Meg nodded, taking the list and dropping her backpack on the floor beside her wobbly rolling chair. She’d been hoping that going into work would distract her from thinking about Mason, which was stupid—after all, Mason was the one who’d sent her the link for WeCount to begin with, from a list he’d found online of nonprofits that hired students part-time. Meg had been working here since the previous fall, out of a tiny office suite above a high-end home-goods boutique in Montco. The idea was that people were more likely to register to vote if somebody actively talked them through it—even if that person was a total rando—so three times a week Meg sat in a cubicle for two hours and encouraged people in swing states to fill out forms on the internet.
Tonight, her first call was with an elderly woman named Pearl whose registration had lapsed when she’d moved into her retirement community outside of Cleveland. People in retirement communities, Meg had found over the course of her six months of employment, could usually be counted on to answer the phone. “Perfect,” she said once Pearl had successfully navigated to the WeCount home page and clicked the link to register in the state of Ohio. “I can go through the steps with you, if you’d like?”
Meg spent the next ten minutes doodling in the margins of her call sheet while Pearl filled in her information, then another ten listening while she talked about canvassing for Bobby Kennedy back in ’68. “You’re all set,” she concluded finally, once Pearl had completed the registration form. “You should get your confirmation in a few weeks with your polling place. Do you have someone who can bring you to vote on Election Day?”
“Nice work,” Lillian said when she was finished, smiling at Meg over the top of the half wall that separated their cubicles. Meg found herself grinning back. She loved working at WeCount; she’d loved politics basically her whole life, since her mom’s cool cousin Jodie sent her a picture book about Rebecca Latimer Felton, the first woman in the Senate, for her seventh birthday. She still had that book somewhere, its pages wrinkly and its binding cracked from a million bedtime recitations—just like she still had the program from the benefit concert Hal had done for Obama back when she was in elementary school tacked to the corkboard in her room. She could quote every single episode of The West Wing, had convinced Emily to read The Federalist Papers in ninth grade, when every girl in their class suddenly had a crush on Alexander Hamilton, and had door-knocked for Larry Krasner when he’d run for DA. She knew it was hugely dorky, but she believed in the system. And she got a not-so-tiny thrill from being a part of what made it work.
She was about to call the next number on her list when her cell dinged quietly on the flimsy desk beside her. Meg opened up her mail app, letting out a gasp when she saw Cornell University Office of Admissions in the sender line. Holy crap—between Mason and her mom, she’d forgotten all about her application again.
Her first instinct, bizarrely, was to close out the window, which was ridiculous considering she had ostensibly been waiting for this exact email for the better part of two full months. Instead, she took a deep breath and clicked.
Dear Margaret,
Congratulations! We are delighted to inform you that the Committee on Admissions has offered you a place in the freshman class of Cornell University for the upcoming academic year. We look forward to welcoming a student with your outstanding achievements to the Cornell community this fall.
Meg blinked, then blinked again, reading the letter over and over like she expected the words to suddenly rearrange themselves into something other than what they were. She waited for the thrill of victory to hit her, the urge to text Emily and post the email to Snapchat and stand on her chair and announce it to the entire office. After all, this was amazing. This was, and had always been, the plan.
Instead, she just felt sort of numb.
No, she thought, pulling idly on her bottom lip. Not numb, exactly.
It was more like she was . . . disappointed?
Maybe she was depressed again. Meg set her phone down and tilted her head back so far that her dark hair almost brushed the carpet, considering. She guessed it was possible that getting dumped by Mason had ruined her for all other happiness, but for some reason she didn’t think that was what was happening here. In fact, the more she thought about it, poking and prodding at her own reaction like running her tongue over a cavity, she was pretty sure what was happening here was that she didn’t actually want to go to—
Meg hauled herself upright before she could finish the thought, getting a little bit dizzy as the blood rushed out of her head. God, what was wrong with her? This was good news. This was the best news, and if the only emotion she could manage to summon up about it in this moment was a vague kind of dread and boredom at the thought of spending the next four years shuffling through ten-foot snowdrifts and taking dutiful notes in giant lecture halls and listening to Emily obsess over whether to pledge a sorority, well, that was her own malfunction. After all, Cornell had a great government program, and it wasn’t like she had some other secret dream school in her back pocket. It was college. It was exciting! More to the point, it was what normal people did.
So why wasn’t she even a little bit psyched?
Her phone dinged again then, a text this time: I’M IN!!! Emily had written, digital confetti exploding all over the screen. ARE YOU IN??????
Shit. For a second, Meg considered acting like she hadn’t seen the message; she was at work, after all, which bought her another hour or two of plausible deniability. But, like, what was that? What was she even thinking? She’d never ignored a text from Emily in her life.
Ahhh of course you are!!! she typed quickly, plus a row of party hats. You are such a star.
Then, her thumb moving seemingly all on its own: I haven’t heard yet!
WHAT! Em’s reply was instant. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE. Then, a second later: Spam filter???
Meg looked at the screen for another moment, then down at the next name on her call sheet: David Moran from Alma, Ohio. She dropped her cell into her bag and got back to work.
Four
Colby
The sun was just starting to set when Colby got done at the warehouse that afternoon, tossing his orange apron into his locker and sliding his card to clock out. He’d finally been at Home Depot long enough that they’d let him switch over to days, which meant he was back on the same schedule as the rest of the world, though there was a part of him that missed being awake when everyone else was sleeping, driving home as the dawn was seeping up in blues and pinks and reds.
He heard the shower running upstairs when he got inside the house: his mom getting ready for her own night shift at the casino. Matt was in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. The fact that he was a person who drank orange juice at all hours of the day was only one of the many reasons his brother was a douchebag.
“What are you doing here?” Colby asked, dropping his backpack on the floor in the tiny, linoleum-tiled mudroom and bending down to scratch Tris behind her velvety ears. Matt lived by himself in an apartment complex near the Giant Eagle, which made Colby desperately jealous even though he’d never in a million years say it out loud.
“Hello to you, too,” Matt said. He was wearing khaki pants and a bright blue golf shirt, like he was a teller at a bank chain on a summer Friday. “I had paperwork for Mom to fill out.”