Running

by Natalia Sylvester

  “So you’re still doing it? The walkout?”

  He looks at me like the answer is obvious. “This stuff matters too. In a way our parents can’t understand.”

  I nod as I snap off my seat belt.

  “But also . . . Jackie will probably kill me for saying this, but you don’t have to do a speech. I mean, if you want to, awesome. But if you don’t, then don’t. It doesn’t really help us if you’re not feeling it.”

  His words sting, even though I know he doesn’t mean it like that. I mumble, “Thanks,” and smile as I leave. Walking up to Gloria and Amarys’s apartment, I wonder if I’ll get them in trouble by coming, but then I remember Gloria doesn’t work for us anymore.

  I knock three quick times, and then, when no one answers, twice more, louder. It’s not until I’m about to knock a third time that I realize there’s no light coming through the blinds of the window.

  Why didn’t I consider they might not be home? They could be grocery shopping, or watching a movie, or having dinner with friends. I’d never really thought about Gloria’s life beyond our home.

  I rush back downstairs in hopes that Didier is still there, but he’s already gone. It’s dark and quiet; none of the motion sensor lights outside the building are turning on, no matter how hard I wave my arms across them. Exhausted, I sit at the top of the stairwell and finally check my phone.

  There are no new messages, but somehow that makes me feel worse. Ten, twenty minutes pass, but still neither Gloria nor Amarys comes home.

  My phone buzzes in my hand, sending my stomach halfway up my throat.

  It’s a text from Mami, the only one she’s sent all night.

  Just come home and we won’t have to talk about it until tomorrow. I promise.

  I reply with two words. And Papi?

  He’s asleep. Big day tomorrow.

  “Of course he is. Heaven forbid we wake the Senator,” I say to the darkness. I tell her I’m at Gloria’s and wait.

  thirty-three

  Driving home with Mami is like carrying a cup of coffee that is filled to the rim across a crowded room. I try to be quiet and steady, but all it’d take is a wrong breath or sudden movement for everything to spill and burn me.

  I can feel the heat in her gaze fixed on the road. She fidgets with the a/c vents as we wait for the arrow to turn green. Even though it’d be faster if she crossed the highway and took the back roads home, Mami makes a left onto US 1. Might as well torment me as long as possible since I’m literally strapped into a metal box with her. When she pushes down on the accelerator, it feels like an invisible weight is being pressed against my chest.

  “You’re the one who said I could go,” I finally say. She nods and raises her eyebrows in a kind of hesitant agreement. I guess she’s taking this promise-we-won’t-talk-about-it thing seriously. She starts scanning the radio and briefly stops at the mention of my father’s name on NPR.

  “Ruiz, who until recently was considered the front-runner in a tight primary race, may be in trouble in his home sta—”

  She switches the station. A small scoff escapes her in the brief silence between the newscaster’s voice and a song.

  So she is mad at him too. “Papi’s the one who went behind our backs and had me followed.”

  “What did I say? WHAT DID I TELL YOU WE WOULD NOT TALK ABOUT?”

  I jump as her voice fills the car. “I didn’t . . . I’m just saying, I’m mad at him too.”

  “Did you ever consider, for once, that this isn’t about you? That maybe your father’s world doesn’t revolve around you, or me, or any of us? Did it never enter your mind? Or maybe you got so caught up in believing all the things he says, over and over, without realizing he’s not saying them to us, he’s not promising me, he’s promising them. They are all that matter, Mariana. Not you. Not me. Not Ricky. Them. We’re three people and one vote. Nada más.”

  We jolt to a stop at a light. A small vein runs between the creases of her forehead, and the glow from the red light fills in all the little cracks in her skin. It looks like an outline of the pain and hurt she’s been holding in, finally wanting out.

  “Mami? Are you okay?”

  She covers her mouth with two fingers, as if she were holding an invisible cigarette to her lips. The light turns green and half a second later, a car behind us honks.

  “Mami?”

  “Ya. That’s enough, Mariana. It’s nothing.” She sits up straight and turns the wheel.

  “It’s not nothing. What did Papi do this time?”

  “Please. I can’t do this right now. Not when your father and I, we’re so close—”

  “I get it. Florida votes in seven days. No one ever lets me forget.”

  “Stop talking about things you don’t understand. You promised me, remember?”

  “Stop telling me I don’t understand! I know when he’s lying. I know when you back him up. I know you’re angry that he doesn’t listen to you anymore, that we’re not the team we used to be.”

  “Cállate.”

  “No. I’m tired of being told to shut up when you don’t like what I say and to speak when you need me to lie. I’m not his personal microphone you turn on and off.”

  “¡Coño! We’re so close.”

  “Close to this being over? Thank god—”

  “Close to everything falling apart!”

  She slams the brakes at a yellow light we could’ve easily taken. A black SUV behind us swerves into the next lane and swishes past.

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Just—no more, Mariana. Te lo ruego.” She presses her hands together and looks past me, begging for silence.

  To our right, there’s a small plot of land littered with campaign signs. Some are the usual red, white, and blue, but others are coral, turquoise, and mermaid green, like our skies and the Art Deco buildings along the ocean.

  Instinctively, I search for my father’s name, but it appears only twice. It looks so small. Four simple letters and one syllable.

  thirty-four

  When we step into the kitchen from the garage, Mami switches on the lights and begins making up excuses.

  “I don’t want you worrying about what I said. Things are not that bad, we’re just all under a lot of stress. We’re fine. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  I go through the refrigerator in search of something to drink.

  “So what’s Papi’s big day all about? Tomorrow?”

  She slips her purse off her shoulder, practically letting it topple over the edge of the table. “He has several important meetings. With some donors.”

  “With Irving?”

  “Ay, Mari,” she says. “And if it is? What are you going to do?”

  It’s not really a question. She’s obviously decided the answer is nothing. I don’t bother responding as I start filling a glass with water from the filter on the refrigerator door.

  “Mari . . . el agua.”

  “Sorry. I forgot.” I empty the cup down the drain and pour myself a new glass from the jarful of water that Abuelo boiled and let cool this afternoon. “So much for things not being that bad.”

  “Now you just sound spoiled. People all over the world boil their water every day, ¿sabías? You’re lucky that—”

  “Oh my god, ya! I get it, okay?” Except I don’t. I don’t understand how simply knowing others are worse off is supposed to make anyone feel better about their problems. What good is valuing what we have if others can’t have it too?

  Even after I’ve showered and gotten ready for bed, I’m unsettled. I’ve got all this pent-up energy and nothing to do with it. The day’s events are like a roller coaster that has left me motion sick. There’s a part of me that still wants to relish riding in my friend’s car for the first time: the music Didier played on his phone, the way the wind felt coming through Jackie’s window up front. It felt like the city was ours, because we could’ve gone anywhere without asking anyone, and there was no one to tell us other
wise.

  Except there was Joe, and there was my father. They took this moment away from me and now I’ll never get it back. What other firsts will he steal if he becomes president? I picture Ricky and Mami and me being followed 24/7 by Secret Service agents who look like different versions of Joe. It dawns on me that I might never be alone again, and that strikes me as the loneliest thing in the world.

  I open up my laptop and check my apps for something to watch. Nothing catches my attention. Instead, I launch the browser and type in Harrison Irving.

  His company website is the first hit. I click on it and right away a video fills half the screen with the letters ERBAN. I scroll down. Along the bottom of the screen there’s a section for the company’s latest news and acquisitions. A familiar image catches my eye.

  No way. It’s Vivi’s old neighborhood.

  There’s a row of five houses with hers in the middle, looking like the youngest child in a portrait with taller siblings. The neighborhood looks bigger than it is, as if the picture were taken by an ant looking up at it. A caption below reads: IRVING CONSTRUCTION ANNOUNCES PLANS TO DEVELOP TEN-UNIT LUXURY VILLAGE IN THE HEART OF SOUTH MIAMI.

  The press release goes on to say that with the recent purchase of the last house on this centrally located street, construction will now be under way in as little as two weeks. The units are available for presale from the low 900,000s.

  So this is why Vivi’s father was so quick to sell their house. With Vivi’s mom out of the picture, he was finally free to take whatever deal the latest developer offered.

  And that developer turned out to be Irving. The man responsible for leaving my best friend without a home and her abuela in the hospital. The man leaving entire neighborhoods without clean water. The man who basically finances my father and who my father would never cross.

  Even though it’s late, I text Vivi the link to Irving’s latest property:

  This explains a lot.

  When she doesn’t respond, I send it with no comment to Zoey.

  Damn. That explains a lot, she writes. Does Vivi know?

  I sent it to her.

  Does this mean you’ll join the walkout? With Jackie and them?

  I don’t know. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you about the pet store.

  I wait for her to respond. The dot-dot-dot on the screen lights up and dims for several seconds, but when her text finally comes through, all it says is: It’s fine.

  Which it obviously isn’t. I try to think of another way to apologize when she adds:

  What if I do it with you? I can help, you know.

  I stare at her text for several seconds. I don’t know why, but it makes everything feel a little less scary. For the first time it feels doable, like it’s not just me versus everybody, but me and Zoey and all the rest of us.

  That’d be awesome, I write.

  Ok. We’ll do it for Vivi.

  K.

  Papi always says to create change you need three things: People, purpose, and ganas. I have the first two, and Irving just gave me all the determination I need.

  thirty-five

  Everything kind of spirals after our school reopens on Tuesday, and not just at Grove High. The mayor still hasn’t said how long we’ll be under a boil-water advisory, so all our sports games are canceled (“indefinitely” is the word they keep using) because no one wants to risk student athletes dehydrating in this heat. Even prom in May is kind of iffy, and it seems like all the seniors except for Jackie and Crissy, who say they were planning on boycotting it anyway, are pissed the school can’t just find a new caterer and venue with stockpiles of ice, water, and food that doesn’t need washing. Then there’s the school water fountains. Everywhere we turn, they’ve been cordoned off with red tape and signs that say DO NOT DRINK! They look like mini crime scenes randomly scattered across campus.

  To top it all off, Papi won’t stop interrogating me. Before leaving for West Palm Beach, he asked if I planned on participating in the walkout. “Of course not,” he said before I could answer. “You wouldn’t do that to your own family, would you, Mari?”

  On Wednesday, just as he grabbed a cup of coffee on his way out the door, while I was having my cereal, he outright forbade me to do it. I didn’t argue with him then, either, and the most amazing thing happened. He didn’t know what to do. His whole chest collapsed, like he’d been bottling up a lungful of arguments, and now they had nowhere to go. We stared at each other, holding the air between us, and I swear I felt something shift. The flinching look in his eyes gave it away. He was losing power, and I was gaining it.

  By Thursday, he’d decided I wouldn’t be allowed to go to school on Friday, period. By Thursday evening, he realized that would only make things worse. Everyone would know he kept me from going.

  “What are you going to do, hijita?” he pleaded.

  “What are you going to do, Papi? People need clean water.”

  He gave Mami a look like his eyes were about to jump out of his face. “Will you reason with your daughter, please?”

  All this time, Mami has stayed out of it. She put one hand on her hip and said, “Now you want my opinion?”

  He left it at that and set off to his fourth meet-and-greet in three days.

  * * *

  By the morning of the walkout, Jackie’s tweets have been hearted by Chrissy Teigen and Zendaya, and the hashtag #PODERforchange has been trending nonstop. Last I checked, students from thirty-four other Florida schools plan to participate.

  All week long, Jackie’s been taking calls from reporters who want to interview her—and me, but she’s kept me out of it like I asked.

  “They sound bummed, but they don’t push it,” Jackie told me during lunch. “Sometimes they ask what our relationship is.”

  “Our relationship?”

  “Yeah. Like if we’re BFFs, acquaintances, just two students in the same club . . . stuff like that. They’re always wanting to know what to label people.”

  “Oh. What do you say?”

  “No comment,” she said, with an odd grin that made me wish she had answered the reporters, just for my own curiosity.

  Now it’s only a matter of hours. Standing inside my closet, I put on a pair of black-and-white Adidas, my loose-fitting jeans that Mami hates because they have holes in them, and a dark-green spaghetti-strap tank layered over a white ribbed top. The tops ride up a little, exposing an inch of my midriff. For half a second, I worry my teachers will tell me to change, until I remember I’m planning on walking out of class anyway. It’s not like people don’t dress like this at school. It’s just that I never have. Papi’s always insisting we look presentable at all times—whatever that means—in case we’re caught on camera. As a last touch, I put on a pair of gold-plated hoop earrings Vivi gave me for my birthday. It’s the first time I’ve worn them because Papi thought they were too big and loud. I think they’re perfect.

  Yesterday, Jackie, Zoey, and I made a few extra posters during lunch in the PODER room.

  Mine says: SAVE WATER, DRAIN IRVING.

  Zoey made one calling out how the words climate change were banned from use in the Florida legislature. From top to bottom, her poster reads:

  CLIMATE CHANGE.

  CLIMATE CHANGE.

  CLIMATE CHANGE.

  CLIMATE CHANGE.

  She used our entire supply of the blue and green glitter, but no one had the heart to stop her.

  “Until I have a vote, this is how I’ll be heard,” she said.

  “Word,” Crissy said.

  So much has changed in the past couple of weeks since Vivi left. Sometimes I think if she were still here, if she hadn’t gotten kicked out of her house and her abuela weren’t still sick (probably because of Irving), maybe I wouldn’t care as much. Maybe I wouldn’t be marching. And then I feel bad because that means I’m exactly like the people Jackie says are part of the problem: the ones who are happy to do nothing about injustice until it affects them or someone they love.

 
I grab my backpack and make my way down the stairs. Mami and Papi have already taken off for the day, leaving a note on the fridge that Joe will be taking me to school. I crumple it up and throw it at the table. After everything that’s happened, I still have to put up with Papi’s wannabe secret agent. I’m so ready to be done with this.

  With Gloria gone, the house feels like an empty store after closing hours—all the usual lights and sounds are missing. I make myself some pan cubano with guava and ham and leave the plate in the sink. Not even a minute later, a high-pitched car horn goes off in our driveway. I know without looking that it’s Joe.

  “Does your mom know you’re going to school dressed like that?” he says the second I get in his car.

  “Does my mom know you’re paying so much attention to how I’m dressed?” I say right back. This shuts him up quickly, but only for a few seconds.

  The whole way to school, Joe lists reason after reason why I shouldn’t protest, but I just nod and smile. It drives him bananas, so by the time we pull up to Grove High, he just mumbles something about staying out of trouble. I’m out of the car and slamming the door before he can even finish.

  * * *

  I’m honestly surprised that Principal Avila hasn’t tried to keep us from protesting. We’ve seen it happen before—administrators who lock the doors before students plan to leave, claiming they’re not allowed off school grounds unsupervised. A couple of years ago, a school let kids walk out when they marched for gun control, but then they wouldn’t let them back in.

  I find Jackie, Crissy, Didier, and Zoey in the math hall before first period. They’re talking to Dania, whose mother works at Channel 7 and leaked the fact that I’d run away from the Home Invasion interview to the press.

  “Do you think they’ll come?” Crissy is saying.

  Dania grimaces. “How should I know? You think the world’s going to stop what they’re doing to watch you walk across the street?”

  “There’s going to be tons of news crews,” Didier assures her.