17. Meg
MEG
I pick up the marker and write Raise the Hive at the top of the whiteboard again, even though it’s already there. It steadies me. Today I have to work.
Tom walks in with a clipboard and a roll of blue tape. “Barricades are on their way. City sent two sawhorses and cones. We’ll spill into the parking lane, not the travel lane. I’ve got volunteers to man each end.”
“Good. Sound?”
“Speaker test at three. Aqua’s mic is charged. Extra battery pack in the drawer.”
Anthony sets a honeycomb panel on the front wall where we cleared space last night.
It’s the size of our chalkboard menu. The hex tiles are stacked in boxes by color—natural, amber, and gold.
He runs a level across the top, and the bubble sits in the middle.
He nods, satisfied. “The adhesive cures in two minutes. I set up three stations. People choose a tile, write their inscription at the signing table, we print a tiny label and stick it to the back, then we press it in here. Tom’s grid map keeps the pattern even. ”
Bex slides a tray of blondies onto the back counter and points at the sheet pan cooling behind her. “Honey bars. We’ll cut when they set. I’ve got a full tray of allergy-safe chocolate ones too.”
“Thank you. Drinks?”
“We’ll run a short menu. Honey lattes, cold brew, black coffee, tea. Keeps the line moving.”
Aqua steps out of the bathroom in full drag and full command. Blue dress, bee brooch, hair high. She looks around the room like she owns it. “Program,” she says, hand out.
I hand her the list. “Kickoff at four. Short remarks. Introduce the honeycomb wall. Announce tile tiers. Point to the shelter table. Thank vendors. Keep it moving.”
She scans, nods, and taps a line. “You’re not talking long.”
“I’m not good at long today.”
“You’re good at true. Do that. I’ll handle the ham.”
Tom wheels in a dolly stacked with cases of water. He parks it by the back door and checks the lock that Rocco fixed. It works on the first try. He gives it a satisfied look and heads to the front to mount the Raise the Hive banner Anthony printed.
I check my phone. Dana: Eviction response filed. Hearing request submitted. I’ll call at five with status. The clock in my head ticks louder. Thirty days feels like a wall I can’t see around.
The doors open at noon. We pour and smile and move.
People ask what Raise the Hive is. I keep it simple.
“Donor tiles for a honeycomb wall inside Bea’s.
Your tile helps with legal fees and moving costs if we have to move.
If we win and stay, the wall stays here.
If we have to move, the wall comes with us. ”
“How much?” a woman asks.
“Three tiers,” I say, pointing to the sign Anthony lettered.
“Worker bee—twenty-five dollars, name only. Queen bee—a hundred dollars, name and a line. Hive sponsor—five hundred, name, line, and a small gold hex. We also have a clipboard for people who want information on a possible community purchase if legal options fail. That’s information only, not an offer. ”
“Put me down for a queen,” she says, pulling out her wallet.
By three, the honeycomb panel has six tiles set and forty forms in the basket at the signing table.
People take photos. People bring their parents in wheelchairs.
People point at the bee painting behind the counter and tell the person next to them a story about Aunt Bea, even if they don’t know each other. I keep moving.
Tom steps out to the sidewalk and starts placing cones. John carries the sawhorses out. The traffic lane moves slow, and drivers lean out to ask what’s happening. “Community wall,” Tom says. “Fundraiser.” He points them to the QR code on the sandwich board. Some of them park and come back.
By three thirty, Aqua has a small crowd in front of her just from testing the mic. She doesn’t perform yet. She warms the room. “Who remembers their first honey latte?” she asks, and half the hands go up. She turns to me. “Your people are here, girl.”
They are. The line goes to the door and turns. The room hums. I pour drinks next to Bex and set pastries on plates and trade nods with the volunteer at the tile table. The tile labels print and print. Anthony presses them in careful rows. Tom keeps the clipboard updated so the pattern stays clean.
The first live stream starts before four. A college kid holds up her phone and narrates to her followers. “We’re at Bea’s on Raise the Hive day. Get over here. Look, it’s the honey wall.” Her comments fly up the screen. I’m coming. Tell Meg she saved my grade sophomore year. Order me a honey bar.
I walk past her to the front door and step outside for air.
The block is crowded. It looks like a street fair.
Vendors put out extra samples to handle the spill.
The shelter set up a small table with a donation jar again and a board listing their needs.
People are already dropping cash. Someone brought a case of canned dog food without being asked. I breathe and go back in.
At four, Aqua taps the mic. “All right, my bees. Gather in. We are raising the hive today. Tiles on the wall, dollars in the jar, and arms around our girl. I am your emcee, Aqua Tofana. If you weren’t at Ladies’ Night, you missed my one-woman show, which is fine, you can pay me later.”
The room laughs, and my chest loosens an inch.
Aqua gestures to the bee painting. “We start with Bea. She fed you. She told you to drink water. She reminded you to take breaks and kiss your kids. She gave second chances. This wall is for her and for the place she built. This is about all of us. Donor tiles are there. QR codes are here and here. If you can’t give money, give a story.
If you can’t give a story, give a share. Everyone can do something.”
She hands me the mic. I step up. My voice is smaller than I want it to be.
I try anyway. “Thank you for coming. We’re fighting to stay.
We’re preparing in case we can’t. The wall is our way to carry this place forward no matter what happens.
I don’t have a speech. I have a request. If this place has mattered to you, help us keep it alive. That’s it.”
I hand the mic back before my voice shakes. Aqua nods like that was exactly right and turns to the crowd. “Who has a story?” she asks, and a hand goes up near the back.
A man in a suit steps forward, holds the mic two inches from his mouth like he was coached.
“I came here after school in ninth grade. Bea sat me at the pink table and made me do my algebra. She threatened to call my mother if I didn’t finish the worksheet.
I finished. I got into City. I’m a teacher now.
I send my students here for cocoa in the winter. Put me down for a gold tile.”
Applause. He steps aside. Aqua points to a woman with a stroller.
The woman speaks into the mic even though her voice shakes.
“This was my first stop after the hospital with my first child. I needed quiet. I needed to sit somewhere that didn’t smell like sanitizer.
Bea walked over with a glass of water and a cookie and said, ‘You’re doing great.
’ I believed her because she said it like a fact. ”
Another hand. An older woman with a cane.
“My husband and I had our first date at that table, the one by the window,” she says.
“The second week after he moved here from Ghana. Bea made him try every pastry. He proposed there three years later. We lost him last spring. I still come in and she still tells me I’m doing fine even though she’s gone.
I feel her here every time. I want a tile with both our names on it. ”
A twenty-something. “I did my first open mic here. I messed up, and Bea clapped anyway and told me to do it again. I did. I’m going to art school in the fall. I can only do the twenty-five dollar tile but I’ll come back when I can do more.”
A man I don’t know. “I got my first job because I met my boss here. He heard me arguing about baseball and hired me for the internship because I could make a point without being a jerk. Sometimes. I owe this place.”
A line of stories forms without anyone telling them to form. I keep pouring. Bex keeps sliding drinks. The tip jar fills and fills. Anthony keeps setting tiles. Tom keeps the crowd out of the street when a bus needs to pass.
It’s almost impossible not to cry, hearing their memories of Aunt Bea.
Aqua wraps the story portion and swings into the mechanics.
“Raise your phone. Scan the code. Pick a tile level. Write your line at the signing table. Don’t worry about your handwriting.
We’ll print the label. If you need help, Tom has you.
If you want to sponsor a tile for someone else, tell Bex.
If you want to cry, the bathroom is to your left, and the paper towels are strong. We do not judge tears here.”
The line at the signing table goes from three people to twenty. Bex and I pour faster. Regulars step behind the counter and help pull cups even though they don’t work here. I let them. It’s that kind of day.
People are live streaming from the sidewalk too.
“Look, the wall,” someone says into her phone.
Comments fly. I remember Bea yelling at me to eat a real lunch.
Tell Meg my grandma says hi. Can we buy tiles from out of town?
Aqua answers that last one into the mic.
“Yes. QR code in our bio. Write your inscription and we’ll place it. ”
By five, my hands ache. My face hurts from not crying. The honeycomb is halfway full. People are still coming. I pull Anthony aside between tile placements. “We’re going to need a second panel.”
“I have another in the back.”
“Bring it out.”
He mounts it under the first. The pattern keeps going. People cheer when it clicks into the brackets, as if we’ve added a second floor to a house.