“And, jeez, try to stop sweating,” Claire moans.
As more and more people pack into the smaller than small room, I focus on my breath. Inhale. Seven count. Exhale. If I keep repeating this, maybe I’ll trick myself into thinking I’m out on the lot, wind in my face, movie playing. My happy place.
I went for a run by myself this morning, waking up alongside the Willow Valley sunrise this time. Surprising myself, I took a detour past Derick’s house. Part of me thought maybe he’d be up, way too restless to sleep a second longer. I was disheartened when I didn’t spot his bouncy blond hair up ahead of me at any point.
But even if I had, what would I have done? Sped up ahead of him, so he could gaze longingly after what he lost and, more so, what he’s missing? I’m still hurt and angry, but I should hope I’m notthatpetty.
Councilwoman Harper, a short Black woman wearing a violet pantsuit, calls the room to order with an official gavel and welcomes the assembled parties.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s from Oscar.
Knock them dead!
Wait. I’m watching online and they look OLD.
Don’t knock them too dead.
After his gallant retweet game lifted our hashtag off the ground, we spread like wildfire across all platforms. Even Oscar’s publisher, an indie press with a known, glowing reputation in the nonfiction entertainment space, added his tweet to their stories. He’s an instrumental part of whatever happens here today. I send him my thanks followed by a series of nervous emojis with a trail of hearts hanging behind it.
Right as I’m setting my phone to silent, I’m called in. My friends give me a gentle shove. All heads turn in my direction as I take the aisle in stride.
Don’t trip. Don’t look down. Don’t choke.
At the podium, I stand taller, harnessing my managerial authority, my podcast guest confidence, and a little bit of Alice’s get-what-I-want aggression.
“Thank you for hearing my argument regarding denying the Any Weather Transportation demolition request and upholding the historical significance of Wiley’s Drive-In, an eighty-six-year-old Willow Valley institution that has been, and should stay, a vital part of our beautiful community.” My sweaty finger pads leave behind smudges on the previous notecard, but I remain strong. “My name is Wren Roland. I am the newest manager at the lot. I’ve been working at Wiley’s for eight summers now—eight of the best summers of my life actually—but I’m not here to woo you with stories and memories of midnight screenings of your favorite Marvel movies or tales of the numerous couples who got engaged on our grounds, even though I do see one such couple here today.” I make a sweeping gesture over to Nisha and Devon, two regulars, who did so during one of our throwback showings of a popular nineties rom-com. “I’m here to make a case for why the architectural and historical resources of Wiley’s Drive-In need to be kept and cherished.”
The speech goes on as planned. There areohhsand polite nods from the council at all the right places. I run down the full timeline with little dramatic pauses (coached by Mateo, of course). They follow along on Mom and Stacia’s printouts. We even slapped together a pleasing PowerPoint for further pictorial appeal. I yield the clicker with aplomb, flipping through portraits of the Wiley men who came before Earl. A lineage of film lovers.
My confidence crescendos to a fever pitch when I step out from behind the podium to drive my point home. “Wiley’s isn’t just a place of business—it’s a tradition. A rite of passage for so many Willow Valley youth, both the ones who work there and the ones who come to visit.”
Heads bob with every word. Even if I expected to, I don’t crumble under the pressure. For once, I feel like the fearless leader I’ve always wanted to be.
It occurs to me that my film studies major prepared me for this—oral history, class discussions, cogent arguments. In the back of my mind, I questioned my major for its validity, yet here I am, embodying everything the Rosevale department taught me.
“Thank you for your time, and thank you for your consideration.”
Applause rings out and I rejoin my crew. Their squeezes of support lift my spirits.
They can only rise so high, though, before the rest of the public gets a chance to take the stand.
It’s surprising how many came out today. A woman with a bob and a Birkin bag complains how her husband needs a closer commuter lot so he can be home for weeknight dinners. She implores the council to “think about her children.” A counter comes from Jacob, one of our employees, who warbles about needing this job or else he might not be able to afford his car insurance or the gas needed to get to and from his community college classes.
This whole portion is a tennis match of opinions, the ball volleying across the net so many times I fear we might all leave this room with moral whiplash.
Dread looms larger the longer the Any Weather support outweighs the Wiley’s backing. It feels like the Haverfords hired actors to stage a coup. Yet I know that’s not true. I know these people. I’ve seen their faces driving by the admission booth. That’s what’s so devastating. They know the wonder of Wiley’s and are still deciding to let it be buried alive.
One of the neighbors from my cul-de-sac gets up, an older man with a salt-and-pepper goatee. I think, finally, someone who’ll be on our side. Instead, he says, “I’d rather have commuters clogging up our roadways than not be able to leave my neighborhood on a Friday night between six and eight. Not to mention the noise, noise, noise!”
It’s upsetting to the umpteenth degree. He was all too happy drinking our booze, eating our burgers, and lazing around our backyard a month and a half ago. Now these people are turning their backs on me like they didn’t play a part in raising me, like the lot didn’t become part of the charm of our district.
Victory slips out the side door.
“Would anyone else care to speak?” Councilwoman Harper asks.
This feels like the moment in a wedding where the officiant asks if anyone has objections to the union. While many have been voiced, few others will speak up. This portion of the meeting is about to be packed up and shut down to move on to more hot-button issues. It’s over, and—
The door flings open.
