Work Text:
2020 again
It’s not until later Tuesday night, when April falls exhausted into bed with only four hours left until school starts, that she realizes this is the first election night in a dozen years where she hasn’t been scared of her father. She falls asleep without even looking at her phone.
Then she wakes up.
Last night, she had purposefully avoided looking at any national or statewide results. There was something insular and safe about being in that backyard, surrounded by a specific bubble of joy that April didn’t want to break with any outside information.
April checks her news alerts, and breaks it.
It could be worse, she tells herself, trying to ignore that her hands have begun slightly shaking as she does up the buttons of her shirt, it could be much worse. They don’t know anything yet, she repeats in her head, pulling her hair into a too tight ponytail, they don’t know anything yet, they don’t know anything yet.
But the problem is, they don’t know anything yet.
By the time she’s ready for school, she thinks she’s going to throw up. She tries to hold onto Tanisha’s victory of last night, but news about the in-person results, Ossoff’s low numbers, a fucking flood delaying counting ballots, sends her into a tailspin.
She shouldn’t - it didn’t used to be like this. Elections used to bring about one specific type of fear. There was a man living in her house, and if things went one way, then he became a monster. Now, the immediate tangible fear is replaced with a dozen others, replaced with tens of millions of votes proving that there are an ungodly amount of people in this country who are just like her father, and there is too big of a chance that they will win.
By the time she gets to her car, she’s ready to throw up, but instead gets out her phone, scrolling through her contacts. She’s not even sure who she wants to call, just that she can't experience this alone right now.
Her thumb hovers a second too long in the S’s, but she quickly scrolls back. It’s been a year since anything even - it’s a ridiculous urge, brought about by anxiety and lack of sleep. She moves up to the M’s and calls Michelle.
“Warnock’s going to a runoff,” Michelle says, picking up on the first ring.
“That’s good, right?” April asks, voice hoarse, “that - he still has a chance later on?”
She hears Michelle’s voice soften a little. “Yeah, that’s good. We can go all in for him. Congrats by the way, on Tanisha. We need those wins.”
“Yeah, we do. I know.” She swallows. “Is it always like this?”
“Oh April, this is your first time, isn’t it?”
April gives something that is supposed to be a laugh, but sounds closer to a sob.
“I wish I could tell you it gets easier,” Michelle says, “but it doesn’t. I thought nothing could be worse than 2016, but when Stacey lost, I think I cried for a week straight. It’s injustice, it’s - knowing that if the districts weren’t drawn this way, if the lines weren’t this long, if there wasn’t racism laced into the laws, that Georgia would have been blue for years.”
“You’re really not helping.”
Michele laughs a little. “But, I guess, just don’t give up hope. We’re fighting it. We’re fighting it so hard. Look at you, right? Two years ago you were a stuck up little Republican-”
“That’s a bit unnecessary-”
“-shh, I’m giving an inspirational speech. And now, you’ve called thousands of voters and changed those minds. Odds are, it’s those people you called, who voted Jon and Raphael and Joe and Kamala, that still haven’t had their votes counted. It’s not- it’s not over yet, okay?”
April lets out a deep breath, wipes her eyes.
“Okay,” she finally says.
“Either way, I’m proud of you, you little organizer."
April sobs out another laugh and feels the tiniest bit more optimistic. By the time she gets to school, she can almost breathe again.
At first, school seems normal, too normal almost. It’s baffling to April that people are mostly just talking about gossip and homework and not the threat of democracy being potentially destroyed.
Then she starts to pick up on an extra enthusiasm from the loud male athletic variety of Willingham’s student body and their girlfriends, a layer of smugness on their shiny white features that wasn’t there yesterday. April grits her teeth. She wants to run up to them and tell them they haven’t won anything yet, but she stops herself.
Adam Michaelson slams the door shut to his locker and loudly boasts, “it’s so pathetic. My dad was just saying this morning about how liberals don’t know when to give it up.”
April clenches a fist. She knows that this is nothing new. She feels sick to her stomach remembering Adam in Young Republicans, remembering how she used to agree with him, would encourage the way he spoke about the other party. She has an overwhelming urge to say something, to put him in his place, cite off statistics about voter suppression at him until he understands that this is in no way over.
“Hey, asshole!”
April turns to see Blair Wesley stalking down the hallway toward Adam, eyes set on him,
“I know that your idiot father raised a stupid piece of shit, but you do know what math is right?”
“What?” Adam says blankly, proving Blair’s point.
“It’s not fucking over yet,” Blair says, and April can hear her voice crack, “there are more of us then there are of you.”
He scoffs at her, and for a second April thinks Blair is going to physically attack him, but then Sterling comes up behind her sister, placing a hand on her back.
“He’s not worth it,” Sterling says softly, gently pulling Blair away from Adam.
Blair sighs, gives Adam the finger, then goes along with her sister. April watches them, hands clasped together as they walk down the hallway, and feels a pang of something in her chest that she doesn’t want to name. As they pass her, Sterling catches her eye and April quickly looks away. She certainly can’t deal with that today.
She sits next to Ezekiel in Fellowship and watches him subtly refresh 538 when he thinks no one’s looking. His shoulders tighten when Georgia is still tinted red and April aches for him. He catches her looking and quickly shuts off his phone, with a flicker of fear in his eye. April offers him an approximation of a smile, trying to convey that she’s not - that she gets it too. He looks at her quizzically.
But the next time he pulls out his phone, he tilts it a little bit toward her and they both breathe out small sighs of relief when the numbers tick up slightly for Biden.
She hangs back a bit after Fellowship, wanting to talk to Ellen about doing more extracurriculars now that her internship has ended. She follows Ellen into her office, trying to ignore the way her skin still crawls with memories and wasted potential this space always reminds her of.
Ellen sits down opposite her, almost collapsing in her chair. April can’t help but notice the way Ellen seams weary, hair messier than usual, light circles forming under her eyes.
“Are you okay?” April asks before she can think better of it.
“What?” Ellen asks, “Oh, April, yes, I’m fine, don’t you worry about me. It was just a long night is all.”
“Okay,” April says, watching Ellen’s eyes darting between her and the computer open on her desk. “You can - we can talk about this later if you want.”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to...” she sees something on her computer and sinks a little further into her chair.
April, either due to boldness or a longing for camaraderie, takes a deep breath and asks, “Ellen, are you a closet Democrat?”
She cringes a little at her own wording, at how relevant it is, sitting two feet from where she had the first physically gay moment of her life. Ellen, however, doesn’t cringe, just looks almost warily at April before breathing out a long sigh.
“I don’t know too much about politics,” she says, finger tapping on the desk, “all I know is that we are told by the Lord to love thy neighbor, and, well, I don’t see much of that being represented in the President right now.”
April nods rapidly, trying to contain the thrill she feels at this new information. If Ellen is this aware, if she understands the Bible in this specific way, then there’s a good chance that if she found out some choice information about April herself, she wouldn’t look at April any differently.
“Me neither,” April says softly.
Ellen looks up at her in surprise, a small smile spreading on her face.
“You were always a smart one,” she says, and April smiles back, fighting the urge to cry.
Ellen has no such inclination, loudly sniffing, fanning a hand in front of her eyes where she’s starting to well up. April hands her a tissue, overcome with a wave of fondness that she can’t control.
Ellen chuckles a little. “Hoo boy look at me, I’m a mess.”
“I think we’re allowed to be messes today,” April says.
Ellen smiles at her, before glancing back at her computer.
“That Jon Ossoff fella sure is a cutie, isn’t he? I hope he starts doing better.”
“If David Perdue gets under 50 percent it will go to a runoff,” April says quickly, purposefully ignoring the first part, “so there’s still hope.”
Ellen smiles softly at her, before repeating, “there’s still hope.”
Michelle calls her at lunch, and doesn’t wait for April to greet her before launching into a pitch.
“Okay, so GA Dems are looking for people to canvass to cure rejected ballots, so we can make sure they’re all counted. I know you have school, but there’s are trainings at 4:30 and 7:30, which one-”
“Is there anything earlier?”
“1:30.”
“Text me the address.”
She had stepped outside to take the call and when she walks back to their table, she locks eyes with Ezekiel.
“I don’t feel well,” she says to him, not even pretending that’s the truth, “can you let my afternoon classes know?”
Ezekiel nods solemnly, not even making one his usual quips.
“Oh my gosh, is it COVID?” Hannah B. asks seriously.
April almost laughs. “Given how little regard this school has for safety precautions, I wouldn’t doubt it.”
Hannah B. loos so stricken that April quickly adds, “I don’t think that’s it though. Just a migraine. Anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She thinks of how many ballots still need to be counted. “Or Friday. Or Monday. I’ll see you.”
April takes copious notes during the training, run by an enthusiastic and clearly gay organizer named Tommy who has a strong Georgia twang and laughs at his own jokes, in way that is oddly endearing. After he’s done with the presentation, he approaches April with her list.
“Oh my god,” he says, taking in her school uniform, “are you that teen volunteer that Michelle’s always bragging about converting to our side?”
April rolls her eyes. “No one converted me. I just chose to make more informed decisions as is my right as an American citizen.”
“You’re adorable,” Tommy says with a smile that she can see in his eyes.
April can’t even be mad at him, not with the way she’s so excited to do something. All of her organizing had been virtual so far, and there’s a thrill in being the go ahead to actually physically go out into the world and engage with voters.
The first place she goes, she sticks out like a sore thumb. She wishes she had brought a change of clothes, or wasn’t driving a shiny Range Rover that is still technically registered to a man who is in prison for assault. But she does what she can, knocking on the door of a worn down apartment building to help an old woman who can barely see sign her name correctly.
She goes to a hospital, awkwardly parking outside the ER so she can deliver the proper paperwork to a nurse working a 48 hour shift. At one point, she sends a silent thank you to Señora O’Reilly, using her AP Spanish to explain the ballot curing process to an older man who doesn’t speak English.
It’s exhausting and invigorating at the same time. By the time she gets back to the Fulton County office, her feet are sore and she’s sweat through her shirt, but it feels amazing. She calls Tommy with a grin on her face to report her results.
“Yes, girl, look at you go,” he says, “can we count on you to join us tomorrow?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Sure can.”
She doesn’t even think about school until she gets home that night. Her mom is sitting in the living room, the news playing on the TV. It’s still a jolt to her system, MSNBC instead of Fox, the way that the dread instinctively settles in her gut before she remembers she doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.
“How’s it looking?” she asks.
“Close,” her mom says, “real close, hun.”
April sits on the couch, watching numbers on the screen. She wonders if any of the new ones for Georgia were touched by her or Michelle or Tommy, ones that wouldn’t be counted if they hadn’t found them, hadn’t gone out and talked to them.
“So, I heard you were sick today?” her mom says slowly, still watching the TV.
“Oh.” April swallows. “I, well, yes. In a way. I left school halfway through because, um-”
“As for Georgia,” that one gay guy with the maps says, “the results could hinge on getting incorrect ballots cured. It could swing the whole state, it’s that close.”
“Because of that,” April says.
Her mom looks at her then carefully says, “you know, they are advising parents these days to keep their kids home for a few more days when they aren’t feeling well, just in case.”
April breathes out a sigh, beams at her mother.
“So I guess tomorrow and Friday are off the table then.”
“I guess so.”
On Thursday, she wakes up at 6:30 on the dot with no alarm clock. She checks the results on her phone instinctively, breathing out when she sees that almost nothing has changed. The stagnation makes her want to throw up again. She closes her eyes and breathes through it. It’s closer now, she tells herself. It will keep getting closer.
It’s better than yesterday, now that there is something actionable. She checks in with Tommy as soon as she can, and he provides her with a list, with places to go, people to talk to. She wears a simple black t-shirt this time, though she still sticks out in most of the poorer neighborhoods that she’s sent to, still rich and sheltered and white no matter what clothes she wears.
She turns off news alerts, not allowing herself to look at numbers again. When she finally checks her phone around noon she has three texts.
From Ezekiel: Hannah B. has accidentally started a rumor that you have COVID. I’m powerless to stop it. Well, that’s not true, but stopping it would be no fun. Good luck out there.
From Tommy: Stevens, make sure to eat.
Then the third one.
hey, are you okay? hannah b says you have covid which i know is prob not true, but if you need anything, let me know
April reads it once. Twice. A third time. It doesn’t make sense. She hasn’t spoken to Sterling outside of the rare argument in class for a full year. This concern, this reaching out, doesn’t add up. She closes the text; in no way does she have the emotional capacity for this today. She needs to get a new president elected, flip both of Georgia’s Senate seats, and then she can confront whatever lingering gay feelings she absolutely should not be having.
She locks her phone after shooting a quick text to Tommy: I’ll eat when we count all these votes.
When she makes it back to the county office, Tommy is waiting on the steps. She gives him her numbers and he gives her a burrito.
“You have to eat,” he says. “It’s a classic first time organizer mistake, and I won’t let it happen to one of mine.”
She takes the burrito. “One of yours?”
He winks at her. She finds herself charmed.
“So,” he asks, as they eat a safe distance apart on the steps, “how’d you get into all this?”
April considers. Her spirits are already high with the morning’s work, plus a slight lift from food settling in her stomach, so she settles on mostly the truth.
“My father,” she says, “he was not - is not - a good person. I spent so long trying to emulate him, trying to be his perfect daughter, and now I just want to be the opposite of him. I don’t think doing this, right now could get further from him.” She grins a little, unable to help herself. “Also, I'm pretty phenomenal at it.”
Tommy laughs. “Damn, I wish I had that confidence at sixteen.”
“Seventeen,” April corrects, realizing too late that the correction makes her sound more juvenile.
“When’s your birthday?”
“April,” she says flatly.
“Oof, I thought maybe you could vote in the runoff.” He stops, laughs a little. “Also, got real creative parents there on the naming front. And of course you’re an Aries, they make the best organizers.”
She rolls her eyes, flattered despite the teasing and the astrology of it all. Tommy smiles at her, then breathes a long breath out.
“You know,” he says, “my dad, he also wasn’t too great. Wouldn’t look at me in the eye for a year after I came out to him. I knew it was maybe gonna happen, but feeling him freeze me out - anyway, in 2016 I told him I wouldn’t talk to him again if he voted for Trump.”
“And did he?”
“Yep.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, at least I don’t have to talk to that asshole anymore.” He breaths out a sad little laugh. “Anyway, the point is, fuck our dads, we can be joyful and fabulous and make change, and if it pisses two old white guys off, all the better.”
April laughs, because it’s better than crying.
“I haven’t -” she starts, then catches her breath, looking down at her feet. “I haven’t come out to my dad yet. I don’t know if I ever will.”
Tommy shrugs. “I doubt he’s worth it.”
April breathes out a shaky breath. “He’s really not.” She glances at Tommy, who is eyeing her with such care for someone who’s known her for a day. “Did you know? Um, about, me?”
He laughs, free and loud. “Oh honey, your lesbian energy could power the great state of Georgia.”
When she gets home, she’s exhausted, the act of taking off her shoes seeming like too much work. She finally gets them off and ungracefully plops down on the couch, where her mother has fallen asleep to the news.
She finally allows herself to look, and she feels tears spring to her eyes at what she sees. It’s not there yet, but the margin is less than four thousand votes, and David Perdue has dropped below fifty percent. Which means another runoff, which means that if the mail-in counts keep going as they’re going… She feels the pounding of a hopeful heartbeat in her chest, tries to level her expectations. Hope has never turned out great for April, but she can’t help the way it courses through her blood.
Maybe that’s why, when there’s a knock on the door, she’s not doesn’t really think about it. Her mom probably ordered take out or something. Her mind is set on possibilities and numbers and what different combinations could get 270, that it takes a second to register who is at her front door.
April starts, not quite sure what to say, trying to blame her rapid heartbeat on the news rather than Sterling Wesley standing on her porch.
“What are you doing here?” she finally manages to get out. It sounds harsher than she means to, and she notices the way Sterling flinches a little, looking down at her feet.
“You didn’t respond to my text.” Sterling says.
April blinks. “I - we aren't - I didn’t think-”
Sterling lets out a frustrated little noise, which is far too cute for April to process right now.
“Oh my god, April, I know we aren’t - I know we are a weird combination of enemies and acquaintances at the moment, but I can still be worried about you. The last time you skipped school was when-” she stops herself, swallows. “I can just be worried, okay? Also Hannah B. says you have COVID.”
“I don’t have COVID,” April says, because that’s easier to respond to than focusing on the way she almost wants to cry at Sterling still caring far too much after the way April has treated her. “If I did, coming here to talk to me in person would be incredibly stupid.”
Sterling smiles a little at that, letting out a long breath. “Yeah it would be.”
April finds herself grinning back, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against her doorway. Sterling looks down at her own hands then back up to April.
“It’s about the election, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why you're not at school. It’s because of the election.”
Something burns inside April. She knows that everyone at school sees her the same way they saw her a year ago, but it still makes her teeth clench and her anger rise to think of Sterling of all people, who, even after everything, knows her deepest kept secret, thinking so little of her.
“Oh, so you think I’m one of those people,” she snaps, “who went downtown to scream at the election officials to stop counting? Or do you think I’m a coward, like my - like people we see every day, hiding away, scared of facts, of votes that tell them that this state state is on the side of progress instead of hate?”
She’s breathing heavily, she realizes, one hand bracing herself against the door. Her face feels warm, both from the anger coursing through her and the way Sterling is just staring at her, mouth slightly open, eerily similar to the way she used to look at her back before everything fell apart.
“April,” she says softly, too softly for the way April just yelled at her, “I know you’re not a coward. I know you’re not - I’ve known you for over half my life, for Christ’s sake. And I don’t know anyone who cares more about facts and accuracy and the truth then you do. I think we've all gone through a lot last year and I’ve noticed that you’re - not that I’ve been like watching you or anything - but you literally told me and Blair about all the Democrats running for office and sometimes you step outside school and talk on the phone about things like ‘turnout’ and ‘voter reg’ and ‘impact of local work.’ I know you’re not - I know it’s different now.”
April just stares at her, anger fading into something far more dangerous. The fact that Sterling had noticed, the fact that she even thinks about April so much, makes a flush creep up April’s neck, makes her have to fight a smile that threatens to break out on to her face.
“Anyway,” Sterling says with a small little laugh, “when I said because of the election, I mean you were probably going down to the polls and counting the ballots yourself, or arguing with Brian Kemp about gerrymandering or something like that.”
And April can’t help but let herself grin at that, biting her lip a little.
“You’re not too far off,” she says, noticing the glint in Sterling’s eye, “I was helping cure ballots.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’m sure you were so great at it.”
April laughs. “It’s making sure that everyone entered their correct information identifying them so their vote is counted. It’s been - it’s felt really good.”
“Wow,” Sterling says, letting out a long breath, “you’re really doing it.”
“I have to,” April murmurs, looking down at her hands, “I just have to.”
Sterling reaches out a grab’s April’s wrist. “How can I help?”
April opens, her mouth. Closes it. Sterling, fully misreading that reaction, rolls her eyes.
“Don’t act so surprised, jeez, we all have a lot riding on this. Don’t worry, once the election is called we can go back to pretending we’re mortal enemies or whatever.”
April, for a second, wants to close the distance between the two of them and say that she doesn’t want to pretend; that having a genuine conversation on her porch has made her want far more than just the stilted arguments in class that their relationship has become. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she clears her throat and says, “Right. Well. There are going to be two Senate runoffs in January, and there will be people eager to help from all over, but we need people on the ground volunteering, something tangible we can do in the next couple months. Consistent volunteers are best, so commit to doing a phone bank or canvass shift every week till January.”
Sterling nods seriously. “I can do that.”
And something about her immediately accepting that makes April long in a way she hasn’t in over a year. She closes her eyes for a second.
“Thank you.”
Sterling grins. “Any time.”
April wonders if she means it. Then Sterling takes a deep breath, shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
“Do you think we’re going to win?” she asks softly.
April wants to cry. She can still hear the hum of the news coming from inside, can still feel the stiff paper in her hand of every corrected ballot she’s returned to the county. She looks at Sterling, eyes wide and pleading.
“Yes,” she whispers, “I think we’re going to win.”
That night, she’s already half asleep when her phone buzzes. She rubs her eyes, debating picking it up or not, when it buzzes again, then a third time.
Once again, she has three texts.
From Tommy: yes BITCH see her turn BLUE those are our fucking ballots!!!!!
From Michelle: WE DID IT WE DID IT WE DID IT
Then from Sterling: a screenshot of AP’s map of Georgia, now tinted an absolutely gorgeous shade of light blue.
I think we’re going to win too.
April grins, laughs, looks at the map again. It’s close, only a thousand votes making the difference, but it’s there. It’s tangible. It’s blood sweat and tears, that April knows she’s only coming in at the tail end of, but God, it feels good to be a part of it. She looks at the map again, staring at it until it goes blurry.
Only then she realizes she’s crying, but she doesn’t care.
She sleeps in on Saturday, the first day she lets herself in what feels like weeks, briefly blinking awake at eight only to roll over and go back to sleep. After three straight days of canvassing, of a specific anxiety battling a specific hope in her chest, she lets herself have this luxury.
She doesn’t wake up until almost noon to her mom gently shaking her awake.
“April, honey, you gotta wake up.”
April blinks herself awake to see her mom, who sits on the side of her bed, tears freely falling from her eyes. April’s immediately wide awake, adrenaline rushing through her.
“Mom, are you okay? What happened? Is it Dad? Did he-?
Her mom puts a hand on April’s shoulder, grounding her.
“Sweetheart, no, it’s-” she swallows, wipes her eye, “It’s over. They called it. Biden won.”
April scrambles for her phone, scrolls through the news alerts and texts that confirm what her mother just said. Everything had been pointing toward this since Wednesday afternoon, but still, a lightness flows through her, and she lets out a surprised teary laugh, falling into her mom’s arms. It’s still new for the two of them; this physical closeness. Her dad was always the more affectionate parent, but now she half-laughs half-cries into her mom’s chest, and it feels like she’s been doing this for years.
Her mom hasn’t been cooking much since Daddy left the second time, but she makes pancakes today, neither of them talking much, but both of them unable to stop smiling. April a year ago, even April six months ago, never would in a million years have thought she would be feeling such a range of positive emotions about Joe fucking Biden of all people.
But, of course it’s not just that.
It’s the way that, later that afternoon, when Michelle convinces her to go downtown, people scream and and sing along to music blaring from speakers, a contagious kind of energy that April’s never witnessed before, a vibrancy in their celebration.
It’s the way that Michelle finds her friends who organized for Stacey Abrams in 2018 and they hold each other and weep, no one pretending to hide any emotions, filled with such a pride and joy for how their work has echoed back into the present.
It’s the way that Tommy’s boyfriend lifts him up on his shoulders, so Tommy can see the length of the crowd. The way he kisses his forehead through his mask, before screaming I LOVE YOU ATLANTA at the top of his lungs, only to have hundreds of people echo the sentiment back at him.
It’s the way Tommy insists that April takes a turn, and she feels herself being lifted onto broad shoulders, looking at an endless amount of people screaming and crying and laughing and dancing and April gets the simultaneous feeling that she is so insignificant, but also a rush of pride that she was, in the smallest way, a part of all this.
It's the way that on Sunday, their landline rings with a collect call from Georgia State Penitentiary and her mother calmly says that no she will not accept it, and April embraces her for a long long time.
It’s the way that when April gets to school on Monday, her and Ezekiel don’t stop grinning at each other, locking their pinkies when they walk to class, like they share a secret.
It’s the way Adam Michaelson is conspicuously silent all day, even when Blair Wesley sticks her tongue out at him and triumphantly gives him two middle fingers all the way down the hallway.
It’s the way that Ellen calls her into her office after class, and April is too giddy to remember to feel regretful about being in this room, caught up in showing Ellen how to sign up for a Jon Ossoff phone bank this weekend.
It’s the way she overhears Sterling telling Blair, “I don’t think enough people are talking about how cool it is that now we have a super hot vice president.”
It’s the way Sterling catches April listening to that conversation and sends her a bright and wide smile that April thinks might encapsulate the word joy more than anything she’s ever seen. And she can't keep herself from smiling back, equally joyful just for just this moment, before things go back to how they were.
It’s the way that after school, she gets in her car, rolls the windows down, and drives downtown, seeing the remnants of celebrations lining the streets of Atlanta. She’s grinning as she pulls into the parking lot of the GA Dems office.
Then she gets back to work.