I buy that one too.
Not for Teague. For me.
The idea arrives fully formed, the way ideas arrive for me, without preamble or process. Teague has her jacket. Her patches are her history, her positions, her identity stitched to leather. I don't have a jacket. I don't have patches. But I have things I care about and places I've stood and Saturdays I've spent in the sun with my friends chanting and marching and holding signs.
I'm going to start collecting.
Not on a jacket. That's Teague's. I need my own thing, my own system, my own way of keeping track of the places I've been and the things I've stood for. And I know exactly what it's going to be.
The pink zip-up pencil case has been in my desk drawer since high school. I bought it at Target freshman year, used it for markers and gel pens, retired it when I graduated. It's still there. Bright pink, fabric, with a zipper that works and enough room inside for a collection.
I buy three more patches from the woman's table. A rainbow flag. A small square that says PROTECT EACH OTHER.A round one with a flame on it, red and orange, that looks like it belongs on turnout gear and doesn't but could.
"You're building a collection," the woman says.
"I'm starting one."
"Good. Everyone should have a collection. Tells you where you've been."
I put all five patches in my bag. The blue one is Teague's. The other four are mine. The pencil case is at home in my desk drawer waiting.
Keely finds me. "Where'd you go?" she asks.
"Bought some patches."
"Patches? Like for a jacket?"
"Like for a collection."
She looks at me. Keely has known me since seventh grade. She knows when I'm doing something that's about more than the surface, when a purchase is a declaration, when a small pink pencil case is going to become a record of the person I'm turning into.
"This is a Teague thing," she says.
"This is a me thing that Teague inspired."
"Same thing."
"It's not."
"Zoe. You went to a punk show and now you're buying patches at a rally. You're becoming her."
"I'm not becoming her. I'm becoming me with more information."
Keely grins. She hooks her arm through mine and pulls me back toward the group. "You're disgusting. Both of you. Disgustingly in love."
"Raquelle called it."
"Raquelle calls everything. It's annoying."
We regroup. We eat empanadas from the food truck, sitting on the City Hall steps with our signs propped against the railing. Mia and Jake share one. Jordan eats two. Keely eats one and steals half of Raquelle's and Raquelle lets her because that's how they work.
I sit on the steps and eat my empanada and feel the sun on my face and the patches in my bag and I think about tonight. I'm going to go home and find the pencil case and unzip it and put my patches inside and zip it back up and put it in my bag and carry it with me. The blue one I'll give to Teague. Tonight. At the bar.
"Hey." Jordan nudges me with her shoulder. "You good?"
"I'm great."
"You look like you're thinking about something."
