Your Own Worst Enemy

by Gordon Jack

  She rummaged through the clothes on the racks, and shoeboxes on the floor. Then she looked up and found a set of photo albums lining the top shelf. These were all labeled by location and date and set in chronological order. Stacey was beginning to realize Julia’s aunt was a bit of a neat freak.

  Stacey pulled down the binder marked Boucherville, 1980–2000. Flipping through the cellophane-sealed pages, she saw images of two girls experiencing the decades in very different ways. The one on the pages marked with “Gloria” stickers fully embraced the aerobics look with headbands, loose sweatshirts with torn collars, and tights, while the other, identified as “Susan,” adopted an edgier look with a Mohawk, piercings, and heavy eyeliner. As she flipped through the album, Stacey noticed the sisters were rarely in the same photos. Julia’s aunt had dance recitals, cheerleading competitions, and prom pictures. Julia’s mom had a band called Rabid Pussy that performed in a dodgy basement nightclub. By the end of the album, photos of her were replaced with news clippings of her run-ins with the law. There was a story about her getting arrested at an animal testing facility. Another about her throwing a pie in the face of a governor. Another detailing a protest at a petrochemical plant in which she chained herself to a fence. On the last page, there was a newspaper clipping about a woman who was suing a fertility clinic. “Sperm Bank Accused of Lying About Donors” the headline read. Below the byline was a picture of the former lead singer of Rabid Pussy, now grown up with long, stringy, blond hair and thin, brittle features. “Susan Romero has filed suit against a Quebec fertility clinic, claiming the facility lied in the marketing of its sperm.”

  “Holy shit,” Stacey said, the reels in her mental slot machine spun and rested on Jackpot, Jackpot, Jackpot.

  She read the story. After she was done, she took a picture of the article with her phone. It was going to look perfect next to the text Julia had sent Brian: Your Latina princess.

  34

  IT WAS OFFICIAL, Brian realized. Stacey was ignoring him. That could only mean one thing: she knew about him and Julia. But how? They had been so careful. They only met in secret, and Brian quickly deleted any texts he received from Julia as soon as he read them. Was it his outburst at the assembly? If she saw him cheer for Julia, it might be enough to throw her off her game, but it wouldn’t wreck her so completely. It had to be something else. Something she saw on her phone made her misquote Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Maybe Dr. King did say “Oh fuck it,” at some point in his life, but it’s not a line people typically associate with a Nobel Peace Prize winner.

  After fifth period, Brian raced to the ASB classroom. He poked his head in the door and scanned the crowds for Stacey, but all he saw were student leaders congratulating themselves on their performance at today’s assembly. In the center of the backslapping was James, gracefully accepting compliments on his speech. When he saw Brian standing in the doorway, he extricated himself from the crowd and walked over.

  “Stacey’s not here,” he said. “No one’s seen her all day.”

  Brian pulled James out into the hallway, where they could talk without the prying eyes of the school’s Little and Big Brothers.

  “It’s all my fault,” Brian whispered. “She must have found out about Julia.”

  James nodded. “I was sitting next to her at the assembly. Just before she was called up, she got a text that really upset her.”

  “What was it?”

  “A photo of Julia in a pink dress. I couldn’t read the text, but it looked like a screenshot of a conversation with a lot of heart emojis.”

  “Oh shit,” Brian said, remembering the photo Julia sent him in her quinceañera dress.

  “Yeah,” James said. He put a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  “This is all my fault.”

  “No, it’s not. You didn’t send that photo. I’m guessing your brother did.”

  Brian nodded.

  The two stood there in silence, letting all the late students rush by on their way to class. James showed no urge to leave Brian’s side, but instead closed the classroom door and led him to the bench across the hallway. The two sat on the metal frame and watched the seagulls circle overhead, still scavenging food left on the ground from lunch.

  “I feel bad for Stacey,” James said after a minute. “That’s a dirty trick to play on anyone. But maybe it’s for the best.”

  Brian shook his head. “Stacey wants to be president more than anything.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t mean she should be.”

  “She’d be great and you know it.”

  “I agree. Stacey’s a fighter. She’s got conviction and tenacity. When she believes in something, nobody’s gonna stop that girl from getting what she wants. It’s probably why you two are such good friends.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She believed in you back when you were just a chubby, insecure boy. Now look at you. You’re a confident, some might say reasonably attractive young man. Her friendship transformed you.”

  “Thanks,” Brian said. He’d never thought of himself as one of Stacey’s projects before, but what James said was true. Their friendship had been one long campaign to help Brian take control of his life instead of feeling completely powerless to change it.

  “I’m just not so sure she’d make the best president,” James said.

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. She’d probably do a great job on the issues she cares about. She’s just not interested in the issues other people care about.”

  “But you can’t ask one candidate to care about every issue. That’s impossible.”

  “I know, but look at our school. We’re only forty percent white. You know what ASB is? Eighty percent white. There’s an imbalance there that needs to be corrected.”

  “No one’s stopping students of color from running for office,” Brian said.

  James rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Brian. You and I both know there are tons of things stopping people of color from running for office. Stacey’s just one of those things. As long as she’s in charge, people will always associate student government with whiteness. Julia could change that. I think you know that too.”

  “It just seems unfair that Stacey’s color should be held against her. She has the most experience.”

  “She got that experience because of her color.”

  “She got that experience because she cares about the school.”

  “Then she should step aside and let the candidate who better represents the school be president.”

  “Julia might look like more of the students, but Stacey’s grown up with most of them. She knows them better.”

  James sighed. “Listen, I get it. She’s your friend and it’s noble that you’re defending her. And you’re right. She’d be a great president. But her presidency wouldn’t change anything for people of color at this school. Julia’s would.”

  “You just see Julia as a symbol.”

  “Maybe. You obviously know her better. What do you think?”

  Brian paused. “She’d be great,” he said. “Really great.”

  A blond-haired, freckle-faced girl poked her head out the door and told James they needed him inside.

  “You’re late for class,” James said, standing up and moving toward the door. “If you find Stacey, tell her I’m sorry about what happened. I hope you two work things out.”

  “Thanks,” Brian said, and walked to his biology class.

  Cohen was mid-lecture when he arrived. Brian wrote his name on the miniature whiteboard tacked to the door for tardies and squeezed through the narrow aisle to his empty desk.

  Julia picked up on his distress as soon as he slumped in his chair.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “I’m worried about Stacey,” Brian whispered. “She hasn’t responded to any of my texts.”

  “She’s probably just upset,” Julia said. “Have you seen this?”

  Julia held up her phone for Brian to see. On th
e screen was a meme with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the quote “Oh fuck it” written in the bold Impact font at the top.

  “Priya’s posting this everywhere as part of Stacey’s rebranding,” Julia said. “People love it. I think it’s made her more relatable, you know?”

  “Stacey knows about us,” Brian said.

  “Because of what you yelled at the assembly?” Julia said. “Thank you, by the way.” Julia put a tentative hand on Brian’s thigh. Brian knew the students seated behind them might see, but he didn’t care. Julia’s touch mattered more than his peers’ curiosity right now.

  “You saved me,” Julia said.

  “I had to do something,” Brian said.

  “Maybe it’s good if she knows,” Julia said. “I’m tired of keeping our relationship secret.”

  “She’ll never forgive me.”

  “She will if she’s a real friend. You just have to talk to her.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  After class, Brian texted Stacey and told her that he was coming over. When he showed up at her house, Mr. Wynn’s car was the only one parked in the driveway. He pulled over and texted her again. I’m at your house and not leaving until we talk. Digging into his backpack, he removed his worn copy of The Great Gatsby and started reading.

  At around four o’clock, Stacey’s dad emerged from the front door, dressed in his usual short-sleeved button-down and khaki pants. Draped over his shoulder was the leather messenger bag Stacey got him for his birthday last year, its heavy contents tilting his body slightly to the right.

  When he saw Brian parked in front of his home, he waved and walked over.

  “You waiting for Stacey?” he asked. Mr. Wynn was looking better than the last time Brian saw him, although he wasn’t sure how he felt about the mustache. Mr. Wynn probably had to do something to mark his transition back into single life, but the facial hair made him look like a contestant in The Voice: Barbershop Quartet Edition.

  “Do you know if she’ll be home soon?” Brian asked.

  “She texted me thirty minutes ago to say she’s staying at her mother’s tonight.”

  “That’s weird,” Brian said.

  “I thought so too.” Mr. Wynn straightened his glasses and looked up at the sky. Brian wondered if the mention of his ex-wife made him anticipate some cataclysmic weather condition.

  “I think she’s mad at me,” Brian said.

  “How could she be mad at you?” Mr. Wynn said. “There’s a plate of cookies with your name on it in the kitchen.”

  “When did she bake those?”

  “Last night, I assume. I worked late at the lab and saw them when I got back. Just to be sure I didn’t think they were for me, she wrote ‘For Brian’ on an index card and taped it to the cellophane wrapping.”

  “Shit,” Brian said. “Sorry, it’s just . . . I think I did something really bad.”

  “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who can’t be forgiven.”

  “I’ve been secretly dating her opponent in the presidential race.”

  “Oh,” he said. This was clearly not the confession Mr. Wynn was expecting. His bushy eyebrows arched like electrocuted caterpillars. “That is pretty bad.”

  “I know,” Brian said. “But I never helped Julia with anything. Well, not intentionally anyway. Until today, but that was only out of desperation. It’s all so confusing.”

  “Listen, Brian,” Mr. Wynn said, placing a hand on Brian’s side-view mirror. “You and Stacey have been friends for a long time. You were here for her every day after her mom moved out, taking care of her when I was, well, let’s just say I was a bit of a mess.”

  That’s putting it mildly, Brian thought. This man cried through the first two seasons of Modern Family after the breakup.

  “I’m sure your friendship is more important than this election,” he said. “You just might have to give her time to realize that.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Wynn,” Brian said.

  Mr. Wynn reached inside the open car window and patted Brian awkwardly on the shoulder, and then got into his car and drove away.

  Brian put his book down and picked up his phone. He wanted to send Stacey one last text before driving home. I know you’re mad at me right now, he wrote. I want you to know one thing, and then I’ll stop bothering you. Tomorrow, I’ll be voting for you.

  35

  BIKING HOME FROM school, Julia soaked in the quiet. She pedaled through the empty suburban streets, listening to the spring breeze shake the trees awake from their afternoon nap. Off in the distance, there was some light hammering, some final touch on a home-improvement project.

  Her speech had gone better than planned, mostly because Brian had risked everything to call out her name. Because he believed in her, she had the courage to ditch her prepared remarks and speak from the heart and it made all the difference.

  She was a couple blocks from her home when she sensed a car trailing her from behind. Turning her head, she saw Lance holding his camera out the driver’s side window, filming her.

  “Here’s Julia Romero, doing what she can to save the environment,” he said loud enough for her to hear. “Does Stacey Wynn, so-called champion of the environment, bike to school? Of course not. Wynn talks the talk, but drives the walk.”

  Julia turned her head so Lance wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. She debated taking an alternate route home, but then realized she wasn’t comfortable with Lance knowing where she lived, so she pulled over instead. “Hi, Lance,” she said.

  Lance parked his Range Rover behind her and got out. He was wearing a tank top, a ridiculous shirt for any guy to wear, especially a guy with that much back acne. “Great speech today, Julia,” he said. “You really nailed it.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “I was thinking we could celebrate your victory tomorrow at Sushi Boat on Main. You been there?”

  Julia shook her head. “I don’t think I’m going to win,” she said. “Tony killed it today.”

  “Sure you are. And if you don’t, we can strategize our next steps. I’ve got a post ready to go about voter fraud. The school uses a Google form to tally the votes. Those things are so easily hacked it’s ridiculous.”

  “You should publish that now,” Julia said. “Before the voting.”

  “Nah,” Lance said, smiling. “If you win, I don’t want anyone questioning your victory. I’ve invested a lot of time in your campaign.”

  Lance stepped closer to Julia. His head tilted, his eyelids drooped, and his lips puckered. Either he was coming in for a kiss or he was having a mini-stroke.

  “I’ve got a boyfriend,” she said, pulling away.

  Lance stopped his approach. His eyes bulged as if Julia had slapped him. “No, you don’t.”

  “What do you mean?” Julia said. She slowly rotated the right pedal on her bike upward, in case she needed to press down hard and accelerate away from this creep.

  “I’ve been following you pretty closely these last few weeks,” Lance said. “If you had a boyfriend, I’d know about it.”

  Julia didn’t want to know what Lance meant by “following you pretty closely.” She only knew this street was emptier than she’d like it to be. With a swiftness that surprised her, she pressed down on her right pedal and left Lance standing there with arms at his sides and a confused expression.

  “I built you up!” he screamed from behind her. “I can bring you down too.”

  Julia raced home, constantly looking behind her to make sure Lance wasn’t following. When she reached her side gate, she fumbled with the latch and practically dived behind the protective barrier. Once she was safely hidden, she leaned against the fence, too winded to go any farther. After catching her breath, she peered over the top and waited for Lance’s Range Rover to do a slow drive by. But he never showed. Julia breathed a sigh of relief, walked her bike to the backyard, and went inside.

  Just as she was unlocking the back door, her phone started buzzing. It was her mom. Not now, J
ulia groaned. She wasn’t ready to end the silent treatment she had begun after learning her mom had Julia’s DNA results. But she also knew Mom wouldn’t stop calling until Julia told her about the speech.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said.

  “How did the speech go?”

  “Fine,” Julia said. “It was fine.”

  “What’s wrong?” her mom said, picking up on her brusqueness. Julia was probably channeling some of the rage she felt from Lance’s harassment to her mother.

  “Do you have my DNA test results?” Julia asked, turning around and walking into the backyard instead of the house. She wanted to be outside for this conversation. She didn’t know why, but she thought it would be helpful to look at the clear blue sky.

  “Yes,” her mom said. Her mother didn’t lie. She often didn’t elaborate either.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Julia said, kicking a dirt clod against the back fence.

  “I told you, I don’t want you tethered to the past.”

  “That’s not your decision to make,” Julia said.

  “Sure it is. I’m your mother.”

  “My white mother,” Julia said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” her mom said.

  “It means you don’t understand what it’s like to be me. You don’t experience the world the same way I do because people see me differently than they see you.”

  “Trust me, Julia, I know what it’s like to be different. I’ve spent my whole life being different.”

  “By choice!” Julia screamed. She put a hand on top of the wooden slats of the fence and shook the structure back and forth.

  “Yes, by choice. I want you to have those same choices. I don’t want you thinking you have to behave a certain way because you’re Cuban, or Indian, or Iroquois.”

  “Let’s talk about one of your choices, Mom. When you went to the fertility clinic, what race did you choose?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What race did you choose? I want to know. You wanted a baby, what color baby did you want?”

  “Julia, that’s . . .”

  “Tell me, Mom,” Julia said. “I want to know. Did you want a white baby?”