The Voting Booth Read online

  Text copyright © 2020 by Disney Publishing Worldwide

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  Designed by Marci Senders

  Cover art © 2020 by Stephanie Singleton

  Cover design by Marci Senders

  ISBN 9781368053686

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Marva.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  About Alec.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  About Julian.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  About Selma.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  About Ida.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  About Alec, Part 1

  Duke.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  About Dad.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  About Julian, Part 2

  Marva.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  Duke.

  Marva.

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  FOR MY HERO,

  FANNIE LOU HAMER

  I DON’T LIKE IT WHEN PEOPLE MAKE HYPERBOLIC statements, so I really mean it when I say I’ve been waiting for this day my entire life.

  November 3. Election Day. But not just any election day—it’s the first one that I’ll be able to vote in. Finally.

  I’m still doing my morning stretches when there’s a knock at my door.

  “Come in.” I bring my right knee up to my chest to stretch my lower back. At the foot of my bed, my Maine Coon, Selma, does her own kitty stretches, flexing her furry paws.

  “Morning, sweetie.” My mother is standing in the doorway of my bedroom, holding her NURSES CALL THE SHOTS coffee mug. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t oversleep for the big day.”

  “Mom.” I peer around my knee to give her a look. “When was the last time I overslept?”

  She takes a sip of coffee, thinking, then shrugs. “Never, I guess. You even showed up two weeks before your due date.”

  “Early is on time and on time is late,” I say, pulling up my other knee. “That goes for babies, too.”

  Mom shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Is Alec going with you to the polling place?”

  My leg falls back to the bed. “I’m not currently speaking to Alec.” Well, he doesn’t know that—but that doesn’t make it any less true.

  “What in the world did Mr. Perfect do to make you so mad?”

  I wish she didn’t look so amused. I hate it when adults do that—act like what we’re going through isn’t serious just because we’re younger than them. She knows I hate that, and I can tell she’s trying to swallow her smile, but it’s not working. And it just makes a fresh wave of anger roll through me.

  I sit up, lace my fingers together, and bend at the waist, stretching my arms over my head. “He’s not voting.”

  That makes the smile drop. “Your Alec?” She pauses. “Isn’t voting?”

  “He says it doesn’t make a difference. That the two-party system is antiquated and useless.”

  He’s said more than that over the past couple of days, but I truly thought he’d change his mind. We’ve been together for almost two and a half years, since we were sophomores. I know him better than anyone. I also know that he can be stubborn, and that I can usually sway him in the most stubborn of moments. Not this time.

  “But he’s been canvassing with you.” Mom frowns, straightening the top of her scrubs.

  “And text-banking and visiting senior centers to get people registered,” I add, shifting my stretch to the other side. Selma looks at me and yawns.

  Alec was all in—or at least I thought he was. I glance at my phone on the nightstand, thinking of the last text he sent before I went to sleep last night:

  I’ve thought about this, and you’re not going to change my mind, Marv. It’s my choice, not yours.

  I didn’t respond.

  “Well, the polls are open until seven. He still has time to come to his senses.”

  I’m not holding my breath. Besides, things have been weird with Alec since we had the big college talk a couple of weeks ago. I’m not sure what’s going on with us, but I need to set it aside for now. I’ve been waiting for this day forever.

  Okay, so that was a little hyperbolic. But I have been interested in politics since I was a little girl. My second-grade teacher asked us to write down three things we wanted to be when we grew up. My choices were secretary of state, environmental attorney, and Supreme Court justice. Honestly, I’m pretty impressed with seven-year-old me for already knowing what she wanted.

  “I’d better get out of here.” Mom slugs the rest of her coffee, then swiftly crosses the room to give me a kiss. “Have a good day, sweetie. Try not to let Alec’s civic irresponsibility wreck this for you.”

  Selma meows, looking right at my mother with her big hazel eyes.

  “You have a good day, too, Selma,” Mom says, scratching her soft little head before she leaves.

  I finish stretching, untie my satin sleep scarf, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Mom is right. I can’t let Alec mess up this day for me.

  It’s way too important for that.

  “CUTTING IT A LITTLE CLOSE THIS MORNING, aren’t you?”

  “Forgot I had to get up early today,” I say, leaning in to kiss Ma’s cheek as she cracks eggs into a bowl.

  Ma turns around, abandoning the eggs. “Duke Benjamin Crenshaw. Are you joking?”

  “Yup,” I say quickly, turning away to pour a glass of OJ so I don’t have to look at her face. “Like I could forget today.”

  It’s Election Day, and there are no jokes when it comes to politics in my house. Just nonstop talk about candidates and policies and campaigns. For real, every year feels like election year around here. And I know what Ma is thinking but won’t say to me: What would your brother think? This is no laughing matter.

  Julian died two years ago, but his name seems to always be on the tip of my mom’s tongue. Ready to remind me of all the ways I’m not like him. All the ways I’m failing to honor his memory.

  My little sis, Ida, stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.

  I snicker.

  “What?” She shoots me a dirty look through her sleepy gaze as she plops down into her seat at the table.

  “Wearing your sleep cap to school?”

  She touches her head and groans. “It’s too early. Why can’t you go vote and come back for me? Or maybe Dana and her dad can swing by and get me?”

  The skillet clatters on the stove.

  “Absolutely not!”

  Damn. I really don’t want to see Ma’s face now.

  I slide a glass of juice in front of Ida and pop some bread in the toaster. Just in case. Ma might revolt and decide not to make us breakfast if we keep this up, and I need something stronger than cereal for today.

  “You may be too young to vote, but you can still come along and see what it’s all about,” she says to Ida. “You�
�re never too young for democracy.”

  “I know,” Ida grumbles. I’m impressed she doesn’t remind Ma that we both went with her and Dad to vote in the last presidential election, but I think she knows not to push it.

  Ma scrambles her famous cheesy eggs silently for a couple of minutes, then puts two plates in front of us. I bring over the toast and the butter dish. We sit down at the same time.

  “Listen,” Ma says with a sigh. She pushes a hand through her short blond hair. “I know you could never forget how important this is, but you have to remember, these candidates are going to shape policies for years. And so many of the issues on the ballot and in their campaigns were important to Julian—gun violence in particular, but there’s also immigration reform, prison reform.…So much is at stake. He would be so disappointed if he knew you weren’t taking this seriously.”

  Both Ida and I drop our eyes to our laps. But Ma doesn’t let us off the hook that easily.

  “Duke.”

  I look up at her.

  “He used to go over calendars with you and show you the date you’d be able to vote. He was so excited for you to turn eighteen.” She looks at my sister. “And, Ida, I know you weren’t around when Julian first got involved in our old community, but he came so far and—well, I guess I’ll never stop wondering what he could have accomplished.”

  “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?”

  The woman sighs and leans back in her seat. I adjust my headphones around my neck, looking back and forth between the two of them.

  “I’m Marva Sheridan,” the girl snaps. “I already voted. My first time. And maybe this would be his first time, too.” She looks at me for confirmation. I nod. “This is his first time, too. You can’t deny him this right.”

  I feel bad for laughing. She’s so serious about this, like the girl version of Julian, minus the dreads. I look at her a little closer and realize she’s kind of cute. Even with that hard look on her face. She’s shorter than me. Then again, everyone is shorter than me—I’ve heard enough basketball comments to last about ten lifetimes. But she barely comes up to my shoulder. Her skin is this nice dark shade of brown, and she has black braids hanging down her back with one bright pink one looped over her right ear.

  “Hey,” I say softly, glancing at the woman behind the table before I look at her. Marva. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s actually not okay.…” She pauses, clearly wanting to use my name but not wanting to ask for it.

  With anyone else, I’d probably make them sweat a little because I can kind of be a dick like that when I want to be. People take shit too seriously most of the time, and it’s fun reminding them. But she just looks so damn earnest, and I don’t know why, but I somehow feel like the wrong word could make this entire day crumble for this girl I’ve never met.

  “Duke,” I say. Then I add, “Crenshaw.”

  I know her first and last name. Only seems fair.

  She blinks like she wasn’t expecting that and tugs on the pink braid as she says, “It’s actually not okay, Duke. Have you heard of voter suppression?”