The Voting Booth

by Brandy Colbert

  “You went to Morehouse?” Duke is sitting with his hands in his lap, waiting for Dad to come to the table.

  I pick up my sandwich and nod toward his plate. “You don’t have to wait. We’re not that formal.”

  “Better eat it while it’s hot,” Dad offers from the stove, flipping over the slices of popping bologna. “And yup, class of 1992. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Are you headed off to college next year like Marva?”

  “I am.” Duke picks up his sandwich. I watch as he takes a giant bite, and it’s worth it to see how his face changes. From neutral to surprise to pure bliss, which I’m pretty sure was exactly how I felt the first time I had one of these. “Damn, this— I mean, this is really good, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “Call me Terrell,” Dad says right away.

  “Honestly, Terrell, I think I might be falling in love,” Duke says, swallowing after his second bite. “This is one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Glad you like it. And I hope you’re applying to my alma mater? Think you’d be a good Morehouse man, Duke.”

  Duke sets down his sandwich and wipes his hands on the paper towel next to his plate. “I know about Morehouse, but…I don’t know where I’m applying yet.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Alec and I haven’t had an easy time agreeing on the same schools, but I’ve known where I want to apply since freshman year. It’s hard to believe not everyone has had it planned out for so long, too. Though, the more I get to know Duke, the less it surprises me the way he does things. We’re complete opposites. In almost everything, it seems.

  “Well, if you ever want to talk to anyone about it, I’m happy to help.” Dad turns off the burner and moves the skillet to a cool one, assembles his sandwich, and joins us at the table, where Duke and I are both halfway done with ours.

  I guess I wasn’t the only one who’d worked up an appetite. It’s barely past noon, but it’s already been a day.

  “Marva, I was thinking,” Dad says as he sits down next to me at the round table, “maybe you could post something about Selma on her account.”

  If I could get away with it, I would totally kick him under the table right now.

  Duke looks back and forth between us. “What account?”

  Honestly, parents are not to be trusted with secrets.

  The Eartha Kitty account wasn’t a big deal at first. Everyone who’s ever met Selma has commented on how beautiful she is—even ardent non–cat people, who love nothing more than to tell you how much they are not into cats—so I thought she might get a few likes here and there when she was being particularly cute. But then other pet accounts started following and liking and reposting her photos, and she started getting a real following. Like, actual strangers and not just people who knew her in real life. And people from Salinas Prep, who had no idea I was the one behind the account.

  Then, like anything else I’m involved with, I started to take it seriously. I have a schedule for new content, which I set up to post in the future, always at the same time of day. I started coordinating Eartha Kitty’s posts with holidays and current events. And then, when the election campaigns began, I decided Eartha Kitty might as well help get the word out about voting. It turns out people love political posts involving cats, and her following grew by the thousands. I’m up to almost four hundred thousand. And I’m constantly combing through emails for sponsorship requests, trying to figure out which ones to entertain. I felt weird about it at first. Unethical. Selma didn’t ask for any of this. But the money was too good to pass up. Mom and Dad are already paying enough for my education at Salinas Prep—the least I can do is help out with my college tuition.

  But the more famous Selma’s alter ego became, the more nervous I got about anyone knowing. I want to be known as Marva Sheridan, aspiring attorney, not the girl who posts cutely staged cat photos for the masses. I’m student council president and in the running for valedictorian; I want to be known for my academic and civic accomplishments, not my social media skills. I finally told Alec, but only because he once stopped by unexpectedly and caught us in the middle of a photo shoot. I know for sure he hasn’t told anyone; nothing stays secret for long once it gets out at Salinas Prep. Your run-of-the-mill gossip about a crush can make it through the entire student body by fifth period.

  “You haven’t told him about Eartha Kitty?” Dad asks, taking a big bite of his sandwich. Mustard squirts out onto his shirt, and I think it serves him right for making me explain this to Duke.

  To be fair, Dad was the one who suggested her internet name. I laughed at first, because all I knew about Eartha Kitt the woman was that she had been a singer, played Catwoman a long time ago, and was considered a sex symbol. But Dad told me she’d done a lot of good, so I looked her up and was shocked to see how much she’d done. Why was she not also known for how she helped out underprivileged kids and spoke out against the Vietnam War and advocated for LGBTQ rights? She was even under CIA surveillance at one point because of her political views, but instead of being embarrassed, she told the New York Times they could print parts of her file and apparently said, “I have nothing to be afraid of and I have nothing to hide.” She was a total badass.

  And I guess…well, Eartha Kitt the woman gave me courage. If she could be a sex symbol and politically involved, why couldn’t I be a serious student and also have a social media account for my cat?

  At least, it made sense back then. Now…as I look at Duke, I wish I could disappear under the table.

  His eyes widen like slices of bologna when he puts two and two together. “Wait. Your cat…that’s missing…is Eartha Kitty? The Eartha Kitty?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say, keeping my eyes on my plate.

  He hoots. “You have, like, half a million followers! Man, Ida is gonna be obsessed with you.”

  My neck is burning so hot I think my braids might catch on fire. I shake my head. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “She’s for sure a big deal. Ida said people have written articles about her.”

  “Well, I don’t care about any of that. The Eartha Kitty stuff. I just want my cat back. Selma,” I say, finally looking at him. I don’t know what I thought I’d find when I met his eyes. Maybe a smirk or barely concealed laughter. He said earlier that he’s not into cats. What if he thinks it’s silly that I care so much?

  But he’s nice. Nicer than he has any business being, considering he spent an hour in the blazing sun helping me look for her and is now sitting at a strange table eating sandwiches with two strange people.

  That niceness is reflected in his eyes. And his voice, when he says, “I know. I’m sorry. She’ll come back, okay? You treat her too good for her to go anywhere else.”

  And I don’t know why I feel so comforted by his words when my father has been saying the same thing since he called to tell me the bad news. But dads are supposed to comfort you. It’s part of the job. Like knowing when to make my favorite sandwich. Duke doesn’t owe me anything. He’s only known me a few hours.

  “And maybe…” He exchanges a look with my father like they’re old friends. I don’t like it. “Maybe you should post that she’s missing. Who knows her better than her fans? You could get a ton of people looking for her, which is way more than what we could do.”

  He’s not wrong. But then I’d have to reveal our neighborhood, which seems too risky. And it would be like breaking the fourth wall, admitting that Selma is still a regular cat who does regular things, like try to run away. Part of the attraction is the illusion of her being perfect and almost an otherworldly feline.

  “I’ll think about it,” I finally say so they’ll stop looking at me.

  I WISH MY DAD WERE AS CHILL AS MARVA’S.

  As we finish up our sandwiches, he asks about my drumsticks. I don’t tell him that I started drumming for therapy and now I can’t imagine my life without it. Or that keeping my sticks with me is the fastest way to get rid of anxiety when it ratchets up so high I feel like I can’t breathe.

&
nbsp; I do tell him Drugstore Sorrow has its first paying gig tonight. He smiles real big and says, “All right now. You doing the thing, Duke.”

  “Trying to,” I say, my head dipping low as I run my knuckles over the sticks. I don’t think my dad’s ever been proud of anything I’ve done. Or if he has, he’s never said so. Not like Ma, who makes sure to tell us when we’re doing good, same as when we’re screwing up.

  He wasn’t always like this, my dad. He wasn’t always so irritated and impatient, and his temper wasn’t always so quick. A lot of things changed after my brother died, but I think my dad might be the biggest change of all.

  Marva pops the last bite of sandwich in her mouth, wipes her lips with a paper towel, and says, “We need to hit the road. The lines are only going to get longer the more we wait.”

  “Where you headed?” asks her dad as he scoops up our plates and takes them to the sink before I can get up to help.

  “To the church, so he can vote.” Marva stares at him. “Have you voted today?”

  “Yes, I stopped by on my way home from the airport because I knew you’d ask.” He pauses, nodding at the sticker on her shirt. “But you’ve already voted. Was this before or after Mrs. Thomas saw you at Drip Drop?”

  Marva’s mouth drops open. “I knew it,” she mutters. “Listen, it’s been a weird morning, Dad. But I swear, I’m not just skipping school for fun. Duke’s been having problems at the polls and—”

  “Honey, it’s fine,” he says, his mouth turning up in a smile. “Sheila needs to get a grip and worry about her own kids. Do you think I don’t know you wouldn’t cut school for fun? In fact, maybe you should cut school for fun sometime. Just to remind me you’re still a teenager?”

  “Yeah, sure, Dad. Thanks for lunch.” She kisses his cheek, then says, “Maybe you should leave the door open for Selma…or a treat on the porch or something?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve seen raccoons out during the day here. I don’t play with those monsters. I’m working from home the rest of the day, and I will let you know the second her paw crosses the porch steps.” He turns to look at me. “Duke, a pleasure. You’re welcome back anytime. And don’t forget about Morehouse.”

  My heart jumps just like it did the first time he said it. Morehouse is another reminder of Julian. He got in, a full scholarship and everything. It was his first choice. And I thought Dad was going to kill him when he said he was staying home instead to take classes at the local college so he could do work in the community.

  “Thanks, Terrell,” I say as we dap each other up. “I won’t.”

  On the way to the church, Marva drives the Volvo slowly down the side streets as she hangs her head out of the window, watching for Selma the whole way.

  I look over when we pass the blue house again. That was a good gig. One of our best. It was a good night, until what happened with Kendall.

  I don’t really drink a lot, but I was nervous that night. It was the biggest gig we’d booked so far. Svetlana’s cousin, who’s a year younger than us but knows more people at FHH than the whole band combined, was having a party and asked if we wanted to play. Svetlana signed us up without asking, which breaks, like, our number-one rule. We’re supposed to bring any opportunities to Kendall, since she’s our manager, and then we all talk it through before we commit. But we all got over it pretty quick. It’s not like we were gonna turn down the chance to play in front of actual people.

  Very drunk people…but people. Anthony said we’d play better if we were sober, so I didn’t have a drink until after the gig. By then, people were actually stumbling over their own feet and passing out on couches and stinking up the bathroom with puke.

  I didn’t do any of that. But I parked myself in the corner of the kitchen with Kendall and we claimed a bottle of cheap vodka and…I cringe as I think of that part of the night.

  “I seriously can’t believe how good the group is,” Kendall said, reaching for the vodka for the second—no, third? Fourth?—time.

  I held her blue plastic cup steady as she splashed more in. “What do you mean? You were, like, our only fan for a minute.”

  She laughed, slamming the bottle back down on the counter. Neither of us was wasted, but we were in that phase of drinking where everything is funny for some reason. I’d never gotten drunk with Kendall, and it was fun. She was fun. Which wasn’t a surprise. I had known her before she started helping out with Drugstore Sorrow, but she acted like being our manager was a job that paid her in more than a few thank-yous from the group and the occasional pizza after practice.

  “Exactly, Duke,” she said, shaking her head. “You guys have come a long way. A loooooong way.”

  I shook my head, slurping down more vodka and club soda as she cackled again.

  Then, suddenly, her face changed. And maybe I should’ve seen it coming, but everything was a little hazy and we’d just played like an actual band and I was happy. I still thought about Julian, but his death and wondering who shot him and why nobody cared to find out who had done it didn’t haunt me every second of every day.

  Kendall moved closer to me. There was barely a foot of space between us. “Do you ever dream about your brother?”

  The question was a shock down my spine. Julian’s death wasn’t a secret, but I didn’t talk to many people about it at FHH. Definitely not anyone besides her and the band. And the band only knew because we spent so much time together, not because I felt better when I talked to them about it.

  I looked around the kitchen. We were the only ones on this side of the room, and no one was listening, but still. It felt like a marquee had just lit up over our heads, announcing that a meeting of the Dead Brothers Club had come to order.

  “Uh, not really,” I said, swigging from my drink. The room was starting to spin, but if she was going to bring this up—now, here—I needed something to help me deal.

  “I had one. A dream last night. About Ethan.” She blinked at me, and her brown eyes were watery and I wasn’t sure if she was crying or if it was the vodka and…damn. I didn’t want to be there, and it made me feel bad because Kendall had been there for me. So many times.

  “Oh yeah?” I tried to sound chill, but beads of sweat were popping up on my forehead, and I really, really hoped she wasn’t going to go there.

  “Yeah, he was…exactly the same as he was before he died. Still being annoying as hell, still eating up all the food in the house. But…” She stopped, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. Then she swallowed and said, “But he was still dead. The gunshot wounds were…”

  I blew out a loud breath. “Damn.”

  “Yeah. It was like a dream and a nightmare all at once. To see him again, to be able to talk to him, but he was—”

  Those were for sure tears in her eyes. I took another drink.

  “You haven’t had dreams about him?” she pressed, stepping even closer to me. “Julian?”

  Kendall smelled so good, like flowers or something fresh. She looked good, too. Before I met her, I’d wondered if she’d look anything like the picture she’d sent me if I ever saw her in person. She looked exactly the same. Better, even.

  I glanced around the kitchen again. Nobody was paying attention to us. Some music was playing in the living room and it sounded like Anthony was messing around, freestyling on one of the mics. People were only stopping through the kitchen to get more to drink, not listen to us.

  But I felt weird about it, this conversation. I think I would’ve felt weird no matter where we were having it.

  “No,” I said, even though that wasn’t true. I’d had lots of dreams about my brother. But I talked to my therapist about that stuff. Not Kendall. I’d already told her so much online and over text, and honestly, the more I got to know her in person, the weirder I felt about how much she knew.

  “Oh,” she said. Her eyes moved down to her cup before she looked at me again. “Okay.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just…Do you ever think it was better when we only knew each oth
er online?”

  That was the second to last time she looked me in the eye.

  Now, in Marva’s car, I slip my phone out of my pocket. Maybe I should text Kendall. Try one more time.

  “Hey, is everything okay?” Marva nods toward my phone. “You looked kind of upset earlier. I’m not trying to pry, but—”

  “It’s all right,” I say quickly. “Your dad cooked me lunch. Only fair if you know about my family, huh? And nah…everything’s not okay. Not really. My parents are pretty pissed at me and my sister. Especially my dad. I kind of helped her do something that I knew would make him and my mom flip their shit if they found out. And they did.”

  I don’t want to say more. Not because Ida’s ashamed. She took the risk because of something she believes in. It’s just not my story to tell, even though I was right there to bail her out and drive her home, where we had dinner with Ma, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The police didn’t call Ma or Dad because I’m eighteen and I had the money to get her out. I figured she’d tell them before they heard, but she’s good at keeping secrets, just like Julian was. Good at knowing when to upset our parents and when to keep her mouth shut. But, apparently, my sister, who is usually super smart about things, didn’t think about the fact that her arrest record was public and someone we know might see it and tell our parents.

  I’ve been texting Ida since I talked to Ma, but she’s not responding. She didn’t answer her phone when I tried to call either.

  “Are you scared of your dad?” Marva asks, turning on her right blinker to switch lanes.

  “Nah. He didn’t use to yell like this when my brother was around. I think…” I pause. Debate whether I should get into this. People get real curious about dead family members. Especially when they died young.

  Marva looks over, waiting.

  “I think he blames himself for Julian’s death.”

  And that it was harder on him than he’ll ever admit. Sometimes, the way he looks at me, I wonder if he wishes it had been me instead of Julian. I wonder that with both my parents, even though Ma hides it better.