The Measure(60)

“Well, I hope the dad fights for them,” said Ben. “Even if they have to lose him, at least they’ll know he didn’t want to let them go.”

“And I’m sure there’ll be more protests if this custody battle turns into a bigger issue,” Nihal added.

“Aren’t you all getting sick of this?” Maura suddenly shouted. “It’s not fair that we have to do everything.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sean.

“It just feels like we’re caught in this cycle of proving ourselves. Proving that we’re not dangerous or crazy. Proving that we’re exactly the same people that we’ve always been, before the strings got here and everyone started looking at us like pariahs,” Maura said, her voice cracking with frustration. “We’ve all been to the protests. We know what it’s like. Why do we have to be responsible for making a change? Don’t short-stringers have enough to deal with already? How can we be the only ones fighting?”



When Maura returned to her apartment that night, she could instantly sense Nina’s concern.

“Everything go okay?” Nina asked.

“Yeah, I’m just . . . tired,” Maura said. “It’s been a long six months.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Maura sighed. “You already know that I was feeling like all these doors were closing in front of me . . . and feeling stuck at work . . . and now the news just keeps getting worse, and people keep doing really shitty things, and I wonder if maybe I should be spending all my time fighting that, instead of sitting in an office,” Maura said. “But even being forced to keep fighting for myself, over and over again, feels like its own form of being . . . trapped.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nina said, her face pinched with pain. “Is there anything I can do?”

Maura closed her eyes and took a breath. “Will you lie next to me while I fall asleep?”

The two women quietly climbed into bed, and a few minutes passed in silence, neither one yet asleep, before Nina turned and whispered, “Why don’t we go somewhere?”

Maura turned to face her, slightly confused. “I didn’t think you were that much of a night owl.”

“Not now.” Nina smiled. “But soon. Somewhere far away. Where neither of us have been.”

Maura was surprised. “Are you being serious?”

“If you’re feeling trapped,” Nina said, “then maybe it’s time we get out.”

“I mean, that sounds great, but . . . can we afford it?” Maura asked.

“We hardly ever leave New York, we deserve to splurge, for once. Especially on something important.”

“Okay.” Maura decided to humor her. “Where would we go?”

“I don’t know, anywhere! Maybe someplace romantic, like France or Italy.”

“Well, I did take a year of Italian in college that I never use . . .” Maura said. But then she paused. “You don’t need to do this for me.”

“Are you kidding? You know how much I love planning. I’m excited just thinking about all the hours I could spend on Tripadvisor.”

Maura laughed. “I just meant . . . I know things sound really bleak, sometimes, but . . . I’ll be fine.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Nina said. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

Maura kissed Nina’s forehead lightly. “Okay,” she said. “We can start brainstorming in the morning.”

Maura nuzzled her cheek into the pillow, as all the darkness of the day—the man selling fake strings, the woman suing her husband—retreated into the distance. Instead, she found herself thinking about a poster she had discovered at the school, its edges sticking out of a trash can yet to be cleared. Maura had spotted it on her way out of that night’s session, and when nobody else was looking, she stealthily lifted it from the bin.

The poster was covered with wrinkled photos of famous figures, all of whom had passed prematurely: Selena Quintanilla, Kobe Bryant, Princess Diana, Chadwick Boseman. A meaningful life, at any length was written across the top in cursive lettering.

Maura had no idea who had crafted the poster, or why, but, holding it in her hands, she felt, somehow, less alone. Somebody was on her side. Somebody saw the value in her life, in all the short-stringers’ lives. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one fighting.

It was then, in the final seconds before sleep pulled her under, that Maura decided where she wanted to go.

She could still see the photos from Italian class.

The canals, the gondolas, the dazzling masks.

The dire warnings, year after year, that the city was sinking.

The odds are against it, the water always rising. But still it stands, Maura thought.

A fighter.





Javier




Javi was hoping to see a fight.

The September primary debate had been advertised as a rematch between the divisive Anthony Rollins, whose aggressive targeting of short-stringers had made him a household name overnight, and the emotional orator Wes Johnson, whose speech at the first debate had moved many but failed to keep Rollins at bay. Javi was itching for Johnson to pull ahead somehow, never anticipating the next moves that both candidates would make.

Jack was away visiting his father, so Javi was alone in their apartment, streaming the debate on his laptop.