The notice on the lamppost is only a sheet of white paper, but Gaia reads it four times. The council plans to turn Mulberry Square, the only park in her neighborhood, into a parking lot with sixty spaces. A hearing is scheduled for Thursday.
路灯杆上的通知只是一张白纸，盖娅却读了四遍。市政委员会打算把桑树广场改成一个有六十个车位的停车场，那是她所在街区唯一的公园。听证会定在星期四。
She knows every inch of that park. The mulberry tree with a branch low enough for small children to sit on. The drinking fountain that works only if you hit it. The path where her father once ran behind her bicycle, holding the seat.
那座公园的每一寸她都熟悉。那棵桑树有一根低低的树枝，小孩子可以坐在上面。那个饮水机，只有拍一下才出水。还有那条小路，她爸爸曾经扶着车座，在她的自行车后面跑过。
That evening she drags a flattened delivery box into the kitchen and starts painting. "SAVE MULBERRY SQUARE," she writes, in letters that shrink as she runs out of room. The last word nearly climbs off the edge.
那天晚上，她拖着一个压扁的快递纸箱走进厨房，开始画。“保住桑树广场”，她写道，字越写越小，因为地方不够了。最后一个字几乎爬出了纸边。
Her mother looks up from the table. "What is that for?"
她妈妈从桌边抬起头。“这是干什么用的？”
"Thursday. I'm going to stand outside the town hall with it. Everyone should."
“星期四用。我要举着它站在市政厅外面。每个人都应该这样。”
Her parents exchange a glance, the particular one that means they have already discussed this without her.
她的父母交换了一个眼神，那种特别的眼神，意味着他们已经背着她商量过这件事了。
"Gaia," her father says, "I agree with you about the park. I just don't think a sign will change anything. Councils don't read cardboard."
“盖娅，”她爸爸说，“公园的事，我和你想法一样。我只是觉得，一块牌子改变不了什么。委员会可不看纸板。”
"Then what will? Letters? Nobody reads those either."
“那什么管用？写信吗？也没人看。”
"People read facts. How many children use the park, how many cars the lot would bring to your street." He rubs his forehead. "If somebody had spoken at the last hearing about the school, the crossing would have been built years ago."
“人们会看事实。有多少孩子在用这座公园，停车场会给你们这条街带来多少辆车。”他揉了揉额头，“要是上次关于学校的听证会上有人发了言，那个人行横道早在几年前就修好了。”
Her mother shakes her head. "I disagree with both of you. I think the sign is exactly right. People walk past meetings, but they stop for signs. My worry is different. You are fifteen, and these hearings run until ten at night. I would want to be there."
她妈妈摇摇头。“你们俩我都不同意。我觉得牌子恰恰是对的。人们会从会议旁边走过去，却会为牌子停下脚步。我担心的是另一件事。你才十五岁，而这种听证会要开到晚上十点。我想在场。”
"So you're not against it," Gaia says.
“那你们并不反对。”盖娅说。
"I was never against it. I was against you doing it alone."
“我从来没反对过。我反对的是你一个人去做。”
For a while, nobody speaks. The paint on the cardboard is still wet. Gaia realizes that she has been arguing with a version of her parents she invented, one who would simply say no.
有好一阵子，谁也没说话。纸板上的颜料还是湿的。盖娅意识到，自己一直在跟一个她想象出来的父母争论，那样的父母只会简单地说不行。
"What if I do both?" she says at last. "I hold the sign outside, and I ask to speak inside. Two minutes, with real numbers."
“要是我两样都做呢？”她终于说，“我在外面举牌子，同时申请进去发言。两分钟，用真实的数字。”
Her father considers this, then slowly pulls out a chair. "Two minutes is hard," he says. "Everyone writes four minutes of material. I'll help you cut it."
她爸爸考虑了一下，然后慢慢拉出一把椅子。“两分钟很难，”他说，“每个人都会准备四分钟的内容。我来帮你删。”
"And I'll bring snacks," her mother says, "because I refuse to stand in a cold hallway without them."
“我来带点心，”她妈妈说，“因为没有点心，我是不会站在冷冰冰的走廊里的。”
Gaia turns the sign around. On the back, in her smallest letters, she writes Thursday's date, and under it a single word: FACTS. Then she picks up a pencil and starts with the first one.
盖娅把牌子翻过来。在背面，她用最小的字写下星期四的日期，日期下面写了一个词：事实。然后她拿起一支铅笔，从第一条写起。
