Swiping away tears before they can ruin my makeup, I walk out of the meeting room and make my way into the council chambers. The room is nearly packed. I spot Eli’s dad in the corner with a group of people in business suits, all of them super polished and surprisingly young. They must be the Everest team. Eli sits a few rows over with some other people from school. And then there’s Jordan’s social media brigade. They’re easy to spot, with their TEAM GARDEN: BE A BLESSING buttons.
I wade through the third row to the seat Jordan and Harper have saved for me.
“Everything okay?” Mom leans up from where she and Dad are sitting in the row just behind. “What was all that about with Truman?”
I shake off the urge to flinch at the sound of his name and shrug. “It was just Truman being Truman. I told him to try behaving more like a human being for once.”
“You don’t have to punish him just for my sake,” Harper says. She tugs at the sleeves of her sweater, then checks the basket of marigolds under her seat. “I don’t feel like he meant to be mean. You can go sit with him if you want.”
This is classic Harper, able to feel sorry even for someone who hurt her. But she doesn’t know how petrified I am right now, not just by the idea of what I’m about to do, but by what I’ve just done: fired my partner and ensured that when I step into the spotlight I’ll be doing it alone.
“Trust me,” I tell her. “I’ll do a better job if I’m not with Truman.”
I look over my shoulder at my parents, and their smiles give me confidence. Behind them, at the very back, stands Truman, silently mouthing his speech. No one stands with him, and when I scan the crowd, I don’t see his parents. Sympathy pokes at me in spite of everything, and I’m almost grateful when seven people file onto the stage at the front of the room. One of the council members is Fia Reyes’s dad, and he starts thumbing through a stack of papers as if prepping for his own personal courtroom drama. The mayor comes in last, smiling like it’s utterly normal for this many people to pack a Thursday night hearing. She bangs her gavel and we all stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.
Thus begins what must be the most deadly dull forty-five minutes I’ve ever lived through. First up on the agenda: a shopping center wants to expand its parking lot. Some guy from the city drones on about easements and flood plains. Some guy with a house behind the development is concerned about his property value. Some of the council members think the improvements are overdue. Others want more information. As I listen to the blah blah of engineer’s reports and asphalt contracts, I tell myself that fighting with Truman could have affected the near future, too. Maybe it’s all been resolved and the garden isn’t even on the agenda anymore.
Just when I’ve started to think that’s actually what’s happened, the mayor says, “Our final piece of business is the zoning and imminent domain request by Everest Outfitters.”
The room wakes up as the Everest people gather at the podium. Their presentation is a bunch of corporate BS with bad PowerPoint.
Okay. I know I can do better than that.
Next up is one of the volunteers, a woman with stooped shoulders and a voice scratchy with age. She talks about knowing Mr. Blessing, about how much he loved the garden, and how she’d committed to working there after he died because it made her happy and she knew it would make other people happy too.
Out of the four others who speak, only one is anti-garden. It’s clear that the place is loved. And it makes me think Truman and I might not have to speak after all.
I can’t resist checking, just to be sure. I try to pull up the reunion site on my phone.
I try again. The browser takes less time to load but still pulls up the same black screen. Same error message.
Refresh. Reload. No change.
Damn.
“What are you doing?” Jordan whispers.
“Nothing,” I say. It’d be easy to blame the error on my phone being in a slow death spiral, or crappy Wi-Fi; we are in the bowels of city hall, after all. But what if the reunion site is spinning in some sci-fi void like a held breath, ready to update after Truman and I have made our speeches?
The mayor beams out at the crowd.
“Last but certainly not least, Truman Alexander and Skyler Finch.”
Jordan glances at me, and everybody realizes at once that we never really figured out how this was going to work. I force myself to stay put as Truman walks up the aisle. Harper rises to join him, and there’s a moment where they meet and it’s clear Truman’s not sure what to do. Harper scurries past to place a marigold in front of each of the council members. They thank her; then everyone waits while she makes her way back to her seat.
Truman stands at the microphone with his notebook. He clears his throat.
“Lack of thorough and thoughtful planning in urban development has detrimental impacts on communities that might not be felt immediately, but should be considered before decisions are made that permanently remove assets which have proven beneficial for decades.”
My heart sinks. This is not the presentation we agreed to. If I listen closely, I can maaaaaybe hear a bit of what we worked on in there, but it’s getting buried alive under a mess of esoteric crap. Truman is talking a mile a minute, spitting out vocab bombs like he ate a thesaurus for dinner, talking with his nose at a forty-five-degree angle to the ceiling. And his voice. Oh my God, his voice is so Truman Alexander that I have to fight the urge to scratch at the millions of tiny insects now crawling up and down my arms.
I’m afraid to look at the council members, terrified to see their reactions. I force myself anyway and am surprised to see them actually listening. Maybe it’s just me who’s not connecting because Truman and I have all this history, and I’m obviously not objective, so perhaps I should calm down and let him do his thing.
Except one of the council members just checked his phone. Another is watching a video of baby otters. Still Truman keeps talking. The smiles on the other council members are wearing thin. One woman starts to nod off.
“In conclusion,” Truman says, “many factors are at play where the Blessing property is concerned, and there are many alternatives to consider. We should not be so shortsighted in the quest for economic improvement that we overlook a better solution. Thank you.”
As he leaves the podium, the only sound is the rasp of someone with a stubborn cough. I stand and wipe my palms on my skirt while Mom gives my arm one last squeeze.
My shoulder brushes Truman’s in the narrow aisle. I should give him the courtesy of a “good job” or even a polite nod, but I’m afraid it will signal to the council that I’m going to be just as disastrous. Every person up there looks like they’ve been through one root canal and are dreading round two.
I fold the speech I’d prepared into a tiny square and tuck it inside the palm of my hand. I pull the microphone down to my height and begin.
“Do you remember me? Do you remember my friends? If you went to the Christmas parties at the Blessing mansion, then you saw us when we were just learning to walk. You watched us playing as grade schoolers, and you may have even seen one or two of us experiencing our first kisses. Those parties were more than just parties, they were magic.
“So much has changed since Mr. Blessing died and Eagle Mills left, but that garden has stayed the same. And for some of us, it’s offered a real reason to hang on. If you’re looking for a place to build our future, don’t tear down our past. We need both.”
I’m speaking from the heart, taking the time to look each council member in the eye, and the difference between now and three minutes ago is stark in the best possible way. No one checks their phone. No one yawns. They’re sitting forward in their seats. Some are even taking notes. I’m rocking the room, and even though I know this, the applause that erupts at the end hits like a massive wave, bringing with it an almost euphoric giddiness as the adrenaline my body had been storing up gets released all at once. From out in the audience, Dad gives a thumbs-up. Mom beams. Jordan and Harper hug each other with excitement.
I’m ready to ride the wave back to my seat, when a voice stops me.
“Miss Finch, would you remain at the podium, please?”
It’s Fia’s dad. As I pivot back around, my heart starts to pound. Mr. Reyes thanks the Everest people for their “diligent, comprehensive work.” He thanks everyone else for their “dedication to the community.” He says he wants to “engage in further dialogue about this issue.” Then he looks right at me.
“Miss Finch, the city has experienced a decrease in revenue due to unemployment and falling property values. What are your ideas for replacing the funds we’re projected to lose if we don’t go ahead with the plan as it was described tonight?”
“I…I don’t…” I feel like someone cracked my brains into a bowl and started going at them with a whisk. This right here is exactly why I don’t put myself out there. I fooled everybody for a minute, but now they’re going to know I really have no idea what I’m doing.
All I can do is stand in front of all these people and stammer. Until Truman appears at my side.
“We’ve calculated at least two scenarios where Everest could do everything they say they want to do without tearing out the Blessing garden,” he says.
When Mr. Reyes takes his eyes off me, it’s like getting released from a choke hold. Truman proceeds to break apart Everest’s arguments, point by point, in that self-important voice I’ve hated for the past five years.
If I could hug him right now, I would.
Mr. Reyes looks annoyed. “But it’s awfully late in the game for objections. There isn’t any money left. And the volunteers, including the groundskeeper, are all in their…ahem…later years.”
“I’m a volunteer!” Harper stands up. “I bet I could get at least ten other people from school to volunteer too!”
The determination on her face gives me hope. Maybe Harper will be the one who convinces them, after all. Back up on the dais, the other council members are nodding at this new idea: maybe it could be a community garden.
“It’s too late for that,” snaps Mr. Reyes. “The way Mr. Blessing’s final wishes were arranged, when funds run out for the mansion and garden, they go to the city.”
“He was trusting you to take care of them,” Truman says. “Not tear them out.”
“So why didn’t he trust them to his own family? Does anyone have any plans to buy it?”
Truman’s back stiffens. Years of arguing have taught me to recognize when he’s backed into a corner. Truman may be a maddening know-it-all, but no one should have to explain their family’s dirty laundry to a roomful of strangers.
The mayor finally comes to his rescue.
“For whatever reason, Mr. Blessing decided to take those decisions out of his family’s hands.” She checks her watch, letting her gavel hover. “And I don’t know about all of you, but I’d like to get home to my own family. Can we have a vote?”
It happens almost insultingly fast. Next to me, Truman stands like a stone, while one by one, these people who seemed like they might actually have been ready to give us a win, vote the exact opposite way.
“I do want to add that I know the high school has been planning its prom at the garden,” the mayor says. “Is there a need to break ground right away?”
“We’d be happy to wait until after prom to start demolition,” says someone from the Everest team.
The mayor smiles warmly at me. “See? You can still have your party there. Make sure to make it extra special, okay? Maybe the city can send over a cake.”
If I weren’t in public, I’d let loose a string of choice words to express exactly how I feel about her stupid cake. People are getting to their feet to leave, but I refuse to move. If I stay right here, maybe the last two hours will somehow have a different outcome—or the outcome that did happen won’t become reality. If I’m frozen, maybe I can freeze time.
Truman glares at the city seal on the wall at the front of the room. The notebook he’d been clutching has taken on a slightly warped look.
I turn to him. “Well, that was…insulting?”
Truman purses his lips. He uses both hands to straighten out his notebook.
“I appreciated your help tonight, Skyler. Your speech was very good.”
“Obviously not good enough.”
“Maybe if you’d had a few more facts?”
“Maybe if you’d had a few more feels?”
His jaw twitches and his expression closes off, like shutters snapping over a window.
“Well, you were right about one thing. I can still put this on my résumé, so it’s a success in the long run. Now I have a debate tournament to prepare for. I’ll see you in school.”
Without another word, he walks out of the room. I watch him leave, then face the front again. All but one of the council members left the marigolds Harper gave them behind. The one person who took his was the one who spent the hearing on his phone. I want to race after him, grab the pot away, and break it over his head.
I walk back into the gallery, which is now a jumble of empty seats. Harper sits in her chair, head low, pulling apart a seed pod from one of her transplanted flowers. Jordan sits next to her with an arm around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” I say, grabbing Harper’s hands. “We were so close. This whole thing is completely unfair.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says. Marigold seeds spill through our fingers into her lap, forming a small pile in her skirt.
“I’m just…” I can’t think of anything else to say. I don’t want to think that this whole night was a waste, but what other conclusion is there? In the end, Truman and I worked as a team and it still didn’t do any good. “I’m just really sorry.”
I wait for her to tell me about the wisdom of the universe—that some things just aren’t meant to be. Instead, she stands and brushes the seeds off onto the floor.
“I’m tired. And I have a lot of homework to do.”
“I can take you,” I say.
“Or I can,” Jordan adds.
“Sky’s mom and dad already offered,” says Harper. “Thanks, and no offense, but I don’t feel like talking. I just want to go home.”