The Last Boy and Girl in the World (27 page)

Elise opened a box and dug out a white leotard with a tutu made of feathers. “How cute is this?”

“My old dance recital costumes! I haven't looked at these in years!”

I changed out of my wet clothes and then sat on Morgan's bed, watching as they pulled things out of the box. Elise reacted to the cuteness, the tininess of every outfit. But I knew what every costume was, the recital Morgan had worn it in. At one point, I grabbed her strawberry outfit after Elise had tossed it aside. With a lot of wriggling, I managed to pull it on over my clothes, and did a few of the moves from the April Showers dance, which of course sent Morgan into hysterics. Elise went over and sat at Morgan's desk and began testing nail polish colors, painting stripes along her thumbnail, determined not to laugh.

After taking a bow, I sat down with my back against the wall and tried to catch my breath. That's when I noticed one small box in her keep pile. The flaps hadn't been closed and I saw all the Wes stuff she'd hidden in her top drawer.

I took out my phone and started scrolling through who knows what, just to have something else to stare at.

“Whoa,” Morgan gasped. “Keeley! Check it out!”

She sank to the floor, cross-legged, next to me. In her lap was our sticker album.

I say
our
, even though it was a gift for Morgan from her grandmother the summer before we started high school.

Yes, high school.

Every holiday, every birthday, every possible gift-buying occasion that passed, we were reminded that Morgan's grandmother was under the delusion that Morgan was perpetually nine years old. The presents she got were always weird and completely off-base, like a dolly or a craft kit to puffy-paint a jean jacket. We'd always laugh so hard about them on the ride home, and they were honestly such bizarre picks that Mrs. Dorsey never scolded us for being rude.

But the sticker album truly blew our minds. There were collection pages with headings like
Rainbows Forever
and
My Favorite Animals
and
Funny.
When I saw that page in particular, I laughed so hard, I peed a little. What the eff kinds of stickers went on that page? There were blank pages too, in the back, with spaces to create your own categories.

For whatever reason, likely boyless boredom, we became obsessed with filling it up.

We were always looking for stickers. We'd buy them at the drugstore, we'd order them online, it was always the aisle we'd hit at the Walmart—just past the greeting cards and just before the art supplies.

And every single time we'd go to Viola's Market, we'd stop at the sticker machine near the exit doors. Two quarters and you could have a rubber moon bounce ball, a plastic egg with a fake gold necklace, or a sticker. The stickers would come out sandwiched between two pieces of stiff white cardboard. There were a couple Morgan always hoped to get. Two unicorns frolicking under one rainbow, a pink teddy bear with hearts for eyes that I found slightly creepy. Those were the ones advertised in the glass display right above where you put your quarters in. But they proved to be somewhat elusive, to the point where Morgan was convinced they weren't in the machine at all. Without fail, she'd get something weirdly masculine, like a reflective motorcycle or a skull and crossbones or a dagger dripping blood. We even dedicated a whole page in the book to
Biker Gangs
.

Our best page, though, was the very last one. Morgan knew it too. When she opened the book up, she flipped right to the back.

The Story of Morgan and Keeley

After we got bored with filling the assigned pages, we decided to use stickers like emojis or codes and tell our future life story. It was part of the challenge, using whatever you got to push the story further along, like those exercises you do in creative writing class. Morgan always said, though, that if we ever managed to score the double unicorn from Viola's, it was game over. There could be no happier ending than that.

It looked like hieroglyphics. A banana-seat bicycle, Strawberry Shortcake and her friends dancing around a mushroom, a reflective globe, a heart, a reflective unicorn, a dinosaur. All carefully, deliberately placed, left to right across the page.

Morgan pointed at a metallic Batman and Robin, racing off to fight, the lights of Gotham City twinkling behind them. “Was this supposed to represent our future husbands?”

“No. This was supposed to be us going on vacation to New York City once we graduated high school.”

“I can't believe you remember that.”

Elise spun around to face us, flapping her hands through the air so her fingernails would dry. She'd gone with a plum-colored polish. “Wait, when did you guys do this?”

“Eighth grade,” I said. “Or, actually, the summer before ninth.”

Elise laughed dryly. “That's a little babyish, no?”

I felt my face burn.

Like I said before, Elise always made little comments about how immature I was, but never as pointedly as this. I had an idea why. The space she'd carved out between me and Morgan was closing fast, both because of the move and because I was now with Jesse.

Morgan laid a hand on my shoulder and pushed herself up off the floor. Then she put the sticker book at the very top of her keep pile. “Shut up,” she said to Elise. “You told me once that in eighth grade you were still sucking your thumb.”

I snorted with laughter, even though it wasn't even that funny. And maybe I should have given Elise a pass, since she was going through a lot. But the chance to make her feel like the immature one for once was too good for me to pass up.

Sunday, May 22

Sunny, 70°F

The morning of the City Hall protest, the coffee in Dad's cup got cold while he leaned over his speech and made adjustments with one of his stubby, knife-sharpened work pencils, the kind he normally used to make saw lines on two-by-fours. I'd only seen him more nervous one other time, when I walked into the hospital room right after his accident, before the X-rays came back and the surgeons discussed a plan and the pain medicine kicked in and we knew for sure that he'd walk again.

I have to admit, I was also nervous for him. My mom, too. A lot was riding on today. If there was going to be any chance of saving Aberdeen, then we'd need to stop people from meeting with the adjusters and taking deals.

At least the weather was nice. It felt like spring, like everything maybe still could be okay.

While Dad fiddled with his speech, we flew around the house, loading up the truck with the protest signs, filling a cooler with bottles of water, packing up the clear plastic drums of pretzel rods and cheese puffs we'd bought at Walmart, in case anyone got hungry.

We drove over to City Hall, all of us in Mom's car. The ride was super-quick, I think we got there in two minutes, but it felt like forever because it was so quiet, all except for some deep, chest-emptying exhales my dad would push out, as if he were blowing up a balloon.

I tried to make small talk to brighten the mood.

“Anyone want to hear some of the protest chants I've been working on?”

Mom chuckled nervously and nudged Dad. “Uh-oh.”

I leaned forward. “Okay. So I think we open with the classic ‘Hell no, we won't go!' It's got a lot of energy, everyone knows it.”

Mom smirked. “She's really thought this through.”

“Then we switch over to ‘Power to the people!' to amp up the energy, keep the crowd excited, link those potential passive bystanders to our cause by their mere proximity.”

Dad slowly turned his head, and I knew he hadn't been listening, but I kept going.

“I took the liberty of creating a new chant, something fresh and specific to our fight. Check this out.” I cleared my throat. “Gov-er-nor, go away, let Aberdeen stand another day!” I sang, to the tune of “Rain, Rain, Go Away.”

Dad reached back and ruffled my hair. “I love it.”

We pulled around the corner of City Hall. There was a line of people wrapping around the sandstone building, each one occupying a square of sidewalk like in a human board game. And a couple of police officers standing guard. I guess they were called in to make sure things didn't get out of hand or that we didn't try to interfere with the people who were waiting to speak with the adjusters. But either way, their presence showed that Sheriff Hamrick was taking us seriously at the very least. I kept an eye out for Levi, wondering if he might show up, even if just to check things out, but he wasn't there and neither was his father.

“Look, Dad!” I said, pointing. “That's a lot of people!”

He leaned forward to the passenger window, but then just as quickly leaned back into his seat. “Those people are waiting to meet with the adjusters. We told our crowd to meet at the park across the street, near the gazebo where Mom and I got married.”

“Oh.” I felt terrible about my mistake, but not for long. Because as we turned into the park, we saw a crowd there, too. Maybe close to two hundred people total, way more than were in the line across the street.

“Okay,” Dad said, a smile finally gracing his face. “I can breathe now. We aren't the only ones who showed up.”

“Of course we aren't,” Mom said, giddy. “Did you really think that?”

I reached forward and gave her shoulder a happy squeeze.

There were three news vans and reporters—Shawn Wilcox, the one my dad had spoken to outside school, and another man and a woman I recognized from other stations. All had their cameramen taking footage.

We parked, and as Dad opened the car door, the people in the park applauded him.

I pulled on his sleeve. “If you're able to pull this off, Dad, who knows? You could be the next mayor of Aberdeen!”

I'm not sure if my words inspired him or what, but when Dad walked through the crowd of supporters, he sure did play the part of a politician. He moved his cane to his left hand and shook hands with people with his right, thanking them for coming. Then he greeted the three reporters.

He looked young, strong, and handsome.

Morgan called out for us. She and Mrs. Dorsey raced over, waving excitedly. In that moment, I felt like I could see the future. Here Morgan was, supporting me, and standing just a few feet away was her mom supporting my mom. This was what I always felt our friendship would grow into. We would always be in each other's lives. Our mothers were proof that was possible. Or, not just possible, but our destiny.

Mrs. Dorsey hip-checked Mom. “This is really impressive, I have to say.”

“Isn't it?” Mom was beaming. “He's worked so hard.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Dorsey said, and I caught her sharing a quick look with Morgan. “Yes, he certainly has. And we are all glad to see that.” Then she hugged my mom, tight.

I saw Jesse's hatchback pull into the parking lot. I grabbed Morgan's hand. “Come on!” We ran through the crowd, which had the atmosphere of a festival. Everyone I saw was smiling. Upbeat.

Jesse popped out and hugged me, then Morgan. Julia bolted from the backseat and ran straight for the nearby playground. But there was someone notably missing.

“Is your mom coming?”

We'd talked about it underneath the bleachers. I'd asked Jesse what his mom was planning to do, if she'd heard anything about the rally. Jesse said he was keeping her completely filled in. And if she didn't have to work, she'd most likely come. I was looking forward to meeting her for real.

Jesse pouted. “She ended up getting called in this morning. Sorry.” He slung an arm around me. “But we are here as her representatives. And Zito's on his way too, with a few of the soccer guys. I told them to wear their uniforms.” He opened the backseat and there were all the posters we'd made together, plus a few other ones that Julia must have worked on, because the handwriting was very squiggly and shaky and unsure. Seeing me notice, he said, “She had no idea that Craft Time was actually forced child labor.” Morgan and I laughed at that. “Hey, where's Elise?”

Morgan answered. “She went back to the hotel to get ready for her party tonight. Also . . .” She paused, choosing her words carefully, “I think this is tough for her, you know.”

“Oh yeah. Right. Totally.”

I noticed that Jesse was not in his uniform. He was in a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt with the sleeves cut away. “If you told Zito and those guys to wear uniforms, why aren't you wearing yours?” I asked, already knowing that his answer would be interesting.

Grinning, he said, “I thought you'd never ask.” He raced around to the back of his car and popped the hatch. Inside was the furry suit of our high school's mascot, Hawkeye the River Hawk, like a deflated plush balloon. Brown body and wings, yellow socks, yellow plush claw feet that strapped over your shoes, big brown head with angry eyes and a snarling yellow beak. And of course, an Aberdeen High hunter green and gold athletic jersey.

I gasped. “Where did you get this?”

“That gym Dumpster I told you about. Can you believe it?”

Morgan reached in to pet the hawk head. “I haven't seen this in forever. Maybe since sophomore year?”

“You're right. I remember the kid who used to wear it. Max something? After he graduated, I don't think anyone else took it over. I should have asked about it. I totally would have played mascot in the off-season.”

I said, “It's a little mangy-looking.”

“Yes, yes. Hawkeye has seen better days. But I figured there's no better way to get the crowd pumped up than a little River Hawk pride. Also, this is going to make killer footage for the news guys.”

I threw my arms around him. “You are the best.” And I stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Here,” I said. “Give me your phone. I'll film you getting changed in the backseat, and then, burst out of the car, okay? Like a superhero.”

“You're perfect,” he said, kissing me on the forehead.