Kennedy lost the election by one vote—her own. As their Government teacher Ms. Holden announced Morgan Wyatt as the winner, Kennedy stood on stage looking down at her black, patent leather Mary Jane’s. She hated the shoes. Her GranJan had freshly polished them for her that morning. She had left the shoes on the floor at the foot of Kennedy’s bed while she was in the shower. So, Kennedy hadn’t had a chance to protest and remind her grandmother that no one wore “dress shoes” like this anymore.
Her mother never would have bought her those. Kennedy had put the shoes on anyway because she’d known better than to do otherwise. Then, she’d slipped her tennis shoes into her backpack. She’d planned to change into them once she got to school, but she’d gotten distracted when she found a letter inside her backpack just before homeroom.
Kennedy knew before even picking it up that it was from her mother. GranJan always left the letters in the middle of the kitchen table when they arrived each week, so Kennedy couldn’t miss them. Her Aunt Kili was much less subtle than GranJan about encouraging Kennedy to read the letters, but Kennedy refused to open them. After a while GranJan had started collecting the older ones in a small brown wicker basket that she left in the corner of the table. That morning, Kennedy had taken the letter out of her bag and stared at the return address: Taramance County Correctional Facility.
#
The first time Kennedy’s mother went away, it had been loud. Yelling. Sirens. Door pounding. A tall man in blue had taken Kennedy from her bed in the middle of the night. Another man in blue had held her mother’s arms behind her back, while she cried and called Kennedy’s name. Kennedy had kicked and flailed her three-year-old arms and legs, just like her mother had taught her to do if a stranger ever tried to take her away.
This time though, it had been quiet. It had snuck up on Kennedy, on all of them, without warning. She had been back with her mother full time for almost three years at that point. They had recently shared a pint of cookie dough ice cream in their pajamas to celebrate the arrival of her young womanhood after she'd been horrified to discover a stain on the back of her shorts in gym class, a red rivulet that now returned to terrorize her once a month. Kennedy had finally started to feel like the two of them had made a home of their own, to believe it might all work out. Then, the letter from the County had come. Now three months later, in the middle of her seventh-grade year, her mother was back in prison, and Kennedy was back at GranJan’s.
#
On stage, Kennedy looked up to see Morgan princess waving as their classmates applauded. Morgan’s father was on the Taramance County Council and her older brother had been class president. Politics was in her blood. Kennedy, on the other hand, had never wanted to be class president. Her best friend Naomi had nominated her behind her back, and her Aunt Kili had refused to let her decline the nomination. She had ideas about incorporating more Black history into the curriculum and raising money to start a school dance team, but she wouldn’t debate anyone about them. She hadn't given any speeches or talked to any new kids in the cafeteria. She was just there, in the background, her and the huge posters of her big, brown, blotchy face Aunt Kili had made and Naomi had plastered all over the hallways of Outlaw Middle School. Aunt Kili would be disappointed she had lost, but all that mattered to Kennedy was that she had kept her promise to herself.
Naomi was shaking her head in her seat in the front row of the gym. She had hated Morgan since the third grade. They’d both worn identical red dresses on picture day and Morgan had said that their dresses couldn't possibly be the same because her mama didn’t go clothes shopping at the dollar store. Naomi said Kennedy was the candidate of the people and Outlaws didn’t need pressed-hair-flipping, debutant-winning, can’t-eat-my-watermelon-in-public-cuz-my-family-runs-this-county, Morgan, as their leader. Kennedy had never really had a problem with Morgan. She honestly thought both girls could be a bit much at times and had mostly tried to stay out of their drama, but now Naomi had forced her right into the middle of it.
Kennedy shot Naomi GranJan’s I-wish-you-would look, a gesture she hoped would at least give Naomi pause, but before the applause at the end of Morgan’s speech could even subside, Naomi’s hand was up in the air. She didn’t wait to be acknowledged.
“Y’all really just gon’ say she’s the winner off one vote?”
Ms. Holden shifted in her seat next to the podium. New to the profession and to the majority Black county of 300,000 people, she often told her friends back home stories about the characters she had in her classroom. Determined to always stay one step ahead of her students, Ms. Holden had checked off each of their names on the class list as they handed in their ballots. When she'd noticed that Kennedy had not submitted her ballot before heading to the cafeteria for lunch, she’d thought about telling her, then decided to turn the lapse into a teachable moment. She figured: when you fail to participate, you forfeit your right to complain. Such is life. Such is democracy.
“One vote is all it takes, Naomi.” She smiled.
Just then, Ricky Harris reminded Ms. Holden that she’d said they went to court over something like this in Florida back in the day. Aluminum folding chairs squeaked and slid under the students’ weight as they laughed. Morgan rolled her eyes. The final bell rang, and Ms. Holden dismissed them all for the day. Kennedy descended the steps from the stage, grabbed her backpack from the chair next to Naomi, and headed for the gym’s exit without a word. Naomi followed quickly and closely behind her.
It was Friday. Aunt Kili usually picked Kennedy up on Mondays and Fridays, and she arrived at the school just as the girls stepped outside. Kennedy moved Aunt Kili’s briefcase to the floor and got in the front seat. “I voted for you, Kennedy!” her classmates Nia, Tyreke, and Imani shouted at her at different octaves and time intervals, just as she slammed the door shut.
“See?” Naomi said. Kennedy ignored her.
“Kenny J! What’s up?” Aunt Kili clutched the steering wheel while reaching to give Kennedy a one-arm hug. “Or should I say Madame President?”
Kennedy took a second to decide how she wanted to handle her answer, but Naomi interrupted it.
“Nope,” she said.
Kennedy sat silently and annoyed, wondering why she had ever bothered to offer this girl half of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich that day back in kindergarten.
Kennedy scrolled her phone as they pulled away from the curb. “I lost.”
“By one vote!” Naomi had to make that known, once it was clear that Kennedy wasn’t going to tell the whole story.
Kennedy turned and glared at Naomi. “You really be doing the most, you know that? Like the absolute most.” Tall green blurbs flashed by her window as the cedar elm trees that lined the road disappeared into the periphery.
Wakili “Kili” Jefferson chuckled to herself as she signaled to change lanes. Kennedy’s mother, Tasha, had been her best friend for as long as she could remember. Naomi and Kennedy reminded her so much of herself and Tasha when they were their age: yin and yang, fire and ice, intractable and inseparable.
#
Once they’d dropped Naomi off and Wakili had Ms. Janice for reinforcement, she knew it was time to probe further. Janice Johnson had rushed home from her job at the post office to make her granddaughter what she hoped would be a celebratory dinner. She was only a few years away from eligibility for retirement with a pension, a plan that probably wouldn’t work out now that she was once again responsible for an almost teenager. Kennedy rummaged around in the fridge, while Wakili leaned against the kitchen counter and Ms. Janice peeled potatoes over the sink.
“I just don’t trust that Ms. Holden,” Wakili said. “Remember she sent Kenny to Principal Kirk because she said her essay on Animal Farm and American government was too good? Talking about plagiarism!”
“You know Ms. Holden’s still got the creases in her own cap and gown. They didn’t teach her nothing ‘bout the County or these kids in that fancy school of hers in New England,” Janice said.
“Fresh off her daddy’s yacht and lost in the country. Well, she can get her Good Samaritan points at someone else's expense. She needs to know that Kenny has people looking out for her.” Wakili folded her arms across her chest and pressed the back of her heel against the counter.
Kennedy walked over to the kitchen table and sat down in the wobbly wooden chair. She knew there was no point in her even trying to enter this conversation. Most of the time, she felt like they were on a crusade that actually had very little to do with her.
“I hear you, Kili, but please don’t go bothering that teacher. We don’t want her to take it out on Kenny. Plus, we don’t know if she secretly wears one of them ugly red caps. You know people are real bold nowadays trying to make the County and the country great again.”
Wakili looked at Kennedy, who had put her headphones on and was bobbing her head and wiggling in her seat, as though she were mentally picturing choreography. She remembered the squirming toddler sitting between Tasha and Ms. Janice in the front row at her law school graduation. She’d barely had enough hair to clip inside her pink ribbon-shaped plastic barrettes. But it turned out no law degree of Wakili's could save Tasha from the consequences of her relationship with Kennedy’s father, Andre.
“Ms. Janice, she’s already taking it out on Kenny,” Wakili insisted. “This can’t be a coincidence. She’s the faculty advisor to student council. Tasha would want us to stand up for Kenny…”
“And we have,” Janice reassured Wakili, dropping the potatoes into a container in the sink to look at her. “Lord knows I have. And no one could forget all you’ve done for Kenny and Tasha all these years, especially after Tasha got out: writing the landlords, getting her that job in your office, helping her with rent.”
Wakili had practically been co-counsel—though unpaid and not on retainer—for Tasha’s defense this time around. She just wished Tasha had checked with her first before going out that day. They stood in silence, at an impasse, knowing their real issue was one that neither one of them truly had the power to solve.
“I’m gonna go talk to Ms. Holden,” Wakili said, finally—resolved.
“Auntie, no!” Kennedy jumped up from the wobbly chair. Her headphones were off now. “I already told you! I don’t want nothing to do with politics anyway. Not now, not ever.”
#
Kennedy had stood with her mother for almost an hour in a line that went all the way across the parking lot at Outlaw. She had never seen a line like that at the middle school, not even for the spring talent show or graduation. Her mother said the whole county had turned up because even though some white folks on cable in New York thought there was no way he could win, they weren’t about to let some rich man from reality television set them all back.
Inside, the gym looked nothing like it did on a regular school day. There were long, black tables set up with people staffed behind them and open square-shaped booths with short curtains. Kennedy had gone with her mother up to one of the tables. Her mother had told a woman behind the table her name and address, and the woman had given her a long sheet of paper. “She can’t go with you in the booth,” the woman had said, pointing at Kennedy. So, her mother had gone inside the booth and shut the little curtain, while Kennedy had waited just outside of it. When she finished, Kennedy and her mother had gone shopping for tennis shoes.
#
The next Monday in class, Morgan began her presidential duties by announcing her plans to hold a pageant to raise money for the class field trip. Naomi nudged Kennedy. “I told you!” she said, not even attempting to whisper. “What else would the debutante girl do?” She sucked her teeth. As Morgan passed out worksheets for their homework assignments, Ms. Holden informed the class that Morgan's inauguration ceremony would take place later that week.
“She not my president!” Ricky Harris said.
Morgan stopped short in the aisle next to Ricky’s desk. “Oh, but I am, Ricardo!” she said smugly, pausing to hand him his worksheet as if she'd printed it especially for him.
“I just want to know which one of y’all messed up the plan,” Ricky continued, looking around the room. “You see, this is why people don’t trust the system. It’s rigged.”
“Facts!” Naomi chimed in.
The rest of the room buzzed, and Ms. Holden told everyone to quiet down as she shuffled papers at her own desk.
Kennedy glanced at Morgan, who was back in her seat with her eyes downcast.
“They got my uncle," Ricky said. “They got Kennedy’s ma—”
Naomi pushed Ricky in the back of the head from her seat behind him.
“I’m just saying,” he recovered, “mostly everybody in here wanted Kennedy to win and yet somehow we still got stuck with the Bourgie Princess of the County. I just wanna know who the holdout was.”
“Shut up, Ricky!” Kennedy said suddenly, still looking at Morgan.
“But I’m defending your honor!”
“No, you’re not. Just stop it.”
Ricky slumped down in his seat.
#
Wakili made it through the whole weekend without emailing Ms. Holden. She didn't want to embarrass Kennedy. She also didn’t think this was the kind of thing you could discuss over email. She told herself she was going to stay out of middle school politics and just let it go.
If Kennedy didn’t care, then neither did she. But when she pulled up to the middle school that Monday afternoon to pick Kennedy up, Ms. Holden was right there, standing outside. Wakili told the girls to wait in the car. Then, she made a beeline for Ms. Holden. Kennedy started to protest, but Wakili quickly waved her off.
True to her litigator form, Wakili was careful and strategic in her approach: mindful of the children waiting for her in the car as well as those still milling about outside of the school waiting for rides. For the sake of a smooth opening statement, Wakili lied. “Kennedy’s really disappointed in how the election turned out,” she told Ms. Holden. “Since the race was so close, maybe's there's some other position she could have on student council?
Ms. Holden smoothed out the top of her blond ponytail as she stood across from Wakili. “I’m sorry to hear that Kennedy’s upset,” she said, “but candidates were given the opportunity to choose running mates or to run on slates before the election.”
Wakili kept a level tone despite her tested patience. “I understand that, but surely there must be some exception we can work out under these circumstances.”
Ms. Holden smiled as she picked up her tote bag. “Unfortunately, there isn’t.”
Now Wakili knew it was time to turn it up a notch: part litigator, part Black quasi-mama. “Quite frankly, Ms. Holden, I’m a little concerned by your lack of flexibility in this situation, especially in light of your history with Kennedy.”
Ms. Holden stood firm. “With all due respect, Ms. Jefferson, my decision has nothing to do with my history with Kennedy. A history, I might add, that while not entirely spotless, has been a positive one overall. It has everything to do with my belief in teaching my students that there are real-life consequences for their lack of participation in the electoral process.”
“What does that mean?” Wakili asked, all feigned pleasantries aside.
“It means that since Kennedy lost by her own hand, I’m not going to make any exceptions. Despite what may be going on at home, I think it’s important to teach her that her actions have consequences.” Unlike the rest of the County, Ms. Holden actually didn’t know what was “going on” in Kennedy’s home, but she did have her suspicions.
Wakili turned on one heel in the direction of the car. “Kennedy Elaine Johnson, come here now!” By now, a circle of students, parents, and even some faculty, had gathered to watch the discussion. Kennedy had been sitting sideways with her legs hanging out of the open passenger-side door waiting for her moment of reckoning. She got out of the car and walked slowly towards Aunt Kili and Ms. Holden. Naomi followed solemnly behind her. Morgan stood conveniently in perfect listening range at the outer edge of the crowd, as they passed.
“Did you know the vote you lost by was your own?” Aunt Kili turned to look her in the eyes. Kennedy stared back at her, silent and mournful. Naomi looked at her friend in surprise.
“I’ve just explained to your—aunt—Ms. Holden said to Kennedy, “that even though you forgot to vote, I think it’s important to let the election results stand. Next time, don’t forget to bet on yourself, sweetheart.”
“I didn’t forget,” Kennedy said. “I don’t vote. Next time don’t forget to mind your business, sweetheart.” She turned and ran through the crowd back to the car. Naomi didn’t follow her.
#
Kennedy cried the whole way home, burying her face in her shirt, just as she had done the day the letter from the County had come. Her mother had had to read it twice to make sure she’d understood it correctly, but there was no mistaking what it said. After a few minutes, Kennedy had taken the letter from her mother’s shaking hands and read it herself:
The Taramance County Elections Commission writes to inform you that, as a person previously convicted of a felony offense, whose voting rights were revoked pursuant to that conviction, and were not duly restored by the State, the ballot you cast in the November 2016 election was null and void. Furthermore, it was cast in violation of the Criminal Code of Conduct Chapter 45, Section 18.65 of this State. As a result of the foregoing, a warrant has been issued for your arrest.
Kennedy thought about all the different missions her mother used to take her on after she was first released from prison: school board meetings, volunteer shifts with the homeless, Taramance County Council community meetings where Kennedy and Morgan would stare awkwardly at one another from across the aisle as they waited impatiently thirty minutes after the meeting had ended for Kennedy’s mom to try to convince Morgan’s dad to do more to help people who had recently been released from prison. Her mother had explained that this time around she wanted to be part of making the decisions instead of just having things happen to her.
But the day the letter from the County came, Kennedy had held her mother in her arms as she sobbed. “I didn’t know. Oh my God, I didn’t know.” Later, they learned that other people in the County, like Ricky's uncle, had been equally shocked to receive the same letter. Kennedy vowed never to let anything like that happen to her.
#
Janice looked at her granddaughter rocking back and forth in the wobbly chair as she cried, while Wakili sat on the living room couch with her head in her hands. Kennedy wasn’t the wailing little girl Janice had picked up from the police station that night when Tasha went away the first time. Janice understood. Over the years she had known more than her share of pain too, both the quiet and the loud kind.
It was loud when her big brother Eli came back from Selma. He had told eight-year-old Janice he was just going with some friends to march, but she hadn’t understood how that had left his face so swollen and bruised that he couldn’t even open his eyes to look at Janice when she went to visit him in the hospital. By the time she found out that her only daughter was turning herself in for casting the ballot her uncle had nearly died for her right to cast, it was quiet. She had seen this game too many times before. It had new rules, but the same objective.
Janice explained all of this to Kennedy as she sat in the wobbly chair, still wiping her eyes. She looked at the wicker basket with Tasha’s letters in the corner of the table, then back at her granddaughter. “Did you read the letter I put in your bag?” she asked. Kennedy shook her head. Janice told her to get the letter, and Kennedy dug it out of the bottom of the backpack. Janice opened it and told Kennedy that when Janice had written her mother about Kennedy’s election, her mother had sent a reply that she now handed back to Kennedy. The last line read: Tell her to remember me in her victory speech.
Janice pulled another wooden chair close to Kennedy’s and called Wakili over to the table. She took Kennedy’s hands in her own. “They want to scare us out of using our voices because they know how powerful we are. Maybe we were wrong for pushing you, but we just wanted you to remember your power,” she said.
Kennedy nodded, and Janice and Wakili gave her a hug. They left her in the wobbly chair, turning the envelope with her mother’s letter in it over and over in her hands. After a few minutes, Kennedy reached into the wicker basket, ripped open another one of the letters, and began to read it.
Contributor Notes
Britney Wilson is a civil rights attorney by day and a writer at heart from Brooklyn, NY. Her work has previously been featured in Longreads, The Nation Magazine, and on the radio show and podcast This American Life. “Cast Away” is her first published short story.
