Running

by Natalia Sylvester

  “Is that why you brought me here?”

  “You skipped out on your father’s interview.”

  “That was actually a pretty bold statement,” Crissy adds.

  “No it wasn’t. It was me staying out of it. Or trying to. It was a nonstatement.”

  “See? Te dije.” Crissy gives Jackie an I-told-you-so look.

  “I’m just gonna go,” I say, reaching for my bag.

  “Don’t let Crissy get to you,” Jackie says. “It’s just, there’s no such thing as a nonstatement. Even saying nothing says a lot.”

  So I say nothing. I just walk out of the room without looking back.

  eighteen

  It’s a miracle I get through the day without having a complete breakdown. I had to get a tardy slip for first period and on my way to class I got a text from Amarys telling me to stay strong, and though I brushed off her words at first, I ended up repeating them to myself all morning: when I walked into Ms. Walker’s class and everyone went quiet, like they’d just been talking about me. When my bio teacher had to tell everyone he would not tolerate cell phones or distractions, because he obviously knew the kids behind me were looking at the pictures. Zoey gave me an indecisive hug-kiss to try to make me feel better, but it just made me wish Vivi were here instead.

  Stay strong, Amarys texted. Call us if you need to talk.

  But I don’t want to talk to anyone.

  At the end of the day, I wait for Joe to pick me up after school. This is the worst part of my being grounded for skipping out of the interview last week; my parents agreed it’d be Joe’s job to take me straight home as soon as the bell rings. It’s like a trap I can’t see a way out of. Is this what my life will be if Papi wins? Some hired guy in a suit following me everywhere, dropping me off and taking me home from some bullshit school for famous people’s kids?

  I’m trying to make sense of this realization when Mami calls. It’s 2:34 p.m. exactly and I’ve been ignoring her and Papi’s messages all day. They keep warning me we’ll have a serious conversation about my behavior soon. The last text Papi sent was in all caps: DO NOT TALK TO ANYONE. HAVING PRESS CONF ASAP.

  “Hello? Mami?” I can hear her voice but it’s directed at someone else, something about a schedule change, and then there’s a lot of rustling and the sound of her quick footsteps and then dead quiet.

  “Hija.” Her voice is scary calm. “Your father and I were gone one day. One day. Y mira lo que pasó. What happened? What were you thinking?”

  “I didn’t . . .”

  “It’s time to take responsibility for your actions, Mariana. First the running away. Now this. I want to know why, with the primary coming up so soon, you thought it was a good idea to tan nude.”

  “I wasn’t nude! I had my top on. You talk like I stripped in public or something.”

  But it’s like she’s having a conversation without me.

  “Your father is hurt that you’d be so thoughtless, Mari.”

  So much for not freaking out. I search through my backpack, trying to find my sunglasses. “He’s hurt? Did he ever bother asking how I feel? Did you?”

  She lets out a deep sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. How are you feeling with all this?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me. You may not notice, but I’ve been working very hard to protect you from all of this ugliness. Pero dime, how many more times will your father and I have to clean up after your mess?”

  “My mess? I was in our backyard. That’s private, remember? Or obviously not anymore, since you’re the ones who let cameras into our home in the first place.”

  “Ya no puedo más.” Mami sounds breathless, like she’s walking somewhere fast. “Tonio, talk to your daughter. I can’t with her anymore.”

  I brace myself for my father’s anger, but all I hear is him talking somewhere nearby, calling me a malcriada and saying that the pictures make me look like a—but he stops short of saying it. I can tell Mami’s covered the phone because their voices become muffled, and finally she says, “Unbelievable,” though I’m not sure she means me.

  “Mari. We have to go. Your father will talk to you later.”

  Just then, Joe’s orange Subaru pulls up to the curb. I open the door and look in on him.

  “Why the face? I don’t see half-naked pictures of you going viral,” I say. “Thank god.”

  Surprisingly, all he does is hand me a box of tissues. “Just get in. The Senator’s presser starts any minute now.”

  He does that sometimes when he talks to me—calls Papi the Senator—like he’s forgotten I’m his daughter. It never bothered me much until now. I get into the passenger seat and slam the door with all my might.

  “Watch it! This is a new car.”

  I turn away from him, smirking as I lower the window. Joe starts speeding the second we’re out of the school zone, and within minutes we’re standing in the kitchen with the TV on. It doesn’t take long to find a station; they’re all broadcasting an image of an empty podium with Papi’s logo on it. I hear footsteps coming from down the hallway where Gloria’s room is. She has a handful of laundry that she starts folding on the kitchen table as she watches with us.

  “¿Cómo te sientes?” she asks me.

  “I’m fine. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Shhh! They’re starting,” Joe says. Sure enough, there’s my dad on TV, standing tall behind the podium. Seconds later, Mami appears and slips her hand into his.

  “My wife, Juliana, and I are here under circumstances that no parent should ever have to find themselves in. When I chose to run for president, we decided, as a family, that we wanted to show America who we are—free of pretense and gimmicks—and welcome the American people into our home. It’s only fair, after all. In asking you to make me president, we are asking you to welcome us into your homes and lives.

  “But what happened to my daughter this week is not fair. Not at all.”

  My breath catches. He pauses and I realize I’ve stopped breathing, waiting for what he’ll say next.

  “We became aware of the”—he clears his throat—“pictures that were taken of my fifteen-year-old daughter while we were traveling through the great state of North Carolina.

  “These pictures were manipulated to make it appear that something perfectly normal for a teenager like herself—tanning in the privacy of her own backyard—was more nefarious. Those responsible should be ashamed, along with the blogs that published them and bullied my child. This is truly a new, unimaginable low. My family is hurt and disillusioned by today’s events. We ask that you respect our privacy during this time, and respect the decision we’ve made, for our own children’s protection, to no longer have them joining us for any events where press will be present. Thank you.”

  My father walks off camera, ignoring the string of reporters’ questions that follow him. They want to know if he plans on pressing any charges and to what extent the pictures were manipulated. I wished he’d answer. I wonder if he’s thought about protecting me, or just himself. His words echo in my mind though I know they’re the work of a speechwriter; words he repeats instead of words he means.

  Perfectly normal for a teenager like herself.

  I hear them in someone else’s voice. I can’t recognize him in them.

  Joe turns off the TV, practically stabbing the remote control with his thumb. “See? You win, Mariana. No more press. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  I can’t believe this is what it took for Papi to listen to me. What I wanted never mattered unless it could somehow help him. I cover my mouth, tired of feeling like everything inside of me is always on the verge of pouring out.

  “Leave her,” Gloria says, louder than I’ve heard her say any words in English.

  nineteen

  Despite all my recent absences, my parents think it’s best I stay home from school the next day. Mami says it’s so that things can calm down, and that hopefully students will have fre
sh gossip by Wednesday. It makes me think of how Papi always says to wait a day when things are looking bad—there’s usually something else coming up in the news cycle, and people’s attention spans can only handle so much. I wonder if we ever really grow out of it, if all of life is just an endless chain of chisme, and maybe all I have to look forward to when I graduate is a grown-up version of high school with higher stakes and higher ratings.

  The first text I get in the morning is from my dad, a picture of the sunrise in Savannah.

  Es un día nuevo, he writes.

  It’s this thing he’s done on the road ever since I was little. Before I got my first phone, he’d email me sunrises and sunsets from wherever he was.

  They’re all different, and yet all the same.

  It was supposed to remind me that even though he was traveling, he was never very far. This morning I take it as a pseudoapology. A new day.

  OK, I text back. It’s easy for him to say; it’s not his body that’s gone viral, turned into memes and caption contests. I spend most of the day in bed, sucked into their vortex. When you’re running for student body president but you take the whole thing literally, one of the most shared memes says. I shouldn’t read the comments, I know this.

  But I do. Of course I do.

  It’s not the LOLs or emojis that get to me. Or the ones posting fake campaign slogans that are nothing but boob jokes. Some people are nice enough to defend me. She’s just a child, they say. But the ones who fixate on my body, on how it’s ugly, on how it’s hot, on how there are so many things they’d do to it. They make me want to jump out of my skin.

  How could people be so sick and cruel to someone they don’t even know? And how could Papi just be moving on? He’s always talking about how he would never let anyone hurt me or my brother, but here I am, scared to climb out from under my bedsheets for fear of the public, for fear of all the people he’s spent his whole life serving. I guess they matter more to him than me.

  I doze off and when I wake, Gloria’s tapping lightly at my door, insisting I have to at least eat something, and Zoey’s texting me today’s homework assignments. I thank them both even though I just wish they’d leave me alone. I wish everyone in this whole country would leave me the fuck alone.

  * * *

  At the beginning of the year, when Jorge broke up with Vivi because he needed time to decide if they were long-term or not, Vivi used to talk about how nothing felt real anymore. How she felt like she was walking around in a daze, watching people hang out and laugh como si nada, completely oblivious to her broken heart, and it made her realize that we never really know each other at all.

  I know it’s not the same thing, but it’s exactly how I feel now that I’m back at school. I feel detached from everyone, like I can’t really trust them. The only person I want to talk to is Vivi, but for some reason she hasn’t been answering her phone.

  By Thursday it’s like Mami said it would be; people have gone back to their own lives, but I’m still walking around with this ball of shame in my gut. I can’t look at Patrick Franco without thinking of his slimy smile, the way his teeth gleamed when he looked at me. Even talking to Zoey is hard because she’s so worried about me she second-guesses every word she says. I offer her some of my potato chips at lunch and she shakes her head as she takes out a bag of baby carrots.

  “I’m trying to be good. With swimsuit season coming up. Not that it’s bad that you eat them. You look great in a swimsuit. I mean, not that it matters . . .”

  I cut her off before she can dig herself in deeper. “It’s fine. What exactly is swimsuit season, anyways? It makes it sound like there’s a whole harvest of bikinis you could find at farmers’ markets all of a sudden.” I don’t know why but her comment just grates on me. Who’s she trying to please by eating carrots and being “good”? People are going to be super mean no matter what.

  I pretend to finish my meal and tell Zoey I’ll see her in fifth period. We still have twenty-five minutes left of lunch but my appetite is nonexistent. I walk around campus and end up in the hallway outside the PODER office, watching a group of students rehearse a dance routine led by Didier. He’s counting out in sets of eights and doesn’t miss a beat as he smiles and waves at me to pass through. I mouth him a silent thank you as I make my way inside. The first thing that hits me is the smell of church coming from an incense burner on the couch. Two feet in black-and-white Adidas are propped up on the armrest, and suddenly Crissy sits up looking excited and then immediately deflated.

  “Oh. I didn’t think you’d come back. Jackie!”

  I don’t even try to hide my face as I roll my eyes. I’m growing tired of caring what people I don’t even know think of me.

  From across the room, a familiar voice yells, “Mari—ana!”

  I don’t get why Jackie keeps wanting to call me by my nickname.

  “It’s so good to see you. How have you been? How are you feeling?” She emphasizes feeling like I just got over a horrible illness, and it dawns on me that I don’t know how to answer. Or maybe I don’t know how to answer her. I look around the room in hopes it’ll make me look like I came here with an actual purpose instead of just a rage-fueled, blank stare.

  That’s when I see them. The sea-green flyers she was handing out that day at the library. Talking about my dad and how we’d be electing a new president soon, and how people urgently needed to get involved. They’re face down on a table by all the paint.

  “What is the deal with you always writing this stuff about my father?”

  “What stuff? Wait . . . is this about my article on his bubble statement?”

  “That. And the one you wanted to interview me for. And your tweets and, and this.” I finally grab a handful of the flyers and wave them in her face.

  “Those,” she says, slowly and confused.

  I flip one over. It’s a flyer about the elections, all right. The elections for new PODER officers. At the end of May the club will be choosing a new president, vice president, secretary, and historian, and the flyer is meant to get students signed up to run.

  “It’s just, Crissy and I are graduating,” she explains. “So we need to be sure it’s left in good hands, you know? And Didier can’t do everything on his own.”

  I feel so stupid. This whole time I thought Jackie was campaigning against my father when it wasn’t really about him, or me, at all.

  “And the article you wanted to interview me for?”

  She shrugs like it was years ago. “I mean . . . everything’s so focused on him. I figured no one’s asked you what it’s like, you know? But I get it now. I hear you. You want to lay low and I don’t blame you. You’re welcome to hang out here anytime you need to get away from all that.” She points in the direction of the door. We both know she means the school courtyard beyond it, but just then the room grows really quiet and all we can hear is Didier counting down five, six, seven, eight, and the bass from his speakers kicks in and Crissy runs outside to watch him and his crew rehearse.

  I can’t help smiling at Jackie. I honestly don’t know what I’d do in a space like this, except maybe work on my community service project. They seem to have a whole corner dedicated to environmental issues, full of posters and pamphlets to get people to donate to different organizations.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry we made you uncomfortable the other day,” she says.

  “Thanks. I’m fine now. I mean, I’m not, but I will be.”

  “I know.”

  She goes back to watching something on her laptop while I settle into the couch and try to finish eating the sandwich and fruit salad that Gloria made me. I’d packed everything up so quickly to get away from Zoey that I hadn’t noticed there’s no napkin today. Everyone’s being so distant lately. Even Vivi still hasn’t gotten back to me.

  You ok? Hellooo, I text her.

  No answer. The bell rings and I tell Jackie, Crissy, and Didier that I’ll see them tomorrow. When I walk into fifth period and sit n
ext to Zoey, both of our phones go off at the same time.

  Sorry MIA. Abuela got food poisoning yesterday. Was in ER with no service. Fine now. Big scare for nothing.

  So glad she’s OK, I respond. Then I message her back privately. MISS YOU. Sleep over my place Sat?

  Vivi sends back a party hat emoji and a bunch of the lady-dancing-in-red-dress.

  twenty

  Lately I feel like I’m watching things happen from underwater. It’s a weird kind of peace: quiet but suffocating. My parents head back out on the road again on Friday. Ricky’s so upset I got us banned from Papi’s campaign, he’s stopped talking to me. And every time I see Gloria, she’s on the phone. Twice I’ve heard her whispering in her room, probably talking to Amarys. I haven’t wanted to eavesdrop, but it’s hard not to notice they’ve been arguing. While she gets ready to catch the Metro I hear her say, “I can’t. I won’t,” before hanging up.

  Saturday morning I give her a kiss on the cheek goodbye and say I’ll see her on Monday. I ask if she’s okay but she only smiles and says, “I will be.”

  “Tell Amarys I said hi?”

  “Of course.”

  They must really miss each other during the week. It’s like they’re in a long-distance relationship in the same city.

  When Abuelo gets back from dropping her off at the station, he starts doing his crossword in the living room. “What a mess,” he says as he scans the clues. “You look at it and think, coño, who could ever make sense of this?”

  I play along. We take a minute reading all the clues. I know he knows most of the answers by now, but he’s pretending not to.

  I point at the clue for sixteen down. “ ‘Persona famosa; brillante.’ Estrella.”

  He counts out the letters and lets out a gasp as he fills in the squares. “Muy bien. See? There’s always at least one with a simple answer. Start there and you can figure out the rest.”

  We work out a few more answers together, but I can’t stop looking at the clock.