Chapter 17
It was two days before the election. I wasn’t jittery like I thought I’d be.
In fact, I was borderline numb, subdued by a sense of surrender.
The early voting line wrapped around the library.
I was surprised to see so many people in person when our three electoral votes didn’t make a difference.
Milan dashed across Connecticut Avenue in her black puffer coat, cradling foil-wrapped Vace pizza.
It was finally getting cold, though one random day next week the temperatures were rocketing to the eighties.
I handed her several crushed bills and grabbed my slice.
She leafed through her spiral-bound script, penciling in definitions from the dictionary on her phone.
Her first rehearsal was next week. Milan was never as serious as when she was approaching rehearsal.
Her script was a marvel to my novelist self: There was only a character’s name, what they would say next, a splatter of stage directions.
It was a simplicity I longed for in my stories.
Maybe I’d abandon the novel form altogether and fuck off to Hollywood.
I vaguely remembered reading The Taming of the Shrew in tenth grade.
A wild-eyed Katherina fighting her fate kicked in my mind then like an upset horse.
The line moved fast once we reached the book return slots. I was stress-eating; there was a smear of tomato sauce where my pizza had been. A woman scrutinized my ID, then Milan and I ducked into separate booths. On our way out, a sticker was forced onto our chests. Yo Voté!
There must’ve been a Nationals game because the train was riddled with people in red baseball shirts.
Milan called Ryen then hugged me to get off at Gallery Place, her waterfall of braids disappearing through the sliding doors, the baseball fans getting off too.
A man with a sling of Muslim oils swung through the emergency exit, filling the car with pungent perfume.
I watched the grainy orange station stop flashing in a band across the screen: “Next stop is: Judiciary Square.”
As I hurtled through the dark tunnel, a second T*ump presidency felt both inevitable and impossible. I couldn’t fathom anything worse than what had already happened. I also couldn’t imagine a coherent future or how it would possibly house me.
My freshman year, I’d attended an election watch party in the student center the first time he won, a school-sponsored event with hot wings, creamy ranch, crunchy celery sticks.
Everyone in high spirits, the big-screen TV background noise to jovial chatter.
It was the first election I could vote in. The earnest hope, the ignorance.
As the night dragged, everyone sat woodenly in their seats as states blinked red.
Around 2 a.m., Milan and I drifted to our dorm in the nippy November air. The campus felt turned upside down, emptied out. We wandered into our room, switching on our respective lamps, unsure what any of it meant.
My mom called, trying to sound calm while my dad shouted in the background.
“We’re not taking her out of school, Joel.”
“She’s in Texas!” The phone was suddenly too close to his mouth. “I’m comin’ to get you.”
I didn’t know what to do; I dropped a pair of underwear in a suitcase. My mom called later, alone, telling me not to leave with him.
My dad showed up three days later, smelling like something gone bad in the back of the fridge. I was afraid he was drunk, that alcohol had powered this absurd odyssey, and now I’d be stuck with him impaired behind the wheel.
We ate undercooked eggs and burnt bacon in the dining hall. He didn’t complain about the food, just shoveled it into his mouth like a machine.
In the end, I stayed, which he received as a betrayal. Without saying goodbye, he took off.