Chapter 21
Stevie
Adam is visibly uncomfortable, and I can’t do anything to help him. I feel awful.
He showed up at the town meeting as promised, took a seat in the back row, and has been observing quietly—surprise, surprise—for the past hour.
I, however, am front and center. It’s not a position I relish when it feels like I’m on trial.
Every citizen of Cape Georgeana, including Speedo Kevin and his new dog, showed up for this ad hoc circus. Marlow and I are seated in front of the select board, which is composed of an old guy named Hal, Martie Shaw (who also teaches at my school), and Ike and Diana Wentworth.
That’s right. The same friends who are betting against me are running this meeting. The phrase “conflict of interest” means nothing to them.
As far as I can tell, the only people in attendance who bet on me finding Bigfoot are myself, August, Lola, and Adam. Oh, and my dad. My mom is staunchly Team Boyfriend. She’s not even sitting by my dad. Our house is divided. The town is not. Team Bigfoot has been the underdog all night.
Someone wheeled in a dry-erase board, and Lola was assigned the task of documenting the terms as they are agreed upon. The specifics of the bet have changed enough that Lola’s black foam eraser has been as busy as her marker, and she’s sweating.
Here’s what we’ve agreed on so far: Acceptable evidence of Bigfoot includes new timestamped photographs of a footprint or prints, the cryptid itself, or video footage of the same.
Admissible proof of the existence of a Boyfriend for Stevie Sullivan includes evidence of three consecutive dates or the majority vote of an ad hoc committee that has yet to be formed.
My dating life is about to be under the scrutiny of a committee. How did I get here?
I've tried so hard not to watch Adam’s reaction to the proceedings.
I’ve fought to keep my eyes off of him since he snuck in five minutes late, as has every female in the room.
He wore a shirt, after all—a button-down number, with the sleeves rolled up.
He has no idea what he’s doing to the women of Cape Georgeana. It’s cute.
Now it’s just after nine p.m. We’ve taken a ten-minute recess, and we’re waiting for the meeting to resume. The stink of musty old town office building and gossip hangs in the air.
“Okay, everyone,” Ike calls. “Let’s wrap this up.”
No one hears him over the chatter that fills the room.
“People!” He tries again.
Diana nudges him, nodding to his gavel with a twinkle in her eye. August gave it to Ike as a joke years ago, but it’s become a critical element of our town meetings. Things tend to go sideways without it.
BANG, BANG, BANG!
Ike cracks his gavel, and the room falls silent.
Lola is back at the dry-erase board, marker in hand and ready for battle. I saw her chugging an energy drink by the vending machine in the hall during the break. She’ll need it.
“Everyone take your seats, please. We need to wrap this up.” Ike rubs at a knot in his shoulder. “Where were we?” he asks the select board.
Muffie, not a member of the board, raises her crinkled hand. “You need to vote on the formation of the ad hoc committee,” she calls from the front row.
This was the solution we found to the age-old conundrum of how to determine a winner of a bet involving Bigfoot and Boyfriends, where every member of the select board has a personal stake in the outcome. You know, the kind you always hear about.
This whole town has lost its marbles.
The board quickly votes to form the Ad Hoc Committee to Determine the Outcome of Bigfoot Versus Boyfriend. That’s the easy part.
“On to committee appointments.” Ike says the words like he knows it’s opening the door for another hearty debate. “I move that the committee consists of four members, two appointed by each party involved.”
“I second that,” Hal says. He’s barely awake.
“Third,” Diana says, fighting a laugh. Her blue eyes are shining.
“Let’s bring it to a vote.” Ike squeezes Diana’s leg under the table, and she jolts. “All in favor of committee appointments being made as proposed?”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Ay ay ay,” I mutter to myself. This is insanity. These are the same people who think I’m nuts for believing in Bigfoot?
“This is crazy, right?” Marlow whispers, barely moving her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Stevie. If I had known it would get this out of hand—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I link my arm through Marlow’s. “This town needs a movie theater. This proves it. Maybe we can send a transcript of the minutes to a theater chain—”
Bang!
Diana has reached across Ike to crack his gavel. “I move that the parties stop talking until I can be part of the conversation,” she says seriously, her icy blue eyes fixed on us. “Not an official motion, but still.”
“Sorry.” Marlow mimics zipping her lips.
“Sorry,” I mouth.
Ike nods. “Okay. The party of the first part”—he grins, well aware that none of these proceedings are official, or should be happening to begin with—“who would you like to nominate to the committee?”
I elbow Marlow. “That’s you.”
“Me?” She straightens, turning to look around the crowded room. People are even standing in the back. “Hmm.” Her eyes light up. “Muffie Horowitz,” she announces.
No surprise there. Muffie has half the town in her back pocket because she has dirt on them in some form or other. This is a power play by Marlow.
“And my second nominee . . .” She scans the room, grinning like a predator. “Inger Sullivan.”
I gasp. “My mom? You can’t put my mom on this Committee of Tomfoolery and Shenanigans.”
Marlow is playing dirty, and just when things were starting to get back to normal with us.
“Point of order,” my mom says, raising her hand.
Ike motions to her to proceed.
“Can the parties veto committee appointments?” My mom shares a look with Marlow. I don’t appreciate their alliance.
“No,” Ike says at the same time that Diana and Martie say, “Yes”.
“No,” he reiterates. “I’m hungry, and I’m already missing the Red Sox game for this. We’re never going home if we have to call a vote for every little thing.”
The minute-taker snorts as she transcribes Ike’s rant into the official minutes on her laptop.
Ike turns his attention to me. “The party of the second part,” he says with a grin. Misusing legal jargon in Cape Georgeana town meetings is one of the joys of his life, and he doesn’t get called out for it enough. “Who would you like to nominate?”
I sigh, turning to scan the room. My allies are few and far between. But there’s a tired man sitting on the other side of Marlow whose black scrubs send the message that he might do no harm.
“August Wentworth,” I announce with solemnity, despite the absolute foolishness of this situation.
There’s a collective gasp. Whispering circulates through the room.
August leans over his girlfriend’s lap to give me knuckles. “I’m honored.”
I need someone else on my team. Lola might’ve bet on me finding evidence of Bigfoot, but I know her feet are in another camp.
I’m not about to appoint my dad. He talks a big game, but my mom will sway his vote.
Guaranteed. I scan the room. The only other person I’m certain has my best interest at heart is sitting in the back row with his big arms folded over his chest.
Adam.
We make eye contact, and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, lines between his dark eyebrows.
Is it a conflict of interest to appoint the man I’m secretly dating to the Ad Hoc Committee to Determine Whether Stevie Sullivan Finally Has a Boyfriend After Thirty-two Years?
We’ve established that no one in this room is bothered by conflicting interests.
Adam drags his hand through his hair, agitated and pleading with his eyes to leave him out of this.
I have to look away. He’s too handsome, and I need to be strong. I turn to Ike. “Adam Sandoval,” I mumble, so that maybe he won’t hear me, and his appointment to the committee will be a fun surprise for him later.
“Adam Sandoval?” Ike repeats, with a twinkle in his eye that makes me want to shave his beard in his sleep.
“Who?” an old man in the second row asks.
“Shirtless Adam,” Muffie Horowitz clarifies loudly.
“Oh.” The old man adjusts his hearing aid, and the squeal of feedback peals through the stuffy air.
Ike grins. “We have, for the approval of the select board, four appointments to the Ad Hoc Committee to Determine . . .” He can’t remember the name.
“To Determine the Outcome . . .” Martie prompts with a satisfied grin. She came up with the official name.
Ike’s eyes tighten. He’s working hard to remember. “The Outcome of . . .”
“Bigfoot Versus Boyfriend!” some lady in the back of the room hollers. “Geez Louise.”
“That.” Ike doesn’t hold back an eye roll. “All in favor of appointing Muffie Horowitz, Inger Sullivan, August Wentworth”—a laugh almost escapes here—“and Adam Sandoval to the committee, say aye.”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
“Finally,” Ike groans, smacking his gavel one last time. “Meeting adjourned. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
Chatter fills the room again, and the crowd starts to disperse.
I slouch lower in my wood chair. “Ugh.”
Marlow follows suit, sliding down, kicking her long legs in front of her, and resting her hands on her stomach. “Who knew it would take a whole committee to get Stevie Sullivan into a relationship?”
I snicker. “This is crazy, Marlow.” I run my hands down my face. I’m tired down to my bones after my shift at the diner today and this hours-long meeting.
“I know.” She bumps me with her elbow. “But after all the matchmaking you’ve done in your life, it only seems fair that we get to return the favor.”
“Hey, I set you up with August Wentworth. You’re welcome.” I frown. “And you saw the Crocs headlights. Don’t deny it.”
Marlow grimaces. “How could I have known—”
“And.” I hold up a finger. “I didn’t get the town involved. There were no committees to determine the . . .” What was it again?
“The Outcome of Bigfoot Versus Boyfriend,” Marlow says, every muscle in her face fighting a smile. “And you’re right. This whole bet got away from me.”
I laugh, tipping my tired head onto Marlow’s shoulder. “Maybe a little.”