Marva takes a couple of deep breaths, staring straight ahead at the stalled traffic. Then she looks in the mirror at Ida. “It’s been a day.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock,” Ida shoots back.
“It feels like midnight,” Marva mumbles. She pauses, then says, “I’m sorry, okay? His name is Alec Buckman. And…it’s cool that you go to protests. I tried, but I get too angry at the counterprotesters, so my parents figured it was best if I used my voice in other ways.”
Ida shrugs, traffic starts again, and the car is silent as Marva shuttles us to school. It might be my imagination, but I think she drives a little slower, too.
She swings the car into the circle drive at 8:05, five minutes before the late bell. Ida grabs her bag, calls out a hurried thanks to our chauffeur, and slams the door, running up to the building without waiting for me.
“Good luck,” Marva says, her eyes fixed on the dashboard.
“With my test?”
“Oh, yeah. That too.”
But I know she was talking about getting to my polling place. I’m pretty sure voting is the only thing that’s been on her mind all week…maybe months.
I grip my bag and look at the school. The first time Ma dropped me off here, FHH looked like a monster. It’s so much bigger than my old school, and Ma kept calling it a campus, which made me think of college, and I broke out in a cold sweat. I’d shot up four inches over the summer to six three, and I didn’t know what I was more afraid of—people knowing I was just a scared punk of a sophomore or them thinking I was a senior who knew a lot more than I did. I guess I shouldn’t have been so nervous, knowing Kendall went here…but that was stressing me out, too.
I glance at Marva again. “Thanks.”
“Uh-huh.” She puts her hand on the gearshift like she’s going to throw this thing into drive and gun it as soon as I get out. From what I’ve seen, she probably will.
But for some reason, I can’t make myself open the door. “Where you off to now?”
She gives me massive side-eye. “My fancy school. Where else?”
“You have a test?”
“What’s up with all the questions?”
I clear my throat. “I, uh, was wondering if the offer still stands?”
She finally looks at me, her eyes narrowed but curious. “What offer?”
“To help me find my polling place.” What the hell am I doing? I’ve already seen how she drives. Yeah, she’s kind of cute, but what if she’s a serial killer? I have a test today. And she’s got a boyfriend. I wouldn’t want my girl running around with some strange dude…if I had a girl.
But for the first time all morning, there’s something almost like a smile on her face. “Really?” Then she goes serious again, quick. “What about Calculus?”
I raise my shoulders and drop them. “I’ll figure it out.”
I’m eighteen, so I don’t need my parents to sign off on my absences. I’ll pretend I got food poisoning from breakfast (sorry, Ma) and beg Ms. McDonagh to let me retake it. She likes me, so I shouldn’t have to beg too hard. I hope.
“Oh.” Marva sits up straight, pulls on that pink braid, and gives me a real smile. “Okay, then. Let’s roll.”
I shake my head, laughing at how unnatural that sounds out of her mouth. “Yeah. Let’s roll.”
I SHOULD FEEL WEIRDER ABOUT SITTING WITH A strange guy at Drip Drop Coffeehouse on a Tuesday morning.
I try not to think about what Alec would say if he saw us. He’s been acting strange about the election lately, but he’s still very much my boyfriend. I wouldn’t want him thinking that I was doing anything to sabotage us. What we have is too good.
“What do you want?” Duke asks, staring at the giant chalkboard menu as he stands.
“Oh, I can get my own.” I unzip my bag to find my wallet.
“I got it. Least I can do since you’re helping me.”
“No, really—”
He gives me a long look. “Marva? I got it. What do you want?”
“An Americano with two shots,” I mumble.
“That what you had this morning?”
I nod. It feels like I stopped at Drip Drop a million years ago instead of two hours.
“Damn,” he says, shaking his head as he goes over to wait in line.
I sigh as I pull out my phone. He’s not the first person to judge my coffee consumption, and he won’t be the last. But I don’t drink, or smoke cigarettes or weed. I have to have something.
I look at Duke standing at the counter. He seems to be getting taller each time I look at him. What is it like to be that tall? I wonder if he plays basketball.
While he’s waiting, I pull up the new photos of Selma. I try to snap all her pictures in natural light, but it was too dark this morning, so she’s lit by the lamp of my bedroom. I had to take them first thing to commemorate Election Day. I’ll shoot more later with her wearing my voting sticker.
Keeping one eye on Duke as he approaches the counter and starts to order, I log into Selma’s social media and upload the most adorable photo. She’s sitting in the floofy folds of my duvet before I made the bed, looking absolutely angelic. I set a filter to make it sharper and brighter, caption it Happy Election Day!, and post it just as Duke puts his wallet back in his pocket and steps off to the side to wait for our drinks.
By the time he comes back to the table a few minutes later, the photo already has 336 likes. I used to worry about getting too political on her account. Selma is the only one I ever feature in the photos; people are 100 percent there for cute cat content. But one day, on a high from phone-banking, I came home with a campaign poster, posed her in front of it, and uploaded the photo before I could think too much about what I was doing. People loved it. Their comments were similar to what they’re posting today:
Happy Election Day, Eartha Kitty!
Cutest election kitty ever
Eartha Kitty, are you voting today?
I quickly close out of the app as Duke slides my cup toward me. “One Americano, two shots.”
“Thank you.” I do a double take at the mountain of whipped cream topping his mug. “What is that?”
He settles his long body into the chair across from me, knees jutting off to the side. “Hot chocolate.”
“Really?”
“You look like you’ve never seen anyone order a hot chocolate.”
“Well, I haven’t. Not anyone over the age of ten, anyway.”
Duke makes a face. “Should I get five shots of espresso so you’ll respect me?”
“You can start with three.” I smile so he’ll know I’m kidding. His face relaxes.
“So, how are we going to figure out where I’m voting?” he says, slurping at the whipped cream.
“Well, what’s your dad’s address?” I pull up the site for a polling place locator on my phone and push it toward him so he can type it in.
He stares at the phone for so long, the screen goes dark. I wave a hand in front of his face. “Hello?”
“Sorry, I…I don’t think I know my dad’s address.”
I blow on my coffee. “Did he just move?”