Right. No pressure.
I spend the morning crafting the perfect petition language, formal enough to sound legitimate, personal enough to tug heartstrings. "Ursak Irontongue: Valued Community Member, Dedicated Scholar, Really Quiet Neighbor (Most of the Time)."
The hardest part is figuring out how to approach this without making Ursak feel like a charity case. We agreed on no more hiding, but there's a difference between transparency and turning someone into a public project.
I'm still debating petition strategies when Mrs. Albion from 2A knocks on my door, holding a covered dish that smells like heaven.
"For tomorrow," she says, lifting the foil to reveal perfectly arranged dumplings. "Kimchi pork. Very spicy."
"They look amazing. Thank you."
"Your neighbor, the big one. He help me carry groceries last week. Very polite." She pauses. "I hear he has trouble with papers?"
Word travels fast in apartment buildings. "Immigration hearing. This Friday."
Mrs. Albion nods gravely. "My cousin, same problem. Ten years ago. Community letters helped." She pats my arm. "You let me know what I can do."
Maybe this won't be as hard as I thought.
By six o'clock Thursday evening,the community room buzzes with more activity than I've seen since move-in day. The long folding tables groan under an impressive array of dishes that somehow tell the entire story of our building's diversity.
Mrs. Albion's kimchi sits next to Mr. Rodriguez's tres leches cake. The Ethiopian coffee ceremony setup from 3C fills one corner with aromatic smoke, while college students from the top floor contribute what appears to be a casserole made entirely of different colored mac and cheese varieties.
And then there's my contribution: a massive pot of black bean chili that I've been stress-stirring for the past hour, waiting for the right moment to bring up the petition.
"Maya!" Ursak's voice carries across the room, and I turn to see him navigating between tables with a platter that looks like it could feed half the building. Slow-roasted boar ribs, judging bythe smell. "I brought traditional orcish feast food. Though I had to substitute boar for pork shoulder."
"It smells incredible." I stand on tiptoe to peek under the foil. "Did you really slow-roast this all day?"
"Sixteen hours. Started at two this morning."
Only Ursak would treat a neighborhood potluck like a diplomatic dinner. "Ursak, about tonight?—"
"Ms. Ruiz! Mr. Irontongue!" Ms. Cavanaugh's voice cuts through the chatter like a fire alarm. She approaches with a large glass bowl filled with what appears to be neon green punch. "I see you've both contributed to our little gathering."
"Ms. Cavanaugh." I smile cautiously. "What's in the punch?"
"Grass tea blend. Very healthful. Lots of antioxidants." She sets the bowl down with obvious pride. "My grandmother's recipe from County Cork."
Ursak examines the punch with genuine interest. "Fascinating. We have a similar preparation in the mountain villages. Though ours uses alpine moss instead of grass."
"Really?" Ms. Cavanaugh's eyes light up. "I'd love to hear about the preparation method."
I watch in amazement as our notoriously rule-obsessed building manager and the neighbor she's filed three noise complaints about bond over fermented plant beverages. Maybe tonight really will work.
The petition burns like a folded secret in my back pocket.
…
"Speech! Speech!" someone calls out as we finish the main course. I look around to see who they're talking to and realize all eyes are on me.
"Oh, I didn't prepare?—"
"Come on, Maya," Mr. Rodriguez grins. "You organized this whole thing. Say something."
My heart hammers as I stand up, suddenly aware of thirty-something neighbors watching expectantly. Ursak catches my eye from across the room and gives me the tiniest encouraging nod.
"Right. Well." I clear my throat. "I guess I wanted to bring everyone together because... because we're all in this weird situation where we live inches apart but barely know each other. We share walls and heating complaints and the occasional elevator small talk, but we don't really know who we're sharing space with."
