“What kind of testing?” the woman asks. “The mayor has already ordered several tests.”
Papi sounds annoyed at the question. “I don’t know all the details. Does it matter?”
“It’s just to buy us time. Just so these kids will back off until Tuesday,” Joe says. “We’ll deal with them after.”
Deal with them? I can’t believe what they’re saying.
I hear the sounds of paper being shuffled and then finally my father clears his throat. “Just do whatever we need to do.”
The room seems to spring into action. I rush off, hiding behind the first open door I can find. It turns out to be a closet full of boxes stacked as tall as I am with Papi’s campaign kitsch: REBUILDING AMERICA yard signs and bumper stickers, vintage-looking pins with his face on them, and refrigerator magnets that say #RuiztotheFuture.
The air feels cold and fake in here. Every time I exhale, it hurts like a bruise I can’t stop pressing down on. I take a few steps back, nearly tripping over an old paper shredder, but manage to keep my balance by grasping at the wall. My hand lands on something smooth and slippery.
It’s a cardboard cutout of my father.
He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit, a red tie, and an American flag pin on his left collar. He smiles like he’s holding his breath and waiting for the moment to pass.
I lean into him on tippy-toes and take a selfie.
I group text my friends what I just heard go down.
Vivi and Didier both reply at the same time: I’m so sorry, Mari.
Zoey says, That really sux.
He was never going to change, Crissy adds.
And then finally in all caps, Jackie: IT’S FINE. THEY’RE SCARED. WE’VE GOT THIS.
I stifle a laugh, and only then do I realize there are tears in my eyes. They trickle down and hang from my chin like raindrops on an awning.
I send them the selfie of me and my cardboard dad.
This is about as real as he’s ever going to get with me.
Their flurry of approving emojis makes me smile again.
I cut and paste the words into a tweet and attach the picture. I consider hashtagging it #RuiztotheFuture, but then I delete it.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
It’s not worth it for now. The tweet would spread like wildfire but in the end, it’d only be me that got burned. Even Mami wouldn’t defend me. She’d say I pushed her to her limits, and I can almost see Ricky’s confused expression as he’d ask, “Don’t you love Papi anymore?”
How do you explain this to an eight-year-old? That you can love someone but lose faith. That you can find things to believe in that are beyond him.
The thumbnail of the picture implodes on itself as I delete it.
It’s better this way. I’m still angry, angrier than I’ve ever been. But Jackie’s right. We’ve got this. Maybe not right away. Maybe not in the next few days. It’s like Papi always says, important decisions take time and preparation. It’s why he took so long to tell me and my brother he’d run for president. I finally get it.
Besides, my anger is too powerful to waste on hurting him. My anger is powerful enough for change.
forty-two
Since the walkout, Papi hasn’t been home long enough to say a word to me. I’ve gotten zero texts to see how my day is going. No more than a quick peck on the forehead when he passes through the house. Papi avoids looking at me so purposely, you’d think I was the sun during an eclipse.
“I know what you’re doing,” I tell him the day after the walkout. He’s heading out to his big press conference, the one where he’ll announce Irving’s plans to suspend operations on the aquifer for whatever phony test they probably aren’t even going to do. “You’re only pretending. Just enough for us to shut up before election day.”
His jaw tightens like he just tasted something sour. He gathers a few files in his suitcase, never looking up once as he says, “I’m done trying to silence you. You betrayed me in front of the entire country. What is left for me to say to that?”
“You can try the truth, for once.”
His suitcase snaps shut, and I jump a little at the sound. As if on cue, Joe walks into the room and Papi looks straight ahead to him, right through me as if I’ve disappeared.
“Ready. I’m done here.”
This is the most we speak all weekend.
* * *
On the eve of the election, Papi is six hours away in Alachua County for one last push. He won’t be home until the following morning, so Mami stays up all night. I know because I can’t sleep either, and when I go downstairs for a midnight snack, there’s light coming from the kitchen and she’s got her laptop open and papers everywhere, all across the table. Her face is bare and glistening from the lotion she uses to take off her makeup.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing your father’s speeches.”
“Does he know?”
“He will. Why aren’t you in bed?”
“Mami. Really?” I grab some milk and a box of leftover croquetas from the fridge. I take a bite of one without bothering to heat it up.
Mami looks at me like I just put a worm in my mouth. “Ay, Mari.”
“What? It’ll just get soggy in the microwave. And I’m too hungry to wait.”
“You should’ve eaten earlier.”
“Did you eat anything?”
She sighs. We both know we’ve been too nervous to eat. Now we’re too anxious to sleep.
I sit next to her and glance over her notes. They’re printouts of nearly all the speeches he’s given in the last year. She’s highlighted some parts in yellow and put an X through entire paragraphs.
“I’m trying to tie it all together so it’s like a journey: past, present, and future.”
I offer to help and she gives me a highlighter.
“Just . . . anything he repeats a lot that sounds hopeful and determined.”
There’s so much.
I decided to run for president because I know that we are great, but that we can always be better.
Next I highlight: When I look at my family, I see everything our great nation represents.
There are plenty of lines I skip over because they’re all the same: promise after promise. I grab another cold croqueta and the grease on my fingers leaves tiny transparent dots along the margins.
We work for forty-five minutes, until Mami has a rough draft. It’s beautiful. It’s the story of our lives, starting from the first campaign he ran when I was little, all the way up until now. At every opportunity, Mami writes that he’s grateful for this journey, even the hard parts, because it’s helped make him a better person.
This is our duty as Americans, to always strive to be better people so we can become a better nation.
This is why I’m announcing the end of my campaign today.
“Wait, what? This is a concession speech?”
She folds her computer shut and exhales. “It’s just in case, Mari. It’s common practice to write both. His staff has obsessed over the other one a million times. I just want him to be prepared for the alternative.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“No. And it’s not your fault, if that’s what you’re really asking. Your papi’s tracking numbers have been all over the place for a while, and the fundraising . . .”
Her voice trails off, as if she’s suddenly remembered she’s not supposed to say these things out loud. It sounds blasphemous, even to me.
I reopen her laptop and keep reading. In the next few paragraphs, as Papi explains his decision, Mami doesn’t shy away from the walkout or the water. She writes, Let me put the rumors and speculation to rest: there is no battle here, between father and daughter. If anything, what my campaign should prove is that we can and must love each other, no matter what.
No matter what? That doesn’t sound right, but I don’t have the heart to say so to Mami. �
��Do you really think he’ll go for this?”
She closes her eyes and her head falls forward. “We need to sleep. Vamos.” We walk to her bedroom and I crawl into bed next to her, in the spot where Papi always sleeps.
forty-three
When I wake up, Mami’s standing over me holding a black skirt and a red sleeveless blouse with a white lace collar decked out in pearls. “Toma,” she says.
I groan and roll onto my right side, pulling the covers tight.
“Por favor, Mari. Don’t make things worse.” She’s whispering, which can only mean Papi’s around here somewhere.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say.
“Are we starting already?” Ah, so he’s in the closet. I hear the clinking of his belt as he gets dressed. What time did he even get here? And where did he sleep?
“Come on, despiértate,” Mami says, with a fake cheer in her voice that guilts me into playing along. I sit up and take the clothes from her. “Thank you. We leave for the precinct in an hour and a half. You and Ricky will wait in the car with Joe.”
“We’re not going in?” It’s tradition. In every election Papi has ever run in, we’ve taken pictures with my parents as they cast their ballots. So the American people know we do this as a family, Papi always says.
“It’ll be too much of a distraction. We’re doing one picture of the four of us standing at the entrance when we arrive. No other press.”
“Well . . . good.”
She tightens her robe. “Yes, good.”
I hold the blouse up to my torso in the mirror. “It’s nice, thanks.”
She sighs. “I’m glad you like it.”
It’s going to make me look like an old lady, but I don’t have the heart to tell Mami this. I say the next best thing. “It reminds me of Ruth Bader Ginsburg.” In the PODER room’s mini-library, there’s a biography of her called Notorious RBG, all about her life before she became the second female supreme court justice. I haven’t finished reading it yet, but I’ve gotten enough of a gist to know that Mami probably loved her years ago. Maybe she still does.
Mami stares at our reflection in the mirror. Her face is full of longing, like she’s looking at a picture of someone who’s gone. “Go upstairs and get ready.”
I lean in to kiss her. Before our bodies pull away I ask, “Is he still upset with you? For letting me go to the walkout?”
Her eyes dart between the closet and the bathroom, where he’s migrated to. “He has eight hundred other things to worry about right now. I doubt he’s even thinking about it.”
That doesn’t answer my question.
* * *
The plan was that after my parents cast their votes, we’d stop by Papi’s campaign headquarters on Brickell, a first-floor office space they’ve been renting since last year. The only time I ever stopped in was months ago, when Papi surprised everyone by bringing in a stack of pizzas to thank them for volunteering. They were so elated to see him, the pizzas got cold while they took turns taking pictures with us. This was way before the Bubble Boy incident. Way before I knew anyone could hate my father.
Now Joe’s saying there’s no way we can go back there today. This is after Papi already told him to cancel the visit, but Joe loves to act like he’s the one who makes decisions. We’ll watch tonight’s primary results at the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables, which is where we’ve spent Papi’s last two elections—first for the state legislature and then for his Senate seat. Joe calls the hotel while we drive to the voting precinct in the campaign’s black SUV. He sits behind me in one of those seats that folds up from the trunk.
Ricky is so excited he won’t stop bouncing. He’s wearing khaki slacks with a lavender guayabera that makes him look like a tiny version of Abuelo.
“Mami let me do my hair, like it?”
She actually just let him hold onto the comb, which he’s been using all morning to keep everything in place. He’s become such a ham ever since Papi decided to keep us away from the press. It’s like he craves attention now that he’s tasted life without it.
“It’s just one picture,” I tell him. “We’re not even going inside.”
“No thanks to you.”
“Don’t you have a game you’re trying to beat on your iPad?”
“Don’t you have someone else’s life to ruin?”
“Wow. Really?”
“Everyone shut up!” Joe calls from the back seat.
We all turn, even Papi, who’s in the passenger seat next to the driver.
“It’s just . . . I’m on the phone with the hotel. They’re setting up the war room,” Joe says.
I’ve always thought that war room is such an interesting thing to call the room with all the reporters. If a free press is essential to democracy, why would we be at war? The look on Joe’s face as he talks about the media makes me think of Gloria, how she once told me that telling the truth makes life harder for people who don’t want things to change.
We arrive at the voting precinct within a few minutes. It’s a small building, an old bungalow that used to be a clubhouse for the community and is now a historic landmark. A line of voters stretches halfway down the block. We climb out and wait for Joe to squeeze out of the back. There’s a news van parked across the street, and he nods at a man with a camera just as he makes his way toward us.
“Okay. Rapidito,” Mami says, putting her arms over Ricky’s and my shoulders. With our backs facing the crowd of voters, the three of us move in an awkward shuffle toward Papi, who’s already standing in the perfect spot, with the American flag in the background.
The pictures are quick, like they said they’d be. Behind us, people wave at my father and take pictures on their phones as they talk excitedly among themselves. I tune them out and head back to the SUV the second my parents say they’re going in.
They cut ahead of the line. It doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes, and then Ricky and I are dropped back off at the house so my parents can head to meetings and interviews all day. Before she leaves, Mami hands Ricky and me their I VOTED stickers. I realize it’s the first time we didn’t cast a vote with the pretend ballots that Mami always makes us. That makes two family traditions broken.
I lie in bed and can hear Ricky blasting the news from his bedroom.
My phone vibrates twice in my pocket.
Hola, mami. You ok? It’s Amarys.
Of course I know it’s you, I reply.
Immediately, the screen goes off with a FaceTime call. She’s sitting next to Gloria, in what I assume is their bedroom because there’s a big cluster of magenta pillows in the background.
They wave hello and I sit up and cross my legs.
“Oh my god, you don’t know how happy I am to see you!” I say.
“Well we’ve been seeing plenty of you, mami. Super proud of you, you know?”
“You showed up on Telemundo at eleven,” Gloria adds. “With all the other kids. Are those your new friends?”
“Some of them. Like three of them. I still miss Vivi, though. And you.”
“Nah,” Amarys says. “You don’t need us anymore. You’ve got followers now. You’re leading a movement.”
My whole body tenses up and my shoulders feel like they’re in a brace. I’ve stopped checking all the follow requests on my social media accounts. Ever since the walkout, I updated my bio by telling people to follow PODER instead. Didier says they’ve blown up. “I don’t really want to talk about it. My dad’s never going to change. It didn’t make the difference I thought it would. It just pissed him off.”
“You feel that way now,” Amarys says. “But change takes time. Hay que luchar.”
“That’s what Jackie’s always saying. How’ve you two been?” I decide against mentioning that I stopped by their house the other night.
“Ahí vamos,” Amarys says. “We’ve been looking for a new apartment. We have to be out of ours by the end of next month, así que . . .”
“Oh my god, what happened?”
�
�Nothing bad! Amarys got a job at a nonprofit downtown. So we want to be closer to her work.”
“That’s amazing,” I say. “¿Y tú?”
“I’ll find something around there,” she says, not sounding very convinced. “How are your parents? Ricky?”
“Ricky’s . . . fine. I mean, he hates me right now, but that’s nothing new.” I change the subject back to their new apartment. “So, like, where around downtown? You’ll be so far . . .”
“It’s not that bad, mami,” Amarys says. “You can take the Metro.”
“Amoris, she’s not going to take the Metro.”
I almost giggle but end up grinning really big instead. Gloria’s nickname for Amarys is the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.
“¿Y por qué no?”
“I can take the Metro,” I say.
“Her father would never let her. Not after what she did last time,” Gloria says.
“Déjala. Mari can decide for herself,” Amarys says.
It’s funny how she thinks I have any choice in anything. As we speak, Florida voters are deciding not only who they want to be the GOP’s presidential nominee, but possibly the fate of the next four to eight years of my life. I check the clock. Three hours until the polls close.
Before we hang up, they wish me luck tonight. “Que todo vaya bien,” Gloria says.
I no longer know what “everything going well” means. It used to be simple. It used to be my father winning. But that was when I thought we wanted the same things.
forty-four
The Biltmore Hotel is one of the most beautiful places in all of Miami. It’s in the heart of Coral Gables, a city surrounded by lush green foliage. It overlooks a golf course on one end and faces a field dotted with palm trees on the other. The building resembles a sprawling, yellow Mediterranean villa, like something you’d see in a 1920s movie. A few blocks from the hotel is the little church where my parents—and, honestly, almost all the Cuban parents I know—got married. My father likes to remind me of this every time we turn through the traffic circle heading its way.
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