Chapter Eleven
True to her word, Amanda emails me the next morning with confirmation that she’ll allocate ten thousand dollars from her PR budget toward the festival.
We can put any festival-related expenses up to that amount on the Ryser Cares corporate card, and I’ll just have to submit expense reports detailing our festival spending.
Reading her email with the expense report instructions, I grow certain that these logistical details must be what she was referring to on awards night.
She probably wanted to make sure I was okay with submitting tedious paperwork.
And I am. I put the matter out of mind and move on to sharing the exciting news with my team: we officially have our funding.
Marina comes by that afternoon to start planning.
The three of us sit around the oval table in the office’s one meeting room as Arun patiently walks us through the logistics of planning an event on public property.
He points us to Greenstead’s Parks, Recreation, and Tourism Department website, a dubious-looking page with nearly impossible-to-read white text against a gray background.
We squint our way to its permits section and click on the application for throwing a large event.
We select Juniper Park as the location, both because it’s where the apple festival has always been held and because there aren’t many other options.
Juniper Park is the biggest park in Greenstead, boasting sixty acres of open space.
Somehow the idea of throwing a festival in the second-largest open space in Greenstead—a supermarket parking lot—doesn’t quite have the same appeal.
For the festival’s date, we enter the second weekend of October.
It’s when the festival used to be held, right during Greenstead’s peak apple season.
It’s when our vendors have the most availability.
It’s just within the ninety-day advance-notice period the application requires for festivals and events—which is for the best, since it’s going to take us at least that long to learn how to throw a festival, even with Arun’s tutelage.
And it won’t compete with the Halloween events we know Solar Summit runs from mid-to-late October.
Never has there been a more perfect date than the weekend of October 11, we decide, entering it on the application.
Until the page flashes a bright-red banner in our face to announce that October 11 is taken.
“How is it taken?” Marina says, pulling back like the page has personally insulted her. “Greenstead doesn’t even do events anymore.”
Next to her, Arun pivots the laptop in his direction and tries selecting the date again, to no avail. “Someone must be doing something on the 11th,” he says.
“Can we pick a different day?” I ask.
“We could , but it wouldn’t work as well,” he replies, running a hand through his hair.
“If we go later, we’re competing with Solar Summit’s Halloween events.
If we go earlier, we’re competing with the state fair—and losing all the vendors who’re gonna be exhibiting there.
Any earlier than that and we won’t have enough time to plan it properly. ”
Between us, Marina crosses her arms, glaring at the screen. “It can’t be possible that someone else is throwing an event in Juniper Park on October 11. Every vendor in the county is wide open that day. What could it be?”
I slouch in my seat. Is this the curse of Ryser Cares? Even when we think we’re doing something good, making a difference, some embittered whisper slinks from the drab walls of this office to remind us we’re destined for failure?
Arun doesn’t seem to think so. He pulls out his phone and calls the number at the top of the application, determination in his eyes.
We listen as he gets through to someone, explains our predicament, and asks about the October 11 slot.
He listens and nods. I can only stare at the bioluminescent jellyfish on his shirt and implore them to bring us luck.
After a long pause, he hangs up with a resigned sigh.
“They said Juniper Park is booked for an event that day, but they won’t say what.”
“Like there’s any reason to keep it that top secret,” Marina grumbles.
“What now?” I ask. The application page flashes a new color at us—a pastel-yellow this time—and threatens to time out. We all watch it forlornly without making a move.
“We could try a different date?” Arun suggests. “We wouldn’t have as many vendors, and not as many people would come, but…”
“No,” Marina says, sitting upright. “We’re getting the eleventh.”
“How?” I ask, but she’s already pulling her phone from the pocket of her dress. She brings the phone to her ear, eyes blazing. When no one seems to pick up, she huffs through her nostrils.
“Fine,” she says, standing up. “I’ll go in person.”
“I’ll go with you,” I say, mostly out of curiosity. It’s kind of refreshing, not being the subject of Marina’s ire. Even if I’m just an onlooker and not the sounding board I used to be, it’s a nice change of pace.
Greenstead’s town hall is a two-story building with grimy, off-white pillars descending to the ground like jail bars.
Marina marches inside, and I have to jog to catch up.
Once we enter the building, I catch a glimpse of the words PARKS, RECREATION, AND TOURISM and 1st FLOOR on a sign that looks like it’s from the ’70s, but Marina heads straight for the elevator.
She pushes the button for the second floor, then stares right ahead, her jaw set. I have to fight the urge to ask where the hell we’re going. Instead, I remain silent and let the elevator groan its way to the floor above.
On the second floor, Marina expertly weaves through a maze of corridors until we reach an open set of weathered wooden doors. The words MAYOR’S OFFICE hang above the doors in bronze lettering—except the R is missing, with just a faded outline of where it used to be.
She enters through the doors and moves past the receptionist sitting at the first desk, who doesn’t look surprised to see her.
Marina doesn’t stop until she reaches a desk against the back wall.
I recognize the person sitting there, head down as they scribble notes in the margins of a document.
It’s Jess from the Chamber of Commerce meeting, whose Solar Summit proposal was met with unwarranted ridicule.
“Hi,” Marina says. The word is reluctant yet full of determination.
Jess lifts their head, blinking in surprise. “Hey.” Their eyes flit from Marina to me, then back to Marina, like they’re trying to solve a riddle.
“I need to ask a favor.” Marina pulls out one of the wooden chairs in front of Jess’s desk and takes a seat.
I take that as my cue to sit down, too, even though I’m still trying to make sense of what’s happening. Clearly they know each other, but Marina’s normally…friendly to people she knows.
Jess’s eyebrows lift slightly, and the corners of their mouth perk up. “Okay,” they say slowly.
“Someone booked Juniper Park for the date we need it for the apple festival. I need to know who it was.”
“The parks department’s on the first floor,” Jess says.
“They won’t tell me anything. So I thought…” Marina lifts a brow.
Jess lowers their chin. “You need to stop making me butt in on other departments’ stuff. Roberta in the Treasurer’s Office stopped bringing her biscotti up here after I waived your late fee for you.”
“I shouldn’t have to pay a late fee if she sent my tax bill to the wrong address!” Marina protests.
An easy smile slips onto Jess’s face, like this is ground the two of them have tread many times before. “All I know is I haven’t had pistachio biscotti in over a year, and I’m not trying to piss off Alex in Parks. He has the good Post-its.”
“Okay, but…” Marina tilts her head toward Jess’s computer. “You could look it up, though, couldn’t you? Theoretically?” Her voice is innocent, teasing. “I’m not asking you to tell me. You could just…look it up, and maybe I could figure it out on my own.”
Jess smirks, their brown eyes sparkling in amusement. I don’t know how we’ve shifted from annoyance to flirting so quickly, but I’m starting to feel like a third wheel.
“It’ll be a bit,” they say. “The parks database is…slow.”
“Shocking,” I say. “Their website was so state-of-the-art.”
Jess turns to me, as if surprised I’m still there, but their lips curl into a smile. “Don’t get me started on their website.”
A phone nearby rings, faint yet shrill. I scan the room, searching for the source—a fruitless endeavor since I’m not actually capable of identifying where sound is coming from.
Marina used to joke about how, whenever she’d call my name to get my attention in the cafeteria or on the playground, I’d spin in circles like a dog chasing its tail.
My one hearing ear can’t locate sounds by itself, so the only way for me to source a sound is to see it—see the lips forming my name, see the phone lighting up with a call.
I look down at the phone on Jess’s desk, then turn around and peer at the receptionist’s.
Neither of their phones are ringing. But still the sound continues.
And still Jess and Marina sit without talking. The longer their silence draws on, the more compelled I feel to fill it.
“I liked your Solar Summit proposal,” I say. “It sounded like a good idea.”
“Thank you,” Jess says, their brow wrinkling in surprise. “You’re about the only person in Greenstead who thinks so.”
I glance at the door to our right, where gold letters on frosted glass spell out MAYOR ANDRE brADLEY. The door is closed, but light filters through the glass. I wonder if the ringing phone belongs to him. “What about the mayor?” I ask, lowering my voice.
Jess lets out a wry chuckle. “I’m waiting for the right time. He’s still busy working on trying to get the community development grant, but…it’s not going well. He drove up to DC yesterday to meet with some people about it. And now he needs a week to recover.”
“From what?”
“People,” Marina says, giving Jess a knowing look.
“Exactly,” Jess replies. “He hates meetings. And calls. He tolerates me , because I help him avoid people, but I’m not pitching him the Solar Summit thing until it’s really solid. If I’m forcing him into a meeting, I want to make it count.”
“Huh.” Mayor Bradley sounds like my kind of guy, really. You can’t have awkward mishearing incidents if you avoid people at all costs. “Well, I think your Solar Summit idea is smart. It would bring in tourists. And West Greenstead is so run-down anyway.”
Marina scoffs when I say this, though I’m not sure why.
As the residential area of town closest to the mustard factory, West Greenstead was hit hardest by the flood.
Property damage, flooded basements, structural issues.
The cleanup efforts immediately after the flood couldn’t prevent the long-term impacts that manifested as massive surprise problems years later: rotting frames, mold, foundation upheaval.
I knew a few classmates in high school who lived in West Greenstead, and it always went the same way: worsening damage, failed attempts to sell their homes, foreclosing, moving away. I can’t imagine things have improved.
“All true,” Jess says. “But, you know. A lot of people don’t trust it.
They don’t want another outsider putting roots in town in case history repeats itself.
” Jess shrugs. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.
There’s a homeowner in West Greenstead who refuses to sell their house, so the proposal’s at a standstill anyway, even if I could get support. ”
I consider this, trying to think back to the updates my dad’s given me on our semiweekly phone calls over the years, all the people who have left town. At this point, it doesn’t feel like there’s anyone left in West Greenstead.
“Who?” I ask.
Jess tilts their head toward Marina. I turn to her in surprise. When did she buy a house?
Marina ignores me. “Has the database loaded yet?”
Jess returns their gaze to their computer. “Yes,” they admit. “What was the date you wanted?”
“October 11.”
Jess hits a few keys and stares at the screen, frowning in concentration. Suddenly, they break into a grin.
“What?” Marina asks, leaning forward to see the monitor.
“This is classified, remember?” Jess tilts the monitor away from her. “We said I wasn’t gonna tell you. Cat-shaped Post-its are at stake.”
“Okay…” Marina studies Jess, thinking. “But it’s someone you know.”
“Yes, kind of.”
“Someone I know?”
Jess laughs. “ Yes. You go way back.”
Marina smiles automatically, and they’re falling back into flirtation again.
It leaves me scrambling to make sense of these new facts I’m learning about Marina.
She’s a homeowner. She has some kind of history with Jess.
She feels like she’s always messing up. Without the context, though, it’s just a collection of facts I can’t piece together.
Being a curious onlooker doesn’t quite feel fun anymore. Just lonely.
“I’m getting the sense I don’t like this person,” Marina says.
“Oh, you super don’t.” Jess leans back and laces their fingers together over their stomach, watching Marina with delight.
“Well, the first person who comes to mind would be…” Marina frowns at Jess, which only makes them grin harder. “It’s not Nancy Fletcher?”
The name is like a time machine. In an instant, I’m pulled into the halls of my old high school, Nancy’s thoughtless remarks and high-pitched giggle, the smack of her gum, the sickeningly sweet odor of her cotton candy body spray.
Jess nods emphatically. Marina groans and slouches against the back of her chair.
“Nancy fucking Fletcher?” I say.
Jess looks at me quizzically for a moment before they catch on. “You went to high school with her too,” they say, piecing it together. “What a beautiful coincidence.”
“Don’t act like you don’t hate Nancy too,” Marina says.
“Oh, I can’t stand her. But I’m not the one who needs to use the park she booked.”
“I hate you,” Marina says, but she’s smiling.
“Tell Nancy I said hi,” Jess quips.
Marina and I ride the elevator down to the main floor in silence. Once the doors whine open, Marina sighs but makes no effort to move.
“Well,” she says. “I guess we’re talking to Nancy.”