The Voting Booth
Page 6
We inch ahead, one person closer to the check-in table.
“No, I’m not sitting down,” she says. “What’s wrong?”
I look over. That is for sure an upset frown.
“DAD! WHAT’S GOING ON?”
He clears his throat a few times, and I can tell without even being there that he’s pacing. I think I get most of my nervous energy from my father. Which is weird, because my mom has an incredibly stressful job. Not only trying to keep people alive and help them heal, but making them feel good and safe at the same time. It sounds exhausting, but I rarely see her sweat, even after a double shift. I bet Duke would make a good nurse.
“Marva, I’m so, so sorry. But…I just got back from my trip to New York and I left the front door open while I was grabbing my luggage and the mail and…she’s gone.”
I frown. “What? Mom? Yeah, she had an early shift. She left before I did this morning.”
“No, honey. Selma. She escaped.”
My world tilts. With those two words, everything goes off-balance.
“Escaped?” I whisper.
“And I can’t find her.” My dad’s voice cracks as he says, “I’m so, so sorry, honey.”
“Dad, how…? But she’s never…”
“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “We’ve left the door open hundreds of times and she’s never even attempted to leave. She always acted scared of the outside.”
“Well, I can probably be home in”—I look at the line ahead of us; it’s barely even moving—“thirty minutes?”
“No, honey, it’s okay. I don’t want you to leave school. She probably hasn’t gone far at all. Probably just had the itch to see the world and she’ll be right back.”
I guess Mrs. Thomas hasn’t called him if he thinks I’m still at school. But, honestly, I don’t care if Mrs. Thomas told him she saw me having sex with a stranger in the parking lot of Drip Drop. All I care about is getting my Selma back.
“So you’re going to just wait it out?”
“Marva, no. She’s a member of the family. I’m going out to look for her now. I just don’t want you to worry too much. I’ll keep you posted, okay?”
I swallow hard, my throat thick from holding back tears. “Text or call me as soon as you know anything.”
“I will, honey. I promise.”
Duke is watching me as I hang up. “What happened?”
“My cat…she got out when my dad came home, and he can’t find her.” My voice chokes on that last word, but I take a quick breath and blink back the familiar sting in my eyes.
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. Do you need to go look for her?” He pauses, then: “Want me to come with you?”
“Oh.” I don’t know why I just assumed that if I were going to look for Selma, he’d come with me. It didn’t even seem like a question in my mind. “No, it’s okay. I mean, thanks. But my dad is going out to look for her now. I’m sure she hasn’t gotten very far.”
But I didn’t really believe that when my father said it, and I’m not sure I believe it now.
I NEVER WANTED A CAT.
It’s not that I don’t like them. I’ve always thought they’re so regal, the way they move so haughtily and stand tall, wrapping their tails around their legs like at any moment someone could paint a portrait of them. And I’ve always admired their ability to intimidate people with a simple glare.
But with the exception of a couple of fish, we never had pets until Selma. My parents were very clear that they had no intention of getting me a dog or a cat only to have to take care of it themselves. And I liked my friends’ dogs and cats, but I never felt a burning need to have my own. Or to clean a litter box.
Until Mom came home with that ridiculous black kitten my freshman year.
I was on my period, so I blame how fast I fell for Selma on my hormones being out of whack. But someone had found a litter abandoned in a cardboard box in the parking lot of the hospital, and she was so tiny, and when Mom walked in cradling her in a blanket, I immediately burst into tears.
“We’re not cat people,” I said as we watched her stumble across the blanket Mom had carefully placed on the living room floor.
“We’re not not cat people,” Mom said, perched on her knees at the edge of the blanket. “And she’s not so small that we can’t take care of her. The mother was nowhere to be found, but all the kittens’ eyes were open, and they’re able to walk.”
As if on cue, the kitten got tangled up in her own feet and toppled to the side. I clapped my hand over my mouth, worried she’d hurt herself, but she hopped back up with a little mew and started toddling around again.
“Do you like her?” Mom asked, watching me.
“Of course,” I said, though what I wanted to say was that I loved her. Instantly.
“Good. We know you’ve been having a tough time adjusting to your new school, and, well, an animal doesn’t fix everything, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to have a little companion around here.”
I didn’t say anything, but when I looked at her, she gave me a soft smile. And as embarrassing as it was to know my mom realized I was kind of a loser at my new school, it felt better than her not noticing.
When Dad got home, he joined us on the blanket, instantly smitten with her, too. We were too invested in our new family member to worry about dinner, so Dad ordered a pizza while Mom got a bowl of water and went next door to borrow cat food from the Cohens.
“She’s so fluffy, I wonder if she’s got some Maine Coon in her,” my mother said, placing the bowl on the blanket. “We’ll take her to the vet tomorrow.”
The kitten lapped it up with her teeny pink tongue, ran around some more, and scrambled up to my lap, collapsing into a sudden nap. I stroked her soft dark fur as she snoozed, my heart melting into a puddle every time she let out a snore.
“Looks like she’s chosen her favorite,” Mom said, smiling at us cuddling. “You get to name her.”
I knew immediately. “Selma,” I said, gently scratching her back.
I had recently read about the 1965 march in Alabama to bring attention to voting rights for Black people. Selma was a beautiful name, but she deserved something iconic, too.
She mewed in her sleep and burrowed even farther into my lap. Approval, I think.
Mom nodded. “Selma. I like it.” She bent down to rub her fingers over soft kitten ears. “Welcome to the family, Selma.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, WE’RE FINALLY AT THE head of the line.
I gotta admit, I was kinda nervous voting back at the church. Or trying to vote. I knew what I was supposed to do from going with Ma all those years, but realizing I was gonna be doing it myself for the first time was different. A pressure I’m not used to.
“Good morning,” says the man behind the table. “Name, please?”
“Duke Crenshaw,” I say, shaking away the déjà vu from earlier.
I’m holding my breath as his finger moves down the list in front of him, and when I glance at Marva, I think she is, too. The man frowns, shakes his head, and starts looking from the top once more.
Man, come on. This can’t be happening again.
Marva’s hands go up to her hips, ready for round two if it comes to that. But it won’t. It can’t. There’s no way I won’t be on this list. I triple-checked the location with Dad’s address, and this is where we’re supposed to be.
“Crenshaw, you said? You wouldn’t be under any other name?”
Next to me, Marva puffs up.
“No, just that one. Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he says, but he has the poll worker next to him check just in case. She shakes her head, too, after looking over it twice.
“Then he needs a provisional ballot,” Marva says, stepping forward.
The man and woman behind the table exchange looks, but I can tell they’re not up to arguing with Marva about her tone. She’s not rude, exactly. Just…the type of serious that makes people question whether they really want to get into it with her.
Marva tugs on my sleeve, standing on her tiptoes. I lean down a bit to make it easier for her to whisper in my ear. “You’re sure you’re registered, right?”
“Yeah, I told you—”
“I know what you told me, but you never checked. You should check, just to make sure. If you’re not registered, your vote won’t count and this will all be for naught.”
I snort. “Did you seriously just use the word naught?”
She sniffs. “Don’t act like it’s the first time you’ve heard it.” Then she pulls out her phone and starts typing. After a few seconds, she hands it to me. “Here. Plug in your information. This site will tell you if you’re registered.”
I feel like I’ve been chosen to work out a complicated calculus problem in front of the class. Everyone within hearing distance is watching this go down. The people in line behind us are shifting impatiently, sighing and crossing and uncrossing their arms. The man and woman at the table are looking back and forth between Marva and me, no doubt wondering what she’s going to do if my name doesn’t come up on this site.
I say a silent prayer as I type in my info. Partly because I’m wondering what Marva’s going to do if I’m not registered. But also because…I really hope I am. I don’t want to have dropped the ball on this. Sure, Marva seems to care more than most people I know, but she’s not wrong. This shit is important.
You are not registered to vote.
Oh god.
I can’t even say it. I just hand the phone back to her and look down at the floor.
“Okay,” she says in a low voice. Lower than I’ve heard her sound all day. “Okay.” She turns to the table again. “So, it turns out he’s not registered. Can he do same-day registration?”
“Wait, what?” I stare at Marva, then the poll worker. “You can do that?”
“Absolutely,” the man says. “Not every state has it yet, but you’re in luck, because we do—as of last year. We’ll just need to see your ID, and that counts as proof of residency if the address is current.”
I grab my wallet and pull out my driver’s license and—
“Christ.”
Marva’s face falls even further. “What.”
She’s so frustrated it’s not even a question.
“This…It has my mom’s address,” I say, waving my ID. “Where I live. So—”
She blows out a stream of air. “So we have to go back to the other polling place.”
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter. I don’t know if it’s to Marva or the poll workers or the whole room. Maybe it’s to the world, to apologize for my shitty existence. Why can’t I do anything right?
“Good luck,” says the man, looking from me to Marva and back to me again.
I nod and follow Marva out of the parent center, not making eye contact with anyone.
She’s walking so fast and I’m so busy trying to figure out how pissed she’s going to be that I’m not paying attention to anything around me. Or anyone.
“Duke.”
I close my eyes, half hoping it’s Ms. Amster again. But I know better than that. Because I’d know this voice anywhere.
I open my eyes and turn around. “Hey, Ma.”
I’M HALFWAY TO THE FRONT DOORS WHEN I REALIZE Duke isn’t shuffling along behind me.
But before I can turn around, my phone buzzes. I whip it out of my pocket and quickly pull up new texts from my dad:
Still no Selma, but Mr. Lehman thinks he saw her in his backyard earlier
I’m looking, honey
More soon
I type back a quick thanks. I feel sick. Mr. Lehman lives at the end of the cul-de-sac, which means Selma has probably crossed over to another street by now. Does she even know how to cross the street without getting hit? Does she even know Dad’s voice? I swallow.
And I really need Duke to hurry up so we can get to the church. I briefly thought about going back to school for the afternoon, but I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate on anything with Selma missing and all this voting drama.
When I turn to look for him, I see he’s standing a few feet outside the parent center. His back is to me, and he’s so tall I can’t tell who he’s talking to. Maybe that woman from earlier? I decide to head over there. If she’s still giving him shit about missing school, he’s going to need backup.
But as I get closer, I see it’s not the same person at all. This woman is also white, but she has a blond bob and she’s tall. Not as tall as Duke, but he doesn’t tower over her like he does me and most people. And she looks angry.
I’m too close by the time I realize it’s probably his mother. She sees me watching them, and at first, her lips don’t stop moving. But then, when I don’t move away quickly enough, she stops talking and stares.
Duke turns around and gives me a look. I can’t quite read it, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want me here right now. Too late.
“Uh, Ma, this is Marva. The girl I was telling you about. She’s been helping me vote. Or try to vote.”
“Hello,” I say, stepping forward with my hand out. “I’m Marva Sheridan.”
Duke’s mother appraises me for what seems like hours. Finally, she gives me a quick, firm handshake. “Hello, Marva. Duke tells me you’ve been driving him all around this morning.”
“Yes, his car broke down, so I offered. I’ve been working hard to get people to vote for the last two years, so…”
“And it’s all right with your parents that you’re not in school right now?”
“They appreciate my efforts to get everyone involved in the election.”
His mother narrows her eyes for a moment, then gives me a small smile. “A woman after my own heart. If you don’t mind, I need to speak with Duke for a few more minutes.”
“Of course,” I say. Then, to Duke: “I’ll wait for you out front.”
“Nice to meet you, Marva,” says his mother. “Thank you for helping my son.”
“Nice meeting you, too,” I say. “And it’s my pleasure.”
It’s my pleasure? My neck burns as I turn away from them. When I’m pretty sure they aren’t still looking at me, I power-walk to the front doors as fast as I can.
Sitting outside on a bench, I pull up the Eartha Kitty account and scroll aimlessly through the pictures. I’m a little embarrassed that I’ve taken such pains to keep this whole thing a secret. I’m not ashamed of Eartha Kitty, I just don’t think people would understand why I’m doing it. I’m the last person anyone would expect to have a page devoted to cute animals. Every time I see an account like this I assume it’s some silly fifth-grader or someone my parents’ age with way too much time on their hands. What if a college admissions board found out and thought I wasn’t a desirable candidate for their program?
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I start to brush them away at first, but then I think, Who the hell cares? My cat is missing and I love her and I want her back. Besides, is there a more appropriate place to cry than an elementary school? I bet not a day goes by here where someone doesn’t get caught bawling.
Alec is the only one who knows about Selma’s alter ego. I wonder if I should tell him that she ran away. Except I remember I never texted him back. I pull up our text chain, looking through our past messages.
Up until he texted last night, you wouldn’t even know we’d disagreed about colleges or voting, because we never discussed either in writing. Anyone looking at our messages would think everything was perfect between us. It was all making plans for dinners and movies and studying. Texting each other good night and good morning. Him checking if my mom’s bronchitis had cleared up, and me asking how his grandparents were doing up in Pearl Creek.
My eyes keep sliding back down to his last text, though.
Where are you?
I think a
bout texting back right now, letting him know everything that’s going on. He’s still my boyfriend, and checking in is what we do if we haven’t seen each other in a while. But he hasn’t followed up, so does he really even care where I am? He’s probably glad I’m not at school, reminding him of what an utter jackass he’s being about this election.
More texts come through from Dad.
Got another lead
Heading over to the park
I close my eyes. The park? That seems so big. Too big for my sheltered little Selma. I swipe back to her pictures, letting a tear fall as my eyes open and land on the one of her from Valentine’s Day. I think it’s a bullshit commercialization of love, but Alec is into it. Like, getting-me-two-dozen-roses-and-taking-me-to-the-nicest-restaurant-in-town into it. So, for our second Valentine’s Day together, I decided to get Selma in on the action. I posed her with roses (that she immediately tried to eat) and a satin red heart (ditto) and took a bunch of photos with the Valentine’s Day filter, which made it look like hearts were bursting out of her sweet little head.
What if Election Day is the last holiday I get to celebrate with her? What if she’s—
“Hey, sorry about that,” Duke says, standing over me. His tall form casts a long shadow across me and the bench.
“How mad is she?” I ask, swiping a finger under my eyes.
He shrugs. “Pretty pissed. But not about me missing school to vote. She’s actually okay with that, except that I didn’t tell her I was coming here. She didn’t like having to hear it from Ms. Amster.”
“So what is she mad about?”
“My sister…” He shakes his head. “It’s a long story.”
I nod, and when it’s clear he’s not going to expound on that, I say, “Well, should we head back to the church?”
“Yeah, I guess.…”
But he doesn’t sound so excited about it. And, truthfully, I’m not either. I want us to get there eventually. And we will, now that we know where he’s supposed to be and what he has to do to get that vote in. But right now, all I can think about is—
“Would you mind if we go back to my house and maybe look around a bit for my cat? I just can’t stop thinking about her. She’ll know my voice better than my dad’s, and I—”