by Gordon Jack
“Maybe the materials are hard to come by,” his mom said. “Like kryptonite. If everyone carried a chunk of kryptonite in their pocket, then Superman would be powerless.”
“Every superhero needs a weakness to be interesting.”
Brian heard his phone buzz from the hallway table. His parents held his phone hostage there at night so he wouldn’t stay up late texting. They had no idea his computer came with fifteen different messaging apps, including FaceTime, which he used to talk with Julia.
“That thing has been vibrating since you went into the shower,” his mom said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Brian said, running to retrieve the device. He picked it up and scrolled through the texts. They were all from Stacey in full freak-out mode.
This is everywhere!!!!!!!! her first text said, only with a lot more exclamation points. When Brian clicked on the link, he was taken to a blog called Life at Lincoln by Lance Haber. “Campaign Poster Vandalized with Racial Slur,” the headline read. Brian’s first thought was that someone had graffitied over one of Stacey’s banners, but when he scrolled down, he saw it was Julia’s sign that had been defaced. She had hung a tiny 2’ x 2’ poster on the library window with the words “Julia for Student Body President” written in big, bold, rainbow-colored letters. Underneath this generic message, someone had Sharpied “Build That Wall!” Brian scrolled down and read the “web exclusive.”
“CAMPAIGN POSTER VANDALIZED WITH RACIAL SLUR”
by Lance Haber
Last night, someone vandalized the campaign poster of Julia Romero with an anti-immigrant rallying cry.
Romero, a recent transfer student from Canada, is running for student body president against Stacey Wynn. Wynn’s campaign banners, hung throughout the school, were untouched, which leads many to believe this was a hate crime.
“I know this kind of racist speech doesn’t represent the majority of students at Lincoln,” Romero said in response to the incident.
The administration has removed the poster but has not commented on their investigation.
“Everyone needs to take a stand against this kind bigoted, intolerant attitude,” Lauren Andrews said. “I’ve already started an Instagram hashtag #WeWelcomeYouJulia, which I hope everyone uses to express our support for Julia and her campaign.”
Brian clicked over to Instagram and scrolled through the hundreds of messages that students had posted in support of Julia. “I know we don’t really know each other,” Tanisha Baker wrote, in a typical reply. “But if you want to talk, I’m here for you. This is NOT who we are.”
Brian wanted to join the chorus of supporters with his own “I love you, Julia,” but he didn’t know if this would be misinterpreted by Julia. He knew it would be misinterpreted by Stacey, so instead, he clicked back to Stacey and expressed his shock and disbelief. Holy shit, he wrote. His phone rang a few seconds later.
“Are you seeing this?” Stacey said.
“I can’t believe it. It’s like . . . Wow.”
“I’m so dead.”
“You didn’t . . .”
“What? No! How can you even . . . ? Brian, you know I would never. . . .”
“I know,” Brian said. “When you said ‘I’m so dead,’ I thought . . .”
“I meant politically. People are either going to assume I did it or one of my supporters did it. Either way, I’m labeled as a racist unless I petition the pope to make Julia a saint. Did you see how many friends she has? In one hour, she increased her followers by seven hundred and sixty-three people on Instagram alone!”
“People feel sorry for her. That doesn’t mean they’ll vote for her.”
“Of course they will! No one wants to be seen as a racist. If she locks in the Latino vote, we’re through. That’s forty percent of our student body right there.”
“Who would do something like this?” Brian asked.
“Exactly! We don’t have racists at Lincoln. Not overt ones anyway.”
“There was that article in the paper last month about the racial disparity in suspensions.”
“I’m not saying there’s no institutional racism. But students don’t fuck with each other like this.” Stacey paused and then said in a whisper, “You know what I can’t figure out?”
Brian waited for Stacey to continue, but she seemed to be weighing her words carefully. Either that or practicing her newly discovered telepathy skills. “What?” he finally said.
“The timing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. We left campus around ten o’clock, right? Julia’s poster wasn’t up then. So, that means she must have hung it between ten last night and six this morning.”
Brian wanted to correct her to account for the time he was talking to Julia on the phone last night, but he kept his mouth shut.
“You still there?” Stacey asked.
“Still here.”
“’Cause here’s where things get confusing: Julia hangs her poster in the middle of the night. Then our racist tagger comes on campus. This person assumes Julia’s from Mexico and writes that horrible thing on her poster. Then he or she or someone else takes a photo of the poster and sends it to Lance, so he can write his web exclusive before seven o’clock this morning.”
“Maybe it was all Lance,” Brian offered. “That guy’s pretty shady. Didn’t he send you a dick pic last year?”
“It was a promposal,” Stacey said. “With the words ‘Let’s have bun at prom’ written on his butt.”
“Right,” Brian said. “It got him suspended for a week.”
“I don’t think it was him,” Stacey said. “He’s an idiot. He’s not smart enough to know that defacing Julia’s poster would be the best way to get the sympathy vote. You know who is smart enough to know that?”
Brian didn’t like where Stacey was going with this.
“Julia,” she said.
Boom. There it was. “No,” he said. “She wouldn’t do something so . . .”
“Evil? Sure she would. Think about it, with one crappy poster, a student who’s been at school less than a month is now the front-runner for the highest position in student government. I’ll bet you anything that bike we saw last night was Julia’s. She probably came to school with her poster, saw my banners hanging everywhere, and defaced her own campaign ad. Then she came to school early to take a photo and send it to Lance so he could write his web exclusive and send it to everyone.”
Brian didn’t want to believe it, but Stacey’s explanation made sense. Had they been outplayed by a political genius? Was last night’s phone call just an alibi Julia needed to cover up her crime? Why did this not extinguish his desire for Stacey’s political rival? He felt his traitorous boner rise in salute to this Machiavellian fiend.
“What’s going on?” a voice from behind him said. It was Kyle, just waking up and still in his boxers. The guy didn’t have an ounce of body fat on him, which was number seven on Brian’s list of annoying things about his little brother. All that skateboarding must burn every calorie he consumed in the school cafeteria every day.
“Nothing,” Brian said, stepping away.
“Is that Kyle?” Stacey asked.
“Yes, unfortunately,” Brian said. “Listen, you may have lost the Latino vote, but there are still lots of other groups on campus to win over. Now that this thing’s all over the web, you need to build up your presence on social media.”
“You talking to your girlfriend?” Kyle asked, sneaking up behind Brian and pinching him on a love handle.
“Fuck off,” Brian said.
“Brian!” his mom said.
“Tell him to leave me alone, Mom. I’m on an important call.”
“Kyle, come over here and eat something.”
“Not hungry,” Kyle said, stepping over to the hallway table and picking up his phone. He scrolled through his feed for a few seconds before saying, “Holy shit. Stacey’s so fucked.”
“That’s it,” his mom said, standing up and go
ing over to the cabinet above the sink. She pulled down an empty spaghetti sauce jar and slammed it on the counter. “The swear jar’s coming out again. Both of you owe me a dollar.”
“Your house sounds insane,” Stacey said.
Brian pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and withdrew a dollar. “I gotta get out of here,” he said, dropping the bill into the jar.
“What does Stacey have against immigrants, Brian?” Kyle asked. “The students at Lincoln want to know.”
“Bye, Mom,” Brian said, grabbing his keys and heading toward the door.
“Bye, honey,” his mom said. She looked pained to be refereeing a fight so early in the morning.
“Hate’s not welcome here, Brian,” Kyle yelled from behind. “Tell your girlfriend that Lincoln needs a uniter, not a divider.”
“Fuck off, Kyle,” Brian said, slamming the front door. He’d put a dollar in the jar when he got home later.
11
AFTER PURCHASING HIS blueberry muffin and flavorless milk, Tony entered the cafeteria and scanned the crowds for Mohawk. It was the usual brunch-time crowd—freshmen boys yelling at one another while staring at their screens. What attracted these munchkins to this place? Tony wondered. It couldn’t be the food. Even stoned, Tony knew it was prison bad. It couldn’t be the atmosphere. The place was as comfortable as one of those cavernous hotel ballrooms Tony had visited with his parents, only without the carpet, cushioned chairs, or air-conditioning. The general odor of the place was a mixture of dried sweat, stale farts, and cooking oil. So why did he come here every day? Why hadn’t he moved on like most of the guys he used to hang out with his freshman year?
Tony didn’t have an answer to that question, except to say he was a creature of habit. The more he followed a regular routine, the less he had to think. And he didn’t like to think, so this worked for him. He began every day by smoking a bowl or two, then he ate a big bowl of Lucky Charms, then he masturbated in the shower, then he drove to school, slept through periods one and two, and then came to the cafeteria for brunch.
Now that he thought about it, he was a bit like a robot, following a schedule that had been programmed into him by some invisible software engineer. If his parents were around more, he’d probably follow their directions to eat healthy, do his homework, and exercise, but they weren’t, so some other force had written his code. Now Mohawk had hacked into his mainframe and was making him do different things like run for president. He tried to fight the munchkin, but it was easier to let Mohawk move him in the direction he wanted.
Tony didn’t see the freshman’s spikey blue hair anywhere, so he shuffled over to his table, the one the other munchkins left empty for him. It might as well have a sign on it saying Reserved for Hulking Asian. He sat down and kicked his feet up on a chair and dug into his muffin.
Where was Mohawk? They had only hung out a couple times, but he already missed his company. The little guy was so sure of everything, including Tony. He’d never met anyone who was so confident in who Tony could become. Tony’s guidance counselor certainly didn’t have that kind of positive outlook. At their last meeting, his counselor actually asked Tony if he’d be interested in a career as an Uber driver.
Tony saw Mohawk enter the cafeteria and felt a rush of relief flood his body. He needed this little guy, almost as much as he needed Space Cow’s chocolate milk. Mohawk saw something in Tony that others didn’t. He made Tony think that his problems weren’t his own—they weren’t even problems. Tony didn’t have to conform to his parents’ or school’s expectations to be successful; he could be successful as he was. To hear Mohawk tell it, the fact that he was a lazy, stupid stoner was the best thing he had going for him.
“Wassup, my man,” Mohawk said, holding up his palm for Tony to high-five. He was in an unusually chipper mood this morning, judging from the smile on his face. Even his Mohawk seemed to stand straighter than usual.
Tony slapped the munchkin’s hand and kicked out a plastic chair for him to sit on.
“You hear what happened to Julia’s poster?” Mohawk said, sitting down and ripping open the wrapping to his strawberry Pop-Tart.
Tony nodded. “My English teacher stopped her lesson on The Scarlet Letter this morning to discuss the president’s role in creating such a hostile environment for immigrants. People are ready to wreak Puritan vengeance on whoever did this.”
Mohawk was smiling, which was not the expression most people wore when discussing a hate crime.
“Why are you in such a good mood?” Tony asked.
“No reason,” Mohawk said, and then burst into a fit of stifled laughter.
“Seriously, bruh. Explain yourself.”
Mohawk leaned in and whispered something Tony didn’t catch. It sounded like he said he wrote that shit on Julia’s poster. “I can’t hear you,” Tony said.
“I wrote that shit on Julia’s poster,” Mohawk said again.
It took a moment for the words to register, despite the repetition. “What the fuck, man,” Tony finally said. His first instinct was to punch Mohawk in the face, but it was still early, and slamming his fist into another person would take more energy than he had right now.
“I did it for you, Tony,” Mohawk whispered. “For the campaign.”
“I should turn you in right now,” Tony said.
Mohawk’s smile vanished, replaced by something closer to a snarl. “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said. “What do you think people are going to think when they hear your campaign adviser wrote a racist slur on the competition’s poster?”
“You’re not my campaign adviser,” Tony said.
“Sure I am. This is the second time we’ve met in front of all these witnesses.” Mohawk pointed to all the other munchkins crammed into circular tables around them. “You tell anyone, and who do you think they’re going to blame? The six-foot-two junior or the five-foot-three freshman? Who looks more in control here?”
“Dude, you’re, like, evil. Racist and fucking evil.”
“I’m not evil. I’m strategic. Listen, you think I give a fuck where Julia Romero’s from? I don’t. But, just so you know, she’s from Canada, not Mexico. I’m not even sure she’s Latina. I only wrote that thing because I knew it would make everyone at school rush to her defense. I did it to help her.”
“I don’t understand,” Tony said.
“The only way to break Stacey Wynn’s lock on the presidency is to draw votes away from her. Last night, I followed my brother out and watched him and Stacey blanket the campus with her stupid banners. I was just about to tear them all down when I saw Julia show up and hang her pathetic campaign ad. That’s when I realized the best way to bring Stacey down wasn’t to silence her but to amplify her opponent, which I did by defacing Julia’s poster. Now everyone loves Julia, which will force Stacey to focus all her attention on bringing her down. While the two girls fight each other, you’ll sneak up with your healing message of chocolate milk and win the election.”
“I don’t know. It still sounds evil.”
“You have to trust me on this. Everyone was ready to hand Stacey the presidency on a silver platter for all the ‘work’ she’s done for the school. Do you know what that would mean for us? Every leadership position at the school would be held by a girl. Every one! Every class president is a girl. Most club presidents are girls. The newspaper and yearbook editors are both girls. The class valedictorian for the past five years? All girls. Our principal is a girl. Guys are becoming obsolete. We’re retreating into the cafeteria with our devices and letting women take over the world. It has to stop! We’re the only ones who can make that happen!”
Tony backed his chair away from Mohawk, who looked like he was about to grab a plastic fork and take hostages. “Dude, you need to chill,” he said.
Mohawk closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. Tony watched him slip into a coma. When he emerged, he was calmer, but his left leg bounced with energy.
“Sorry,” he said. “I can get
a little worked up about this stuff.”
“’S cool,” Tony said, passing the little dude his unopened carton of milk. “You need something to drink?”
“I do, but not that,” he said. Mohawk reached into his backpack and took out a pint-size carton of chocolate milk. Space Cow’s smiling face immediately brightened the mood at the table. That’s the effect the mascot had on people.
“Aw, man, thanks!” Tony said, reaching for the carton and hugging it to his chest.
Mohawk then pulled out a bottle of chocolate syrup from his bag. With an acrobatic leap onto his chair, he raised the syrup high above his head and addressed the crowd. “Anyone here want their chocolate milk back?”
A few tentative cheers erupted from the tables nearby.
“The administration has taken away the one delicious thing this cafeteria has on its menu,” Mohawk continued. “Tony Guo says enough! He wants you to have your chocolate milk and drink it too. If you agree, come over here, get some chocolate, and raise your cartons to the end of tyranny!”
The applause that erupted in the cavernous hall was deafening. Groups of boys rushed to Tony’s table, holding their white milk cartons open for a squirt of Hershey’s syrup like they were starving orphans. Tony heard the opening words of the US Constitution ring in his ears—“Give us your poor and your needy”—and forgot all about the horrible thing Mohawk had done. All he saw was a long line of munchkins, waiting for him to squirt chocolate syrup into their cartons.
12
SO, THE STORIES she’d heard about America were true. Julia couldn’t believe it. For weeks, she’d let these daily displays of multiculturalism brainwash her into thinking that everyone got along like characters on a TV sitcom. But it turned out one of the characters on We’re All in This Together was a white supremacist. Was it Veronica, the cute barista with the trendy bob? Or Jake, the lovably nerdy astrophysicist? Tune in next week to find out!
She thought she’d avoided all the ignorant, racist fucks by coming to mellow, tolerant California, but it turned out these assholes were everywhere, even hidden behind palm trees and iPhone billboards. This “melting pot” was just a boiling cauldron of hate that condensed anyone trapped inside into a gooey paste, without texture or flavor. Why was she so desperate to stay in this country again? Oh, that’s right. Because back home, she was the bully everyone hated.
