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“To livestream the entire thing.”
My mother began huffing and making dissatisfied faces, while Dylan waved me off. “But seriously, don’t worry about me. Mom is here to keep me safe. Dot too. She’s my bitch now!”
Sure enough, I spotted Cal, with her black overalls and white turtleneck and that face that was equally fascinating and painful to look at. My own personal sun, shining too bright and too hot.
She gave me an awkward wave, and I almost tripped, it threw me off so badly.
Then I noticed Kieran. He was sitting next to Cal, wearing a designer peacoat with the collar popped straight like a Succession character. Was he vying for the Douchebag World Championship? If so, he could count on my vote.
Also—why wasn’t Cal at work? Guess it was her day off. I’d made a point of not checking the schedule to prove to myself I didn’t care.
Great job, assface. Very convincing.
I took my place onstage between Robbie and Allison. The old man was still wrestling with his laptop, physically grabbing and shaking it into submission. He whipped his head in my direction. “Got any idea how to record on this thing?”
Scooting my chair closer to his, I peered at the screen and double-clicked the recording software. “Is it connected to the camera on that tripod?”
“Should it be?” The man’s bushy, white eyebrows flew to his forehead. “I’m filling in for Helene. Don’t have the greenest clue how to operate this thing.”
It took me eight more minutes to connect the camera to the computer so that my public crucifixion could be documented in full-color HD. When I retook my seat, Allison announced that she would moderate the town hall meeting, in which the topic at hand would be me signing the GS deal and what it meant for the future of Staindrop.
“Also, just to address the elephant in the room, even though Ambie—I mean, Mr. Casablancas—and I used to be partners, I assure you I will be treating this with the utmost professionalism this town deserves.”
We had never been partners. This shit had gone too far. I turned to look at Cal despite my better judgment. Her face was blank, caged up. What did I expect? To see her bawling into her ridiculous Lego-shaped purse? She’d never wanted me. Even when I had been balls-deep inside her, she’d been doing it so she could fuck off to college hymen-free.
“Thank you, Miss Murray, for being less discreet than a ten-foot dildo,” I drawled, perching back lazily in my seat. People gasped.
“Excuse his unpalatable sense of humor.” Allison sent me a flirtatious smile from across the panel, even though I knew she wanted to kill me for that last comment. “Now, please raise your hand if you have any specific questions regarding the contract with GS or what it might entail.”
A group of elderly women shot up from their seats in the front row.
The Righteous Gang.
I knew them well. They were town hall staples. There to yell when the first Starbucks had opened in town (then closed three months later), when I’d transformed the old train station into Descartes, or when a kid had ridden their bike on the street between two and four in the afternoon. Everything, from the width of the crosswalks to the fucking weather, offended them.
“We made a song of protest.” Agnes, the one with the orange-green sweater and hat made out of leaves, rose to her feet.
“Of course you did.” I slouched back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mildred, clad in a bandana and a peace sign necklace, thundered. “What happened to the lovely boy who used to mow my lawn?”
She referred to me, but that didn’t stop me from answering, “He probably moved down south, where minimum wage is at least five bucks an hour more. This is why you should want me to sell. You need more jobs in this shithole.”
A collective gasp filled the air. I ignored it. I spoke the truth and let everyone squirm and deal with the consequences.
“Perhaps this isn’t the best time for a song.” Allison’s crisp, impatient smile reeked of fury. “Any questions? Concerns? Input?”
“I don’t think this thing is recording.” Robbie squinted at his screen.
“We’re singing our song,” Gertrude, the founding member of The Righteous Gang, declared solemnly, shaking her walking cane in our direction. “Our voices will be heard.”
“Would you mind?” Allison glanced at me, uncertain. “I want to get this thing going.”
Channeling my inner Simon Cowell, I nodded. “Floor’s yours, ladies.”
The three lifted their faces upward and belted out their song in a melody they one hundred percent had ripped off from Eminem’s “Stan.”
Dear Row, we wrote to you, but you didn’t answer
