“Johanna?” A hand raps heavily against the bathroom door.
Shit. “I’ll be right out, Gran. I’m—I have cramps.”
Robert chuckles, and my face glows red. I run the tap to muffle my voice, apologizing for the interruption.
“No, it’s my bad,” he says. “I totally went off on a tangent.”
“It’s okay.”
I grab a tissue and wipe away the mascara drizzling beneath my eyes. A smokier look than intended, but bold too. Perfect for presenting in front of the school board. I reach for the doorknob, then hesitate. “Um, so, have you figured out when you’re going to visit again?”
“Oh—”
“Or maybe I could go out there?” I blurt. “Spring break is coming up.”
“Aw, man, wouldn’t that be great?”
“Yeah.” I exhale. “Cool, so …”
“Did I tell you they promoted me?”
“Oh. I don’t think so?”
“It means more business trips. More face time at the office. I wouldn’t want you to come out here and be bored.” He pauses, keys rattling in the background. “Hey, was that Kate’s voice I heard a minute ago? Do they know you’re talking to me?”
When I don’t answer, Robert laughs. “Forget I asked. And good luck today. Let me know how it goes?”
“I’ll text you.”
“Cool beans. And how ’bout I come see the mural when it’s finished?”
“If it gets approved.”
“Like I said, I’ll come when it’s done.”
I smile. “Yeah, okay.”
When I open the bathroom door, Gran’s standing there, taking a clumsy step back. I hang up without saying goodbye and hide the phone behind my back.
“Were you spying on me?”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Gabby.”
She nods slowly, eyes gliding up and down my collared shirt and denim pinafore, white knee-highs poking out of my black Docs. I bet we’re both remembering the old days when she would have criticized my outfit, wondering where in the world kids-these-days got their fashion ideas.
“Well, aren’t you getting an early start today?” she says, almost smiling. “Will you be home for dinner?”
My heart skips a beat. “Why?”
“No reason. You’ve been out so much lately. Just wondering.”
Not like, I was finally going to explain our thirteen-year lie! But rather, I want to know how many potatoes to bake.
I clear my throat. “Actually, I’ve been invited to dinner at Gabby’s.”
Which is true. We’ll either be celebrating or sobbing.
I brush past Gran and into the kitchen, grabbing a banana that I am way too queasy to eat. Too queasy because, in fifteen minutes I’ll be in the school auditorium, arguing my case in front of the stuffy, judgmental school board.
“Johanna?”
Something in her voice makes me turn back. I watch her mouth slowly open, hands wringing at her waist. Her eyes are so desperate and childlike. I wait another few seconds, watching as her spine begins to curve.
“Have a nice day,” she eventually says.
All I can do is stare at her. Stunned and disgusted and crushed for the millionth time. Finally, I break eye contact, shaking my head as I stomp out the door.
33
Apathy oozes off the board members. There are about ten of them gathered in the auditorium, commandeering most of the front row. The men lounge with legs splayed; the women rigid and lipsticked. All of them guzzling coffees and glaring at their iPhones. None of them make conversation, which only makes them look meaner.
Annette’s all set up at her podium on the stage. It’s where I’m used to seeing her, actually. Where she always stands to make announcements during pep rallies and town hall meetings. Which kind of gives her the home-court advantage. Which kind of sucks. Her hair is slicked into an RBG bun, papers neatly organized in a color-coded binder in front of her. Shit, why did I tie my hair in knots today? And why don’t I have a binder? All I have is crap written on index cards and a couple of printouts. Goddamn Annette. With her posture so good, she almost bends backwards. And I should have known she’d be wearing a douchey outfit. Except, her beige pantsuit makes her look poised. My A-line pinafore may as well be a Halloween costume.
I take my phone out of my pocket as it buzzes.
Gabby: Nerd alert!!! Here are some tips from your debate coach: pause, gesture, pace yourself, breathe, make eye contact. Be confident. Be you. Good luck!
I reply with about a thousand cold-sweat and barfing emojis.
“Look at you!” Mr. Donnelly says, eyes aglow as he pauses at my podium. “How are you? You look so confident.”
I do not. At fucking all. But I force a weak smile.
Donnelly turns to Annette and straightens his tie. “Very poised, Annette. As always.”
See? Poised.
“Ready to get started?” he asks.
“Yes, Mr. Donnelly. Thank you, sir.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I’ll tell Dr. Sanders.”
I swallow, breathing in our enormous auditorium, with its speckled gray walls and ominous vaulted ceiling. How many hours have I spent in here? Assemblies, orientations, rehearsals for Into the Woods and West Side Story (costume department, not acting). All it feels like now is a tiny spaceship that’s about to suck me through a black hole.
“How much longer is this going to be?” one guy asks our school secretary, Miss Garcia.
Right away, I can tell it’s Tim’s fancy-pants real-estate-mogul dad. A gray-haired, gray-suited version of his asshole son. Does Mr. Ellison know that Tim has been making my life suck for weeks? Or that his son is an insensitive piranha? Looking at him now, with his Bluetooth and his Italian-shoed foot tapping angrily against the floor, I’m guessing Tim’s a chip off the old block.
“Good morning,” says Dr. Sanders, pep in his step as he strolls down the center aisle. “I appreciate you all starting your day a bit early. As you know, we’re here to discuss the implementation of a mural on school property. I believe it’s been proposed for outside the …?”
“Science building,” I murmur. Then force it out again, louder. “The science building.”
He points a finger at me and smiles. “Right. The proposed mural would challenge gun violence. As several people have raised concerns about the proposal, it has been brought to the board’s attention. Annette Martinez and Johanna Carlson are here to share their viewpoints. Ladies—” He turns to us. “Keep your arguments to five minutes. Miss Garcia has a timer. Afterward, we’ll excuse you briefly, to make a decision.”
He takes a seat next to Mr. Ellison, and they shake hands like they’re golf buddies. I mean, they probably are.
Sweat drips from my armpits down the length of my ribs. My nose itches but I refuse to scratch it, instead flicking through my notecards one last time.
“I’ll go first,” Annette says quietly. “Okay?”
“Oh. Uh—” I pause. Is it better to go first or last? First or last?! Why didn’t Gabby tell me? “Yeah, go for it.”
With a quick nod, she turns to the audience. “Hello, everyone. Thank you for meeting with us and for taking this matter seriously,” she says, voice as clear and forceful as the politician she’s bound to become. “As Dr. Sanders mentioned, we’re here about a mural. But it’s not just a mural. Johanna probably thinks this is a personal attack by me, but it is not. I, and everyone at Chavez, care deeply about what she went through. Shooting her mom like that—it’s horrible.
“But now, suddenly she’s upset about gun control? The fact is, it was her father’s right to protect his family. That’s why he had a gun, and there’s nothing we can do about it now. Regardless of our constitutional rights and the safety that guns provide, the Second Amendment is not on trial here today.”
She pauses to gesture toward me. Me, a raccoon caught rooting through the trash, my heart on perma-pound.
“Johanna would
have you believe this mural will raise awareness for a hot-button issue, but that is exactly what it is: controversial. Please, take a moment to think about it. Do we really want people—tourists, Santa Fe’s main source of economic growth—driving past a mural that associates our prestigious school with brutality and violence?”
She lets that one sink in, and a bunch of the board members go pale.
“Believe me, I support responsible gun ownership like many of my fellow Americans, but Johanna doesn’t want to fight for better gun regulation. She wants to use school property and resources for a personal crusade.
“During my time as president—both of the junior class and student council—as well as being soccer captain and swim team captain, I have worked tirelessly to support and further the needs of Chavez Academy students. And what has Johanna done? Absolutely nothing. Her unwillingness to incite change prior to this moment proves she’s not a team player. This so-called mural is a ruse.”
This time, when she pauses, she locks eyes with each member of the board. Totally killing it with Gabby’s debate team advice. And they grin grimly back, eating up her lies like hot fudge on a sundae.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the board,” she says, bright and bold and majestic, “I stand before you today, asking you to see this mural for what it really is. A desperate attempt by a damaged student whose primary goal is to boost her standing in order to look good on college applications. Don’t set the precedent that it is okay to vandalize school property for personal gain—who knows what kind of floodgates that might open. Thank you for your time.”
Mic. Drop.
Nobody applauds, not with their hands, but I swear the board members are beaming at her. Like, case closed. Stick a fork in it. Who cares what that other dumbass has to say, amirite?
“Johanna?” Mr. Donnelly says, gulping. “Rebuttal?”
Blood drains from my face. I look down at my notecards, the bullet points blurring together. My insides go up that first steep ramp of a roller coaster as I grip the podium.
“Okay, so, yeah. Hi. I was responsible for my mother’s shooting death when I was two and a half years old. It really happened, despite some rumors going around that I made the whole thing up. Because, I mean, who makes something like that up? It was absolutely, no question, the worst thing I’ve ever been through—and I don’t even remember going through it. I only found out last month. Can you imagine, finding out now? In high school?”
I pause, waiting for a tidal wave of sympathy, but Sanders must have filled everyone in beforehand. God only knows what else he said about me. I look through my stack of printouts and hold up the photoshopped picture for everyone to see.
“It’s funny—some might say ironic—that Annette would bring up vandalism. Here, I have one of the reactions I got from my fellow classmates. This photo went viral, someone even taped it on all the lockers at school. Remember that, Annette?”
For a millisecond, her face falters, cheeks turning pink.
“Totally disgusting, right? There was no hearing to decide if this jerk could deface school property, was there?”
Dr. Sanders remains somber, lips sealed and drooping.
“Look, I’m not trying to make this whole thing about me, despite what Annette says, but the bullying has been awful. There are all kinds of rumors about me. What kind of person I must be to have done something so horrible, to be ‘cashing in’ on it now. Believe me, I know how horrible it was. I will never, ever, ever forget that.
“But why does that mean I can’t make lemons out of lemonade? Crap, I mean the other way around.” I cringe, hands balling into fists. “I seriously think this mural could be inspirational. The organization has done it at other schools, and it’s been really successful. And they find grants to pay for it, so you don’t have to worry about digging into your pockets or whatever.
“Annette’s worried about tourism, but what about real people? Locals are going to drive by and see it from the road too, and maybe it’ll make them think about their own guns. Like, Is my gun loaded? Did I lock the safe? Or, maybe they’ll want to give it to one of those buyback programs. Maybe some dude who’s angry enough that he wants to take a rifle to school or a shopping center, maybe that guy will see this beautiful mural promoting gun safety, and realize we should be solving our problems through peace, not hatred and murder.”
My insides thunder down the next slope of the roller coaster, heart thumping wildly in my chest. All eyes are on me, and I stare back at each one of them, even though my knees are shaking and my throat is the Sahara. There are still a dozen notecards in my stack, but I turn them facedown, chest shaking as I exhale.
“Maybe Annette was right about this being personal. Don’t get me wrong, I want to raise awareness about this tragic epidemic, but she’s right that I’m doing it for me too.” I pause, shaking my head, looking for words I can’t see. “Maybe it sounds stupid, but part of me thinks that if I create this big, beautiful mural, maybe my mom will look down on it from heaven. Does that sound stupid?”
It must, judging by the way they all look at me. Or don’t look at me. Can’t seem to make eye contact. Oh, God. Am I losing them?
Miss Garcia makes the one-minute gesture, and I nearly puke.
“Look,” I say, rushing my words now. “Don’t judge me because I haven’t been involved enough, or because I tie my hair in knots and sew my own clothes. I’m not the student body president, or Ivy League–bound, but I’m still a human being.
“I’m a kid with a broken heart, who will never hear her mother’s droll voice again or see her lopsided smile. She won’t come to my graduation or hold her grandkids. But I need to find some way to earn her forgiveness. What if this is my only chance? Can you honestly deny me that? I need it to not hurt so much. Please—”
I choke on my words, tears streaming down my cheeks. Crying was not in the notecards, and I honestly didn’t know these feelings were going to come out or that they were even inside me.
“Sorry.” I sniffle. “Who knows if this mural is going to make tourists freak out or not, but I do know there’s a right side of history to be on and a wrong side. Accepting gun violence is the wrong frigging side. Sorry, that’s all.”
Mr. Donnelly rushes up to me with a tissue, his own eyes red-rimmed. He pats my back, then turns to shake Annette’s hand. All the board members squirm but remain frustratingly neutral. Tim’s dad looks pissed, but I’m pretty sure that’s just his face. He whispers something to Colonel Sanders, who nods.
“Thank you, ladies,” Sanders says, lips pinched into a grin. “We’ll take a few minutes to deliberate.”
“Thank you, Dr. Sanders,” Annette says, stepping away from her podium.
I grab my notecards, but Sanders raises his palm. “Miss Carlson, would you please leave your arguments at the stand?”
“What?” I flush.
“Leave everything there. We might take a look while we’re deliberating.”
Annette rushes back to hand Sanders her binder too. Ugh.
My notecards are pathetic and messy in comparison, but I leave them at the podium, hoping the board won’t notice the dick flowers drawn in the margins. Miss Garcia motions for us to follow her and then leads us through stage left to the dressing room, leaving the two of us alone, standing silently between a donkey costume and a row of green dresses.
“How do you think it went?” I ask.
“I’m pretty confident,” Annette says, chin high. “Even though you cheated.”
“What do you mean?”
She pantomimes these spurting, melodramatic sobs.
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t mean to, it just happened.”
“Whatever.”
“What’s your problem with me, Annette?”
She laughs. Like she can’t believe I have to ask.
“Are you really so pissed that I wouldn’t sign your school uniform petition? Or that my friends and I make noise in the library sometimes?” I wait for an answer, but she crosses her
arms. “I mean, what about the printouts? Why would you rip them down if all you really want is to destroy me?”
“You were being bullied,” she says sharply. “Anyone would have helped you.”
“Not anyone.”
“Yeah, well, those posters were disgusting. But it was worse to watch you roll over. I offered to talk to Sanders with you, and you just went, Uh, duh, nope.”
I nod, swallowing regret. “I know. That was stupid of me.”
“It isn’t even about that,” she grumbles. “I’ve dedicated my life to this school. All I do is push for new clubs, more funding. The trip we took to the state capitol last semester? That was my idea. I made it happen. I am the one who petitioned to have Japanese offered by the Language Department. But does anybody thank me? Is my hard work recognized?”
My eyes dart down as I shrug.
“And guess how many of my proposals get rejected?” she goes on. “The kind of pushback I get from Sanders. How he looks down at me because I’m not rich or white or blessed with a Y chromosome.”
“C’mon. No, he doesn’t,” I say, but it’s a shitty lie, and we both know it.
“You have no idea how it feels—to be Latina at this school, fighting twice as hard and still getting shot down.” She pauses, cheeks pink. “And then you come along, freaking out about this mural, getting Mr. Donnelly to kiss your feet and do whatever you say.”
Now I’m blushing too, heart starting to race. “Wait, so are you jealous? Is that what this is about? You’re punishing me?”
“God, not everything is about you!” she wails, lip trembling for the first time. “I’m trying to explain that Sanders has finally started respecting me. Students are asking for my help. For once, people are glad I’m doing my job. It’s a nice fucking change.”
I nod, taken aback by the f-word on her civic-minded lips.
“Y’know, even Tim thanked me?” she adds. “He bought me a cappuccino from the coffee cart the other day.”
“Lucky you.”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“Sorry, but I thought you hated him. Your Harvard competition?”
Accidental Page 20
