“I made these for you,” he says, fishing out a couple of pink notecards. “See? They’re just new lines. Super simple ones. About your dad’s policies. You don’t have to do any research or anything. I did the work for you.”
“You . . . wrote down my opinions.”
“No. I mean, well, they’re your dad’s positions. Why wouldn’t you agree with them?”
“You’re serious right now. You’re actually serious.”
“Mari. We have no time for games. Just take the cards. I know it’s last-minute, but it’s for the good of the campaign.”
For the good of the campaign. What about the good of me? I snatch them from his hands just to get him to shut up. They’re super thick stock, but in my hands they shake like flower petals.
“You’ll read them? It’s all stuff you’ve heard him say before. Shouldn’t be hard to remember. Even just one.”
I raise one finger in the air and nod. He takes my silence as agreement and gives me a thumbs-up as he walks away, leaving me alone in the empty hall. I feel like I’m going to be sick. I have to lean against the wall to catch my breath, and when I finally start flipping through the cards—catch glimpses of statements on things like property taxes, healthcare, and the importance of protecting human life—my whole body freezes in place as my heart starts racing uncontrollably.
He just assumed he could tell me what I believe. He assumed I was some thoughtless sponge that absorbed everything my father’s ever said without question.
What if he’s right?
I think back to all the conversations my family’s had, talking about the campaign but never actual policies. To the handout Jackie insisted I take, so I could know each candidate’s position. To all the times I’ve applauded every word of my father’s speeches, too zoned out and nervous to listen.
My pulse is between my ears now, pounding against my skull. It’s hard to breathe, impossible to think straight. This isn’t going to end well. This isn’t even beginning well. I close my eyes and think of Jamie’s advice for when my nerves are through the roof. If your body goes into overdrive, give the pent-up energy an outlet. Do some jumping jacks. Jog in place. Make giant circles with your arms. Go for a run. Do whatever it takes. Move.
So I do.
I dart into the garage, out the side door, and run. As fast and as far as I can. I just go.
* * *
I’m at least ten blocks away from my house before I feel calm enough to stop. My lungs are burning and my heart feels like it could burst, except now it’s just from the running. My body’s working again. It’s as if I turned it off and turned it back on. I place my hands on my hips and keep walking in the same direction I was headed. Without even thinking, I’ve somehow made it halfway to Vivi’s house.
Except she’s not there anymore, and I don’t know if she ever will be. I have no idea where I’m going, no idea what’s waiting for me if I head back to the house, and no other option than to keep going.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. Shit. It’s Joe.
Lmk if you need help with the cards.
I turn off the phone, squeezing the power button so hard it temporarily makes my fingers pale. If I’m going to do this—whatever the hell this is—I can’t have Joe or my parents tracking me. I keep walking, keep trying to think. I have four one-dollar bills in my pocket and a phone that might as well be dead. It doesn’t even matter that I don’t know what I’m doing next. All I care about is what I’m not doing next. I’m not doing that damn interview.
* * *
It comes to me when I’m just a couple of blocks away from the Metrorail station: a not-so-perfect but good-enough-under-the-circumstances plan. In the time it took me to get here, the sun has already begun to set. A cluster of people wait for the light at the intersection to cross US 1, and when they walk I follow them, assuming they know where they’re going more than I do. Even though we live close by, I’ve never actually taken the train. I don’t know anyone who does, except for Gloria.
Everyone here looks like they’re a regular, though. They all have cards that they swipe at the gated turnstiles before making their way in. Just like that. Como si nada.
I walk up to a turnstile to check if there’s a slot for dollar bills or coins.
“You going or what?” a man behind me says. “The train’ll be here any minute.”
I step out of the way to let him through, and it’s only then that I notice an automatic ticket booth to the side of the entrance. It’s labeled EASY CARD and a bright turquoise screen guides me through a process that is anything but. It keeps freezing on me, and when it doesn’t, it only gives me the option to buy a monthly pass. Overhead I can hear the heavy, windy sound of a train approaching, and from the corner of my eye, I see a security guard making his way toward me. Shit.
“What do you need?” he says, gesturing at the screen.
“I’m just trying to pay fare for a ride. Two rides,” I add, realizing I have no idea how I’ll get home when this is all over.
“Do you have an easy card?”
Does it look like I have an easy card? I want to say. Instead I shake my head no, afraid I’ll sound as clueless as I feel.
He pushes a bunch of buttons and gestures for me to insert my cash in the machine. “Ahí lo tienes,” he says, smiling just as the kiosk dispenses a blue card with green dots. I mumble thanks and run through the gate and up the escalator so fast, I almost go past the yellow line and over the edge of the platform. Beyond the tracks, the tops of a row of palm trees peek over the edge of the rail, and the neon lights of a strip club on the other side of the highway dot the horizon. When the train finally comes, people wander in without any sense of urgency. I stay by the doors, clutching the leather handle that hangs from a metal bar, not wanting to stand too close to anyone or miss my stop.
“Dadeland South,” a voice through the PA announces as we finally arrive. Outside my window, a building flashes the words Bare Necessity in neon cursive letters. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I’d just gone in a circle: a strip club when I started, another when I arrive. I take the escalator down to the ground floor, where a Metrobus lets out its exhaust so loud it’s like a giant sigh of relief. I finally let out a deep breath too.
* * *
In a weird way, at this moment I’m kind of grateful for Joe. If it hadn’t been for him driving us to Gloria’s place a few days ago, I’m not sure where I would’ve gone. As it is, I have no idea which apartment is Gloria’s, or if her roommate is even home. I try to remember which way she went. Upstairs. Past the palm tree that leans over the roof. I have to grab hold of the railing at the top because the realization rushes at me all at once. Holy crap, Mariana. You really blew off this interview.
All the apartments have identical doors and a window to their right or their left. I pass one with a “Wipe Your Paws” welcome mat. Gloria never mentioned having a pet. The next door has a potted bamboo in a square-shaped steel pot and a plain black mat. I don’t know Gloria’s décor style, but I know that’s not it.
I stop at the end of the hall, where the railing curves around the building and looks out to the courtyard and the parking lot. The corner unit has a window that’s covered by thin white blinds and there’s a sticker on the glass that says PRIVATE SIGN. DO NOT READ.
It makes me chuckle as I knock on the door. It makes it so I don’t even hesitate.
“Mariana?” The woman who answers is tall and slightly round. She’s wearing drawstring pants and a yellow tank top, and she looks surprised to see me, but also not.
“Amarys?”
She gives me a look of a hundred questions, but asks none of them. Instead she steps aside and gestures for me to come in.
“How did you know it was me?” I don’t know why, but suddenly I feel shy.
“You think Gloria never talks about you?” she teases. “And I do watch the news.”
“Oh. Right.” I wonder if I’ll ever get used to having people I don’t know feel like
they know me.
“You’re taller, though. In real life.” As Amarys studies me, I try to imagine which news clips she’s playing in her mind.
“Yeah, well . . . everyone looks short next to my dad.”
She nods, but she has a look like she wants to disagree with me. “¿Entras, o no? You’re gonna let the mosquitos in, mami.”
I step inside. Their apartment is dark for this time of day. Aside from a small tiled entry by the door that extends into the galley kitchen, the floor is entirely covered by a shaggy beige carpet. Amarys is barefoot, so I take off my shoes before walking into the living room.
“I’m sorry to come over uninvited,” I say.
She pulls out two glasses and a pitcher of filtered water from the fridge. Half her braids are tied in a bun at the crown of her head, while the rest of them sway gently over her back as she moves. “Unannounced isn’t the same as uninvited. Pero ¿qué haces aquí? Don’t you have someplace to be right now?” Her Dominican accent makes it sound like she’s in a hurry but also really excited.
Even if I wanted to lie to her, I can’t think of a story fast enough. “I just wanted to get out for a bit, go someplace quiet.” This much is true, at least a really simple version of the truth. No need to get into messy details.
Worry washes over her face. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
“They’re too busy to notice.”
She pulls out her cell phone and starts texting someone.
“Please . . . don’t.”
“Pero . . .”
“It’s just for thirty minutes. They don’t even know I’m gone.” I try to sound casual and convincing, but even I don’t believe the words that are coming out of my mouth.
The clock on the microwave reads 7:25 p.m., just five minutes until they go live.
“I’m just texting Gloria. In case your papis are worried.”
Maybe, if I’m lucky, Gloria left her phone in her room, like she usually does, because my mom thinks it’s unprofessional to be distracted by your phone while you’re working. Maybe by now, she’s finished helping Mami get ready and they’ve sent Joe looking for me. Everyone else is being told to be quiet before the cameras roll.
I take the glass of water and walk around the living room. They have a gray futon in the center of the room, and a flat-screen TV on the wall surrounded by framed pictures of Amarys and Gloria. There’s one of them sitting across from each other under a tiki hut, their glasses clinked together in a toast. Another one is just of Gloria, midspin, as she’s dancing in a club with lights of all colors illuminating her figure like a Christmas tree. The next one up is of Amarys and Gloria hugging two teenage-looking girls with deep brown skin and amber eyes. Amarys and Gloria are each kissing one of them on the cheek, their eyes closed, while the girls purse their lips and make a peace sign with their fingers.
“Those are my little sisters, Angela and Eva,” she says, anticipating my question before I can ask it. They look just like younger versions of her.
The top picture, the biggest one, is of her and Gloria holding one another in a restaurant booth and smiling. Gloria’s hair is chin-length, much shorter in the picture than it is now, and Amarys wears hers in an afro with a purple scarf twisted like a headband.
“How long have you and Gloria lived here?”
“Four years. We moved when she got the job at your house. But we’ve been together eight now.”
“Oh, cool.” My cheeks turn warm. I can’t remember if it was Gloria who called Amarys her roommate, or if it was me who just assumed. “It’s nice to finally put a face to all her stories.”
“Only the good ones, I hope.” Amarys sits on the futon and gestures for me to do the same. The coffee table in front of us is covered with a bunch of notebooks, binders, and textbooks thicker than a Bible piled one on top of the other. There’s a guide to passing the bar exam and a plastic-bound copy of the Florida constitution. Amarys clears half the space and places her phone face up in the middle of the table. I try not to look at it, though I keep it in my peripheral vision, hoping it’ll stay dim and free of notifications. “Gloria’s told me all the chisme about you.”
“Really?”
She shakes her head and laughs. “Nah. Just that you’re a smart girl who the world’s gonna have to listen to one day.”
I’ve never wondered if Gloria talks about me, but hearing Amarys describe me like that is like getting a gift I didn’t know I wanted.
“And that you’re well-behaved, but only because you wanna be. She likes that.”
It’s weird. To have people see things in you that you don’t see. I don’t know how to respond, so I point at the constitution and tell her my dad has the same one in his home office.
“Don’t ever read it unless you can’t sleep. I swear it’ll bore you to death,” Amarys says.
I take another look at the clock and ask if I can watch TV.
“Dale. Put on whatever you want.”
I flip to CNN just in time to see the newswoman I met a few hours ago introduce Papi and thank him for welcoming her into his home.
“It’s so lovely to meet your family. I was so sad to hear your daughter Mariana was not feeling well tonight. On behalf of our entire team, please wish her our best.”
Papi nods graciously. Mami looks stiff and tightlipped, like she’s sucking on a piece of ice. She has one hand on his knee and the other on Ricky’s, as if their bodies were a chair she’s clutching. But my father . . . my father has never looked calmer. Like Joe would say, he’s in his element. He answers every question like it’s the beginning of the most fascinating conversation he’s ever had.
I slide off the futon and inch toward the screen until I’m sitting on my knees and his face looks bigger than mine. He doesn’t seem to have a care in the world.
“Your Papi’s a natural,” Amarys says.
“He’s been preparing practically his whole life for this,” I say. Despite the awfulness of the situation, I can’t help but feel proud.
The newswoman chuckles at whatever it is he just said. She turns and looks down at my brother. “And what do you think about that?”
“Papi always does what he says he’ll do.” Ricky sounds like a gruff-voiced, child-size robot.
They go to a commercial. Amarys checks her phone again and out of instinct, I check mine. Except it’s just a dark black box when it’s turned off.
“Mariana, you okay?”
I hadn’t noticed until she asked that my breathing is quick and heavy again.
The interview comes back on and I turn up the volume in hopes of drowning myself out. The newswoman sits on one of our beige couches while my parents and Ricky sit across from her on one identical to it. They’re all squeezed together like they’re about to hug.
“In just a few moments, we’ll receive a tour of the Ruiz family home. But first,” she crosses her legs toward my family and opens her mouth to say something, but instead she goes quiet. Her hand comes to her ear like she’s swatting away a fly. In the background, I hear Papi clear his throat.
“Oh,” she finally says. “Oh.” She looks up at my family. “Senator Ruiz, were you aware that, for the duration of our interview this evening, your daughter has been missing?”
eleven
It’s chaos. Onscreen, everyone starts talking at once. Ricky begins to cry. Mami stands up and starts yelling What is going on? in Spanish while Papi won’t stop saying There must be some misunderstanding, there’s nothing to be concerned about, and the news lady keeps asking him to clarify, keeps asking him where I am, keeps asking my mom to please sit back down, and everyone’s talking over everyone until all I see are my mom’s legs in her navy blue skirt, pacing across the screen, and all I can hear is my own breathing and Amarys’s voice like it’s behind a thick glass saying, “Mariana? Are you okay, mami?” and “Coño, answer your fucking phone, Gloria,” and then finally, “Aquí está. She’s been here the whole time. I was trying to call you! Esto es una vaina.”
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And then they break to commercial again and for half a second, everything goes quiet, and that’s all it takes for what I’ve done to really sink in. I feel my blood rush away from my face, and I think I might cry, or vomit, or both. I must look pretty scary because suddenly Amarys gets really quiet and sits next to me on the floor. She places her hand on my shoulder.
“Mariana? Listen to me. I need you to breathe. Close your eyes. Inhala. Exhala. Inhala. Exhala. Everything’s going to be fine, okay?”
I do as she says, taking one deep, long breath, but when I exhale it’s like I’m a balloon that someone let go of before tying the little knot. I can’t control the words, or the tears.
“I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say their fake lines which I was probably going to mess up anyways in front of the whole freaking country, and they were going to go into my room, did you know that? They were going to go into my room with all their cameras and zoom in on the pictures on my desk and the posters on my walls, even though Mami replaced them with these horrible motivational posters that made my room look like a freaking fifth-grade classroom, it’s like, is nothing sacred anymore? Like I don’t feel constantly on display enough already. Not even this one space that’s mine is mine anymore.
“I don’t want to do this. They can’t make me. I just wanted them to leave me alone. Just this one time, just for this one stupid interview. I begged them and they wouldn’t listen. What was I supposed to do?”
By the time I’m done, Amarys is holding me, and I just know I’m like one breath away from ugly sobbing.
She hugs me so tight she rocks me side to side. “It’s okay, nena. It’s going to be okay. I’m not gonna lie to you . . . it’s probably going to get a lot worse first. ¿Me entiendes? But you’re strong and you’re gonna keep being strong, and it’ll get better, you got it?”
There’s a knock at the door. Neither one of us moves.
Running Page 8
