Wide Awake (10 page)

twelve

I thought I might change my mind about changing my mind. But if anything, the next morning’s news seemed to support my parents’ position. The opposition was now saying that if Stein’s supporters were going to Kansas, then they would, too. The governor was calling in the National Guard. The current President was said to be “reviewing the situation.” Already flights were full. Rent-a-cars were scarce. The people of Kansas were preparing for an invasion of outsiders, whether they liked it or not.

I didn’t know what I was going to say to Jimmy. So I fell quiet. He misunderstood and thought I was still bothered by the run-in with Satch the previous day. For their part, Satch and Jesse kept their distance. School almost appeared normal. Word spread that Mary Catherine and her parents had already left for Topeka.

I started to pay attention not just to the kids who were talking about the election but also to the kids who weren’t talking about it at all. I’d ignored them for the past two days, but now I was feeling almost jealous of them. Whether or not Stein would be President didn’t appear to matter to them; they cared about their field hockey game after school or whether the boy they liked would like them back or whether they’d be able to get their homework done before it was collected during third period. The election was enough to get their attention for a day—maybe. After that, it was back to life.

At lunch, Gus was talking about music for the bus and Keisha was talking about sleeping arrangements and Jimmy was saying they had to remember to bring poster paper and markers with them, because all banner-making supplies were probably sold out in Kansas. Janna mentioned bringing candles for Jimmy’s birthday on Monday, and I double gulped. Everyone’s bags, it seemed, were already packed.

“How were your parents?” Jimmy finally asked me.

“Not good,” I said.

But he didn’t ask the natural follow-up question, assuming I’d managed to make my way past them.

We were supposed to meet at headquarters at five. It wasn’t until three that I told him. We were walking to my house, I guess to pick up my bags.

“Look,” I finally had the guts to say, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to go.”

“Very funny,” Jimmy said, and kept walking.

I stopped and pulled at his shirt. “No. Really. No blinking this time.”

“What are you talking about?”

He was looking at me with such annoyed confusion, his sweet dark eyes narrowing.

“I can’t go. My parents said I can’t.”

Now I really had his attention.

“You’re really not joking, are you?” he said.

“I’m really not joking.”

I knew what was coming next.

Deep breath. Look to the ground, then back in my eyes. “And you waited until
now
to tell me?”

“I just—I don’t know.” What could I say? I knew he was going to think less of me, but I’d hoped to minimize the lessness.

“What?” He wanted me to tell him something, anything that made sense, even though it was clear in his voice that he doubted there could be such an explanation. At the very least, he just wanted me to acknowledge that.

But all I could come up with was a repeat performance of “I don’t know.”

He sighed. “This is so typical, Duncan.”

Which was what I was afraid of. Making the lessness part of a pattern.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? We’re supposed to leave in, what,
two hours
? And you’re backing out?”

“Well, it’s not like it’s been planned for weeks….”

“So what did they say to you? Why can’t you go?”

“They just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Oh. That’s a
great
reason.”

Scorn. I’d hit the vein of scorn.

“Don’t get angry with me, okay?” I implored. “They just think it’s—I don’t know—dangerous or something.”

I thought he’d try to argue that point. Say it wasn’t dangerous at all. But instead he said, “So?”

“What do you mean, so?”

“I mean, of course it’s a little dangerous. But staying here and doing nothing is more dangerous. You know that, Duncan.”

“I know. But, really, I can’t.” That was it, really: I couldn’t.

There was sadness in his eyes as well as anger. “Can’t, Duncan? Or won’t?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

We both knew I did.

“Look,” he said, “do you really want me to say it?”

I couldn’t believe we were plummeting into this conversation. This wasn’t at all where I wanted to be or what I wanted us to be saying. But I couldn’t get us anywhere else.

“Well, now you have to,” I said, for the first time letting some of my own annoyance out. “Don’t you?”

“Look, don’t snap at me.
I’m
not the one backing out.”

I was totally open to him. Totally vulnerable. And because of that, I couldn’t stand that he was taking shots at me.

“Is that what I’m doing?” I said.

“Looks like it, doesn’t it? And you’re doing it because you’re afraid.”

“That’s not it.”

“C’mon, Duncan,” he said, almost tenderly, like I was a good ten years younger than him. “You have to take a little risk and you want to run in the other direction.”

“You make it sound like that’s what I always do.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Well, that’s not fair.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Yes?”

“You’re afraid. Of your parents. Of what might happen.”

It was like this rip was occurring, because we were each pulling in a different direction and couldn’t stop.

“I’m not afraid of my parents,” I told him.

“So it’s not about them, is it?”

“Look—”
Please stop,
I wanted to say.
Please can we stop?

“Yes?”

And
Please can we stop?
came out as “Why are you doing this?”

This did not go over well.

“Why am
I
doing this? You mean, why am I disappointed that my boyfriend is backing out of what could be the most important trip of our lives? I don’t know…could it be because my boyfriend is backing out of what could be the most important trip of our lives?”

“So you’re saying if I don’t show up, the governor of Kansas is going to say, ‘Hey, I guess we can throw the election now—Duncan didn’t show.’ But if I go, he’ll give in. Is my presence really
that
important?”

“It should be that important to you, asshole. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t be you.”

Rip.

“What does
that
mean?”

Rip.

“It means, I’m sorry that I actually have to think about what might happen. That I might not want to go to a random state to be attacked by people who see me as the enemy. That might not be the kind of weekend I want to have.”

“Oh, so this is about your weekend plans?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it.”

I hadn’t lost sight of the fact that I loved him, but I wasn’t feeling any of it now. Or I was only feeling that part of love that can be misshaped so easily into anger and sadness and pain. He seemed as impervious as always, and that made it worse.

I knew I was the wrong one. The weak one. The coward. But at the same time I wanted Jimmy to forgive me for that. I wanted him to let me be who I had to be. I resented that he wouldn’t, almost as much as I resented myself for not being able to go with him.

Finally he broke the silence with a simple “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“What else do you want me to say? Fine. Don’t come. I’ll send you some textcards. But don’t worry—none of them will say,
Wish you were here.
Clearly you wouldn’t like that.”

“And that’s it? You’re just going to go to Kansas.”

Now Jimmy was officially angry. “What? Do you want me to be afraid and stay home, too? I don’t think so.”

I closed my eyes, slowed things down, said, “That’s not what I meant.”

Then I opened my eyes and saw Jimmy’s expression had softened a little, too. “Look,” he said, “I had to beg my parents
not
to come with me on the bus. That’s the way my family is—they’ve always been breaking down walls and doing what they believe in. I guess that’s not always the way it goes.”

“You know I believe in this, Jimmy.”

He nodded. “I know. But what are you going to do about it? That’s the question, isn’t it?”

I put my hand on his arm, moved my thumb against his bracelet. “I don’t like fighting with you. You know that.”

“Believe me,” he said, moving his hand to hold my elbow, “I’m not liking this conversation, either.”

Okay. This felt better.

“Look,” I said tentatively, “maybe I
am
afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of things going wrong. Of it turning into a riot. Of getting hurt. Of failing. Of losing you.”

Jimmy shook his head. “You’re not going to lose me.”

“I don’t mean like losing you as a boyfriend. God, I hope not. I mean like losing you in a crowd.”

He tightened his grip on my arm. “I won’t leave your side.”

“But the other things—”

“That’s why it’s called ‘taking a stand’ instead of just ‘standing’—there are things trying to stop you from being there, so you have to fight for it. And I don’t mean getting into a fight. I mean simply getting there and holding your ground. Millions of us, Duncan. It’s going to be millions. Yeah, it won’t matter whether or not two of us are there. But how often do you have a chance to be a part of something so powerful?”

The only thing clear to me was that nothing was going to be clear to me. I wasn’t going to feel like I should go. And I wasn’t going to feel like I should stay. Whichever choice I made, I would regret it. Whichever choice I didn’t make, I would regret it.

We walked a little more and arrived at my front yard. Both of my parents were at work.

“Give me an hour,” I said.

“To get your stuff ready?”

Jimmy’s relief was so obvious that I almost said yes.

But instead I said, “No, to decide.”

He looked at the ground. “Oh. Okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, really—it’s okay.”

But I
was
sorry. To be disappointing him. To be disappointing myself.

I hugged him and he hugged me back.

“Go and decide,” he said. “Turn on the news. See what’s going on.”

I promised him I would. But even in promising, and not deciding, I felt I was disappointing him again.

I had no idea what this meant or what to do about it.

I was glad he hadn’t brought up missing his birthday.

thirteen

The question became:

What are you willing to do for something you believe in?

I turned on the news. People were already starting to arrive in Kansas.

Stein was there. Martinez was there. All the congresspeople and senators from their party were flying in for the rally.

The governor again insisted the election had not been decided.

Two more people came forward expressing doubts about the governor’s “investigation.”

There was a woman from Topeka on the news begging people not to come.

“We’re just not ready for this kind of thing,” she said.

I realized if I wasn’t going to go, I had to call Virgil, Flora, Keisha, Mira, and Gus to tell them I wasn’t coming.

I didn’t want to.

I realized if I
was
going to go, I had to call at least one of my parents to say I was going.

I didn’t want to.

A half hour passed.

I started to pack.

Five minutes later, I stopped packing.

I asked myself:

What would you give to have Stein as President?

Your weekend?

Would you be willing to stand up to your parents?

To people who hated you?

I told myself:

The answer to the last question is yes.

Even if I didn’t believe I was the kind of person who
could
stand up to the people who hated me, I wanted to be the kind of person who would.

I called my mother.

“I have to go,” I said.

There was a long pause on her end of the line. In the background, I could hear people talking and keyboarding.

Finally she said, “I know.”

Now it was my turn to pause. She continued, “I want your phone on at all times. I want the numbers of everyone else on that bus. I want you to stay out of trouble, do you understand me? If it looks like there’s going to be a riot or a fight or even just a rough spot, I want you to get out of there.” Then she started crying, just a little. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s not easy letting you go, you know.”

“I know.”

“Be sure to pack at least two days’ extra underwear and socks.”

“I already did.”

“And take some food, just in case you get stuck.”

“I already did.”

“And keep some extra money—”

“—in my toiletry kit. Check.”

“I guess you have been paying attention, haven’t you?”

“It’ll be okay,” I told her.

“Go out there and save this election,” she said. “Then come right back home.”

“Thanks, Mom.” That was all I needed to say. The rest—that she would talk to my father, that I would call her every night, that I would take care of myself and try to take care of my country—was all understood.

“You show ’em, Dunc.”

Before she hung up, she made sure to say she loved me, and I made sure to say I loved her back.

Just before my promised hour was up, I called Jimmy to let him know I was coming. I think part of me was expecting a parade, or at least a firework or two in response. But all he said was, “Good,” and got off the line so he could finish packing. He said he’d see me at the bus.

Janna’s mom drove Janna and me (and our bags) to Stein headquarters. The bus was outside waiting—clearly Gus had arrived early to decorate it, using the large magnetic words that had been in fashion for cars a few years ago to spell out some good slogans:
THE TRUTH WILL SET US FREE
and
HAVE FAITH
and
THIS LAND WAS MADE FOR YOU AND ME
. Finally he had written
KANSAS WILL NOT FALL
, with the first word spelled out in individual letters.

I looked to find Jimmy as soon as I got there, but Virgil told me he hadn’t shown up yet. So I waited, and was perhaps too relieved to see that when Jimmy arrived the first thing he did was look to find me. I ran over and hugged him close, a beat longer than our hugs usually lasted, an extra moment to encompass all the apologies I was feeling and all the doubts I feared he still had.

We stored our suitcases in the bottom of the bus as Virgil explained that Sara had found us a house to stay in—the best friend of one of her roommates lived in Lawrence, twenty-one miles from the state capitol in Topeka. It was going to be crowded—there were sixteen of us—but sleeping on floors was the least of our worries at this point.

The bus wasn’t full—Flora said it was possible we’d pick up more people along the way. Inside, it looked like any old kind of public transportation—the muted seats, the narrow aisle, the windows stained by years of dried rain. But once we were all on board, it felt like something extraordinary. Jimmy sat next to me and I felt like the world was starting to fall back into place, that we all had a purpose and we were all on the road to that purpose.

Before we left, Virgil stood at the front of the bus and told us he wanted to say a few words.

“I wish Stein was here right now to talk to you,” he began, “because that man has a way with words that I’ll never have. But since he’s busy at the moment, you all are left with me. I know you’ve stopped your lives on twenty-four hours’ notice to go on this journey. I have to tell you—I have no idea what’s going to happen, or what it’s going to be like. You’d think that a man of my age would have some idea. But honest to God, I can’t see which way this one’s going to go.