By Willa Umansky PZ ’27

The linens pooled around me, begging me to sleep just a bit longer. Nina, dad’s ex, bought me the quilt that ached for its better days. It was beautiful, even in the infancy of its haggard state. One side sported light blue pin stripes on the white fabric, while the other displayed petals dancing in a pattern that could be defined as something between mini mandalas and something floral. Now it’s even worse, sealed seams have worn to expose patches of matted stuffing. She must have bought it for me before the last election, when she insisted on bringing us to hipster shops in Industry City or Bushwick. The material residue of my almost-step-mom engulfed me while my body insisted on burrowing further towards the springs of my mattress. 

The door creaked open. Dad’s keys, sharp and anonymous in his pocket, poked my stomach as he half hugged/half fell on top of me while saying goodbye. “Love you, baby” and a front door slam startled me out of my reverie. I packed a bowl and opened my window. Nothing in the world was like these moments when Dad was gone and the apartment was mine and I existed untethered from 8am homeroom and Dad’s disdain for my habitual weed smoking. With an arid mouth and ash stained fingernails, I leaned back into my ocean of blankets. A cacophony of applause and the realization that democracy would vaguely prevail struck, my personal peace was shattered by a worldly one that meant I had to walk to Coco’s house. And so I did.

At Coco’s house her mom mixed us mimosas even though no parent had ever explicitly let us drink before and we sat on her stoop ringing a bell at passerbyers. We shared dopey smiles with fellow Brooklynites bedecked in blue. It feels silly in retrospect, but the blue wave had sparked such feelings of ecstasy that anything made sense that day.

We biked to Grand Army and were greeted with the realization of my childhood dream: A flash mob. Maybe that’s a dramatic term for it, but it was a dance party in the street, certainly. Coco and I let go and allowed our bodies to enjoy the moment as much as we knew it deserved to be cherished. We danced for at least an hour, before we ran into her sister, Eloise, who promptly offered to buy us a bottle of vodka. That must have been one of the first times that we had a bottle of liquor, instead of shitty bodega drinks.

Coco and I met up with our other friends, but I don’t remember what they were doing. All my freest moments have more people than the two of us, but I feel boundless in retrospect only with her. Like our experience of the relinquishment of rules is one, arms linked and lives impossibly ours. We sat in the park for hours, eating food and drinking too much. I remember that we were on a blanket and there were probably a thousand other blankets on just the very field we were on. We went to a parking lot to pee just after sunset, when the bathrooms closed, just as dusk was turning to night. The whole way over Coco and I took turns shouting the names of random Democratic politicians at people we passed. Our destination was shrouded by dumpsters and illuminated by a harsh fluorescent street light probably intended to fend off delinquents like us.

“Fuck, what the fuck?” I remember whispering out hoarsely as I made eye contact with a hoard of racoons. 

“What?” Coco turned to me with a giggle as she dropped the bottle cap that she had been playing with. It spun just out of reach as she made a few weak gestures to catch it.

“Coco,” I exclaimed, with wide eyes that pointed towards the racoons. She turned towards them, eyes immediately growing in enraptured shock. A laugh boiled inside of me, bound to escape my mouth the moment our eyes met. They met. She threw her head back and let out a cackle that made my heart swell with love for her. Our knees gave out as our laughs bellowed through this concrete enclave on the west side of the park. Two men soon emerged from the faux woods where a path had been carved out a few years before. They looked at us with endeared smirks.

“Fucking racoons,” I managed to get out.

“Wow,” the men joined us in a laugh. “I guess ALL of Brooklyn is really here tonight.” They then made some comment about how the racoons were surely getting good scraps of all the celebratory meals happening in the park. The men bid us goodnight.

“Be safe, girls,” one shouted in lieu of a proper farewell.

“Happy Joe Biden day!” I said it with a grin that I can still feel when I think hard enough. 

“Happy Joe Biden day,” the other man said with a breathy laugh. They walked towards the exit that let out onto the street. Coco and I looked at each other then at the racoons.

“Kamala Harris,” she growled out. Her hands were raised in fists above her head, holding phantom bottles. Her shoulders were slouched and her body was awkwardly jutting out in front of her, to avoid the wrath of the illusory spillage.

“Joe Biden,” I leaned towards her with just my shoulders and torso somewhat in tow, letting my hands reach out behind me. We looked like we were mouthing the words to a song or something.