Running

by Natalia Sylvester

  “That’s the aquifer,” Didier says. “It’s a whole layer of limestone that runs underground.”

  “And it’s been getting pumped full of sewage water for years now.”

  Zoey practically spits out her Materva. “What?! That’s ridiculous. They wouldn’t literally have us drinking pee.”

  “It gets treated,” Jackie says. “Through the limestone and all sorts of cleaning mechanisms. And then it has to meet federal drinking standards. But look.” She takes the computer back from Crissy and switches to another screen. “The Miami Herald has been working on an investigative report on it for months. They found out about these tests that came out this week . . . the water’s still full of drugs from people’s waste. And carcinogens and metals. And like, a shit-ton of Viagra.”

  “People are freaking out,” Didier says. “You seriously hadn’t heard?”

  “I’ve been avoiding the news this week,” I admit.

  “How nice for you,” Crissy mumbles. Jackie shoots her a nasty look and she quickly apologizes.

  “They’re saying the mayor will issue a boil-water warning by tonight,” Didier says.

  “This can’t be right.” Zoey is still not getting it, and I’m not really sure I am either. “Aren’t there, like, laws to keep this kind of stuff from happening?”

  Jackie sighs. “You would think. But the Florida legislature passed the bill that allowed for this years ago. They claimed it’d help us avoid water shortages. Especially with all the salt water contaminating the ground water because of sea level rise. And they needed a better way to get rid of the sewage than just dumping it into the ocean.”

  “Why waste perfectly good toilet water if you can also drink it?” Didier says.

  Zoey gags. “That’s disgusting.”

  Vivi nods like this is all finally making sense. She sits back in her chair and rests her foot against the table. “So it’s all tied together. The sewage. The water. The sea level rise on the beach every full moon.”

  “Exactly,” Crissy says. “And all of it goes back to—”

  “Not now.” Jackie puts her hand in the air and nods just the tiniest bit in my direction. “Mariana? You okay?”

  “I’m fine. It’s just a lot.” I didn’t think it was possible to feel so grossed out, angry, and helpless all at once. “What can we do?”

  As soon as I ask, Didier and Crissy both cross their arms and turn pointedly to Jackie.

  “You guys are assholes,” she says, half laughing, but serious. She lets her voice trail off as she begins to mumble. One thing I’ve learned about Jackie this past week is that she’s always thinking of a million things at once. Sometimes those things contradict each other, so she ends up talking to herself a lot, working through her own arguments. I’ve decided not to interrupt her when she does this. It’s her process.

  “Okay, here’s the thing,” she finally says. “As ridiculous as this all sounds, the bill only passed all those years ago because building developers were pushing for it.”

  “Greedy conchudos,” Crissy says.

  “But . . . why would they care?” Vivi asks.

  “Because it makes it easier for them to build new condos and homes. They keep water supply levels high with access to sewage everywhere, and now they’re not restricted by where to treat it. They can basically build wherever they want.”

  I nod, though I feel my stomach begin to tighten. “So do we, like, start a bottled water donation drive?”

  It seems like such a small and futile plan, now that I say it out loud, but I’m not Jackie or my father. They’re always focused on making things happen when, so far, all I’ve done is make things not happen: no Home Invasion interview, no more press appearances, no being seen or heard anywhere. Things just work out better when I stay out of them.

  “Collecting clean water is a start.” Jackie’s voice cracks from how gentle she’s trying to be, and then, for the first time since we’ve met, I catch a note of exasperation in it. “But you especially . . . you have so much, power, Mariana. You don’t even know it.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Me, power? Even Vivi and Zoey aren’t buying it—they exchange their best Did you hear what I just heard? looks.

  “Trust me. I’m grounded till probably the end of the school year. The last thing I am right now is powerful.”

  “If you’re already grounded, then you have nothing to lose,” Crissy says in a singsongy, nonchalant way.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  They do that annoying thing again where it’s clear that the three of them know more than I do.

  I wait. “Jackie?”

  “I’m really, really sorry to ask you this. I’ve been feeling kind of sick about it, honestly. But it’s just that . . . there are lives at stake, and we need to do something big. Something that’ll get everyone’s attention, and not just here in Miami. Look what happened in Flint, with all the lead in people’s water—we can’t let the government keep getting away with this. That’s why we’re making these signs.” She tries to hand me a blue poster board. I let it hang in the air between us until it sags. “We’re doing a walkout at school on Friday. We’ll have the whole week to get as many students as possible to join us.”

  “That should be easy,” Didier says. He shows us an e-flyer he posted online that heavily relies on the water drops + poop emojis. “It hasn’t even been an hour and I have a shit-ton of likes. Sorry. Pun not intended.”

  “But FCAT prep.” All this time Zoey hasn’t said a thing, and now that she does, her words don’t even form a complete sentence. “The sophomores are doing FCAT prep.”

  “Even better,” Crissy says. “So we interrupt their precious standardized testing. The whole point of protest is it’s inconvenient.”

  “Protest?” All at once, it hits me that this was a mistake. The second Papi finds out what they’re planning here, he’s going to kill me. “I don’t understand how this has anything to do with me.”

  “We want to do speeches,” Jackie says. “We’ll stream them, of course.”

  “I’m not allowed to post anything online. My parents are super paranoid, with everything that’s happened in the campaign and all.”

  “Again, that’s kind of the point,” Didier says.

  “You want her to post video of herself online? Talking? After everything she’s just been through? Did you not see the news last week?” Zoey’s heard enough, I guess.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. That’s not happening,” I say.

  Jackie rubs her left temple and closes her eyes. “You don’t understand . . .”

  “I get it. Really. But not all of us are used to just putting ourselves out there like you are,” I say.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You do it. You’re the one who can go on for hours about this stuff.”

  “Look, I know it’s not fair. I know it’s a lot to put on you . . . but it’ll matter more coming from you,” Jackie says.

  “No, it won’t. I’m not my father, remember?”

  “Mariana. Mariana!” She yells so loud that out of the corner of my eye, I see Abuelo and Ricky turn their heads. They’ve been sitting in the living room this whole time, pretending not to pay attention to us, but now they don’t bother pretending and stare through the glass door. Everyone goes quiet.

  Jackie sighs, and there’s a sadness in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. “Your father’s the one who sponsored the bill. When he was state senator. It was his idea to allow sewage water in the aquifer. And the property where all the water testing came back contaminated this week . . . the developer . . . he was pushing for the bill too. It was Harrison Irving.”

  Oof. I feel like she just shoved me against the wall.

  “Your father’s biggest donor,” Crissy adds.

  “I know who Harrison Irving is,” I manage to say.

  twenty-three

  There are promises my father makes to the people and promises he makes to me. Sometimes those
things are different.

  Like when he says he wants all families to have access to jobs and the pursuit of happiness that they deserve, but then he’s late to dinner if he makes it at all.

  Or when he says that we need real, experienced people running the country, not millionaires turned reality show stars, but then he has Joe tell me and Ricky exactly what to say and do when there are cameras around.

  It’s like he’s two different people. I used to be okay with this, because it meant one of them was a father we got to keep all to ourselves.

  The guy who’d insist we don’t talk politics at home.

  The guy who’d make me playlists and audio messages of jokes he thought of while he was out of town.

  The guy who’d curse in Spanish, a mile a minute, anytime he got cut off in traffic.

  The guy who still sleeps in the volunteer T-shirt we got for helping clean up Biscayne Bay.

  That guy.

  That guy couldn’t possibly have known about this.

  Could he?

  I check the watch on my phone. It’s been way more than half an hour since everyone got here, but I’m not about to remind them it’s time to leave. Not until I get to the bottom of this.

  Crissy pulls out her laptop again and begins reading from the website of Harrison Irving’s newest real estate development. “Erban—get this, it’s spelled with an E, so obnoxious—is reinventing luxury living in South Florida.”

  “It’s a monstrosity.” Jackie scrolls down to the architectural sketches of the property. It looks like a shimmering chunk of green-tinted glass stretching toward the sky, surrounded by lily-white concrete renderings of a street. Young couples walk their dogs along the sidewalk and children grab ice cream from a vendor.

  “Just a twenty-five-minute drive to the beach . . . Bull. Shit,” says Didier. “This Irving guy is straight up lying. Maybe a twenty-five-minute drive at four in the morning with no traffic.” Out of all of us, Didier is the only one who has his own car. He loves to remind us of this, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways, anytime he can. Like right now, his car keys are in the center of the table instead of in his pocket. Aside from the clicker for his Honda, he’s got a metal Haitian flag for a keychain and a plastic yellow tag labeled with his name in all caps.

  “Can we focus?” Jackie says. “We need to organize.”

  They set up a new Twitter account and begin retweeting the latest news reports using #DumpIrving to promote the walkout. They announce the date and time: Friday at noon from Grove High. Any other Fla students want to join from your school? @ us.

  I watch them through a haze, feeling like every crevice in my head might explode from too much pressure. They’ve decided to make a scapegoat out of Irving—already the local news retweeted them and they’re talking about his ties to Papi’s campaign. I imagine the team is in crisis mode, trying to control the way the press will spin this, and only days after they’ve finished spinning me.

  Not a single thing about this feels right. Not the water. Not my father. Not them being here, plotting against him, in our home. I want to ask them to leave, but I don’t. Even though the mayor of Miami hasn’t issued a boil-water advisory yet, news stations show reporters at Publix asking shoppers if they plan to stock up on bottled water. Abuelo leaves for a quick run to the grocery store minutes after. I check my father’s campaign accounts to see if he’s issued a statement. His last tweet is a generic, “Thank You to the people of Tallahassee for a fantastic event,” sent just minutes before the news of the water contamination broke this morning.

  “He must not know this is happening,” I say.

  “He knows,” Jackie says, placing her hand over mine gently. “It doesn’t matter now, anyways. It only matters what he does next.”

  “He’d never support this.”

  “Never support what? Irving or the walkout?” Zoey asks.

  “Both. He thinks the environment needs to be protected. He’s told me so a hundred times.”

  Crissy clears her throat.

  “Oh ti cheri,” Didier says in an overly sugarcoated voice. “That might be what your father’s told you privately, but . . . I mean, you’ve seen how he votes, haven’t you?”

  I keep my face straight, trying hard not to cringe. I don’t understand why people keep calling me sweetie. And even worse, I’ve never thought to look up my dad’s voting record. Why would I need proof that my father is doing all the things he said he’d do?

  They’re all quiet, waiting for me to answer. “Of course. I just meant that’s how he talks about the future. He has plans, you know?”

  “It’s more like . . . Irving has plans, and your father follows,” Jackie says. “I know it’s hard to hear. But just think about it.”

  Didier shakes his head and mumbles something about how much money Irving’s company has donated to my father. It’s loud enough for me to hear, but low enough for him to pretend I wasn’t supposed to.

  “I’m going to talk to him,” I decide.

  “Of course. Whatever you want. But can we count on you for the walkout?” Jackie says.

  “I’m going to talk to him,” I say again. “Maybe the walkout won’t be necessary.” But it’s clear they don’t believe me. They finally pack up all their supplies. Jackie gives me a hug and apologizes profusely before she goes.

  “Believe me, I hate that it’s come to this.”

  That makes two of us. But I don’t respond.

  Crissy doesn’t even say bye as she walks out of the house and waits for them in Didier’s car.

  “What’s her problem?” Zoey says.

  I’m glad she asked. I’ve been wondering all week but haven’t had the guts to say it.

  “She has her reasons,” Didier says. “Crissy was born here, but her older brother wasn’t. He’s a veteran and he still got deported to Peru last year.”

  “I don’t understand. I mean, that’s horrible, but what does it have to do with me?”

  He looks at me wide-eyed and mouths, wow. “Maybe you should do your homework on your dad ASAP. At least know his stance on things.”

  It’s only after they leave that I notice Vivi has been super quiet.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  She crosses her arms and shrugs. “I’m in shock right now, Mari. What if the water’s what made my abuela sick?”

  I tell her I’m sorry and give her a hug. There’s so much to process all at once. While Zoey comforts Vivi, I head up to my room and open my laptop.

  It’s all so confusing. Searching for Papi’s voting record online, all I find are spreadsheets and charts full of hundreds of bills and resolutions that he either sponsored, cosponsored, voted for, or voted against. None of their names make it clear what they’re about. Resolution for Restoration of Health and Dignity or Martin Allan Jones Act don’t exactly paint a clear picture. I close the computer and go into his office.

  We’re not supposed to be in here when he’s not, but there’s no one around to stop me. It’s a small room with floor-to-ceiling dark wooden bookshelves and a matching desk that is almost as wide as the back wall. I sit in Papi’s leather chair and try to open the drawers, but they’re locked. His desktop has a pile of manila folders on one side and stacks of papers on the other. In the center, a cup full of hard drives sits next to a framed picture of Papi, Mami, Ricky, and me the night he won some election, I can’t remember which. The air carries the faintest hint of his cedar wood and citrus cologne, just enough to make me feel like he’s here, watching me.

  I go through his stack, lifting the edges of the papers just enough to see their headings. Nothing catches my eye until I get to a thick, light-green cardstock—a blueprint for an office unit at Erban. This can’t be right. I run back to my room and grab my phone, dialing the only person I know who could make sense of all this.

  “Amarys? Are you busy?” I sink back into my father’s chair just as she asks what’s wrong. “Can you help me figure out Papi’s policies?”

  For a moment
she remains quiet. I can practically hear the hesitation in her breathing, but instead of saying no, she says, “What policies were you wondering about?”

  I ask her about the aquifer and tell her about Vivi’s grandmother. She tells me it’s true that Papi voted to let the sewage be treated there years ago.

  “But he didn’t know, right? That people might get sick?”

  “No sé, nena. Seguro que that’s what people will be investigating soon.”

  Soon isn’t good enough; I need answers now. “Then what about immigration? What about, like a vet who got deported? My dad’s gonna fix that, no? When he’s president?” The line is so silent, I wonder if we got disconnected. “Amarys?”

  “Since your Papi’s been a US senator, he’s voted several times against immigration reform. Other times he doesn’t show up to vote at all.”

  “What do you mean, doesn’t show up?”

  “Mari . . . I hate being the one to tell you these things. Your Papi has one of the lowest attendance records in the Senate.”

  “That’s impossible. He’s never home. He’s always in DC.”

  “That might be the case. But a lot of times, he doesn’t place a vote.”

  It doesn’t make any sense. He’s always saying that it’s his biggest honor to work for the American people. If he’s not going to bother showing up to place a vote, then what’s the point of him being away for so long? What’s the point of any of this at all?

  My voice shakes as I thank Amarys for helping me. “I’ll ask Papi about this when he gets home.”

  “Don’t tell him I helped you. He’ll accuse me of turning you into a progressive.”

  “I’m not . . . I don’t really like to go by labels.” I’m just trying to figure out what I believe in, and what my dad believes. I know I don’t want people getting hurt. “I’m not trying to take sides or anything,” I add.