Your Own Worst Enemy

by Gordon Jack

  On her way to the front, she passed two brown girls happily chatting near the entrance to the library. The girls were clearly California natives with their tank tops and short shorts. Julia wished she could pull off such a springtime casual look, but her body was too curvy and round. Both these girls had such skinny athletic figures, their clothes draped on them and looked almost elegant. The casual glamour seemed at odds with the field hockey equipment scattered on the ground in front of them.

  Julia again found herself smiling. To be in the presence of so many brown faces! It was a reward, not a punishment, for her crime. She supposed she should feel guilty about that, but she was too happy to let those complicated feelings bother her. Besides, hadn’t she been the one who suffered for sixteen years being the only brown girl in a sea of white faces? Of course she was going to lash out eventually at the people who treated her as “the Other” for so long.

  One of the girls—the one with the long, silky black hair—smiled back as she passed. “Are you Julia?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Julia said.

  “I’m Jenny,” the girl said, extending a hand to shake. “You’re running for student body president?”

  “I am,” Julia said. “How did you know?”

  “I’m the ASB secretary,” she said. “This is Rosa.”

  Rosa held up her hand in a shy wave. Her face was a bit harder than Jenny’s, outlined in heavy eyeliner and lipstick.

  “Nice to meet you,” Julia said.

  “I was so psyched to see your name on the nomination board,” Jenny said. “I’m, like, the only Latina in that class. It’s hella awkward.”

  “Oh, I don’t know—” Julia started.

  “Odalis is in the ASB,” Rosa said.

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “Girl, she don’t count. She only hangs with the cheer squad.”

  “You can’t say she doesn’t count. Her family’s Nicaraguan.”

  Jenny held up a hand to quiet her friend. “I love your accent,” she said to Julia. “Where you from?”

  “Canada.”

  “There many Latinos in Canada?” Rosa asked.

  “Some.”

  “So, you’re, like, trilingual?” Jenny said.

  “Actually, I never learned Spanish,” Julia confessed.

  “Me neither!” Rosa said. “My parents worried it would hold me back.”

  “What?” Julia said. “That makes no sense.”

  “I know, right? Meanwhile, my white neighbor is fluent because his parents put him in a Spanish immersion school. He can talk to my abuela better than I can.”

  Julia’s phone buzzed again. Gloria must be getting impatient. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,” she said. “My aunt’s waiting for me.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Jenny said. “Glad you’re putting yourself out there. You got my vote.”

  “Mine too,” Rosa said.

  Julia thanked the girls and rushed to meet her ride. What had she gotten herself into? If her legs hadn’t been moving, they might have buckled under the surge of anxiety flooding her system. What had seemed like an ingenious way to gain her freedom had just put her in a new cage.

  Julia scanned the convoy of minivans lined up at the curb, looking for her aunt’s car. When she spotted it, she was surprised to see Lance leaning into the passenger window. What the hell was he doing talking to her aunt? She never agreed to being profiled on his blog. Was he trying to dig into her background? What would Aunt Gloria reveal? Surely, she’d want to keep Julia’s secrets safe from this tabloid reporter. Or maybe she’d tell him everything and then use his article as an excuse to ship her back to Canada. Neither Lance’s nor Gloria’s motivations were clear to her. She only knew she had to stop this conversation right now.

  Julia picked up her pace, speed walking to the minivan. As she approached, she was treated to a view of Lance’s underwear poking above his hanging jeans. She fought the urge to grab the waistband with both hands and lift the guy into a giant wedgie.

  “Lance, hi,” Julia said, a little breathless.

  “Hi, Julia,” he said, turning around and opening her door for her like a valet. “I was just talking with your aunt here about your move.”

  “Really?” Julia said, strapping herself into the passenger seat. “Bonjour!” she said to the twins in the back. She needed to slow her heart rate down, and she hoped following the regular pick-up routine would help. The twins just stared back at her with unblinking eyes and smiled.

  “J’accuse!” one of them said, although Julia was so freaked out she might have imagined it.

  “Yes, dear,” Gloria said, placing a calming hand on Julia’s thigh. “I just told Lance here why you moved to California.”

  “You did?” Julia said. She kept her eyes locked on her aunt, not trusting her ability to hide her panic from Lance.

  “Yes,” Gloria said. “It makes so much sense to establish residency if you want to go to an American university.”

  Julia closed her eyes and exhaled, feeling her panic abate somewhat. Her aunt had covered for her. This was the first time Gloria had done something to indicate that Julia was a welcome guest instead of a fugitive from justice. Had her change of heart come about just because Julia decided to run for student body president? It seemed like such a small thing to swap for her aunt’s trust and support.

  “I knew you were smart,” Lance said. “Out-of-state tuition at UC is killer.”

  “Yes, well, I’m just lucky I have such a generous and loving family,” Julia said to Gloria. “They really . . . How do you say? Have my back.”

  “Now that you’re running for ASB president, I’d love to do that profile we talked about,” Lance said, leaning on the passenger door, giving everyone in the car a sample of his BO. It was like being spritzed by Eau de Gym Locker. “It could really help voters get to know you.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Julia said. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Lance said, stepping back from the car. He waved goodbye to the twins in the back, who growled in response.

  “That boy seems shifty,” Gloria said, pulling away from the curb.

  “I agree,” Julia said.

  “But he could be useful in your campaign.”

  Julia looked into the rearview mirror and saw Lance standing by the school marquee, typing into his phone.

  “So you think I should let him interview me?” Julia asked.

  “I would, but I wouldn’t let him get too close, if you know what I mean.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Gloria,” Julia said. “For not telling him about . . . you know.” Julia glanced back at the twins, who were laughing at something on their iPads.

  “I know I’ve been hard on you,” Gloria said. “But that’s only because I felt you lacked structure.” Gloria leaned over and dropped her voice. “What happened back in Canada only happened because your mother wasn’t looking after you.”

  Julia wanted to object, but she kept her mouth shut. What happened had nothing to do with how much her mom monitored Julia’s behavior. It happened because Julia believed a boy who had every reason to lie.

  “I really want to be a better person,” Julia said.

  “I believe you,” Gloria said. “That’s why I’m so proud about this step you’re taking. You know, I see a bit of myself in you.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “When I was your age, I wanted to be class president too, but then your mom went and got herself arrested, and I became guilty by association. I dropped out of the race, and I’ve always regretted it.”

  “What did Mom do?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She was always protesting something. Back then it was nuclear power, I think. The point is, I gave up on my dreams. I don’t want you making the same mistake.”

  “Part of me thinks it would be better to maintain a low profile,” Julia said.

  “Now, that’s what got you into trouble back home, isn’t it? Living on the internet? Sunlight is the best disinfectant,
Julia. Trust me on this. You put yourself out there, and you’ll be surprised at what can happen.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. And listen, running a campaign is a lot of work, which will require more time at school. It might be a good time to start using that bike of yours so you’re not stuck to my schedule.”

  “Seriously? I would love that.” Julia wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders, making sure she didn’t block her view of the road.

  “Careful,” Gloria said, gripping the steering wheel more forcefully.

  Julia bounced up and down in excitement. It was such a small thing—biking to school—but it would change everything. She would celebrate her newfound freedom by taking Brian to ice cream after class tomorrow. He could pedal while she rode on the handlebars.

  “I need a campaign poster,” Julia said. “Can you help me make one?”

  “I’d love to,” Gloria said. “Right after dinner.”

  Julia opened the passenger-side window and let the warm breeze blow through her hair. She caught a glimpse of herself in the side mirror and smiled at the girl staring back at her. She could do this. It didn’t matter if she lost; the victory would come in Gloria seeing her act responsibly. Afterward, she’d have more freedom, and who knows, maybe a few friends? Like Jenny and Rosa. She would find some way to tell them she wasn’t Latina, at least not in the way they defined the term. They might freak out at first, but eventually, they would come to accept her. She was sure of it.

  8

  TONY STARED AT Mrs. Zhang as she tsked her way through his Mandarin Chinese exam. He had skipped class yesterday because he hadn’t studied, but he didn’t use the extra time to prepare for his makeup. This taught him an important lesson: cutting class on the day of a test doesn’t result in better grades; it just means more time with your teacher after school. He hoped he would remember this the next time a major assignment was due.

  “You failed,” Mrs. Zhang said, reaching across her cluttered desk and handing him his chapter exam. On the top of the page she had scribbled the score 28/50. That didn’t seem like failing to Tony. He was actually impressed he got more than half the questions right.

  “Dang,” Tony said, trying to sound as disappointed in himself as Mrs. Zhang. She stared at him through large, round glasses, blinking a Morse code of admonishments.

  “You should not be failing my class, Tony,” she said. “Both your parents are Chinese.”

  “That’s kinda racist, Mrs. Zhang.”

  “You can’t be racist against your own race,” she said dismissively.

  “Sure you can. No one expects English speakers to cruise through English. Why should I be expected to pass Mandarin just ’cause my parents are Chinese?”

  Tony felt like he had been fighting the model-minority stereotype his whole life. Everyone assumed he was smart and hardworking just because he was Asian and lived in a mansion in the hills. But his parents weren’t smart or hardworking either. As far as Tony knew, his dad had inherited all his wealth from his father, who owned a real-estate empire in Fuzhou. Mr. Guo made occasional trips back for board meetings, but other than that, his dad and mom spent most of their time traveling the globe, winning and losing their fortune in casinos on every continent.

  “What language do you speak at home?” Mrs. Zhang asked.

  “Romanian.”

  “What?”

  “The people who take care of our house—they’re from Moldova, I think.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  Tony had to be careful here. His dad left him strict instructions on what to tell the school if they ever asked about their whereabouts. “My dad’s in China on business,” he said.

  “What about your mom?”

  “I’d prefer not to talk about that,” Tony said, casting his eyes downward.

  Just as his father had predicted, that shut Mrs. Zhang up quickly. She shuffled some papers on her desk, trying to think of a way to depersonalize this conversation. “Well,” she said. “I can help find you a tutor if you want.”

  “That’s cool,” Tony said, stuffing his failed test into his backpack and heading toward the door. “I promise to try harder next time.”

  The campus was empty as Tony made his way to the parking lot. He didn’t like how quiet everything was. It reminded him of a recurring nightmare, where he was the only one to survive a nuclear holocaust. In his dream, the sky is an ashy gray, and there’s a breeze that blows crumpled-up pieces of paper across the quad like tumbleweeds. Tony lumbers through the hallways, checking doors and finding them all locked. There’s no one on campus. Just him. The worst part of the dream is that on that day, Tony has finally done all his homework.

  Today wasn’t like that exactly. First off, he hadn’t done any of his homework. Second, it was a beautiful spring day, pleasant even at four p.m. Tony stepped out from under the awning that shaded the exterior hallway and let the afternoon sun warm his face.

  The student parking lot was mostly empty. Off in the distance he saw some kid skateboarding dangerously close to Tony’s shimmering Mercedes. As he got closer, he recognized the munchkin with the blue Mohawk he talked to yesterday in the cafeteria. The kid saw him approach and rolled over to greet him.

  “What’s up?” Mohawk said.

  “Nothin’,” Tony said. “What are you doing near my car?”

  “Waiting for you. Sweet ride.” Mohawk motioned toward the Mercedes.

  “It’s my dad’s,” Tony said. “I drive it when he’s away.”

  “Have you thought any more about my idea?” Mohawk asked, doing an ollie. Tony was impressed he could execute the move and maintain eye contact.

  “What idea?”

  “About you running for student body president.”

  “Dude, I thought you were kidding.”

  “I wasn’t. If you really want to see chocolate milk back in the cafeteria, it’s the only way to go.”

  “But I don’t want to be president.”

  “You wouldn’t get elected,” Mohawk said. “You’d just run for office.”

  “I don’t get it. Why run if I don’t want to get elected?”

  Mohawk took a deep breath, which is just what Tony’s dad did when he explained things he thought should be obvious. Like why it’s important to walk the dog or brush your teeth at night. Tony didn’t like being treated this way by a skate rat. He was about to tell him off but then realized it would take too much effort.

  “You run to bring chocolate milk back to the cafeteria,” Mohawk said. “Your campaign is, like, your megaphone. It allows your voice to be heard. It lets you speak truth to power.”

  “So, I say I’m running for president, but really, I’m just telling everyone about the chocolate milk crisis.”

  “Exactly. Think about it. While the other candidates are boring everyone with their speeches about their experience and lame ideas, you’ll focus solely on the injustice of depriving students of this delicious, nutritious beverage. People will love you.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because you’re different. You’re not like all the other politicians talking about spirit rallies and food drives. You’re Tony Guo, a hilarious dude people can relate to.”

  “What if I win?”

  “Then you win. What’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t want to, you know, do any work or anything.”

  “So you delegate. There’s a whole class of overachievers you can make work for you.”

  Tony liked that idea. He was starting to worry that everyone at Lincoln was passing him by. He didn’t know how he had become a piece of deadweight that needed to be tossed overboard. He suspected his failure at school had something to do with the amount of pot he smoked, but he didn’t want to reflect too deeply on his favorite pastime lest he be forced to give it up. The promise Mohawk seemed to be making was that Tony’s pot smoking could actually help him get elected. Somehow, Mohawk saw it as an asset the other candidates lacked.
Maybe Tony could be, like, a role model for other Asians who failed their Mandarin Chinese exams. Tony Guo: Winning by Subverting the Stereotype! The campaign slogan appeared in his head like a soap bubble, then popped and quickly evaporated.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” Tony said. “Where do I sign up?”

  “I already took the liberty of nominating you,” Mohawk said, skating out of Tony’s reach.

  Tony shook his head. “You what?”

  “I knew how much chocolate milk meant to you, and I was near the ASB classroom so . . .”

  “Dude. Not cool.”

  “It’s no big deal. If you said no, I would have taken your name off the list.” Mohawk jumped off his skateboard and kicked it vertical. He walked cautiously back to where Tony was standing.

  “Who else is running?” Tony asked.

  “Two girls. Stacey Wynn and Julia Romero.”

  “Don’t know either one of them.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll crush them.”

  “And you’ll do all the work?”

  “I got this covered, bruh,” Mohawk said, extending a hand for Tony to shake. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Campaign Ads

  9

  ANY DOUBT THAT Stacey had about Brian’s loyalty was erased after he came over to her house and helped her paint her campaign banners. Stacey wanted to make twenty, but he wisely counseled her against oversaturating the market. “Too many posters, and you look desperate,” he said. “You want to show you’re in it to win it, but you don’t want people to get sick of you.” They decided ten banners would be enough to communicate this message, and they worked until Brian’s mom called him home to dinner.