Most Likely

by Sarah Watson

  “Sorry,” he said. “So you were asking about the restricted park hours?”

  “Actually, I was asking about the timing. The developer met with the councilman. Then he shortened the park hours. Are you telling me that was a”—his phone rang again—“coincidence?” she said under her breath.

  “Office of Councilman Kenneth Lonner,” he said as he picked up. “Oh, hello, Councilman. Yes. Of course. Right away.”

  He hung up the phone and stood in one solitary motion. “I’m afraid I have to cut this short. I’m getting pulled into a meeting now.”

  Was he serious? She met his eye. “But you haven’t answered any of my questions.”

  “I really am sorry.”

  Jordan was too angry to be intimidated by him anymore. “You promised me twenty minutes.”

  Scott sighed, and at that exact moment, his phone rang again. He laughed at the absurdity of it. Jordan did not. So he stopped laughing too. “One sec,” he said to her. “Office of Councilman Lonner. Scott Mercer speaking.”

  Jordan couldn’t believe this. She grabbed her phone from his desk and tossed it in her purse. “Thank you so much for your time,” she said flatly, and started to walk out.

  “Jordan. Wait.”

  She turned back.

  “Can you hang on for just a second?” he said into the phone. He put the call on hold. “Look, how about this. If you can come back, I’ll give you your full twenty minutes. It’ll give me time to talk directly to the councilman and get you an answer on what you were asking about. Because I honestly don’t know. But I’ll get you an answer, and I’ll give you your twenty minutes. You have my word.”

  Another line on Scott’s phone rang. He threw up his hands like he couldn’t believe it. This time Jordan did laugh. So Scott laughed too. “And, Jordan, maybe we should make it outside of business hours. Do weekends work for you?”

  Jordan nodded. “You had me at ‘I’ll give you your full twenty minutes.’”

  “How about Saturday? Elevenish?”

  “Let me consult my iCal.” Jordan knew she was free, but she made a big show of checking. “I can make that work.”

  “Great,” Scott said. He smiled and his blue eyes sparkled. “It’s a date.”

  “‘It’s a date’?” CJ was sprawled across Ava’s mom’s king-size bed with Ava on one side of her and Martha on the other. The three of them were staring at Jordan’s phone like it was an old-timey radio, not an iPhone balancing upright on a purple PopSocket playing back a recording of her interview. “What a creepy thing to say.”

  Jordan poked her head out from the master bedroom closet. “It didn’t come out that way. I think he was just flustered.” She smiled triumphantly. “I flustered him.”

  “Hell, yeah, you did,” said Martha before rolling onto her back. She grabbed a pillow and clutched it to her chest. “Did you hear that the Tylers started a YouTube channel about saving the park?”

  CJ nodded. The Tylers were Tyler Welles and Tyler Ziegler, and they were best friends. Mostly because they were both named Tyler. “But have you seen it?” CJ asked. They were asking people to share their fondest park memories. In theory, it was a great idea. In execution, it was a disaster. “I’m not sure that a video of Grayson fondly remembering the time he got stoned underneath the slide is really going to help our cause.”

  Jordan hovered in front of the closet. “I feel weird about this.” She turned to Ava. “Are you sure your mom won’t mind?”

  “She won’t even notice anything’s gone. The stuff for Goodwill is in the back. It should be in a grocery bag.”

  If Jordan was going to pull off a second interview, she needed a new professional outfit. Ava had graciously offered up the suits from her mom’s reject pile. As Jordan rooted around in the closet, Martha pulled up one of the Tylers’ videos. Sasha, a drama-club girl with bright-green eyes and a vacuous personality, delivered an overly dramatic monologue about how evil the city was for “oppressing our right to self-expression.” It was not convincing, and it made CJ feel tense. Like everything was up to them. She sat up and rubbed at her temples.

  Sasha’s video finished, and Martha clicked on the next one. CJ was too distracted to watch. Something that had happened earlier that day was nagging at her. She grabbed the pillow from Martha and held it to her chest.

  “Hey,” said Martha. “There are like ten other pillows on this bed. Take one of those.”

  CJ didn’t give the pillow back. She hugged it tighter. “I had my meeting with the college counselor today.”

  Jordan emerged from the closet. “Is this it?” She held up a grocery bag. “What’s wrong with CJ?”

  CJ loosened her death grip on the pillow. “You had your meeting with Ms. Fischer today too, right?”

  “Yeah,” Jordan said.

  “Was it…” CJ didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

  “It was… fine,” Jordan said tentatively in a way that made CJ think it was better than fine. “Why? How was yours?”

  “Not fine. When I said that Stanford was my dream, she pursed her lips. Like, literally. She said that it was admirable to shoot for the stars but that we should talk about some realistic options too.”

  “That’s just how she is.” Martha snatched the pillow back. “She told me to give myself more options too.”

  “Me three,” said Jordan. “Sorry, CJ. You’re not special.”

  Ava didn’t add anything to the conversation. She was the only one who hadn’t had her meeting yet.

  Jordan dumped the contents of the grocery bag onto the floor. Designer clothes scattered everywhere.

  CJ grabbed another pillow from the head of the bed. This one had fringe at the edges, and she ran her fingers through it. “She told me that BU would be a good option.”

  “Really? Me too.” Jordan sounded excited. “Maybe we will end up at college together. How fun would that be?” Jordan sifted through the pile of clothes and pulled out a little black suit dress. “This is cute.” She held it up to herself. “She said it’s a perfect safety school.”

  Ms. Fischer had not called it a safety school when she brought it up to CJ. They spent the rest of the meeting focusing on CJ’s SAT score. Ms. Fischer came at her with a stern warning about making the time to study even if it meant sacrificing her social life for a few weeks. CJ hated how meek her voice had sounded when she asked if there were other things to focus on to make up for her SAT score.

  Ms. Fischer had acknowledged that CJ’s GPA was outstanding and that her long list of extracurriculars would mean something. Maybe if you nail the essay. And I mean, really nail it. You don’t want to have to rely on that, though. Then she gave CJ practical tips about SAT study guides and free computer programs. CJ was too embarrassed to say that she’d done all those things already.

  Jordan unbuttoned her pants and kicked them off. She stood there in her Wonder Woman undies eyeing the dress. CJ wished she could be that relaxed in her underwear. Even around her friends, she was always doing the thing where she crossed her arms in front of her stomach to hide it. She stood up. “I have to go.”

  Jordan was just stepping into the dress. “Wait. No. You can’t.”

  “I have to.”

  “What about the park?” Jordan asked.

  “I’m sorry,” CJ said. She couldn’t focus on the park right now. She would focus after the SATs were over. She needed to get home; she needed her SAT flash cards in her hands to feel like she was doing something. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. Then she left.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARTHA ONCE saw a documentary about veal production. She learned that the calves were housed in restrictive pens because the lack of movement made their meat more tender. That’s how she felt whenever she worked in the tiny movie theater ticket booth. Like a constricted, doomed calf.

  It was Saturday morning, and she was perched on the stool in the little booth, painting her nails with Wite-Out and thinking about next year. College applications had everyone in knots. Mar
tha included. Though her knots weren’t so much about getting in as they were about how she would pay for it when she did. Everyone told her to apply for financial aid like it was no big deal. Like they didn’t understand that the money had to be paid back. Her top choice, MIT, was more than fifty grand a year. Once you added room and board, Martha calculated that she’d be graduating $280,000 in debt. At least. It made her feel sick. If she went to Cleveland State, she could probably get enough scholarship money to cover tuition. She could live at home and save even more money that way. She could keep working at the movie theater. Thinking about it made her feel more relaxed. It also made her feel like veal.

  “I’m bored.” The voice came from behind her. “I’m so borrrrrred.”

  Martha turned to find Victoria in the doorway. She was dressed in a pair of tiny tattered cutoffs (the kind that were tattered by Abercrombie & Fitch, not by life) and a scoopy little top that showed her delicate collarbones.

  “Weird,” said Martha, carefully painting her pinkie nail. “I’m having the time of my life.”

  “Is that a joke? American humor is sometimes hard for me to get.”

  Martha put the cap back on the Wite-Out and shook her hands to dry them. “Definitely a joke.”

  There wasn’t a lot of space in the ticket booth and only one stool, so Victoria leaned against the counter. She was so close to Martha that their knees were practically touching. “What do you do to pass the time?” Victoria asked.

  Martha blew on her nails in an obvious and exaggerated way.

  “Oh. That’s a boredom thing,” Victoria said. “I assumed it was a style choice.” Martha laughed, and Victoria turned around so she could look out the window. “It’s so strange, all these people walking by and living their lives while we’re stuck in here.”

  Martha considered telling her about the veal documentary. “Saturdays are always slow. Maybe you can talk to your uncle about his choice to show obscure foreign films that no sane person would ever pay money to sit through. I’ll bet you one George Washington that we don’t get a single customer today.”

  Victoria’s eyes lit up. “I will take that bet,” she said quickly. She leaned forward, which caused her butt to press up against Martha’s knees. “Hello, good sir,” she said into the microphone. “Are you here for the obscure foreign film?”

  Victoria had been blocking the window—she was still blocking the window—so she had seen what Martha had not. A real live customer walking up to the ticket booth.

  “You have to press the button or they can’t hear you, weirdo.” Martha playfully shoved Victoria out of the way to reveal a customer looking very confused on the other side of the glass. Martha sighed when she saw who it was. She pressed the button that activated the microphone. “What do you want, Diffenderfer?”

  Logan blinked a couple of times. “Oh. Hey, Martha. I’ll take a ticket for the matinee.”

  “And I’ll take that dollar,” Victoria said to her with a smirk.

  Martha muted the microphone. “You haven’t won yet, Queen Victoria. It may seem like you have the advantage now, but this is going to end just like the Revolutionary War did.” Martha grabbed the microphone and spoke into it. “You sure, Diffenderfer? The movie is obscure. And it’s Polish.”

  “Actually, it’s French,” he said. “The director is Polish.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then immediately took them out again like he was embarrassed that he knew this. “So could I get a ticket? Just one. It’s just me. I’m by myself.” Or maybe he was embarrassed about being alone.

  Victoria gave Martha a triumphant smirk and pressed the microphone button. “That’ll be seven dollars, please.” He gave her the money, and she gave him the ticket. “I’ll meet you at the front to take your ticket. Enjoy the show.”

  After he walked off, Martha did a slow clap. “Well played, Queen Victoria.”

  Victoria curtsied. “If England had had a queen instead of a king at the time of the American Revolution, the war would have ended a little bit differently.” Then she smiled and put out her hand for payment. “That’ll be one dollar. One George Washington, please.”

  Martha reached for her wallet. “Fine,” she said. “But you forgot something.” She took a coin out of her wallet and pressed it into Victoria’s hand. “George Washington is also on the quarter.”

  Victoria laughed, and Martha noticed that it was a good laugh. She also noticed how warm and smooth Victoria’s hand felt when she put the quarter in it.

  “Come on,” Victoria said. “Let’s sit in the back and watch the movie.”

  “You want to sit through a Polish film about sadness?”

  “It’s French. And that guy is cute.”

  Jordan felt strong and prepared as she pulled into the parking lot of the district field office. Scott had warned her that the receptionist didn’t work on Saturdays and that she should text him when she got there. He came outside to let her in, and she saw that he was weekend casual in a pair of jeans and a preppy button-down. She felt ridiculously overdressed in Ava’s mom’s suit dress. “I have a thing later,” she blurted. “A luncheon. At a fancy place. Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said. “Nice to see you again.” He put his hand out and she shook it. “Come on back.”

  As she followed him down the hall, she noticed that most of the offices were dark today. They stopped in front of a large glass-walled conference room. “I thought this would be more comfortable than my tiny office.”

  “Great,” she said, shifting and tugging at the edge of her dress.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The dress was stupidly tight, and she could barely breathe. She sat carefully in the chair that was offered, tucked one stilettoed foot behind the other, and tilted her knees slightly to the right. It was the “duchess lean,” popular with British royalty, who did it to keep from flashing their royal undies, and repurposed now by Jordan who did it to keep from exploding out of her dress. “Let’s get started,” she said, sucking in as hard as she could.

  “I really do apologize about before. Coffee?”

  The only time Jordan ever drank coffee was when she ordered a blended mocha with extra whipped cream, and she guessed that wasn’t what was being offered. “No, thank you.”

  She watched impatiently as Scott poured himself a cup from a pot on the back table. She was desperate to start the interview. Mostly because she was desperate to go home and unzip this dress so she could breathe again.

  “So,” he said, “how’s your Saturday?”

  Jordan shifted. “I’d love to get started.” It came out curt and she tried to recover. “Since I have that luncheon later.”

  “Sure,” he said. He seemed nervous. She hoped he was. It would mean that they had really uncovered something worthwhile. A nefarious plot to support a developer. Maybe her article would win an award. It might even get so much attention that the admissions people at Northwestern would see it. She leaned over to dig her phone out of her bag—it was already in airplane mode this time—and set it between them.

  “Okay,” Jordan said. “The question I was asking was about timing. Councilman Lonner introduced an ordinance that limited the hours at Memorial Park just two weeks after the developer first submitted her proposal. How does he explain that?”

  “I spoke with the councilman about it,” he said. “The reason he introduced that ordinance was because of neighbor complaints.” Jordan waited for Scott to go on. “You know how part of my job is to log constituent complaints? The people who live along the park, one household in particular, became very vocal about their frustration with the drug dealing that was going on there. They felt that it was becoming unsafe. The councilman met with them and agreed that their concerns were valid, so he introduced the initiative to limit park hours.”

  “And that happened right after the developer met with him? Seems a little coincidental.” Jordan leaned forward, waiting for him to crumble.

  He didn’t.

  “
No. The constituent meeting was before, actually. It always takes a few weeks to draft an ordinance. I guess that does seem pretty coincidental, though.” He shrugged. “Yeah, I could see how that looks weird. But no. It really was a coincidence. Are you sure you don’t want coffee? Or some water?”

  Jordan shook her head. She jotted down some notes to give herself a second to regain her composure. She had one more question, and she wanted to make sure it came out with strength. “How does the councilman justify the developer’s donation to his campaign?”

  She knew the exact amount. It was written on her whiteboard. The developer had given the maximum legal limit.

  Scott sipped his coffee. He seemed genuinely confused. “Justify it?”

  “The developer contributed the maximum possible donation. Now the councilman is supporting her project.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I see where this is going. The councilman takes donations from a lot of people. With a lot of opposing viewpoints. I can assure you that they in no way sway his decision-making.”

  Jordan watched him carefully. She noted that he didn’t show any signs that he was lying. There was no change in his voice or body language, and he maintained eye contact. His calmness bothered her. She’d hoped to nail him with this question. She would have to press harder. She wasn’t willing to entertain the other possible option: that he was telling the truth.

  CJ barely left her house that weekend. Her friends sent her constant updates, so she knew that Jordan’s interview hadn’t gone the way they’d all hoped it would. CJ felt guilty for not being with them as she sat at her desk and studied her cards and took SAT practice test after SAT practice test. On Sunday night, her dad cracked her bedroom door open and peeked in. “Mom wants to know if you’re coming to dinner or if we should just slide a tray under the door prison-style.”