real. The map is shifting red, and suddenly I feel like I’m in one of those cartoons, where Wile E. Coyote thinks he’s standing on the edge of a solid cliff—except when he glances down, there’s only the nothingness of air.
Because that’s what we have now. Nothing.
The next forty-five minutes pass in a haze as everything shifts. Then the final numbers flash on the screen: fifty-one point eight percent for Newton. Forty-eight percent for Rossum.
All those doors we knocked on. Every flyer we handed out. Every sign we put it up. It doesn’t matter. We lost.
The restaurant is silent. Sara slides over and hugs me. Gabe leans forward, staring at the screen, as if he’s willing it to change the results by the force of his expression. Jordan Rossum . . . he looks as devastated as I feel.
Jamie squeezes my hand. I fight back tears. I glance over at Imam Jackson and my mother—they’re whispering to each other by the back wall. Lauren’s on the phone talking to someone in a hushed voice.
It’s like someone died.
Rossum heads outside with his team. Journalists hurry behind him. The people on the television are dancing in red T-shirts and fist pumping. It settles in me like a sinking brick—H.B. 28 is going to pass in the senate. It’s going to become law.
My stomach feels like there’s quicksand inside—my heart spiraling down.
After some time passes, Jordan returns. He stands in front of the restaurant. And then he concedes the election. Tears fill my eyes. I glance at Jamie—he looks shattered.
Rossum is eloquent and charming. He thanks all of us volunteers for everything we’ve done. Hannah’s mother, Lucia Adams, gets a shout-out for her election protection work and her fight to keep polling stations in minority areas from closing. There’s a smattering of applause from the audience.
But I don’t feel like clapping.
“I just don’t get it,” Jamie says quietly.
“Sorry, guys,” Sara says gently. “I know you both put your hearts and souls into this.”
I shrug, but yeah—we really did. And for what? We got close. But we lost.
“Hey, sweetie.” It’s my mother.
I drop Jamie’s hand from under the table and straighten. Did she see us? If she did, she’s got a complete poker face about it.
“You both doing okay?” she asks Jamie and me.
“Not really,” Jamie says.
“Not sure how to feel okay when everything we worked for blew up in flames,” I tell her.
“It’s normal to feel disappointed right now,” she says as Lauren joins us.
I don’t know if my mom has figured anything out, but judging from Lauren’s huge smile as she glances from Jamie to me, she definitely can tell.
“I just don’t get it,” I say. “How could they do this? How could they want him to represent us after everything he’s said and done?”
“I know. But we came close,” my mother says. “The closest anyone came in this district in almost thirty years, actually.”
“Close isn’t winning. He lost.”
“You’re right. But don’t forget, this was a special election—this seat will be up for grabs again in sixteen months. Now we know it’s winnable.”
“And you see that woman over there?” Lauren nods to Hannah’s mother, who’s talking to a reporter right now. “There’s quite a bit of buzz about her. She might run.”
“But in the meantime, H.B. 28 passed in the House this morning.” I sigh. “And there’s a supermajority in the state congress now. So it’ll become law.”
“Oh yes.” Lauren nods. “About that. There’s a group of lawyers from Austin and Byrne who are teaming up with the ACLU to get ahead of that constitutional mess.”
“Austin and Byrne?” Jamie tilts his head. He picks up a glass of water. “The one with the billboard up by The Temple?”
“The one and only.” Lauren smiles slightly. “Our family friend Mark Plummons said he found information about it in a bathroom at Sophie’s bat mitzvah. Isn’t that the strangest thing?”
Jamie spits out water.
“Really?” I ask her. “They’re already planning to fight the bill?”
“Hoping to scare them off before it goes any further, but no matter what happens, they’re going to fight it to the end.”
I glance at Jamie. He looks back at me and smiles a little. There’s a team of lawyers working to squash this bill. We played a part in that. It’s not much—hardly anything, to be honest—but it’s something to hold on to. It gives me hope.
Imam Jackson approaches my mother just then—a few journalists want some comments from the masjid. Once she leaves, Jamie and I use the opportunity to slip into the back of the restaurant.
“Feeling any better?” I ask him.
“Still hurts like I got run over by a train,” he replies.
“Same here. All that work . . .”
“For nothing.”
I look at Jamie’s crestfallen face. I take a step closer to him.
“I mean, I guess it wasn’t for nothing,” I slowly say. “Like our moms said, we got really close. Next time we’ll get closer. Next time we’ll win.”
“But we could do it all over again and have the same result.”
“Next election, there’ll be more of us. You and I can vote by then. So will Drew, Felipe, Nolan, and Shelby.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Still . . .”
He’s right. We don’t know what will happen. We could get back out there next year. Knock on doors and put up signs, hand out water bottles to thirsty canvassers. Vote.
And we could still lose.
“We might give it our all and crash and burn.” I take a step closer to him. “But we might win. We might actually change things. And maybe that makes it still worth going for, don’t you think?”
I lace my fingers in his as he looks down at me.
“You’ve really thought this whole thing through, haven’t you?” he says with a small smile.
But I don’t reply. I kiss him instead.