Running

by Natalia Sylvester

  I’ll never admit this to his face, but I can kind of see where Joe’s coming from. I mean, Papi already apologized. And yeah, for someone who’s always telling me how I need to choose my words carefully, he really failed miserably at picking the best phrase to say on national TV. But, the nerves. The pressure. It’s not like I can’t relate.

  I look around and catch girls rolling their eyes at me. I don’t even know most of their names, but they know mine. That’s what’s weird about going to a school with twenty-five hundred students: every day is just a bunch of strangers’ faces mixed in with a few that you more or less recognize from one or two classes. My last school was much smaller because it was private, and in each class there were maybe twelve of us. We all knew each other. Not just each other’s names but that Jason Burman was super into photography and Anita Valdez was vegan, and that the twins Blake and Hannah Cohen had a younger sister two grades below named Rebecca who looked nothing like them. Everybody knew everybody’s business. Then Yvette Martinez’s parents lost their house, and she said they blamed it on my father breaking his promises about property taxes years ago. That was all it took for the whole class to turn against me. Yvette made freshman year such hell for me, I was actually relieved when my parents decided to put me back in public school sophomore year. They said it’d look better to working-class Americans, and they figured I’d adjust easily since I’d gone to Grove Elementary up until fifth grade.

  It was kind of working, too. Vivi reconnected with me right away; we’d been best friends until we were ten, but the second I was back she acted like we’d never drifted apart after I switched schools. The first week of the year, she introduced me to Zoey and told me to sit with them at lunch. Even though the whole student body had been gossiping about seeing me on television with my dad, neither one of them brought him up, not even once, until I did a few days later. I was starting to think I had a chance at carving out my own identity, until Papi’s debate debacle happened. Now I’m back to being Senator Ruiz’s daughter and everyone besides Vivi and Zoey hates me for it.

  “Mariana, how are you, dear?” So, maybe not everyone hates me. Ms. Lindeli is super nice because she was Papi’s guidance counselor when he was a student here years ago. She has a picture of the two of them at his first town hall on her desk. He signed it, Thank you for believing in me.

  “I’m okay. I mean, I’m fine,” I say.

  She claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. We’re supposed to take this period to research organizations or causes we can volunteer for. Vivi, Zoey, and I have agreed to do our service project together. The computer desks get taken before we can grab one, so we decide to look through magazines and papers for ideas. We head toward the stacks, which are all the way at the back of the library, away from all the chatter.

  “I don’t see what everyone’s so worked up about,” Zoey says. “Isn’t it a compliment? To say Miami’s not like any other place in the country?”

  I can’t help but laugh. When she puts it like that—with her voice super hissy in a loud whisper—it doesn’t sound like a compliment at all.

  “It’s complicated,” Vivi says. “But anyways, it’s not fair that people are taking it out on you. You’re not the one running for president, you know?”

  “At least you think so,” I say, even though we both know it’s not that simple. In some twisted way, who your parents are matters, at least it does if they’re a big deal. It’s why everyone knows that Dania Charles’s mom is an anchor on Channel 7, and Patrick Franco’s dad is this super-in-demand plastic surgeon. People say he’s done Ariana Grande’s Botox, which is ridiculous because she doesn’t need it, and even if he had, none of us would actually know. There are laws against doctors disclosing who their patients are; it’s just like attorney-client privilege. I heard Papi say that to Joe a few months ago, but they changed the subject as soon as I walked into the room. I don’t know what they think I’d do. Tell the world on my private Twitter account with all of four followers? Give an exclusive interview to Jackie?

  We wander through the aisles until Zoey stops so abruptly I bump into her. “Oh my god,” she says, gasping. “Check it out.”

  There’s an entire shelf filled with nothing but old school yearbooks.

  “What class was your father?” Zoey whispers.

  “Z, we’re supposed to be keeping her mind off her dad, remember?” Vivi says.

  “Ninety-three.” I never thought to look for his yearbook before. Papi speaks with such pride about being a Grove High alum, but I’ve never actually pictured him here.

  Zoey runs her fingers through rows of burgundy, green, blue, and black leather spines. She finds the 1993 book and hands it to me. The pages are yellowed along the edges, and they smell like cardboard boxes and shoe powder. I flip until I get to the r’s in the senior section. It’s easier than I expected to spot him.

  In the black-and-white picture, Papi’s mouth is curved into an awkward half smile. His face is smaller and his eyes are open wide in a surprised expression. He has the beginnings of a mustache on each end of his upper lip, though the patches of stubble don’t connect.

  We begin to giggle and then our eyes must arrive at the same spot at the same time, because we all go quiet.

  There’s a caption below his picture that reads “Most Likely to Become President.” Below that, someone wrote in a blue pen in all caps: “BIGGEST JERK THAT EVER LIVED.”

  “Oh, Mari. Don’t let it get to you. People were immature idiots in the nineties, too, you know?” Vivi says.

  I pretend to agree with her. There’s no telling how long the yearbook’s looked like that. Either someone who went to school with my dad hated him way back then, or someone really hates him now, enough to go through the effort of trashing his yearbook picture instead of saying something to my face. Maybe it’s a kid whose parents went to school with Papi and couldn’t stand him, and now their kid detests me too. Passed down through generations. How sweet.

  I slam the yearbook shut and it makes a deep, hollow sound. I stick it back on the shelf. Vivi and Zoey move on to a stack of People magazines, but I can’t stop thinking about my father’s picture. I can’t stop wondering who did it, and what they’ll write on mine in a few months. Behind us, a hush comes over the library as Ms. Lindeli tries again to get everyone’s attention.

  “One of our seniors, Jackie Velez, has an announcement she’d like to share with you all.”

  “She’s here?” Even whispering, there’s no hiding the trepidation in my voice. Zoey practically trips over herself as she rushes out of the stacks, but Vivi and I stay behind, watching Jackie through the tiny spaces between the shelves. Jackie paces around the computer desks, handing out a bunch of sea-green flyers. Her voice is deeper than Ms. Lindeli’s, and as she moves farther away from where we’re hiding, I only catch every few of her sentences.

  “This is really important . . . We’re going to be choosing a new president, a new vice president . . . see how you can get involved.” She pauses to run her fingers through her hair and I swear her eyes travel over all the desks, all the computers, and land right on Vivi and me. I duck so fast I feel a nerve in the back of my neck snap a little.

  “Mari, don’t be ridiculous. She can’t see you,” Vivi says, right as the bell rings.

  Even so, we wait until she and everyone else have left to make our exit. When we step through the double doors of the library into the outdoor hallway that overlooks the courtyard, Vivi goes first, then Zoey, then me.

  “Mari?” Jackie’s voice is velvety and melodic, and it travels up my neck like nails digging into my skin. I swear, this girl is everywhere. Without saying a word, I hug my books tight and turn to face her.

  “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. I thought you’d make a great profile for this article I’m working on.”

  “No, thanks,” I say, before she even has a chance to explain what it’s about.

  “Really? With everything that’s going on, you don’t want to
add your side of the story?”

  “I don’t want—I don’t have anything to say about that.” Never mind that I have no idea what that is. I try to channel my father’s confidence, the way he firmly but politely shuts a conversation down when he no longer feels in control of it. Jamie explained how he does it during one of our first training sessions. “Remember you have power too. Remember you can choose to engage or disengage.”

  Jackie raises her eyebrows and uses her thumb to fan the corner of the pile of sea-green papers she’s been handing out. I want to know what’s on them—something horrible about my dad, I’m sure—but instead of asking her I square my shoulders and decide to quietly stare her down. Thank god I’m holding my books across my chest, otherwise she’d probably see my hands shake. Jackie looks at me vaguely confused, like I’m a blurry picture on her phone and she’s waiting for me to load. I give her nothing, afraid to even blink, until Zoey clears her throat and asks if we’re going to lunch or not.

  “That’s fine. You have such a unique perspective, but suit yourself . . .” Jackie lets her voice trail off as she starts to walk away, but then she turns back around. “If you ever want to talk, Mari—”

  “It’s Mariana,” I blurt out, breaking my silence to correct her. I pronounce the vowels and the r softly, so it flows the way it’s meant to. “Only my friends and family call me Mari.” I say it in Spanish, like sea, like mar. My name is like the ocean.

  “I’ll remember that,” Jackie says, smiling like she’s pleased with something, though I can’t figure out what it could be. She rushes off without another word. We watch her turn the corner at the end of the hallway.

  “That . . . was intense,” Vivi says.

  We head to our usual lunch spot in the school’s central courtyard. By the time we sit down, I feel dazed and like I just finished darting up a flight of stairs. I try to catch my breath as I take out my lunch. Taped to a bag of Ricky’s Goldfish that Gloria packed because we’re out of chips is a napkin note that reads, “Sea you soon, Mari Mar.” Underneath it, she drew a school of fish. For a second it makes me laugh, but then it dawns on me.

  The sea. Jackie’s sea of diversity. Strong and unstoppable.

  “Oh my god. Of course. You guys, it was her.” Vivi and Zoey stare at me blankly. “Jackie. She’s the one who wrote on my dad’s picture.”

  “I don’t know, Mari,” Vivi says gently. “It doesn’t really seem like her style.”

  “Yeah . . . she doesn’t exactly hide her opinions. Why would she put it in an old yearbook?” Zoey adds.

  I don’t know. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. All I know is I feel unsettled after our encounter.

  “I think I should talk to her,” I say, gathering my things.

  “What? Right now?” Vivi asks.

  “She’s registering students to vote outside the gym,” Zoey says. We both look at her, surprised that she would know this, but she just shrugs and takes forever to chew a bite of her sandwich before adding, “She said so. At the library. You didn’t hear?”

  I must’ve been too busy hiding to catch the last part of her speech. If Zoey’s right, that means she’s not far—just a quick walk across the courtyard and through the science building, and I’ll be face to face with the one person I’ve been avoiding for days.

  “Come on.” I start making my way before I can change my mind. Before I even think of what I’ll say. This is probably not the best move, but I’m just so anxious to do something, anything, that doesn’t involve me hiding or shutting up that suddenly no other plan really matters. It’s kind of like that moment before you jump into a freezing pool, when you know it’s going to suck but you’re already committed and running, unable to stop and both scared and excited at once. Like maybe you’re only doing it for the impact.

  We turn the corner toward the gym and follow poster boards that read, ARE YOU 18 OR WILL BE BY ELECTION DAY? REGISTER TO VOTE TODAY. A small group of students stand in a line and at the end of it, there’s Jackie. Filling out forms and stacking them into neat little piles. Flashing each student a crisp, white smile and high-fiving them like civics is the most exciting thing in the world. She has a whole setup with her table and a blue canopy that’s plastered with signs and stickers, which show the date of the election, the last day to register, and a bunch of GET OUT THE VOTE logos. By the far-off end of the table, away from Jackie and all the students, there’s a poster that has the words KNOW YOUR CANDIDATES in big block letters. A neon yellow arrow points down at what looks like a stack of sea-green papers, but as I get closer I see they’re actually baby blue. So, not the forms Jackie was handing out at the library. I pick one up and see that it’s a voter’s guide.

  DO YOU KNOW YOUR CANDIDATE’S POSITION ON THE ISSUES THAT MATTER TO YOU?

  Below the headline, a chart lists each candidate and their stance on several issues, everything from foreign policy to taxes to immigration and LGBTQ rights. The columns are tiny, so it only lists their last names. I scan it and find RUIZ four squares from the top.

  “Mariana!” I set the paper down at the sound of Jackie’s voice. “You came. Did you change your mind?”

  “What? No. No. I was just . . . looking?” My tone rises at the last syllable. I sound like a shopper talking to an overeager salesperson. To make matters worse, just to have something to do with my hands, I start straightening up the stack of papers.

  “You can take one of those, you know.”

  I wonder what she’s trying to get at. Does she think I actually need one? As if I don’t know my own father. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  “Okay . . . well, can I help you with anything?”

  “Did you write in the yearbook?” I blurt out. “About my dad?”

  She looks as confused as I must sound. “The yearbook? I write for the paper. That’s why I wanted to interview you—”

  “About my father?” I say again.

  “I don’t think you get what I’m trying to do.”

  “I’m pretty sure I do. I wish you’d just leave me out of it.”

  She studies my face. I can feel the edges of my lips start to shake, so I turn away and go back to fixating on the papers. I can’t stop staring at the little square with Papi’s name on it. Our name on it.

  “Seriously, take one. They’re free.”

  “I’m fine, okay? It’s nothing I don’t already know.” I step away, afraid if I say another word Jackie will know I’m lying, will know that she’s already won whatever game it is she’s playing. Her face turns into a semifrown and then she kind of just shakes it off before quickly turning her attention to someone else in line.

  I find Vivi and signal for us to go, grateful that she knows me well enough not to ask how it went. I’m so embarrassed that I begin to feel lightheaded, a clump of regret climbing up my spine and blocking all the air from my brain. It courses through my blood and my veins, a nervous energy that I can’t get rid of no matter how much I try to focus on anything else.

  I get to class and tap my pencil against my notebook, waiting for today’s lecture to begin. When it finally does, none of what Ms. Walker says registers. All I can think to write at the top of the page is the one question I haven’t been able to get out of my head since I saw it.

  Do you know your candidate’s position on the issues that matter to you?

  I spend the rest of the period trying to list the answers, but I come up completely blank.

  four

  The Florida primary elections are in exactly three weeks, and the big home interview is this Friday, just three days away. I know this because Joe wrote a countdown on the mini whiteboard that hangs on our fridge. Joe has been on Papi’s staff for years, and he’s always stopping by the house to pick up things that he says are for the office, but that are actually personal things for Papi like an extra tie or his blood pressure and allergy pills. It wouldn’t bother me so much, except for the fact that we also use the whiteboard to set reminders for Papi’s medications, and every time Joe changes
the numbers for the day’s countdown, he smudges the dosage information. Papi’s going to have a massive sneezing fit and a mild heart attack one day because Joe can’t be bothered to use a calendar.

  This afternoon I find Joe standing against the sink, eating a bowl of leftover picadillo that Gloria made last night. He’s got a paper towel tucked into his collar, and in between bites he checks his phone.

  “Hey. What brings you here this time?” I ask. It’s not the way it used to be, when Papi ran his campaigns out of our apartment. There are no yard signs to pick up here, no boxes full of files or mailings that need to be collated.

  He swallows a mouthful of beef. “I told your mom I’d take Gloria to Publix. Then I gotta get back to campaign HQ to prep for the rally tomorrow.”

  He actually says HQ instead of headquarters. Then he looks at his watch and points at me with his fingers in the shape of a gun. “Two forty-five sharp. Remind your mom for me?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” Mami is the last person who needs reminding. Sometimes I think Joe makes up tasks just to feel useful.

  “Do you know what you’re wearing yet?” He says this like he thinks we’re bonding, like choosing a new outfit is the only way I’d ever get excited about Papi’s campaign.

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Don’t be nervous. Remember what Jamie taught you. Your role is a supportive one. You’ll just be in the background.” Joe is always repeating Jamie’s media coaching tips to me, which makes me wonder if Papi told him about my stage fright. I begged him to keep it a secret, but I guess even Joe doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out that I’m uncomfortable in front of the camera.

  You know what I never noticed until I got on TV? It’s not just that my palms sweat almost as much as my armpits or that my pulse is suddenly louder than a Nochebuena party right before someone calls the cops with a noise complaint. It’s that I forget how to be human. I have to remind myself to breathe, to put one foot in front of the other, to keep my weight evenly distributed so I don’t just suddenly fall to the ground, even if I’m standing still. And making my face look natural is really hard. There is either smile or don’t smile, nothing in between. It’s the same with my hands—nothing I do with them feels right when people are watching. Essentially, my body shuts down, and everything that happens next is a blur. No matter how much I focus on the present moment, or try to “be here now” like Jamie says, I inevitably go on autopilot like some kind of robot. A nodding, smiling, clapping teenage robot.