I’ve taken my father’s side, and he swells with satisfaction. Rudy’s mother argues some more, but it’s a losing battle. I feel bad, because her argument is that it’s dangerous, and that we could easily lose each other. Which is exactly what I am planning will happen.
As we take turns going into the bathroom to get ready and dressed, Rudy’s father turns on the TV. Traffic cameras are showing buses flooding into the city. The crowds are already growing around and across the Mall. They are predicting as many as a million people are going to march, possibly more. Security is on high alert. The president says he is “monitoring the situation” from a golf course in Florida.
Whenever they show cars coming into the city, I keep an eye out for Rhiannon’s. I know she’s out there somewhere with her friends. We’re supposed to meet at eleven.
I also know Poole is out there somewhere, getting closer and closer. We’ll meet at noon.
These people mean nothing to Rudy. And at the end of the day, he will hopefully forget them.
But for the next few hours, I am going to have to make them more important than his parents. Not more important than him—no matter what happens, Rudy must remain the most important. I must not allow myself to forget that.
It feels worse, to be borrowing the life of someone who is so far away from home, so far away from friends. But I have no choice.
I think I’ll have plenty of time to get to the Mall…but then we stop at the hotel restaurant for breakfast. I power through the buffet, but Rudy’s mother eats like she’s staging her own protest, taking her cereal one cornflake at a time, her grapefruit with a minute between each segment.
“We’d better go before it’s too crazy,” I say.
Then, five minutes later, “If we’re not quick, the Air and Space Museum will be blocked off.”
Then, as 10:15 approaches, “I’m sure you could take that croissant with you if you wanted. Do you want me to ask if they have a bag?”
“The buildings aren’t going anywhere,” Rudy’s mother replies, breaking off a piece of croissant so small that even a bird would ignore it.
Rudy’s father just checks his phone.
* * *
—
It’s 10:37 when we leave the hotel. It only takes a step for us to hit the crowd. It’s astonishing to see so many people—a slow flood of protestors carrying signs and wearing rainbow hats and cheering whenever someone decides to lead a cheer. I can sense that Rudy’s mother is about to return inside—so I turn around, say, “I’ll meet you back here later,” and plunge right in. Apologizing to Rudy for the trouble he will no doubt be in, I bob and weave through the crowd. Nobody seems to mind when I slide past. Nobody’s in a rush; everybody is here to be here. After I’m satisfied that I’ve put enough distance between myself and Rudy’s parents, I take a look around, see all the people in the crowd, really see them. And the thing that strikes me—the thing that really amazes me—is that I see everyone. It’s not the usual American crowd where the majority group is easy to pin down. No—this crowd is actually America, all different races and genders and ages and clothing styles and love inclinations on one street together, making their steady march to the destination. I have been so many of them, and I haven’t been nearly enough of them. I could live to be a million years old and never get to be everyone, not like this. But even with what little experience I’ve had, what’s happening makes sense to me—the thing that can make us most equal is our belief in and desire for equality. I have felt that in so many hearts, and now all the other concerns can be set aside so we can let that feeling rise to the top.
I don’t know what Rudy would make of this. I don’t know very much about his life in Manila. But I have to believe that he would feel at home, that he would add his voice. We are all invested in this trajectory; we all share the want to be seen as seriously as anyone else.
I keep going forward, keep passing the families and the friends and the church groups and the GSAs and the high school basketball teams marching in their jerseys. I see faces that look familiar, faces that I may have once seen in a mirror—but I don’t have the time to stop and remember, or the memory to stop and find. I tell myself I am a part of this, that my body is being counted even though it is not my body. I tell myself I am adding weight to the right side of the balance. I tell myself this even though I know I have to leave.
The National Gallery comes into view. I am already a half hour late, and I’m not even there yet. Rudy’s phone isn’t picking up any wifi, and doesn’t work in the US without it. There’s no way for me to get in touch with Rhiannon. I must trust she’ll find me when I get there.
There are police officers all along the Mall, keeping watch. In other circumstances, it might seem sinister—but the officers are smiling, chatting, returning the salutes of the children who salute them. When I pull off Constitution Avenue, separating myself from the union of cheer and protest, an officer approaches and asks me if I need anything. Suddenly I’m worried he’ll tell me the museum has been closed, even though I checked the website repeatedly over the week to make sure it wouldn’t be. When I tell him my destination, he nods and points me to an entrance on the side of the building.
I know my one body won’t be missed, but I will miss being part of the whole. I’m sure the protest will still be happening when I leave the museum; hopefully Rhiannon and I will be able to experience it together.
I am supposed to meet Rhiannon in front of Monet’s Bazille and Camille, but when I get to Gallery 85, I find that Bazille and Camille are there, but Rhiannon is not. For a Saturday, the museum is very quiet…but you can hear the sound of the crowd outside, the waves of congregation and hoots of proclamation. I am guessing that Rhiannon is caught in the crowd. With all the traffic, she may not have even made it downtown yet.
It is 11:45. I am going to have to meet Poole on my own.
I head down to the basement connecting the museum’s two buildings, where the food court is located. As I walk through the gift shop, Rudy’s heart starts to pound, and I wonder yet again how his body can be so attuned to the pulse of my thoughts. It is more crowded down here than it was in the galleries—mostly tourists taking refuge from the protest, along with a few protestors taking a break to get some food. I am glad I’m not alone, even if all of these people are strangers. They will not let anything happen to me.
I am a few minutes early, but he is already there. I spot him right away, the only teenager with a table to himself. It’s hard not to think of him for a moment as Wyatt, since it is clearly Wyatt I am seeing.
This is the moment when I can still walk away, and I walk forward instead.
He sees me approaching and stands up. I am surprised by the politeness of this, and by the smile on his face that looks almost grateful that I’ve shown up. He extends his hand and I shake it. We are friends from the summer who are meeting in the winter. We are Internet acquaintances finally face to face. We are two boys who’ve been set up for a job interview or a date. What we must look like is nothing like what we really are.