by Gordon Jack
“Can I help you?” Stacey asked after James showed no evidence of leaving.
James pulled out a MacBook Air from his leather messenger bag and opened Google docs. “I was thinking we should start talking about next year.”
“A little premature, don’t you think?” Stacey closed her computer so James wouldn’t see the draft of her acceptance speech on the screen.
“Look at the board,” he said, nodding in the direction of the whiteboard near the entrance. It was covered with a tally of names of kids running for the different student government positions at school. The class officers were written on the left, and the associated student body officers were on the right. Every position had two or three names listed under it. The only people running unopposed were Stacey and James.
“There’s still one day left in the nomination process,” Stacey said. “I wouldn’t get too cocky.”
“C’mon, Stace,” James said. That was another thing she disliked about James—his propensity to shorten people’s names. “Stacey” became “Stace.” “Jenny” became “Jen,” “Brandon” became just “B.” It was overly familiar. Like when people touched Stacey’s arm to feel her biceps. “Who’s going to run against us?”
James was right. After Stacey’s and James’s three years in student government, no one dared question their right to these top positions. Stacey had moved up the ranks in the ASB, first as secretary, then treasurer, and finally vice president. James had served consecutive terms as class president his sophomore and junior years. The only reason he didn’t want to run for a third term was because senior class president was in charge of all high school reunions—for as long as people lived! “That is not a responsibility I care to have,” he’d confided in Stacey when he announced his candidacy for vice president. “When I graduate, I never want to see any of these people again.” As the openly gay African American student at Lincoln, James had a complicated relationship with his constituency.
“What do you want to talk about?” Stacey asked.
“I want our brunch activities to be more inclusive next year,” James said, running his long, slender fingers along the desk as if it were a grand piano.
Stacey wondered what was “exclusive” about stuffing someone in an inflatable ball and rolling them across the quad, but she kept her mouth shut. The last thing she wanted James to accuse her of was being heteronormative—a charge he made a little too frequently in her opinion. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Have you noticed that the only people who participate in these brunch activities are white?”
“That’s because they’re all friends and families of ASB officers,” Stacey said. “Look around—we’re pretty white.”
“The activities are pretty white too,” James said.
“What’s so white about bubble bowling?”
“Black people will not let anyone roll them across campus in an inflatable ball.”
“You’re speaking for all black people?”
“I am.”
“What do you propose, then?”
“I thought we could invite the cultural clubs to perform. Maybe have dancing competitions and Drop the Mic rap battles. Or karaoke.”
“Sure, we could do that,” Stacey said, trying to keep James from hearing the voice in her head screaming, No way I’m spending my senior year listening to Ariana wannabes choke out her greatest hits. “I was thinking we’d take the ASB in a more serious direction.”
“How so?” James asked, sitting up straight. Stacey wondered if he was trying to make himself look as large as possible, the way you do when you stumble across a mountain lion on a nature hike.
“I want to make Lincoln a zero-waste school,” Stacey said.
“Seriously, Stace?” James ran a hand over his buzz cut. “People don’t care about composting.”
“They will!” Stacey said. “Imagine if we found a way to work an environmental message into every school activity? We could have dramatic reenactments at rallies. Picture some football player getting reeducated by a squadron of cheerleaders after he carelessly drops his water bottle on the gymnasium floor. Doesn’t that sound great?”
“It sounds like Communist China. You actually used the term ‘reeducate’ in your description of it.”
“No, it would be funny. Although, I’m not opposed to there being stiffer penalties for students who ignore the clearly marked bins.”
“Yes!” James said, suddenly becoming enthusiastic. “We could send all the dissidents to camps where they would rotate the soil in the compost bins for our community garden!”
“Exactly!” Stacey said. “Wait, were you being sarcastic? Because I actually think that’s a good idea.”
“Yes, I was being sarcastic, Chairman Mao.”
Ugh. If only she could pick her running mate, she wouldn’t have to put up with James’s abuse. Who was it that thought it was a good idea to separate the vice president position from its conjoined twin anyway?
“I want to leave a lasting legacy when I graduate, James. Organizing dance parties and class competitions isn’t going to help me do that.”
“Your legacy will be that you ruined senior year for everyone. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t think that’s true. We can make composting fun. I know we can.”
“You’re hopeless,” James said. The tremor of his eye roll seemed to dislodge his glasses. He made a big production of readjusting the frames before continuing. “I hope someone does run against you, and I hope that person overturns your ban on confetti and balloons.”
“Those things clog our landfills, James,” Stacey said. “While you’re having the party, our planet is experiencing the hangover.”
“Be careful, Stace,” James said, shutting his laptop and putting it into his bag. “As the great James Baldwin once said, ‘No one is more dangerous than he who imagines himself pure in heart; for his purity, by definition, is unassailable.’” He stood up, draped his messenger bag over his shoulder, and walked away.
Stacey watched his retreat and made a mental note to memorize her own set of lofty quotations, preferably from other civil rights leaders, to use against James next year. Why couldn’t he be her gay best friend instead of her gay nemesis? Things would be so much easier if Brian was her vice president next year. Maybe she should convince him to run against James in the election. He was kind of gay. At least she thought he was. You’d think after being friends for three years she would know for sure. If he wasn’t gay, he was definitely the B or Q in “LGBTQ.”
She opened her laptop and texted him. After waiting five minutes and still getting no response, she started to worry. Normally, Brian answered her texts immediately with some emoji indicating his enthusiasm to help her in whatever she needed. What could be so important that he left her hanging like this?
2
BRIAN LITTLE HAD a boner he couldn’t get rid of. He tried focusing on his biology teacher’s explanation of the evolutionary relationship of carnivora depicted on his phylogenetic tree, but every path led him back to contemplating Julia’s breasts. They were perfectly rounded and symmetrical, firm yet pliable (or so Brian imagined, or rather, was trying hard not to imagine). If you placed Julia’s breasts on any phylogenetic tree, they would be a unique species, something that didn’t exist in the family of teenage girls. How such a thing came to be was a mystery Brian could only half explain through evolutionary thinking. He knew breasts were needed to attract mates and suckle the young, but something as beautiful as Julia’s breasts could only come from some intelligent design, and for this he thanked the gods.
Julia must have sensed Brian’s struggle because she glanced sideways and smiled, which only made things worse. Brian quickly averted his gaze away from Julia’s chest and onto Mr. Cohen’s pasty face and scrubby mustache. “In considering possible phylogenies for a species, we need to compare the molecular data for the species,” he said in a voice that seemed designed to quell any curiosity or
interest, sexual or otherwise, in the listener.
Brian nearly had his boner under control when the phone in his front pocket vibrated. “Damn it, Stacey,” he muttered, squirming to separate the buzzing machine from his genitalia. He didn’t need to look at the screen to see who was texting him. Only Stacey had the means, motive, and opportunity to contact him during sixth period. Student government was a class run by students, unlike AP bio. If Mr. Cohen caught Brian texting while he was lecturing, he’d confiscate Brian’s phone for a week. If only he had a MacBook Pro like Julia, then he could text Stacey on his laptop and look like he was taking notes.
Brian glanced sideways and saw Julia’s messaging screen open. She was an impressive multitasker, taking notes on Cohen’s lecture while simultaneously carrying on a conversation in French. The girl was amazing. Brian couldn’t believe his luck when she appeared in his AP bio class a few weeks ago as if emerging out of a clamshell to announce the birth of love and beauty. Everyone, this is Julia Romero, Mr. Cohen had said in his typical monotone. She’s from Canada and will be joining us for the remainder of the term. Even his dull recitation of facts couldn’t refrigerate Brian’s interest in the newcomer. Besides her breasts, Julia had magnificent hair—long and curly and the color of dark amber. Her light brown skin made Brian think she was Latina, but she could also be Filipina or maybe biracial. Her indeterminate cultural identity was part of what made her so fascinating. You couldn’t place her in any census bureau racial identity box; she was Other—a beautiful, mysterious Other.
Stop race fetishizing, Stacey’s voice reminded him. Her incoming texts felt like mini–electric shocks to condition his thinking and behavior toward a more enlightened view of women. Brian consciously shifted his thinking away from Julia’s body and toward her mind. Julia had an amazing mind, from what he could tell. She got perfect scores on all her work and always knew the correct answer when called upon. Whereas some might describe her as haughty and aloof, Brian saw a shyness that spoke of humility and introversion. She didn’t suck up to anyone, nor did she let others suck up to her. She was a strong, independent young woman whose thoughts and feelings were complex and interesting.
Why didn’t this excite his body as much as the smell of her shampoo?
Brian’s phone buzzed again, causing him to audibly groan.
“You’re showing incredible restraint,” Julia whispered.
“It’s just Stacey,” he said, feeling the need to focus the conversation away from his vibrating pants. “I’m sort of her campaign adviser.”
“Campaign adviser?”
“Yeah, you know. For the student government elections? They’re happening in two weeks.”
“What do you do as her campaign adviser?” Julia whispered.
Brian looked up at Cohen to make sure their conversation wasn’t interrupting his flow, and saw their teacher drawing a complicated diagram on the board, his sweaty back to the class. “Nothing really,” Brian said. “No one’s running against her.”
“Why not?”
“I think she intimidates them,” Brian said. “She’s never lost an election. She’s been in the ASB since our freshman year.”
“ASB?”
“Associated Student Body. It’s the student government class.”
“You must be a good campaign adviser,” Julia said.
“Gracias,” Brian said. God, he was such a tool! Why was his mouth saying things without consulting him?
Brian had never had a good relationship with his body. For years, it seemed to be under the impression that Brian was living in the Alaskan tundra and stored as much fat as possible to protect itself for the scarcity of winter. Brian ate well and exercised, but he couldn’t shed the rolls of flesh that made his body look like a sugar cone overflowing with soft-serve ice cream. When he finally lost the weight, it wasn’t because of any growth spurt or strong mental discipline; it was his body deciding to poison him by rupturing his appendix at the National Scout jamboree. This hospitalized him for a month. When he emerged from his adjustable bed–cocoon, he was thinner, weaker, and terrified of what his body would do next.
That’s when the spontaneous boners started.
Brian had experienced boners before, but now he couldn’t make them stop. At least he knew their cause: Julia. This both horrified and delighted him. Before her, there was no reliable trigger. He could be sitting on the couch, watching TV with his mom, and it would happen. He could be wrestling with the dog, and it would happen. One time it happened in the produce aisle of the supermarket. This left Brian very confused sexually. If this was the barometer by which you gauge your sexual attraction, he seemed to be attracted to everything. Now that his body was responding to Julia, he felt a little surer that he was on the hetero side of the spectrum but the jury might still be out on this. His body could fuck with him again at any time and send him spinning off in a whole other direction.
The bell rang, and everyone stood up to leave. Everyone except Brian. He didn’t feel quite ready to stand, so he made a big production about copying down the weblike diagram Cohen had so painstakingly drawn on the board. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Julia lingering. Brian made eye contact with her belly button, peeking out from under her T-shirt. It was going to be a while before he could stand again.
“Is it really hard?” Julia asked.
“Excuse me?” Brian looked up in horror.
“To get elected. Can anyone run?”
“Oh, sure.” He took a breath. “You just have to submit your name to the ASB adviser.”
“Who’s that?”
“Mr. Nichols. He’s in room 401.”
“And you say no one is running against Stacey?”
Brian shook his head. This was the longest conversation he had had with Julia, and he didn’t want it to stop. “Why? You interested?”
“Maybe,” Julia said, smiling. “But I don’t have a campaign adviser.” She touched Brian’s arm, and shot his whole body through with electricity. Brian clamped his mouth shut so he wouldn’t say something stupid or start drooling.
“Miss Romero, can I see you a moment?” Mr. Cohen called from his desk at the front of the room.
Julia rolled her eyes, a secret communication that Brian rejoiced in. She was unhappy to leave him! If it weren’t for their stupid biology teacher, she might offer to continue their talk in the quad, or over coffee, or in some smoky nightclub they’d have to sneak into.
Brian’s phone buzzed again.
Need your help on acceptance speech, Stacey wrote.
Brian’s penis wilted like a dehydrated flower. Sure, he wrote. Where are you?
Right outside your door, she wrote.
Brian sighed and gathered his things, stole one last look at Julia, and then went outside to meet his best friend.
3
JULIA APPROACHED MR. Cohen’s desk and tried to hide her annoyance at being pulled away from Brian. After weeks of sitting next to him in class, she had finally managed a conversation that wasn’t textbook related and allowed her to smile and flirt and be a little physical. Julia was attracted to her seatmate, which was strange because Brian definitely wasn’t her type. He was shy, awkward, and a little scrawny. So unlike the guys she dated at her old school, who usually started punching each other after a few beers. The fact that she liked him made her think this move to California had really changed her. She wouldn’t describe herself as a butterfly emerging from a cocoon; more like a prickly cactus that was starting to flower.
“Miss Romero,” Mr. Cohen said once she was standing in front of his desk. “I just wanted to tell you how happy I am that you’re in my class.”
“Thanks,” Julia said. “I’m happy too.”
“I’ve been trying to encourage more Latinas to take AP courses, but it’s been difficult, as you can see.”
Julia felt a familiar anger rising in her gut. People always made this assumption about her background, given her skin color and last name. Unfortunately, there wasn’t an easy w
ay of correcting them, so more often than not, Julia just stayed quiet.
“My family’s from Argentina,” Cohen clarified, “so I have a personal interest in diversifying our upper-division science courses.”
Julia looked at Mr. Cohen as if he were something squishy under a microscope slide. His pinkish-white skin reminded her of the baby pigs they had dissected a few weeks ago. He didn’t speak with an accent, either, but rather had the same nasal drone of everyone else at this school.
“Anyway,” he went on. “I just wanted to let you know I think you’re doing great, but if you need any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate that.”
Outside the room, Julia tried to process her teacher’s words of encouragement. She supposed she should be grateful, but part of her was pissed. Did he think she needed that pep talk? Was he going easy on her because he thought she was Latina? No, she had earned her high marks on his assignments. She was sure of that. So, why make this connection? To show that he “got” her? He knew nothing about her, except that she was brown and had a Spanish surname. Why not ask her what her ethnicity was before jumping to conclusions based on this scant evidence? Did he not hear her French accent or see all those Arcade Fire stickers on her binder?
She supposed she should be grateful he didn’t ask about her complicated backstory. In Canada, whenever some naive or obnoxious kid wanted to know about her, the conversation was always awkward and ended with Julia feeling pretty shitty.
“So, like, what are you?” the person would ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Where are you from?”
