“THAT’S IT. I’M JUST GOING to move. Start over somewhere else.”
“NO!”
So many voices spoke up at once, I actually jumped, spilling some of my soda over the rim of the plastic cup. Sitting around me in the Taylors’ living room were all my friends in Sweetbriar—Fiona, Duncan, Britta, Frederick, Ryan, Hal, Tammy, and even Shelby. Jasper was there too, but via Skype on Britta’s open laptop, his face hovering against the backdrop of his Austin hotel room. Duncan and Fiona’s mom was in the kitchen, waiting for the microwave to finish popping the last batch of popcorn.
“Okay, I appreciate your enthusiasm,” I said as I reached for a napkin, “but how else are we going to get these vultures to leave? I mean, if I go, they’ll follow me and leave the town in peace.”
Fiona shook her head. “I honestly can’t believe how bad it is. I mean, I’m not surprised you bashed that guy’s camera. Do you know one of them tried to follow her into the bathroom today? It was insane!”
“I had some dude waiting for me in the bathroom the other day,” Jasper said. “I had to call the police.”
“What’d they do to the guy?” Shelby asked, nibbling on popcorn.
“Nothing! He claimed he was just in there taking a pee and he didn’t do anything wrong,” Jasper replied. “Like he didn’t have a two-thousand-dollar camera in his hand.”
“Unbelievable,” Britta muttered.
“That’s what they always say,” I told them. “Either that or it’s their constitutional right.”
“Unfortunately, it’s true,” Mrs. Taylor said, walking into the room with another full bowl of popcorn. “They have a right to make a living, so as long as they don’t physically harm you, they’re within their rights.”
“Just like it’s their right to camp in the park,” Fiona said.
“Did you hear they’re thinking about canceling Summer Fest?” Ryan said.
“What?” Hal demanded. “They can’t do that.”
“They can if there’s nowhere to have it. Those people have taken over the square and we can’t make them move,” Ryan replied.
Shelby shot daggers at me from her eyes and I dropped my head into my hands. “This town is going to burn me at the stake.”
“It’s so stupid!” Duncan said. “They can take over our park and take pictures of Cecilia wherever she goes, and we just have to accept it? There should be a law. We know the mayor. Can’t we make a law?”
We all laughed, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Shelby’s face go slack. She jumped up out of her seat. “I’ve got it!”
“Got what?” Duncan asked.
“Remember in seventh-grade civics when we had to do that project on local government?” Shelby asked, swinging around to look at Duncan and Fiona, her plaid skirt fluttering.
The twins exchanged a look. “Sorta . . . ,” Duncan said.
“Um, no,” Fiona added.
Shelby rolled her eyes impatiently. “Why am I the only person who cares about this town?” she asked, throwing up her hands. Then she turned and looked at me. “Well, I did my project on the Sweetbriar judicial system.”
Her expression was so triumphant that I wanted to shake her.
“And?” I asked.
Shelby cocked one eyebrow. “And you, Cecilia Montgomery, are about to owe me,” she said. “Big time.”
* * *
“Britta! Wake up! It’s happening!”
One second Britta was asleep on her stomach with her face half-pressed into the wall, the next she had shot out of bed and was grabbing the extra mug of steaming coffee from my hand. Together we ran on our toes to the front windows of the living room as if it were Christmas morning. Outside, the sky was lightening from gray to lavender to pink, and the flashing lights of the Sweetbriar Police Department cars seemed all wrong set against the dawn—in pretty much the same way that the shouts and protests of all the photographers who were getting arrested—and some of those who weren’t—sounded wrong against the peaceful trilling of the birds in the trees.
“Get your hands off me! You can’t—”
“Dude, let a guy wake up before you throw him in the—”
“This is police brutality! There’s no law against camping in this park.”
“No, but you have been found to be in violation of Sweetbriar ordinance number twenty-four D.” The police officer who said this barely kept a straight face as he led the cuffed photographer over to a waiting patrol car. I had a feeling he was speaking extra-loud on purpose, as if he knew he had an audience.
“What the heck is Sweetbriar ordinance number twenty-four D?” the photographer asked sarcastically.
The cop shoved the man inside the backseat and then leaned toward him. “I think I’m gonna let the chief explain that one.”
Then he slammed the door, turned around, and winked up at our window. Britta and I raised our mugs and high-fived.
The five police cars holding offending photographers took off, and all the rest of the paps in the park packed up quickly and jumped into their cars and vans to give chase. They knew a good story when they smelled one. Within minutes, every one of the tents was gone and all of the random people had cleared out.
“Ah. So quiet,” Britta said with a sigh, and took a sip of her coffee.
I smiled—a real smile that seemed to melt away every bit of negativity in my body. For the first time in ages I felt light inside. I felt . . . happy.
* * *
Britta, Fiona, and I entered the slam-packed Sweetbriar courthouse through a side door, and the din inspired by our arrival was deafening. It was all I could do not to duck my head and cover my ears, but I wanted to look as mature and in control as possible. I wanted to look like the exact opposite of the way I did on those magazine covers. As of today, the world was going to meet a whole new Cecilia Montgomery.
Seated along the front row of the gallery was an assortment of familiar photographers, all of them with hands cuffed behind their backs. They stood up when they saw me.
“This is all your fault!” one of them shouted.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“You’re the one who should be thrown in jail.”
I already was, thanks to you losers, I thought. Though yes, I knew I had played a role in that mess. I swear I am never drinking again.
The bailiff ushered us over to what would normally be the jury box—the only free seats left in the room—and on our way past the judge’s desk, I noticed that my mother was standing there in a pressed gray suit, having a chat with the judge. I also noticed that this side of the room was much more welcoming. People began to clap as we approached, and by the time we’d sat down, the cheers overpowered the jeers.
I bit my bottom lip to keep from smiling too wide. But it was nice to feel not-hated for the first time in days.
Duncan, Frederick, and Ryan were already seated in the jury box. I slid in next to Duncan and nudged his shoulder. “I don’t understand. Shouldn’t we be at the police station?”
“That’s where they took everybody, but it got way too crowded way too fast. And if there’s one thing Chief Marshall is serious about, it’s the fire code. As soon as they counted over a hundred people, he made the call to move everyone here.”
Britta whipped out her laptop and started to type into it.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
“This is a historic moment,” Britta replied. “Someone should be taking notes.”
“And the reporters are a tad tied up at the moment,” Fiona joked, saying the word “reporters” as sarcastically as possible.
“Speaking of, did you guys notice there’s a podium set up outside on the front steps?” Ryan asked. “What’s that about?”
“We came in the side entrance,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “But that’s weird. Is someone giving a press conference?”
Before anyone could answer, the judge banged her gavel.
“Order in the court! This court will come to attention!” She was a large woman with tight, dyed-red curls and coffee-colored skin. After a few more slams of her gavel, everyone shut up, but she gave the room a narrow-eyed look that said we hadn’t shut up fast enough.
“Thank you. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Judge Rosalie Williams, servant of the municipal court of Sweetbriar, Tennessee,” she said. “Now, this is a very unusual situation. Normally anyone arrested in Sweetbriar is made aware of the charges being levied against them and then brought to the police station for processing. But the citizens of Sweetbriar clearly have an abundant interest in these particular arrests, so here we are.”
While the judge was speaking, my mother walked slowly over to the corner of the room, where Shelby stood, holding a big leather-bound book to her chest. She watched my mother’s approach, wide-eyed, as if Beyoncé herself was coming to talk with her. Or maybe Godzilla.
“Chief Thomas Marshall, would you care to read the charges?”
The chief stood up from the front row, across the aisle from the perpetrators, and cleared his throat. “Your honor, these people have been found to be in violation of Sweetbriar ordinance number twenty-four D.”
The far side of the room erupted in protests all over again, until the judge banged the gavel a few more times. I rubbed my palms together between my legs, giddy with anticipation.
“Order! Order in the court!”
The room went quiet again and Judge Williams took a long, deep breath. “Chief, would you mind explaining to these fine people what Sweetbriar ordinance twenty-four D is?”
The chief opened his mouth to speak, but a voice from the corner interrupted him. My mother’s voice.
“Actually, if it pleases the court, I’d like to read the law aloud.”
I glanced at Britta. Her fingers froze over her keyboard.
“Why not? It’s already a circus in here.” The judge leaned back in her chair until it creaked. “Senator Montgomery has the floor.”
Shelby handed the book over and my mother walked to the center of the room. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor, the sound echoing against the silence. There were at least a hundred cell phones raised, recording her journey for posterity. At the center of the room—the optimal vantage point for all—my mother paused, cleared her throat, and opened the book. With one toss of her hair helmet, she began to read.
“Township of Sweetbriar ordinance number twenty-four D, signed into law December 12, 1840.”
There was a murmur among the crowd, but the judge sat forward and everyone clammed up.
“Within the city limits of Sweetbriar, Tennessee, no person shall be allowed to photograph a female citizen of Sweetbriar under the age of twenty-five without express permission of her father or husband. Penalty for infraction is arrest and twenty days’ jail time.”
My mother closed the book. The room erupted. She smiled over at me, handed the book to Mrs. Taylor, and strode out of the room, her Secret Service agents jumping up to follow.