The day before the governor election, Ken, Farida, Adam, and I head to the local field office of Jack Witham after school to make get out the vote calls, like we’ve been doing a few afternoons a week. Between that, debate, working on AstroNews, and school, I haven’t had any time to chill and watch movies or really to even chill, period.

“We’ll have time to do that after the election,” I reminded Ken when he started complaining about missing our Keeping It Reel sessions. “Priorities, dude. Right now the priority is making sure that we have a good governor.”

“All work and no play makes Stella a dull girl. All work and no play makes Stella a dull girl. All work and no play makes Stella a dull girl,” he says, quoting from The Shining movie.

Laughing, I remind him that the latest Marvel movie is coming out the week of the election. “We can go see it for our victory party!”

“Or to commiserate if Witham loses,” he said.

“Don’t even joke,” I told him. It was bad enough losing the school election to Chris. Jack Witham has to win. The consequences of him losing are way bigger.

One thing I’ve learned volunteering is that making phone calls isn’t my favorite thing to do. I don’t like talking on the phone at the best of times, and it’s worse calling someone I don’t know, who might get angry and hang up on me as soon as they hear what I’m calling about.

But, although I’m getting used to being hung up on, when I get through and talk to someone who confirms they’re going to vote for Jack Witham, it makes me sit up straight and dial again, because that’s one more voter to help defeat Mayor Abbott.

And volunteering is something I can do that might help my brother and all of the people who the mayor has been targeting in his speeches.

It doesn’t hurt that they have good snacks here, too.

“Ugh, I just got an Abbott’s-right-about-immigrants! guy,” Farida says. “Quick, hand me a gummy bear to take the bad taste out of my mouth.”

I pass her the bowl.

“I just had this really supercool older lady who said she’d love to go door to door with me, but her walker would probably slow me down,” Adam says. “I asked her if she needed a ride to go vote tomorrow and she said she voted absentee in case she died between now and then. She said if she goes, she wants voting to be the last thing she does.”

“She’s my hero,” I say. “I want to be like her when I grow up.”

“Do they still count her vote if she dies between now and then?” Farida asks.

“Good question,” I say. “I hope so.”

My next call picks up. According to the call sheet, he’s a twenty-eight-year-old man who has only voted once. He says he’s not going to vote because he doesn’t like either of the candidates. “I hate politicians,” he says. “You can’t trust any of them. What’s the point?”

“The point is that they make the policies that affect your life,” I tell him. “Don’t you want a say in that?”

“Yeah, like my one vote is going to make a difference.” He laughs.

“All those one votes add up!” I say, but I’m speaking to myself. He’s already hung up on me.

“Democracy is really hard work,” I complain.

“No one ever said it was easy,” Farida says.

“A lot of people I spoke to aren’t paying attention,” Adam says. “They don’t even know what each of the candidates stands for. Or if they are paying attention, they think their vote doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it’s definitely not going to matter if they don’t bother to vote,” I say. “I get that, and I’m not even old enough to do it yet!”

My frustration with voters is still hanging over me at dinner.

“What if people don’t vote?” I ask.

“We just have to hope that more of Mayor Abbott’s people don’t vote than Jack Witham’s,” Dad says. “It’s always a numbers game.”

“But it’s not a game!” I say. “It’s important. It affects people’s lives. Rob’s life. Farida’s life. The lives of so many people in our state.”

“It is important,” Mom says. “That’s why it’s great that you’re volunteering.”

“That’s right,” Dad says. “Democracy doesn’t work well if we don’t participate.”

“Or if there’s voter suppression,” Rob adds.

“But what about ‘liberty and justice for all’?” I say. “Are those just words? We say them all the time when we pledge allegiance to the flag.”

“That’s the ideal,” Dad says. “It’s been over two centuries, but we still have to keep fighting to make it happen.”

I wonder if the work is ever done, or if our country will always be a work in progress, waiting for each generation to do its part. Will we ever get to just kick back and chill and say, “Yay! We did it!” Will it happen in our lifetime? In my kids’ lifetime? In my grandkids’? Ugh, I don’t want to have to think about that. It’s hard enough to have to think ahead to senior year knowing that everything in the world isn’t right.

Rob drops me off at Farida’s at ten, after Tigris has closed. We don’t have school on Election Day because Argleton High is a polling place, so Farida invited me for a sleepover and then in the morning we’re meeting Adam and Ken back at the Witham for Governor office to make some more get out the calls.

“My feet,” Farida moans, lounging on the bed when we’re both in our pajamas. “Just looking at these supercute ‘Shoes You Want in Your Closet for the Holidays’ in Teen Vogue makes them hurt more.”

“That’s so wrong,” I say. “If just looking at awesome shoes can make your feet hurt, then where is the joy in life?”

“I need a new jooooooy!” Farida exclaims. She puts down her phone. “And talk about irony … because of all this awful stuff I just might get one.”

“What do you mean?”

“So business at the restaurant went down right after the America News Channel broadcast. But then the Stephanie Nagy report and the whole secret Facebook thing happened, and started going viral, and now it’s even better than it was before, because people who’d never been to the restaurant ended up coming to support us and they liked the food.”

“That’s fantastic,” I say.

“Well, obviously I’m happy about it except it’s meant I’ve had to work lots of extra shifts and I’ve had hardly any time for myself. And I finally told my parents that I’m trying out for the winter musical.”

“You didn’t tell them till now? What did they say?”

“They said yes! They said that since business has picked up so much they could afford to hire a part-time server and won’t need me as often. So musical tryouts, here I come!”

“That’s amazing! You’ll totally kill the audition. But are you and Ken going to be able to work on the musical together without arguing constantly?”

“He’s backstage, and hopefully I’m going to be front and center. If this week’s auditions go the way I want. I’ve decided to use ‘Popular’ for my solo audition, and the opening from Rebecca for my monologue. Anyway, Ken and I managed to survive your campaign, right?”

“True!” I say. “Barely.”

“We’ve talked it through. I think he’s starting to get it. At least he’s starting to listen more, instead of automatically getting all defensive if I say something.”

“We all have to start somewhere. It took me a while to learn how to do that. Longer than it should have, I know.”

“It’s just frustrating when you’re the one who is suffering from injustice. You want it fixed today,” Farida says. “Well, yesterday would be better. But then you’re told: Stop being so angry, you alienate people. Or, Rome wasn’t built in a day. And then I just want to say to them: You realize that slaves built Rome, right? So what’s your point exactly?”

“Maybe you should say that,” I tell her.

“Maybe one day I’ll be fed up enough to do it,” she says.

“I hope I’m there to see it when you do,” I say. “Have things been any better at school?”

“Amazingly, yes,” she says. “You know what’s weird? Chris has been a better class president than I thought he’d be—at least so far. He’s stepped up a few times when he’s seen racist stuff going on. I never in a million years thought that would happen.”

“People can change,” I say slowly. “If they want to and they’re open to it.”

“I know. But I never thought he would.”

She rolls onto her stomach, facing me. “But enough about Chris. I want to hear all about what’s going on with Mountain Man. Do your parents like him?”

“My parents haven’t met him. They … don’t know I’m seeing him.”

Farida’s eyes widen in shock. “For real? But—”

“Things have just been so crazy at home what with waiting for Rob’s trial and everything—I just didn’t want to add that to the mix.”

“Well, at least I feel better that I’m not the only one you keep secrets from,” Farida says.

“I haven’t met Adam’s dad, either,” I say, wondering if telling Farida this is the right thing to do. “Apparently he’s … well, he’s a big Mayor Abbott supporter, so …”

“Oh.”

It feels like the temperature in the room just dropped by ten degrees.

“But Adam’s not like that. He hates that his dad thinks that way. He was the one who suggested working on the Jack Witham campaign.”

“I know,” Farida says slowly. “It’s just … it’s creepy. Adam’s a friend and then I find out his dad doesn’t want my family here without even knowing us.”

“Yeah. It makes you wonder how many people in Argleton think that way.”

“We already knew there were enough to elect Chris’s dad as mayor,” Farida says.

“True. But you wonder how many aren’t as vocal as Mayor Abbott,” I say. “They just say that stuff in private like Adam’s dad. Or pretend not to notice when Wade says something racist to another person.”

“I really want Jack Witham to win tomorrow,” Farida says. “It’s bad enough that Chris’s dad is mayor, but to have him as governor? Ugh.”

“That’s nothing more we can do tonight,” I point out.

“True,” Farida says. “How about watching Fried Green Tomatoes? I suggested it for Keeping It Reel, but Ken said it’s ‘too much of chick flick.’”

“The struggle is real and it never ends,” I say, sighing. “Even with our friends.”

“Tell me about it,” she says, raising her eyebrow meaningfully.

“Okay, point taken,” I say. “So what about some popcorn to go with our fried green tomatoes?”

“Now you’re talking,” she says, grabbing my hand and yanking me off the bed.

Normally, I’d just enjoy having Election Day off to do something fun with my friends, but this time it’s different. I’m still hanging out with my friends, but instead of hanging out at someone’s house or going to a movie, we’re back at the Witham for Governor campaign office making more get out the vote calls.

“Talk about a hot date,” Adam says to me between calls. “You take me to all the best places.”

I smile, blow him a kiss, and dial the next number.

He winks and grins, showing off his single dimple, which my research tells me is a manifestation of a genetic defect caused by shortened facial muscles, and is rare when a person only has one.

When I told Adam this, he a) laughed and told me that it was my adorkable brain that attracted him to me in the first place—aside from my obvious adorableness, of course—and b) said that clearly he was rare and special and I should ensure that I treat him accordingly.

I may or may not have laughed.

If I’m honest, I can’t say that making these phone calls is that much easier than it was when I started. It’s still not something that comes naturally to me. But at least I’m more used to doing it, and I understand why it’s so important. It matters if people don’t vote.

By the time Farida drops me at home, my voice is hoarse from talking to people all day.

I lean over and hug her.

“I hope he wins,” she says. “I wish I were old enough to vote.”

“I know, me too,” I say. “But at least we’ve done what we can to help him win.”

I just hope it’s enough.

The polls close at eight. My parents, Rob, and I are sitting in the living room, watching the results come in. It’s even more nerve-racking than waiting for the results of the student government election. I just hope that this time, an Abbott isn’t the winner.

There’s no clear winner at eleven, with sixty percent of the votes counted.

“Stella, you have school tomorrow,” Mom says. “You should think about getting to bed.”

“Mom! How can I got to bed without knowing who won? There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Come on, Mom, let her stay up,” Rob says. “She’s been working on the campaign. She’s invested in this.”

I throw him a grateful glance.

“Okay. But I don’t want any complaints about being tired tomorrow morning,” Mom says.

“I’ll be sure to prime the coffeemaker,” Dad says. “That way you’ll be fueled up and ready to go bright and early.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, nervously stroking Peggy’s ears.

It’s too close. Mayor Abbott could win. There’s one district where Witham is only up by four votes, which means that Abbott could appeal for a recount. I want to go back in time and tell that to the guy who said that his vote wouldn’t make a difference. It’s probably not his district, but still. What if it is?

“How can you be so calm?” I ask Rob. “This affects you most of all.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, it affects me, but what can I do?” he says. “I voted first thing this morning. Witham’s either going to win or he isn’t.”

“Since when did you become so chill about life?” I ask.

“Maybe the group is helping,” he says.

“What group?” Mom asks.

“The one for vets that the counselor at school set up,” Rob says.

Dad mutes the volume on the TV.

“How come we didn’t hear about this till now?” he asks.

“I’m an adult. I’m allowed to keep some things to myself,” Rob points out.

“You’re an adult living under our roof. Whose legal bills we’re helping to fund,” Dad says. “Don’t you think that gives us some right to be kept informed?”

“Bill.” Mom gives Dad a warning look, then asks, “So you’re finding this group helpful?”

Rob nods.

“I’ve only been going for three weeks, but yeah, so far so good. It’s keeping me going until the VA appointment comes through.”

Mom’s about to ask him another question when I notice the headline on the TV.

“Look! Jack Witham’s declared victory!”

Dad fumbles for the remote for what seems like forever and finally turns the sound back on, just in time for us to hear Mayor Abbott making his concession speech. Chris is onstage with him, looking somber and uncomfortable in his blue blazer and khakis.

I lean over and hug my brother. “Maybe this is a sign that things are starting to turn around.”

Peggy’s tail thumps against the floor as she wags it in sleepy agreement.

“I feel a little better about the court date now,” Rob says. “Still not looking forward to it.”

“I think this calls for a celebration,” Mom says. “Cookies, anyone?”

My cell is buzzing with texts. I’m elated but suddenly exhausted, too.

“I probably should get to bed,” I say. “I have school tomorrow.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Rob asks, feeling my forehead. “You never turn down a cookie.”

I punch his arm.

“I’ll be fine when I get a good night’s sleep,” I tell him. “That’s if your face doesn’t give me nightmares.”

Sibling love.