by Gordon Jack
“Okay, tone it down a notch, girl,” Jenny whispered, “or Baxter will call the front office.” Jenny stood up and walked over to her teacher and spoke privately with him. She returned a few minutes later and said, “I think I bought us five minutes.”
“My mom doesn’t know who my dad is either,” Julia said, getting her sobbing under control. “It’s complicated.” She couldn’t go into her whole backstory in five minutes. She would tell Jenny everything eventually, but she needed to know the most important information first. “I feel like such a fraud. I want so much to be a part of the LSU and to fight for your cause, but I don’t think I’m the best spokesperson.”
“But you’re the spokesperson we got,” Jenny said. “And a damn good one.”
Jenny folded her hands in her lap and tapped her foot against gravel. After a few minutes of silence, she turned toward Julia and grabbed her hands. “You’ve got to be Latina,” she said. “Not to get all mystical and shit, but with you . . . I don’t feel this kind of connection with people outside my race.”
“I feel a connection too,” Julia said.
“That’s good enough for me,” Jenny said. “The fact that you’re choosing to be Latina is better, actually. You know how many people in my family choose to be white? My aunt got her skin bleached last year. How fucked up is that?”
“I need to know for sure though,” Julia said.
“Then do a DNA test,” Jenny said.
“My mom won’t let me. She wants me to choose my own destiny, not let my chromosomes do it for me.”
“But you’re not living with your mom,” Jenny said. “Right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, let’s do it. These online services don’t care about parental permission; they just want your saliva and your money.”
“What do I do while we’re waiting for the results?”
“We follow our instincts. We both know that the test will only confirm what we know in our hearts. You’re Latina, and in two weeks, you’ll be our first Latina ASB president.”
“You sure? It feels a little like cultural appropriation to me.”
“I don’t know what that shit is.”
“It’s when you adopt a cultural practice that’s not your own. Like me putting on a quinceañera dress as part of a protest against racial profiling.”
“Then don’t think about it in that way,” Jenny said. “Just tell yourself you’re supporting your friends in their struggle against oppression. White folk do it all the time, and people thank them.”
“I’m not white,” Julia said. She’d never made such an open declaration before. Living in Canada, it would have been sacrilegious to declare such independence from her mom’s tribe. But here, it felt liberating. She wasn’t white. No matter how much her mom wanted her to forge her own path, independent of her biology, she still lived in a world that created barriers and detours because her skin was brown.
“We’ve got to get to class before Baxter calls security,” Jenny said, standing up.
“Please don’t tell anyone about . . . you know,” Julia said.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Jenny said. “Order the DNA test online today. I don’t need to know the results, but I’m thinking you do.”
The girls hugged and then went to their separate doors. Julia walked in and saw all the white and Asian faces turn to stare at her. Besides the handful of Indian students, she was the only brown face in the room, a fact she took pride in, even while it isolated her.
18
11 DAYS TILL ELECTION DAY
WHEN LUNCH BEGAN, Tony headed out to the student parking lot, hoping inspiration would strike before he reached his car. He usually drove to one of the many fast-food restaurants within the five-mile radius of school, but today, he didn’t know what he was in the mood for. A burrito sounded good, but if he went to Chipotle, he’d have to get out of his car, and he didn’t feel like making the extra effort. The drive-throughs were all burger joints though, and Tony had been eating at them for weeks and had grown tired of their identical menus. Why can’t all restaurants serve you in your car? Tony wondered. Is there something so special about sushi that prevents people from passing it through a drive-through window?
As he reached the outskirts of the parking lot, Tony saw his old friend Doug waiting at the curb and texting.
“Wassup, dog?” Doug said, looking up from his phone and holding his pale palm out for Tony to slap.
Doug and Tony were good friends their freshman year. At least, Tony thought they were. As soon as Doug started playing football and taking honors classes, they sort of drifted apart. For a while, it was like he and Doug were the only guys on a deserted beach. But then the beach filled with tourists until eventually, Tony looked around and couldn’t find his buddy in the crowd anymore.
“Where you goin’ for lunch?” Tony asked, hoping for inspiration. Or a ride. Sitting shotgun in someone else’s car would really solve all his problems. He could just go wherever the driver took him.
“We’re hitting Italian Deli,” Doug said, scanning the area for his ride. Tony noticed Doug had sideburns now. They extended down from the edge of his baseball cap like narrow earflaps.
A Honda Civic peeled around a corner of the lot, nearly running over a girl walking while texting, and pulled up in front of where Tony and Doug were standing.
“I’d invite you to come along, but the car’s kinda full,” Doug said.
Tony looked into the car and saw it crammed with other dudes with baseball caps and sideburns.
“’S cool,” he said.
“Hey, your parents going on another vacation soon?” Doug said, opening the back door.
“They’re gone now,” Tony said. “For a couple more weeks.”
“Dude, have another party,” Doug said. “That last one was epic.”
“Sure,” Tony said. “Next weekend, maybe?”
“Awesome,” Doug said. He took his seat in the car and yelled, “Dudes, party at Tony’s next weekend.”
The guys cheered from inside the vehicle and then drove off, leaving Tony standing at the curb alone.
Tony stood there wishing he hadn’t told Doug about his parents being gone. Last time Doug and his friends came over, they kinda trashed the place. It took the Moldovan cleaning crew all day to repair the burn holes in the carpet. They said someone also vomited in the birdbath.
“Tony!” someone yelled from behind him. Tony turned around and saw Mohawk carrying four boxes of pizza. “Why are you standing out here?”
Tony tried to think, but it was hard to do with the delicious pizza smells distracting him. He was really pretty hungry.
“C’mon, we’re late,” Mohawk said. “Here, you bring these in. It’ll look better for your audience.”
“Audience?” Tony said.
“You don’t remember, do you?” Mohawk said. “We’re having a pizza party in the cafeteria today. I promised the guys you’d deliver.”
Tony did not remember having this conversation with Mohawk, although to be fair, he didn’t remember most of his conversations with the little guy. Things were so chaotic at brunch in the cafeteria now that he was running for president. Still, he trusted his campaign adviser to know what was up, so he followed him back to school.
“Dude, where’d you get the pizzas?” Tony asked.
“I had them delivered,” Mohawk said. “You gave me your credit card, remember?”
Oh shit. He really needed to keep better track of things. Still, he was happy to have the pizzas. He had never thought about having his lunches delivered to school. That might open a whole new world of culinary options for him.
Mohawk made a big production of opening the doors and escorting Tony into the cafeteria, crammed as usual with freshman boys, trapped on campus until they got their driver’s licenses. When the boys saw Tony holding the pizza boxes, they all cheered his name and started clapping. It ranked pretty high on Tony’s list of his all-time favorite greetings, just behind the
time he met The Rock at a celebrity golf tournament his parents took him to when he was younger.
Mohawk led Tony over to the usual brunch table. They opened the pizza boxes and let the smell of the baked dough and cheese and tomato fill the space. The delicious aroma drew every munchkin toward their table, looking for a handout. Tony grabbed a couple slices before these advancing little dudes devoured everything.
“Don’t forget to sign the petition,” Mohawk said, thrusting a clipboard and pen into the hands of the first boy in line. The boy signed the page and passed it to the kid behind him.
“What petition?” Tony asked, mouth full of pizza.
“To bring back Space Cow,” Mohawk said. “I’m gathering signatures for you to present to the administration your first day of office.”
“Awesome,” Tony said, chewing.
After everyone had signed the petition and grabbed a slice of pizza, Mohawk made his way around the tables, meeting and greeting and squirting chocolate syrup into everyone’s milk. Tony had to give him credit. He was a great talker. He seemed to know just what the crowd wanted to hear. Freshman boys are the most disenfranchised group at high school, Tony remembered him saying. In the span of a summer vacation, they go from being big men on campus to the bottom-feeders of the school. All their girls are taken by upperclassman boys, and they can’t go anywhere without being stuck in a toilet by some asshole. The cafeteria is their sanctuary. If you win over this corner of the school, you’ve locked in at least fifteen percent of the vote. Was that this morning? Yeah, just before Mohawk told him about this campaign event. He didn’t forget. He just remembered too late. Well, not too late. He was here, and things seemed to be going well.
“Dude, I think you need to say something,” Mohawk said, returning from his rounds. “The people want to hear from you.”
“You said no speeches,” Tony said.
“It doesn’t have to be a speech. Just some acknowledgment that you appreciate their support.”
“I wish you had told me about this earlier. I’m kinda high right now.”
“From brunch?”
“I snuck an edible in fourth-period biology.”
“Come on, you can do it,” Mohawk said, grabbing Tony by the shoulder and lifting him up. “Just a few words of thanks.”
Tony steadied himself and gulped down the chocolate milk Mohawk had given him. Mohawk pounded his fist on the table to get the room’s attention. Within seconds, all twenty tables in the cafeteria fell silent in anticipation of Tony’s remarks.
“Greetings, munchkins,” Tony said, which prompted some low, confused murmuring at the tables. “You might not believe this, but I was once a miserable turd like you. Back in middle school, I actually got bullied. A lot. But then, in the summer before ninth grade, I grew, like, four inches. Suddenly, I was taller than all the assholes who made my life so miserable. I couldn’t wait to grab them by the waistbands and hang them from goalposts. But then I got to Lincoln, and guess what? There were giant dudes here too. These upperclassmen continued the bullying that started in middle school until I was forced to retreat here, to the safety of the cafeteria. Every day I sat alone, feeling sorry for myself. I thought I was always going to be small and weak and no one was ever going to protect me. The only thing that consoled me was Space Cow. The chocolate milk made me strong. I grew so tall, I could buy beer at the local liquor store. You know, the one on El Camino?”
“Wrap it up,” Mohawk whispered. “The bell’s about to ring.”
“What I’m saying is, chocolate milk changed my life, and it can change yours too. But only if we bring it back to the cafeteria. If you support me, I promise to never stop fighting until you see Space Cow back on the refrigerated shelves of this, our beloved institution. This is a solemn promise. Even though I am no longer a pathetic munchkin such as yourselves, I will fight on your behalf. Together, we can make milk great again.”
The boys at the tables all stood in unison and gave Tony a standing ovation. It was the sweetest sound in the world, Tony thought, waving to his people as they walked out the cafeteria doors.
“Well done, boss,” Mohawk said. “Well done.”
Opposition Research
19
10 DAYS TILL ELECTION DAY
STACEY SAT IN her car outside Mr. Park’s Academy of Tae Kwon Do and wished she could return to the studio. When her mom announced she was leaving Dad to move in with Stacey’s instructor, Stacey had just received her brown belt. According to Mr. Park, she was one of his finest, most disciplined students, but she couldn’t continue taking classes with him after he helped break up her family. She didn’t blame him as much as she blamed her mom, and she didn’t blame her mom as much as she blamed herself. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? Her mom always gushed about Mr. Park’s strength and self-control after every lesson. She obviously saw in him a heightened version of her own demeanor. Stacey too had a predisposition toward perfectionism and disapproval, but unlike her mom, she saw those qualities as defects to be corrected.
Right now, she would love a session with her former master. The workout might help her take her mind off the election, which was quickly spinning out of control. Despite Priya’s support for Stacey on social media, Julia’s campaign continued to surge. Yesterday in Spanish, Stacey heard two girls talking about some kind of quinceañera protest, which could only be interpreted as a campaign rally for her rival. These were the same girls who just last week asked Stacey for help on the pluscuamperfecto! Now it was Stacey who people were talking about in the past tense. She needed to do something to shake things up, which was why she was now parked outside this Korean gingerbread house. Her mom had transformed this ailing business into a mini-empire. Stacey needed some of that magic now, even if it was dark magic.
Asking for Mom’s help was hard though because, outside of a few text messages, Stacey hadn’t really spoken to her since she announced her engagement. She had told Stacey she was getting remarried over the phone, probably sandwiched the call between appointments with city officials and contractors helping her expand Mr. Park’s chain of studios. Stacey assumed Mom had already told her father about husband number two, but she hadn’t. She wanted Stacey to break the news. I just don’t have time for his whining right now, her mom had explained before hanging up. Stacey had told her dad over dinner, and rather than whine, he’d poured himself a large Scotch and pretended to be supportive. Your mom deserves to be happy, he’d said. Later that night, Stacey’d heard him crying in the bathroom.
Stacey took a deep breath and left the metallic cocoon of her car. Crossing the street to the studio entrance, she saw that the interior was dark. There were no Saturday classes until ten a.m. After breakfast, the place filled up with tiny children in white robes looking adorable while they practiced their fighting stances. Before then, the studio was closed except for private lessons. Stacey hoped her mom would be working in the small office in the back.
A tiny bell rang as Stacey pushed open the door. Within seconds, Mr. Park appeared in the open doorway at the opposite end of the studio, dressed in his black robe and pants. Stacey had never seen him in any other attire, now that she thought of it. She wondered if he’d get married in this outfit.
Mr. Park didn’t move, probably trying to make out the shadowy figure standing at the entrance. When he recognized her, he beamed and crossed the polished floor in giant steps. Stacey watched his reflection in the wall-length mirrors, rather than try to maintain eye contact. When he was within six feet of her, he stopped and bowed curtly. Stacey made sure she bowed a little more deeply than her former teacher.
“Ahn-nyong-ha-se-yo” he said in his deep, gravelly voice.
Stacey repeated the greeting. Mom had wanted her to call him Young-jin, but Stacey couldn’t call her former master by his first name. It was too informal, like an army private giving a congratulatory slap on the ass to his first sergeant. Of course, Stacey felt weird calling him Stepdad too.
“Is Mom here?” she asked.
Mr. Park nodded. “Yes, she’s in the back.” He extended his arm toward the open doorway he had just exited. He didn’t escort Stacey to the office, probably because he knew this meeting was going to be awkward and tense and it would be better for him to use this time to get a bagel. He left the studio as Stacey moved toward her mom’s back office.
Just outside the open door was a large display case holding all the trophies won by students at the studio. Stacey peered at the statues but didn’t recognize any of the names. Her trophies would never be housed here. Stacey laughed bitterly. To psych herself up for this meeting, she had demolished most of the ones she’d found stored in the garage. The gold statuettes now lay scattered across the oily cement floor like the victims in some Rob Zombie–Pixar film.
“Hi, Mom,” Stacey said, sticking her head through the open doorway.
Stacey’s mom was sitting in her Aeron office chair at a tiny desk, responding to emails. At Stacey’s greeting, she spun around and regarded her daughter with a confused smile. “This is a surprise,” she said, standing up. She crossed the room and grabbed Stacey by the shoulders. She was still in her morning workout outfit—thin Lycra pants and a neon orange tank top that showed off her tanned, toned arms. Her tight ponytail sat on the back of her head like a child being given a time-out for misbehaving.
“I need your help,” Stacey said. “Can I sit down?”
The office was tiny and cramped with barely enough room for the two of them. Stacey’s mom stood and leaned her toned butt against her desk.
“You’d better not be in trouble,” she said, crossing her arms. Without makeup, her mom looked a little aged. There was no fat on her face to soften it. It was all hard edges and lines like something drawn with a fine pencil.
“When have I ever been in trouble?” Stacey reminded her.
