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
The girl lets out the biggest, most exaggerated sigh, and I can’t help it. I laugh.
She glares at me. “This isn’t funny!” Then, to the woman: “I was just here. First in line to vote, remember?”