by Gordon Jack
The clouds drifting out Tony’s window must have grabbed someone’s attention from the pool deck, because people started chanting “Tony! Tony! Tony!” and holding their fists up to the beat of his name. Tony poked his head out the window and waved down to his guests, who broke into a loud applause. Maybe he could handle the crowds at home if he stayed up here and greeted them with a wave every so often. The help would always clean up any mess the guests left behind.
Tony dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone for a selfie. Before he snapped the photo, he lit the remaining flakes in the bowl and inhaled deeply. He took a picture with him exhaling the smoke, making sure he smiled broadly for the camera.
Satisfied with the self-portrait, he posted it to the comments section of the original post, asking if this was who people wanted leading their school.
“Yes we can!” Tony wrote under the photo, and shared it with everyone.
28
2 DAYS TILL ELECTION DAY
STACEY LOST AN entire Sunday afternoon that she was never going to get back, trying on bridesmaid dresses. She could have been memorizing her speech or ironing her clothes or working on her vocal fry, but instead, she was squeezing into hideous fashion and twirling in front of her mom like some homicidal debutante.
“Mom, I can’t take this anymore,” she said finally. “Just pick the one you like, and I’ll wear it.” Stacey pulled on the silk cross strap that felt like the sash pageants use to brand each girl with a state.
“I want you to love the dress too,” her mom said, eyeing Stacey and wrinkling her nose. This had been her reaction every time Stacey stepped out of the dressing room. In response to her mom’s lack of enthusiasm, Ashley, their weary consultant, dived back into the racks to dig out another selection.
“This one you could reuse for prom!” Ashley said, holding up a short, crinkled chiffon dress with a sweetheart neckline.
Ugh. Prom. Stacey hated the dress even more now because it reminded her of the worst part of the school year. After all the excitement of school elections came prom season. It was like following a great episode of Washington Week with a Keeping Up with the Kardashians rerun. Pretty soon, Stacey would have to suffer through an endless display of promposals, each one trying to outdo the other in a spectacle of bad puns. Then all the smart, capable girls stopped thinking about serious issues and became obsessed with finding the perfect dress, which they would only wear once. The waste was enormous. At least people carpooled in limousines.
“You going to prom this year?” Mom asked.
“Probably not,” Stacey said. She hiked up her dress and struck a fighter’s stance. Ashley and her mom exchanged a glance like people discovering stray hairs in their food.
“This one would probably look best on Soo Jung,” Stacey’s mom said, walking around and checking it out from behind. “She’s a little pudgy around the middle,” she whispered, as if Soo Jung’s supersonic hearing made it possible to eavesdrop from South Korea.
Soo Jung was Mr. Park’s daughter. The twenty-four-year-old would be flying in from Seoul to participate in the ceremony. There was some question regarding the length of her stay afterward. Mom hoped for a short-term student visa.
“Can I get out of this now?” Stacey asked.
Stacey’s mom nodded and turned to consult with Ashley.
Stacey slid the dressing-room curtain shut and started the cumbersome task of removing her clothes. Why did she feel so uncomfortable in all these gowns? Did it have something to do with the dress, the occasion, or herself? Probably some combination of all three. She’d always hated wearing dresses. It didn’t help that she had to wear one to celebrate her mom’s marriage to her former Tae Kwon Do instructor. How could she ever repurpose this dress without it reminding her of the body blow that knocked her family onto the mat for good?
Changing back into her jeans and T-shirt made Stacey feel like herself again. This was the skin that felt natural to her. She placed the dress back on the hanger and held it in front of her like something a snake might have shed.
“I think we’ll go with this last one,” her mom told Ashley, snapping a photo of the dress with her phone. “I’ll send this to Soo Jung and Tanya.”
Tanya was Mom’s former sorority sister flying in from Houston. It seemed a little unfair to pick a dress for an older woman based on how it looked on her teenage daughter, but Stacey wasn’t about to question her mom’s decision-making. This was her day; she could fuck it up however she chose.
“You’re not going to make me plan a bachelorette party, are you?” Stacey asked as they headed back to the car.
“No,” her mom said. “I didn’t have one when I married your father. I certainly don’t need one now. How is he by the way?”
“Great, actually,” Stacey said, exaggerating Dad’s recovery a bit. “He’s helping me make a drone.”
“Why do you need a drone?”
“For school,” Stacey said, stretching the truth a little further. Her dad was the one who needed the drone, not her. “You know, to film games and activities.”
“There’s a camera mounted on it?” Mom asked. “Do you think I could borrow it for the wedding? I’d love to get some aerial shots of the ceremony. The winery is stunning.”
Mom had rented out a winery in St. Helena at considerable expense. She justified the cost because getting married was supposedly a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
“I don’t know if it will be ready in time,” Stacey said, flat-out lying.
The two reached the car and got inside, which was cool and comfortable, thanks to the shade her mom had stretched across the windshield before leaving for the fitting. Her mom started the car, turned the stereo to her favorite eighties station, and drove to her apartment, where Stacey had left her car.
“You bringing Brian to the wedding?” her mom asked. She pulled her water bottle out of her purse and placed it in the cup holder. Mom was a tropical plant that required constant hydration.
“Yeah.”
“I saw him at Nordstrom the other day.”
“I know. He told me.”
“He was with a girl, I think.”
“Brian? I don’t think so. He said he was shopping for his mom.”
“Hmm, I swear he was with someone. He looked embarrassed when he saw me.”
“That’s just Brian,” Stacey said.
“You better lock that down before some other girl grabs him.”
“Ew, gross. Brian’s my friend.”
“Yeah, but for how long?” Mom took a long sip from her bottle embossed with Mr. Park’s studio’s logo—a silhouette of a fighter in front of the American flag. “He’s cute now that he’s lost all that weight. Don’t think other girls haven’t noticed.”
“So?”
“So, I’m just saying. As soon as he starts dating someone, you won’t be seeing him much anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
“Trust me. It is. Romance trumps friendship every time.”
“I don’t even know if Brian is straight.”
“There are ways of finding out.” Her mom smiled, forcing Stacey to focus on the song playing on the radio. “Don’t you want me, baby? Don’t you want me, Ahhhhhh!” the singer crooned.
“When I wanted to find out if Young-jin was interested in me,” Mom said, tapping Stacey’s knee, “I hugged him and rubbed his back in gentle circles.”
“That’s gross and sad.”
“It got me this ring,” her mom said, holding her hand in front of Stacey’s face.
“It also got you divorced,” Stacey said.
“This was after my marriage to your father was over,” her mom said.
Stacey doubted it. Two weeks after Mom moved out, Stacey found a Starburst wrapper in the space between the passenger seat and door, and knew it could only come from one source. Her instructor was addicted to the fruity candy and chewed them like nicotine gum.
Mom pulled into her space in the basement garage of her condo co
mplex.
“You want to come upstairs?” she asked. “We could have a little girl time? You could help me choose a nail color to match my wedding dress.”
“That sounds like fun,” Stacey said, as if her mom had just invited her to clean a toilet. “But I have to prep for my speech tomorrow,” she said. She had had enough girl time with her middle-aged mother for one day.
On the drive back to her dad’s, Stacey thought about what her mother had said. Was it time to “lock” Brian down? The phrase felt mildly offensive, as if Brian were a piece of hot real estate. She had never thought of him as anything but her friend. Could she imagine kissing him? Having him hold her? Feeling his— No, she could not go there. Time to think of other things. Gosh, that hedge was well manicured. Watch out, squirrel! That phone line looks wobbly.
She parked her car and walked in a daze to her front door. But what if Brian did start dating someone? Would she lose her best friend? It happened to girls all the time, didn’t it? Stacey remembered watching a movie about a girl whose best friend starts dating her older brother, and it did not go well for them. Come to think of it, Brian was the one who recommended the film. That must mean he’s gay, right? What hetero male chooses to watch coming-of-age stories that explore complicated female relationships?
Still, she couldn’t imagine life without Brian. When they met as freshmen, he clearly needed her help. He was fat, friendless, and alone, and she took him under her wing and got him involved in school projects and activities. There was a whole scrapbook in her closet upstairs with photos of them making homecoming floats, playing in marching band, attending youth-in-government camps. Somewhere along the line though, she started needing him more than he needed her. She relied on him for practically everything now—making banners, decorating cupcakes, writing speeches. And he was always there for her. But what if he weren’t? Then she would be the one friendless and alone.
She sat down at her desk and tried to distract herself by working on her speech. There was a lot riding on it now that her smear attempt had backfired. She logged on to the post featuring Tony mid–bong hit and saw even more likes and congratulatory comments. What was wrong with these people? Is this the kind of behavior we expect from our elected officials now? Next thing you know, Seth Rogen will be running for state congressman.
She really needed someone to help her with her performance. There were some complicated hand gestures that she didn’t feel quite right about.
Hey, Brian, she texted. You free to help me practice my speech?
Sure. I’ll come over after dinner, he wrote back.
Stacey looked at her grubby outfit and decided she should change. She wasn’t going to wear jeans and a T-shirt tomorrow, was she? She should practice in her best suit. The one that showed off her tanned and toned legs and arms. Maybe a little makeup wouldn’t hurt either.
29
WHEN JULIA SAW her reflection in Jenny’s full-length mirror, she almost didn’t recognize herself. The two girls had taken a break from the quinceañera protest practice to try on Jenny’s sister’s dress. The tight, bejeweled top and ruffled bottom of the gown didn’t come close to anything in Julia’s closet, but something about the outrageous style appealed to her. Rather than marking her transition into adulthood, the dress allowed her to experience a missing part of her childhood. Her mom forbade anything princess in their home, claiming the image reinforced unattainable standards of beauty and derailed any progress women had made toward self-actualization. So, no Disney movies or their accompanying paraphernalia were allowed. Instead, Julia got to dress up in Marie Curie lab coats or Simone de Beauvoir turbans for Halloweens.
“You’re beautiful,” Jenny said from behind her.
“It’s weird how perfect it fits,” Julia said.
“You and my sister are, like, the exact same size,” Jenny said.
“Are you sure she won’t mind me borrowing it?”
“Nah,” Jenny said. “Vickie doesn’t get back from college until late May. She’ll never know. Oh, I got something else for you.”
Julia expected Jenny to hand her a tiara or some other fancy accessory, but instead she dug under her pink duvet and pulled out a white cardboard box stamped with the brand name AncestryDNA. Her test had finally arrived.
“I don’t think you need it,” Jenny said, handing her the box. “Seeing you in this dress, there’s no doubt in my mind you’re Latina.”
“You might think different if I were wearing a hijab,” Julia said. Or a sari. Or even a colorful wrap. Julia’s skin tone and features allowed her to become anyone she wanted, really, given the right outfit.
“Here, let’s take a picture,” Jenny said. Julia tossed the DNA test onto the bed and handed Jenny her phone. The two squeezed together for a selfie.
“See, we could be sisters,” she said, looking at the photo.
“Hermanas,” Julia said.
“I love how you’re learning Spanish,” Jenny said. “I’ve never heard my language spoken with a French accent before. It’s hella cool. Here, let me take one of just you.”
Jenny held up the camera, and Julia struck her best Cinderella pose. After Jenny was done, Julia scrolled through the shots and sent the best one to Brian with the caption “Your Latina princess.”
An urgent knocking drew her out of her narcissistic stare. “Can we see?” Rosa said from the other side of the door. Rather than wait for an answer, she burst into the room, followed by the rest of the girls who had come to Jenny’s house to rehearse the dance they would perform at the protest. Jenny had been leading them through the steps in the backyard, trying to make it fun without losing the urgency of the message. The girls were tired and sweaty from marching and moving to Calle 13’s “Pa’l Norte” all morning.
The group squealed in delight when they saw Julia standing in front of them.
“It’s perfect,” Rosa said.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Stephanie said. She was a senior with the stern expression of a flamenco dancer.
Julia did a little spin for the crowd. “J’adore,” she said. In her rotation, she spotted the DNA testing kit still on the top of the bed and panicked. She sat down quickly on top of the box before anyone could see and ask her about it.
“It’s so weird hearing you speak French,” Maria said. She was wearing a black T-shirt with the image of a raised fist holding a microphone.
“I love it,” Jenny said. “I wish I had a sexy accent.”
“I just never heard of a Latina with a French accent,” Maria said. “You sure you’re one of us?”
Julia laughed and felt the box beneath her start to rattle. She was pretty sure the sound was in her head, but like the narrator and the ticking in Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart,” she felt the kit come alive from under the folds of her voluminous dress. She looked at Jenny for some assistance.
“Of course she’s one of us,” Jenny said. “Look at her. She’s like a young Jennifer Lopez.”
“Where’s your family from anyway?” Maria asked.
Why had Julia done this to herself? She should have never let Jenny talk her into this masquerade. Under Maria’s questioning, Julia went from 99 percent sure she was Latina to 99 percent sure that she was not. The box rattled some more beneath her, demanding to be heard. She should just tell everyone the truth about her ancestry and be done with it. They could remove her from their formation and do the dance without her. But Julia was kind of the centerpiece of this protest. “Build That Wall!” was written on her campaign poster. Did it matter that she wasn’t Mexican herself? Julia wasn’t sure it did. Everyone at Lincoln High School should be marching with these girls in the face of this kind of bigotry and hatred.
“My mom’s family is from Quebec,” she said. “Which is why I speak French instead of Spanish.” Julia looked down and said, almost in a whisper, “I never knew my dad.”
It was the truth. It wasn’t the whole truth, but a bit of it. The box underneath her stopped shaking for the time being,
satisfied with her admission, she hoped.
“Shit,” Rosa said, flopping onto the bed next to Julia, wrapping her arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” Stephanie said, joining the hug.
“My dad left when I was four,” Maria said, in a quieter voice than normal. “It destroyed my mom. She married some loser ’cause she was so freaked out about being alone.”
Jenny came over and put her arms around Maria and held her close. After a few minutes of silence, she clapped her hands and ordered everyone out so Julia could change back into her normal clothes. “Let’s get back to dancing,” she said, trying to inject some lightness into the room again.
Once everyone had left, she shut the door and turned to Julia, still seated on the bed. “That was hella awkward,” she said.
“Can you help me out of this?” Julia said, standing and turning her back to Jenny. It was suddenly getting harder for her to breathe. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and her skin began to itch. The dress must be rejecting her. It must have sensed something deep inside Julia that was scheming and false like the Sorting Hat in Harry Potter. She was a Slytherin in a house full of Hufflepuffs.
Jenny’s hands undid the straps in the back. As Julia felt the bodice loosen, she wriggled free and stepped out of the folds of ruffled skirt. After carefully laying the dress on Jenny’s duvet, she put on her shorts and T-shirt and was able to breathe again.
“You still up for this?” Jenny asked.
“I think so,” Julia said.
The girls practiced the rest of the day in Jenny’s backyard. The plan was to walk in silence into the quad, holding their protest banners, and then transition to their choreographed dance. Maria had chosen the Calle 13 song, not because it was especially easy to dance to, but because its message was so on point. Jenny translated for Julia the lyrics that the girls wanted to shout out loud:
“A nomad without direction
I crush the negative energy
With my hooves like a lamb’s
I set out to roam the entire continent.”
