Global warning, p.13
Global Warning, page 13
“Honey, I’m sure Mr. Kalman will think of something.”
“He’s clever, Mom. Not rich. We spent our climate budget on ads.”
Later that night, the guard tells us we have a visitor. The iron doors at the end of the hall clang open, and in walks Mr. Kalman. “Gather around, kids,” he says. “I’ve got something to say.”
We can’t exactly gather around, but we all come to the front of our cells, lean our foreheads against the bars, and look at him.
“I wasn’t much older than you the first time I got thrown in jail. It was in Jackson, Mississippi. I had joined up with a group called the Freedom Riders. We were protesters, Black and white, who wanted to end segregation on buses in the South. We rode the buses together, side by side, in violation of the law. The minute we stepped off that bus, we got arrested and thrown into Parchman State Penitentiary.”
“Were you afraid, Mr. Kalman?”
“Yes, Catalina, I was. They did some terrible things to us in that prison. But we banded together because we knew what we’d done was right. And when we finally got out, we stepped into a changed world. I believe the world is changing now, too. In no small part because of what you’ve done here.”
He pulls a folded paper from his pocket, unfolds it, and holds up a smaller version of our map: the Road to Ratification.
We stand there, shocked. In a good way.
Iowa is green. So is Missouri. We got Indiana and Ohio too.
If we could just get three more . . .
The next morning when we wake up, the guard tells us we’re free.
“Free? How? Why?”
“Your fine has been paid.”
In the bright morning light, I’m expecting to see Melina’s grandpa. Not only is he the governor of West Virginia, but at dinner last night she told us how he inherited a coal mining business from his dad and then started a bunch of other companies. He’s worth more than a billion dollars.
But it’s not billionaire Jim Law who bailed us out of Norwegian jail.
It’s not even a grownup.
“Greta?” Alistair says as soon as our eyes adjust to the light.
“Good morning, Alistair. Hello, everyone. You are free now.”
“How?”
“I have ten million followers on Instagram., and I asked them each to send ten cents. Seven million contributed.”
“What’d you do with the extra two hundred and fifty thousand?” Catalina asks while I’m looking around for the judge’s adding machine.
“I divided it by the number of contributors. Each got a refund of—”
“Three and a half cents,” she and Catalina say.
“How can we ever thank you?” Zoe asks.
She looks at Alistair. “One of you offered to make me dinner.”
21
Alistair Cooks
When Captain Knudsen heard they took us to Tromsø, he set sail for the port and is now offering us a ride to America. The Roald Amundsen hasn’t had this many passengers since it was a fully operational cruise ship. Our team is back together but bigger now. Grandchildren of governors have come aboard. Justice Aksel is taking her first holiday in three years to sail with us. Astrid has left her post at the seed vault because, she said, she wanted to be part of history.
Evan from Wyoming told his grandpa he’d be sailing home to the United States. The governor told him to get on the next plane NOW.
“Sorry, Grandpa,” the boy said. “I’ve been flygskammed—as they say in Swedish—into traveling more sustainably from now on.”
The governor of Wyoming hung up on his grandson.
Captain Knudsen charts our course from the Norwegian Sea into the North Sea, across the English Channel, and down through the North Atlantic to New York, with a brief stop in Gothenburg to drop off Greta. We’ll be a total of seven days at sea.
Alistair spends much of the first day in the galley. While we’re looking through the Blue Eye at the impossibly beautiful world below water and, through our own eyes, at the icy landscape above, he’s busy cooking.
“Dinner at five,” he says.
Even though we have all kinds of distractions—the scenery, Ping-Pong, the track and basketball courts on A deck, and all those science toys, we can’t keep our minds off the one fact that hangs over this day: it’s exactly five months since Mr. Becerra transmitted our Planet Amendment to the fifty United States for their vote. We’ve gotten thirty-five states to ratify. If we don’t win three of the last four states—North Dakota, Wyoming, Arizona, and West Virginia—ours will be the seventh amendment in U.S. history that passed Congress but died in the states.
“I just realized,” Catalina says. “Here we are on the last day, and we need three-quarters of the remaining states to ratify. That’s the same ratio of the total number of states that the Constitution says we need.”
Catalina and math!
It’s not looking good. Evan just came to say “The Wyoming Legislature voted against the Planet Amendment.”
He tells us that they stayed through the night for debate, and the vote came at seven a.m. Mountain Time.
Catalina unrolls our master tally. She colors Wyoming red and updates the total: 35 yes, 12 no.
“With thirty-five yeses,” Jaesang says, “you’d think we already won.”
It isn’t easy to get to thirty-eight. Especially when you have to make it past conservative Arizona and coal-rich West Virginia.
At 3:30 Jaesang screen mirrors from his laptop to the video wall, where CNN’S breaking news banner reads PLANET AMENDMENT’S LAST GASP.
The commentators are comparing our cause to a fish on deck gasping for air.
“More like a polar bear desperately searching for ice,” Zoe says.
I feel like we should have stayed in Svalbard. Like maybe we surrendered too easily. But Catalina reminds me that we’re just kids, after all. “Not soldiers with guns.”
“You have something more powerful than guns,” a quiet voice says. “You have truth.”
We turn and see Greta standing off to the side, looking out the tall window at the sea. There’s something about her that makes me want to slow down and listen, and look, and think. I’ve had this feeling before, when we were inside the Supreme Court, and when we saw the polar bear on Svalbard. I’ve felt it under the Capitol dome and under our magnolia tree at school.
“I schoolstriked for the planet,” she says. “It was a first step. Many things have changed since then. Not enough, but it was a beginning. Then you wrote an amendment to your Constitution. It may not pass today, but it is a big step. There will have to be more. At least we are moving—what did your grandfather say, Melina—down the court?”
“Yeah. We keep passing down the court.”
The breaking news banner flashes a sign of hope. North Dakota just voted yes.
They cut to John King at the Magic Wall. “I’m getting fresh information now from our correspondent in North Dakota, where they’ve just voted to ratify the Planet Amendment. That’s thirty-six yeses to twelve nos. Still waiting on Arizona and West Virginia. I have to say, Wolf, it doesn’t look good for these young climate warriors.”
It gets very quiet on the Roald Amundsen. So quiet that you can hear the clatter of pots and pans in the galley, the clop of a knife chopping, and the sizzle of something hitting a hot pan.
But the sounds from the kitchen get swallowed by a cheer when Arizona lights up green. The Grand Canyon State just said yes!
“I guess they’re banking on a solar-powered future,” Wolf Blitzer says on-screen.
Melina’s cell phone dings: a text from her grandpa. She reads it aloud: “Going into a press conference. Hope you’ll understand.”
Melina’s grandpa, Governor Jim Law, is famous for his press conferences. People tune in on YouTube just to watch this old-timer talk. He’s a big man, too. A gentle giant, they call him.
Jaesang pulls up the press conference on YouTube. Governor Law, Grandpa Law, fills the screen.
“Good morning, everyone. I’ve called this press conference to talk about two things: the climate and the economy. What I want to say is simply this: they’re two legs, and if you cut one, the other can’t stand. I just spoke with my friend Mitch Gardner of Wyoming. He told me that his great state said no to the Planet Amendment now pending in the legislatures. Jim, he said, Wyoming will not stand idly by and let anyone else write our next chapter. He urged me to recommend a no vote too.
“With Wyoming’s no, and the yes votes from Arizona and North Dakota, our little state of West Virginia now holds the deciding vote. That’s an awesome responsibility for the Mountain State.
“The economy and the climate. Two legs on which we all stand. My daddy used to tell me, Son, he’d say, stick your hand in a bucket of water and don’t move it. Then jerk it out of the water real quick and watch the water. It’ll be turbulent for a while. But just stand there watching, and the water’ll settle down.
“Now, as governor of our great state, I don’t have a say in the ratification or rejection of this amendment. It’s a parliamentary matter, not my place to sway the vote. But I do have the power to convene a special joint session of the legislature, which I have done. I will be heading over to the capitol now to be there. Whichever way it goes, I want you to know simply this: stand there watching. Eventually the water will settle down.”
“I don’t get it,” Jaesang says.
“Me either,” Catalina says. “What does a bucket of water have to do with climate change?”
“It’s polluted,” I say.
“It’s a metaphor,” Melina says. “My grandpa always talks in metaphors. What he means is no matter how the vote goes, one side or the other is going to be real ornery at the result. But in time, people will move on.”
“We don’t have time to move on from climate change,” I say.
“I know that, Sam. You know that. Kids everywhere know it. But the world’s full of grownups who don’t.”
She watches the screen as her grandpa, Governor Law, walks out of the room.
It’s 4:30 on our ship’s clock—10:30 in West Virginia—when the in-person vote begins in the joint session of the West Virginia Senate and its House of Delegates. The clerk of the legislature addresses the room.
“Good morning, Senators and Delegates to the House. The governor called this joint session for a vote on the proposed Twenty-Eighth Amendment to the United States Constitution, known as the Planet Amendment. In order to ratify here, the amendment needs to win a simple majority in both houses. I will call the names of our thirty-four senators and one hundred delegates to the house. We begin with the senators. Mr. Andervelt.”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Andervelt votes nay. Mr. Barton.”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Barton votes aye. Mr. Bork . . .”
She goes down the roster of thirty-four senators . . . and as we sit and keep the tally, I begin to smell something rich and woodsy coming from the ship’s galley. It smells like Thanksgiving without the turkey, but then I hear a ding and a moment later recognize the scent of chocolate, and I remember something Alistair once told me about how he cooks.
“I work backwards, Sam. From dessert to appetizers.”
He must have put his vegan chocolate soufflé in the oven, then made his mushroom meatballs, and now he’s probably working on the vegetarian smorgasbord.
“Mr. Unterseyer.”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Unterseyer votes aye. Mr. Witherspoon.”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Witherspoon votes nay.”
Now we’re getting so hungry I can hear stomachs rumbling in the room. It’s almost eleven a.m. in West Virginia, five o’clock here on the Norwegian Sea, and Alistair promised us a sit-down dinner in Greta’s honor at five.
He’s one minute late.
The final tally in the West Virginia senate: 17 to 17, so we’re tied.
Captain Knudsen comes out of the galley wearing an apron. He rings a cowbell for attention.
“Chefmaster Alistair would like you to come to table now.”
Two minutes late. Pretty good, Alistair, in a foreign kitchen far from home.
Meanwhile, on the big screen, we watch the tally continue in the West Virginia House of Delegates.
“Mr. Albertson.”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Albertson votes nay. Mr. Diller.”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Diller votes aye. Ms. Everett.”
“Nay.”
“Ms. Everett votes nay.”
The screen is split: CNN’s live coverage of the vote on one side, the grand tally on the other. We’re tied in the senate, trailing in the house, 32 to 28, with forty votes left.
The passengers on the Roald Amundsen take seats in the dining room. We do that automatic thing of grownups at one table, kids at another. Melina grabs a seat with Catalina, Zoe, Jaesang, and me.
Mr. Kalman, Betty, Astrid, and Justice Aksel sit at the grownups’ table. I glance over and see Greta standing by the window, looking out at a tiny island of floating ice. It looks like a missing piece from one of the larger icebergs nearby.
I call over to her.
“Greta, want to sit with us?”
“Ms. Fogerty.”
“Aye.”
“Ms. Fogerty votes aye.”
I see her eyes go from the crowded kids’ table to the roomier grownups’ table. And I remember that quote from her mom’s book about her. “Friends are children and all children are mean.”
“We can squeeze in,” I say.
She looks at me, looks at the table full of kids, and smiles.
“Mr. Hagelbottom.”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Hagelbottom votes nay. Mr. Hobbes.”
“Aye.”
We make room for Greta. I can’t imagine kids anywhere, ever, being mean to her. After Alistair finished reading the book about her, he told us that she has Asperger’s syndrome. She sees what a lot of people let themselves ignore, and she’s not afraid to call them out on it. Greta said that her Asperger’s is a superpower. Who wouldn’t want a superhero at their table?
“What do you think Alistair has prepared for us?” she asks.
“With Alistair,” I say, “you never know.”
The door to the galley swings open, and out comes Captain Knudsen carrying a huge platter of pickled everything—carrots, red and orange peppers, beets, olives, green beans. Crispy flatbread on the side. Four different cheeses.
“Chefmaster Alistair would like me to convey to the table that this evening’s entire smorgasbord is vegan. Including the cheeses.”
Greta smiles. We pass around the platter and fill our plates.
I glance at the video wall: 34 nays, 30 ayes. We still don’t know if this meal will be a celebration or a consolation prize. But we’re down by four, and West Virginia is a conservative state. If the vote goes along party lines, Alistair’s feast will taste like failure. I think about the woman I met who was scared of losing her job if the meat processing plant closed. Would she vote no? Or would she feel maybe it’s time for a new job that’s good for the people and the planet?
But what if that job doesn’t exist yet?
“Mr. Platt votes nay. Mr. Poynter?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Poynter votes aye.”
Alistair’s smorgasbord looks so good, smells so good, is so good . . . but after one or two bites, Catalina says, “I’m too nervous to eat.”
“Me too,” Jaesang says.
“Me too,” Zoe says.
“Me too,” I say.
Over at the grownups’ table, they’re drinking Norwegian beer and chowing down.
“Mr. Kalman, how can you eat at a time like this?”
“Sam,” he says, “at a time like this, how can you not?”
It must be a generational thing. Ours is more terrified of the future.
“Mr. Putter votes aye. Mr. Quentin?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Quentin votes aye.”
I can’t help it. That’s two ayes in a row. To celebrate, I take a nibble of nut cheese. Better than I was expecting.
“Mr. Reddenbacker?”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Reddenbacker votes nay.”
Jaesang updates the total: 44 nays, 43 ayes. We’re down by one with thirteen delegates to go. I jump up from the table and run into the galley.
“No passengers allowed in the galley!” Alistair barks.
“It’s getting close. You should come watch.”
He nods, adjusts the heat on a simmering pot of thick tomato sauce, and wipes his hands on his apron. He turns to the captain. “Six more minutes on the sauce. Don’t touch the heat.” He follows me into the dining room . . .
. . . where the total is now 47 to 44. Down by three.
“Ms. Wilkins?”
“Aye.”
“Ms. Wilkins votes aye. Mr. Wogensen?”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Wogensen votes nay.”
48 to 45.
“Mr. Bernard Yates?”
“Nay.”
“Mr. Bernard Yates votes nay. Mr. Gerald Yates?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Gerald Yates votes aye.”
It’s 49 to 46. Just five votes to go. If we catch them, it’ll be a miracle. But like Governor Law said, we’ve got to keep throwing the ball down the court.
The ship is dead quiet. The grownups aren’t even noshing.
“Mr. Youkeles?”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Youkeles votes aye.”
49 to 47.
“Mr. Yule?”
We see a broad-shouldered man with a thick but well-trimmed beard approach the podium. He’s the assistant majority whip and the vice chair of the Homeland Security Committee. He’s on Agricultural and Natural Resources, but he’s also on Banking and Insurance. Could go either way.
His bio lists five kids. A good sign . . .
“Aye.”
“Mr. Yule votes aye.”
49 to 48. We need at least two more votes to keep our hopes alive. The planet needs them. Just. Two. More. Votes.
“Ms. Zayle?”
“Cora Zayle,” Zoe reports. “She’s on two committees: Natural Resources, a plus, but also Energy and Manufacturing.”
