When I’ve finished narrating the worst forty-five seconds of my life, no one says anything. Not at first. Then they all start talking at the same time, again.
Council Members A–C: “Admirable assumption of responsibility.” “Certainly no cause and effect.” “Can’t blame yourself.”
Me: “It is about cause and effect. There isn’t a sidewalk or streetlight or crosswalk or anything that could have kept Humphrey from running into Quarry Road to try to get that football. Just me.”
Council Members D–E: “Unpredictable young boy.” “Understandable feelings of guilt.”
Me: “I think that people are using the accident just because they want to go ahead with their pet projects, and you’ll be cutting down trees and putting up streetlights and chasing away wildlife for no good reason.”
Council Member E: “Well, now, young lady. Well, now. There are people who are experts in safety and road engineering, Ms. Snyder. We here on the council are going to be looking to these experts for their informed opinions and proposals about such matters, and about what can be done to prevent future tragedies from happening. We’ll be relying on studies and experts and not, with all due respect, Ms. Snyder, on your emotional and subjective view—which is understandable, and is not your fault—of what might or might not keep a child safe on Quarry Road.”
So then why did you people pressure me to testify in the first place?
I don’t actually say that. Instead, I say:
“And then there are the people who are using the accident to go after immigrants, just because immigrants happened to be in the car that Humphrey ran into—”
“Illegal immigrants!” someone behind me yells.
“Not just immigrants! Illegal immigrants!”
I turn around and face the audience for the first time. My parents, Adrian, Becca, Justin, and other people I know are out there (no doubt including Doris Raskin), but I can’t see a single one of them. All I see are unfamiliar faces.
“Illegal immigrant drivers kill more people than secondhand smoke!” a voice calls out. “They’re hazardous to our health!”
“They had nothing to do with it!” someone replies. Loudly. “You may want to pretend that this accident and your—your cause are connected, but they’re not. Don’t use the accident as a pretext for targeting undocumented immigrants!”
Oh. That was me. Facing two hundred people.
Isn’t that a good word that Humphrey would appreciate? Pretext.
“Unlicensed to kill!” another person yells.
Council Member A bangs a gavel and the shout-outs die down. He hurriedly thanks me and calls me brave and says that the council will, in fact, take into consideration all the testimony and information they gather, including—take that, Council Member E—mine. I am dismissed. I could leave the hearing, but I don’t. I sit in one of the empty chairs reserved in the front row for people who are testifying.
As Council Member E promised, experts are called after me, and they say things about all the improvements needed to make Quarry Road a safer street. Then Mrs. Joseph goes up and talks about the character of the Franklin Grove neighborhood. Then there’s the tree history lady. Someone from a local environmental group talks about toads and frogs and how road improvements will “adversely impact” the “fragile ecosystem,” which will mean good-bye, toads and frogs. Council Member E wants to know if the toads and frogs are endangered species. No, the environmental expert says. They’re mostly wood frogs and American toads.
So just ordinary toads and frogs, Council Member E says. The way he says it makes me feel much more protective of them than I ever have before.
“We have one more witness,” Council Member A says. “Mrs. Gloria Padilla Folgar.” His eyes search the first couple of rows. “Do you still wish to make your statement, ma’am?”
A small woman approaches the witness table. A circuit of energy bounces around the room. Becca would call it a frisson—like a collective shiver. To me, it feels like a long chain of falling dominoes.
“Mr. Chairman, yes, I wish to address the council and the community,” the woman begins. “I am Gloria Padilla Folgar. My husband, Eugene Folgar Guzman, was driving our car the night of the accident that took Humphrey Danker’s life. It was our car that struck Humphrey. Although the police have absolved us of legal responsibility for this tragedy, we want to apologize to the Danker family and the community. My husband was driving on an expired license. I, too, have an expired license. It is no secret anymore that we are undocumented immigrants. As such, we were unable to obtain valid new licenses when our old ones expired. We should not have been driving. We know that. We would do anything to undo the tragedy. We know that is impossible, but at the very least, I wanted to express our sympathy and our apology publicly.”
“Not good enough!” someone says loudly.
Council Member A bangs his gavel again.
“Go back to Colombia!” someone yells.
“Don’t apologize! Leave!”
The gavel again. This time Council Member A loudly thanks Mrs. Padilla Folgar, thanks everyone who spoke, thanks everyone for coming. But the outbursts don’t stop.
“When will you schedule a hearing on Councilman Foster’s bill?” someone says.
“Illegals off the roads—that’s the best safety program!”
“No need to spend millions on streetlights—just enforce our immigration laws!”
“Let’s take back our community!”
Council Member A is trying to gavel these people into silence, but it’s not working. A man stands up.
“Will the chair permit me to speak?” he asks.
Council Member A looks like he’d rather hit himself in the head with his gavel, but he nods.
“Order, please!” He bangs the gavel. The people who were calling out seem to recognize the man who is standing, and they shut up.
“We want to know when the Meigs County Council will take up Councilman Foster’s bill to direct our law enforcement officers to refer undocumented aliens they encounter to federal authorities,” the man says.
Council Member A looks sideways, over at Council Member E, who, I gather, is Councilman Foster.
“We will take up calendaring in executive session,” Council Member A says. “But perhaps Councilman Foster wishes to address your … concerns.”
“Well, now,” Councilman Foster says. “I introduced that bill and I plan to pursue it. Safe streets and communities are not only a matter of infrastructure, as you say. I will see to it that the council holds hearings and gives full consideration—”
“Not good enough!”
“It’s time for action!”
Council Member A is banging his gavel like crazy, but it can barely be heard. People are on their feet.
“Take back our communities!”
“Unlicensed to kill! Unlicensed to kill! Unlicensed to kill!”
I would say this hearing is officially adjourned.
A woman I don’t recognize is yelling into Mrs. Padilla Folgar’s face. And then I see Justin, slowly coming into focus behind the yelling woman. He puts himself between this woman and Mrs. Padilla Folgar—his mother. Then I see him steer her away from the angry woman and toward the exit. They disappear into the crowd. I look after them, and I see another familiar face. Marissa.
Why is she here? We’ve been texting lately, since the drama at the hockey rink. Not every single day, but frequently. It’s been nice. Back to normal, for us, which is real friends but not best friends. I didn’t tell her that I was speaking here tonight; I didn’t exactly spread the news far and wide about this. It’s possible that Marissa found out I was on the agenda and she came to lend me moral support. But if she’s not here to support me—what, she’s interested in the subject of Quarry Road improvements?
Now Marissa sees me. Our eyes meet. She lifts her eyebrows in some kind of indecipherable greeting, and then she’s jostled and I lose sight of her.
Meanwhile, Adrian finds me.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I don’t really have an answer. “I’m feeling like … myself,” I say slowly. “My real self. I’m also feeling like someone else, but it’s someone else who I’m supposed to be.” I pause. “I’m not sure how much sense that makes.”
“It makes enough sense,” Adrian says.
“I also feel like I had water in my ears,” I say, “and now I don’t.”
“That’s got to be a relief,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m feeling better.”
“I’m glad,” he says.
We hug and he doesn’t say anything more. Then we start looking for an exit. The room is crowded and noisy and feels almost dangerous. As we approach the door we see the blue-and-red flash of police car lights. No sirens, just lights. Six cops jump out of three cruisers, bound up the stairs to the community hall, and rush past us into the room.
It doesn’t take long for things to quiet down after that. There is something about men in uniform—yes, all six cops are men—with guns on their hips. Suddenly everyone in the room is a law-abiding citizen. This wasn’t a riot, after all. Not quite. Just concerned citizens exercising their rights of political expression.
The room is emptying out around Adrian and me. My parents find us and say they’re proud of me.
“Danielle!” Becca falls on me with one of her big hugs. “I’m so proud of you for taking a stand!”
“It wasn’t much of a stand,” I say.
“Tu es formidable!” she says. “You spoke truth to power!”
I have to smile at Becca. Sure I did. I’m a regular rabble-rouser at the barricades. I am Les Mis.
“Plus, you did it,” she says. “You conquered your fear.”
I did, didn’t I. At least for today. At least to say what I had to say.
“I knew you could do it,” Becca says. “And another thing: Remember how you said you’re not an activist?”
“Right.”
“And I said you are too; you just needed to figure out what you’re an activist for? Well, you’re an activist for Humphrey. Don’t you think?”
An activist for Humphrey? I just want to keep Humphrey out of the whole debate. I don’t want Humphrey to belong to people who never even met him.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Something just clicked inside, and I got tired of hearing everyone blame all the wrong things. And the wrong people.”
“That works, too,” Becca agrees. “You’re an anti-hypocrisy activist.”
I smile. I’m tired of talking. “That’s it.”
“But, Danielle.”
“But, Becca.”
“I hope, really hope, you won’t keep blaming yourself.”
That may take a while. “I’ll work on it, Becca,” I say.
“You know, those anti-immigrant people—most of them were plants,” she says.
“I don’t understand.”
“As in, infiltrators,” she says.
Now I have to laugh. “As in, spies, right?”
“Really—they’re not from Franklin Grove. They don’t care about the hearing on the Quarry Road improvements. A lot of them aren’t even from Meigs County. They’re part of the Alliance for Lawful Immigration. They come to community events like this to stir things up.”
“And you know this how?” I ask.
“I have my sources,” Becca says. “You know I know all.”
Adrian, Mom, and Dad leave after I tell them that Becca will walk most of the way home with me. Mom and Dad offered to drive Adrian out to his place, since his car is in the shop—and he accepted, rather than take two buses.
“Quality time,” he whispers to me.
I feel Justin next to me. He takes my hand.
“Where’s your mom?” I ask.
“She came with a friend,” he says. “They’re driving home together.”
Soon Justin needs to go, too; he has a bus to catch, and the buses run less frequently at night. “You’re not walking home by yourself, are you?” he asks.
“I’m walking with Danielle,” Becca offers.
Justin hugs me. “You were stupendous,” he whispers. “You are my superhero.”
As Becca and I start out the door, it occurs to me that if she walks me to the corner of Quarry and Franklin, as planned, then she’ll have to keep hiking down Quarry Road to the bus stop near our house. Too much walking. So much easier for her to leave from here; she should really go to the community hall bus stop, where Justin went. I can make it home alone just fine. It’s a ten-minute walk, and it’s a mild night.
“But I promised your boyfriend!” she says.
I give her a look; I guess he is my boyfriend. But I tell Becca that I think I can decide for myself if I want to walk home.
We say good night. She goes out one door, and I walk in the opposite direction to a different exit, and down some steps toward the street. It’s a cool, clear night. I look forward to airing out my head.
“Danielle.”
Whoa. Jeez.
It’s Marissa. I wasn’t expecting anybody to be here at the bottom of the stairs, and her voice startles me.
“Marissa. Hi. You surprised me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
She congratulates me on my testimony. “You handled all the questions so well. I was proud of you.”
Another person proud of me.
“I can give you a ride home,” Marissa says.
“I thought I’d walk,” I say. “It’s not too far.”
“Let me drive you, Danielle.”
I really was looking forward to the walk. But Marissa has sort of an ache about her. Like she really wants to drive me home. So okay. She points down the street to where she’s parked and we walk in that direction.
“I was surprised to see you here,” Marissa says. “I didn’t realize you’d be speaking.”
That answers the question of whether she came to lend moral support: no.
“I guess I’m surprised to see you, too,” I say.
“It’s … not like you, is it, to speak in front of people like that? At least not like the you that I know.”
“Hard to know how to take that,” I say. I suddenly realize that I haven’t even thought about the wave of panic since Humphrey’s image appeared to me, like Mom’s cardinal, and suggested that I say something highly interesting.
“You did well,” she says. “Actually, outstanding. That’s how you should take it.”
“Thanks. But, Marissa, why were you there?”
“There’s this group,” Marissa says. “It’s involved in promoting legal immigration. I’m starting to get a little bit involved in it.”
“Huh,” I say. “There were people yelling about illegal immigration in the meeting. I didn’t hear anything about legal immigration. And anyway, the hearing was supposed to be about road safety.”
I’m being a little bit of a hypocrite here. After all, I’m the one who brought up the immigration issue toward the end of my testimony. But I’m going to let myself be that much of a hypocrite.
“It wasn’t supposed to be so rowdy,” Marissa says. “Actually, it wasn’t supposed to be rowdy at all.” She explains that the man who asked to speak at the end of the evening was supposed to say something like, “These are the people of your community who support legal immigration and are concerned about unlawful immigration.” Members of their group—organized by the Alliance for Legal Immigration, just as Becca said—were then supposed to stand up. Quietly.
“I don’t know why people starting yelling things out,” she says. “It’s like, once they did, they acted like they had permission to do and say whatever they wanted.”
“It was pretty ugly,” I say.
“I want you to know that I wasn’t there to yell and stomp around,” Marissa says. “If I’d known you were testifying, I probably wouldn’t have come at all. Or I would have come for a different reason: to support you.”
“Okay,” I say. “But why do you say you might not have come at all? Because you’re embarrassed by what you stand for?” I don’t mean for that to sound as harsh as it probably does.
“Because I respect what you were trying to do,” she corrects me. “You were speaking from the heart. Other than you, everyone else was just repeating the same canned speeches we’ve all heard before. So it seemed fine to raise the issue that the council always wants to duck—immigration. But as soon as you spoke, it wasn’t fine to do it anymore. Except—it was too late to change the plan.”
“Well,” I say. “It’s too bad you weren’t in charge.”
“It is too bad,” she says, and we both smile. I think we both know that one of these days, Marissa will be in charge. Of something.
Marissa presses a button on her key, and a car twinkles.
Here I am, it says. This one.
A silver Volkswagen Jetta.
A shiny silver car.
We get in. In the darkness Marissa turns to me.
“I need to tell you something,” she says.