There’s poster paper and markers on the kitchen table when I come downstairs in the morning, so I decide to make a new sign, too. Then I make another one. And another. I have so many things to say.

Grandad grabs the folding chairs from the garage where his car is still missing, and I put on my sneakers.

Mom arrives in a T-shirt I’ve never seen before. It says, Don’t be scared. I’m just a feminist. She says, “Are we eating first? Or do you want to get something while we’re out? That new place on Main has great breakfast sandwiches.”

I don’t know why I’m so shocked that Mom is here.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“I don’t have to come with you if you don’t want. I get that this is your thing with your grandfather.”

“No!” I say. “I want you to come. I’m just not used to—uh.”

“You’re used to her being here on Saturday, cooped up all day and making dinner for spaceman Mike,” Grandad says.

Mom scolds him for being sarcastic.

“Sorry, but the man stole my car,” he says.

She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to. I can see it in her face.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell her. “You tried. You even still let him come over and made him dinner!”

“I just wish it would have worked out,” she says.

“He smashed your blue mug,” I say. “Nothing you could have done.”

“Hear, hear,” Grandad adds.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a protest,” Mom says.

“I brought licorice shoestrings.” Grandad holds up his candy bag.

Mom smiles and looks like she’s going to cry. Those are her favorite.

We walk until we get to the space in front of Tad’s where we sit every Saturday. It’s finally feeling like autumn, and I’m not sweating for once. Grandad and I set out the chairs and Mom goes to buy us breakfast sandwiches.

“Nice sign,” Grandad says.

I smile and balance it on my knees. It’s my favorite.

CENSORSHIP: WHEN GROWN-UPS ACT LIKE CHILDREN!

“Is that Marci?” Mom asks as she carries two cups of coffee in a cup carrier and a brown paper bag in her other hand. She’s looking behind me, so I turn around.

“Hi!” Marci says.

“Hey,” I answer. I get up and set her chair out next to mine.

“What do you think?” she asks, showing me a colorful sign that says STOP BEING AFRAID OF WORDS with a stop sign as the O in STOP.

“Love it,” I say. I turn my sign around to show her the other side.

She smiles. “Always one step ahead, Mac.”

STEALING HALLOWEEN FROM CHILDREN? SOUNDS LIKE A TRICK TO ME.

“That’s my boy,” Mom says.

I offer Marci half my breakfast sandwich and we sit down and eat. Grandad’s friends always stop and say hello. They keep laughing at my sign, saying when they were kids, things were a lot more “loose” around town.

“We could walk around and do whatever we wanted,” one says.

Marci has small leaflets that she’s handing out. On the front, it’s an overview of what happened with our copies of The Devil’s Arithmetic with a picture of the blacked-out part. On the back is the proposed school board policy.

A woman who passed by and took a leaflet a half hour before comes to us and says, “It’s sad that this is happening. I’d love to help.”

Marci says, “The best way to help is to come to the emergency board meeting on Tuesday night. You can sign up to speak or just bring a sign!”

The woman says, “Sounds good. I’ll be there.”

Only after she’s long gone, Grandad says, “She’s Tony Farisi’s daughter.”

“Isn’t that the guy who started the bookstore?”

“Sanctimonious turd,” he says.

“Yeah, him,” I answer.

“She turned out a lot nicer than her old man. And a lot smarter about the world. I hear she’s running for school board,” Grandad says.

“I bet she really meant it, then,” Marci comments.

More people than usual stop to talk to us. All of them support our cause. It makes me feel nervous. I know there are people who don’t agree. I guess they’re keeping to themselves. We’ve been here three hours already and we decide to stay longer. The place is packed because it’s a beautiful day.

“Columbus boy!” someone says. I know the voice. It’s Aaron James.

He’s with a man who I assume is his dad. The man says, “Nice sign!” I’m a bit surprised Aaron’s dad likes my sign, but he’s only seen the Halloween side, so who can’t get behind that?

Aaron and his dad talk for a while with Marci, who gives them leaflets, and I talk to a woman who stops to say she’s behind us all the way. Grandad tells her about the meeting, but she says she can’t make it. “Write a letter to the board,” he says. “And to the paper!”

“That, I can do!” she answers. “Good luck!”

Aaron and Aaron’s dad go to the bookstore, and Aaron comes out with a copy of The Devil’s Arithmetic. He shows it to me, smiling.

“But we already finished reading it,” I say.

His dad says, “Don’t worry. I’m billing the school district for it!”

Grandad laughs. I don’t see why that’s funny. When Aaron and his dad leave, Grandad explains. “Some people go about protesting in different ways. I’m pretty sure that guy and I don’t vote for the same people, but we think the same about our kids. And grandkids. You get my drift.”

“I’ll take whatever support I can get,” Marci says.

I nod.

By the time three o’clock rolls around, we’re all hungry and Mom suggests we drop the chairs back home and go to the sandwich shop. I ask if Marci can come with us.

“Can I call my mom and see if that’s okay?” Marci asks. She borrows Grandad’s phone and comes with us.

My hands aren’t sweaty around her anymore. She’s just my friend, only a bit more. I’ve known her forever. She knows how to dance to “Rock Lobster.” We are fighting a town together.

When we get to the sandwich shop, I order a grilled cheese kid’s meal and so does Marci. When the food comes and we start eating, she says, “I don’t know how you eat French fries without ketchup.”

I say, “And I don’t know how you eat French fries with ketchup.”

Suddenly, Grandad jumps out of the booth we’re sitting in and runs toward the window.

“That’s my car!” he yells.

And then he runs out the door and down Main Street.