Later, my mom and I unload Bessie at the farmers market, setting boxes down and unfolding our table in our assigned spot. As we’re arranging the essential oils into rows, a woman with bobbed hair and a clipboard comes marching up to our booth.
“Stop there,” she says to my mom. “I need a moment.”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” my mom says.
“I’m Kayla Kaye from the city council.” She says it fast, so it runs together like one word. Kaylakaye.
My mom wipes her hands on her apron. “How can I help you?”
“We’ve received a petition.” Kaylakaye holds up her clipboard. “It was started by the Concerned Citizens of Playa Bonita.”
Oh no. “Like the Facebook page,” I say.
Kaylakaye continues, “The petition has been signed by five hundred people, the required number of signatures needed to ban your booth from the farmers market.”
“You can’t be serious,” my mom says, laughing. “Let me see that.” She holds her hand out. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
Kaylakaye pivots slightly, pulling the clipboard out of my mom’s reach. “You are Mrs. Melinda Jade, are you not?”
My mom nods.
“The Playa Bonita community has serious concerns about your product, Mrs. Jade. They’re afraid it could be contaminated.”
My mom stares, wide-eyed. “With what?”
“Well, it’s our understanding that your family recently contracted the measles.”
“How do you know that?” my mom asks.
“So it’s true?” Kaylakaye says.
I toss her a hard glare. “I assume you saw us on Facebook?”
She rolls her eyes. “Everyone saw you on Facebook.”
“Well, we’re not contagious anymore,” I say.
She grips her clipboard and clears her throat. “There are other concerns.”
“Like what?” my mom says.
I feel the weight of people and realize there’s a crowd gathering. It’s like the pumpkin patch all over again. They’ve been waiting for this. They knew. They all signed the petition. And someone here surely started it all in the first place. But who?
Kaylakaye says, “Other possibilities of contamination. Other…” She clears her throat. “Other viruses, perhaps. We understand your family is against vaccinations.”
I want to shout, Not me! I’m torn. I agree with Kaylakaye and all those people who signed that petition, but I also want to defend my mom. “Anybody here could have a virus. Even you. You could be exposing all of us to a cold or something right now.”
She fumbles. “Yes, well, I understand that. But we’re not talking about colds. We’re talking about deadly viruses. Ones that were thought to have been eradicated in the United States.”
My mom looks at Kaylakaye. Pleads with her eyes. “Surely you can be more reasonable.”
“We have a right to stay,” I say.
“I’m sympathetic, I really am,” Kaylakaye says. “But Playa Bonita has spoken, and as their representative, I’m afraid I’m here to tell you that you’ll need to go.”
“Today?” my mom says.
“Right now.”
“We can’t even finish our booth this afternoon?” I ask.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Very well,” my mom says, then looks at me. “June, let’s pack it in.”
My hands are balled into fists. I’m frustrated for my mom, but I’m more frustrated for me. Kaylakaye isn’t saying anything I haven’t already tried to say. How many people have to shun us before my parents get it?
“You can’t be surprised by this,” I say, but my mom doesn’t respond. She just shoves things into boxes without organizing them.
Kaylakaye tries to shoo the crowd away.
The crowd doesn’t budge.
They watch us as we pack, taking photos for Facebook and passing more judgment. I stare down every single one of them. I promise myself I’ll yell if they come one step closer. It’ll be a huge scene for all of Playa Bonita to see. Let them put it online. I don’t care.
My mom keeps her gaze low, not making eye contact, as we cart our boxes away. It’s a relief when we finally climb into Bessie and peel out of the parking lot.
“There are a dozen more farmers markets we can go to,” my mom rants, like she had to wait until we were out of earshot to speak up. “Surely some of them have openings. Even if we have to drive a bit, it’ll be fine.”
I can see it now. Sweating in Bessie with no AC as we drive to markets an hour away from here only because nobody will know us.
“Maybe we should just take a break,” I say.
“Never,” says my mom.