Devil for a Lost Cause

Seventeen

The Greek Theatre is more beautiful in person than in the pictures Roland found online. Plastic red seats are everywhere in precise lines with adjoining stairs that trail down to a massive stage, which is like a house with the front wall missing, a red curtain draped in the back of it. There are two large screens hugging it, probably connected to cameras somewhere. The sun hasn't set completely yet and hovers in the air, dipping down ever slowly behind the top of the stage house and giving it a mystic glow from behind.

We sit near the bottom of the amphitheater, closer to the stage. Most people take over the middle and chatter among themselves, some excited, others on alert, as if doubtful that the night's outcome will benefit the South in any way.

"How much time before the speeches start?" Roland asks.

"Twenty minutes," Ingrid says. "Most people have already gotten their seats, so now we're just waiting. It shouldn't be long though." She points behind us to a small house-looking thing at the top of the amphitheater. "Those are the bathrooms," she chimes, and her finger flies in another direction, off to the side. "That's the food stand." She uses both fingers to point behind us. "Those are only two of the exits." She points. "That's the control room. I don't know what it is, but it sounds important."

"We know this already," Roland says, bored. "You made us study that freaking map a thousand times before we came." He glances at her with consideration. "And the control room is where the real cool stuff happens. That's where they control the lighting, amplify the audio from the speakers, and move the cameras connected to the screens. Also, those screens are broadcasted to the news and internet."

I turn to him. "Hey so, last week, when we were watching the speeches, it looked like the Northerners were really excited to be there."

"Yeaaaahhhh," he replies. "So?"

"So how many you think are gonna show up tonight? 'Cause I wanna be prepared, you know, for anything weird that might happen. Was it normal for them to be that happy about election season?"

He scratches the back of his head. "Yeah. Yeah, that was pretty typical. Let's just hope they don't throw too much clothes at the candidates."

I start to laugh, but Roland frowns at me like he doesn't get the joke, and the humor dies in my throat.

"Wait," I start, raising a hand, "you mean Northies actually do that?"

"They have before."

I recall last week, when on TV I saw something orange slide onto the stage, as if an object had flown onto it. Ohhh. It makes more sense now.

"In the South, you'd get beat up for that," I state.

"In the North, it's a sign of respect. Like you're handing over your shirts because you would even trust your leaders with the clothes on your back."

I snort. "That's the weirdest sign of respect I've ever heard."

"Maybe for you. But I grew up with people doing it at every speech during election season."

"Oh, brother," I moan.

Roland grimaces. "That's another thing. Don't use Southern terms if you ever go to the North. You'll draw more attention to yourself."

I run a hand through my hair. "They don't use those words? Ever?"

He shakes his head. "You put a big red target on your back when you do."

I rub my forehead, wipe sweat away. "So the Northern custom is to strip naked and toss your clothes at people, and the Southern custom is to refer to people like they're family?" I shake my head as if lost in this world. "And I thought the South was bad."