Kendrick lamar blasted on the speaker system, and Liza absently bounced to the beat. The afternoon was chilly, and the forecast called for heavy snow and a drastic dip in temperatures. PBI was a new, promising opportunity, and she wanted to see what social change could look like with like-minded folks. Liza took a chance and wore her cute ballet flats. She would be indoors before any crazy weather began anyway. She had to admit she looked good with her snap-front fitted flannel shirt and her high-waisted slim jeans. Dorsey’s dark eyes flashed in her memory, how he had appraised her in a quick flick of his lashes. It was the smallest of gestures, but it was the detail her mind kept returning to, that tiny sweep of her body. Her stomach flipped traitorously, and Liza shook her head. Not him. Not ever. Liza had lost enough credibility with the “I’ll pass” meme.

“Are you registered to vote?” a big-eyed middle-aged volunteer in a headscarf asked Liza.

“Oh yes. I’m here as an organizer.” Liza tapped her badge.

The woman nodded. “Two doors down and to the left.”

Another volunteer looked Liza up and down. She clearly disapproved of Liza’s tiny jacket and shoes. “Is it snowing yet?”

“No, not for a long while yet.”

The lady huffed when she saw a couple file in with white flakes of snow in their matching locks.

“Okay, so it started early.” Liza shrugged. She followed the signs down the community center hall and turned into a low-ceilinged multipurpose room with deep stains in the flat blue carpet. A sign saying Organizers’ Breakfast sat on an easel. Liza floated into the room and found her way into the center circle.

“I say we occupy those buildings.” A beefy Black man stood in the center of the circle. “They can’t rejuvenate what they can’t take down.”

“Please, brother, we’d be wasting our potency.”

There were shouts and clamoring agreements.

Liza cleared her throat. “We should hit them where it hurts,” she said. The crowd quieted, waiting for her response. “Their wallets.”

“Aren’t you that lipstick revolutionary girl?” the man asked.

Liza’s chest caved in a bit. He didn’t say it like a compliment, and he’d called her “girl.”

“That’s lipstick revolutionary woman to you,” Liza shot back.

Mr. Muscles chuckled. “I saw a TikTok of you trying to bump and grind with that big wallet in the room.” He smiled, and women and men turned to look at her with half-scornful, half-incredulous laughter. They all looked dressed for a prom she didn’t know she was invited to. The room was made up entirely of elaborate clothes, hostile glares, and headdresses; even the men wore elaborate turbans. Liza was about to dip on this Afrika Bambaataa look-alike contest. This was a bust.

“Yeah, the ‘I’ll pass’ meme! That was you?” More laughter.