Even the kids at school were upset. In the halls, I counted four girls who walked by me popping their gum in huge, loud bubbles.
“Ignore them,” Vivi said. “They’ll be over it by tomorrow. They’re so full of shit, pretending they care about politics.”
But it’s been five days and things have only gotten worse. I click on the hashtag and scroll. People accuse my father of turning his back on his own community. A headline from the Miami Herald reads RUIZ BURSTS OWN BUBBLE AMONG HISPANIC VOTERS. An opinion piece is titled HERE’S WHY SENATOR RUIZ’S COMMENTS PERPETUATE WHITE SUPREMACY. One of the most popular tweets (a thread shared twenty-two thousand times and counting) is by Jackie Velez, a senior at our school. She has a huge following because she’s the editor of the school paper, and she interned at Teen Vogue one summer. The only person in a bubble is @SenAnthonyRuiz. He seems to have forgotten that Latinx people are Americans too. What makes him think we’ll support him at the polls when he so easily turns his back on his own community?
Jackie’s avatar is a picture of her leaning against a mural of the Puerto Rican flag, screaming. Half her head is shaved and the rest of her hair is dyed bluish-black. It cascades diagonally over the left side of her face, accentuating her cheekbones and dark brown eyes in a way that makes her look like some sort of postapocalyptic Disney princess. I take a screenshot of her tweet and send it to Vivi.
Did you see?
I watch for the “Delivered” notification under my text to switch to “Read,” but Vivi must have gotten distracted, because nothing happens. Instead, a follower request pops up on my screen, and I almost drop my phone into the toilet when I see who it is.
Jackie.
The Jackie Velez.
Requesting to follow me.
It’s like she knows we were just texting about her. I take another screenshot.
WTF?
Still no reaction from Vivi. I dim the screen on my phone and tuck it into my back pocket, ignoring Jackie’s request. Or at least, trying to. For once I’m actually glad my parents made me set all my social media accounts to private at the beginning of Papi’s campaign. What could Jackie possibly want with me, and why now?
I take a deep breath and brace myself for whatever fresh hell awaits in the living room. Judging by the way Joe hovers over his phone, shaking his head, he’s seen the latest tweets too. “It’s not good,” he says to Papi. “But it’s still fixable. On the bright side, it’ll only help the ratings for the interview on Friday.”
My stomach clenches. Three days ago, my dad’s PR guy booked us all for a Meet the Candidates: Home Edition interview. It’s this new thing where one of the major news networks doesn’t just interview the candidate and the family—they get a tour of their whole house. Even the kids’ bedrooms. When I asked my parents if they were fine with millions of strangers knowing where their kids slept at night, they agreed to leave me and my brother’s rooms out of it. But then last night, one of the other candidates’ Home Invasion interview aired. He has five-year-old twin daughters who wore identical yellow dresses. The whole family sat in their living room while the little girls took turns sharing stories of how their father plays hide-and-seek with them on weekends and never misses an imaginary tea party. Then they went into the girls’ bedroom and poured pretend tea for the host. Now the news won’t stop commenting on how cute and well-behaved they are. How the congressman should be so proud of his daughters. I think the part that got to Papi the most, though, is that they keep saying the congressman is such an involved father. So my dad decided the full home tour was back on, our rooms included. He insisted I was overreacting and that it’d be too risky for the campaign not to do it.
“You have to understand, sweetie,” he said. “We can’t have people thinking we’re hiding something. And you and Ricky are ready for this. Or was all that money we paid Jamie for nothing?”
I wanted to tell him that yes, in fact, all my twelve weeks of training sessions with a media coach have accomplished is that I’m now hyperaware of how many ums and you knows I say when I talk, making me so much more insecure than before I started. And it’s different for Ricky. An eight-year-old could do nothing other than blink on national television, and he’ll be cute and endearing. Just look at the congressman’s twins: they sipped on air and people lost their minds over their natural charm. Meanwhile, I have to be perfectly composed, enunciate every word, and make sure I sound smart but not robotic, sophisticated but not elitist.
It made me wish Jamie had trained me in how to tell my dad no. How to speak so he would listen. By then, though, nothing I could say would have made a difference.
Mami had been oddly quiet. Now she stands behind him and rubs his back in small, firm circles. “Are you sure this won’t backfire?”
Joe sends off a quick text. “Juliana, trust me.” He always says her name with a hard J, like it’s a longer version of Julie, instead of the soft J our family uses. “Even the people who hate-watch it won’t be able to resist your charms. Let alone Ricky and Mariana’s. You show some Miami pride, get back in touch with your local roots . . . convince them you’re just like any other American family.”
We are like any other American family, I want to say. At least, I thought so until we started visiting Papi in DC every spring break. But other American families don’t roast entire pigs in a hole dug in their abuelo’s backyard on Christmas Eve. They don’t make their ringtones play Celia Cruz or get their son’s portrait painted for his first communion. Mami feels guilty that we never got mine painted when I was Ricky’s age because we didn’t have as much money back then, but you’ll never see me complaining—it’s creepy the way his eyes follow you down the hall and his little fingers clutch at the rosary.
Joe looks my way like he just noticed I’m here. “Mariana! Why don’t you show your parents what we’ve been practicing? For the interview?”
I should have stayed in the bathroom longer. Joe’s been writing out these notecards with lines that he thinks will make my dad sound good. He wants me to memorize them without seeming too rehearsed. Papi looks at me wide-eyed with his mouth half-open, the same way Ricky looks when he’s playing video games, like he’s expecting something spectacular. Mami sighs and says, “Go on, hijita.”
I feel every muscle from my stomach to my toes tense, and I take a deep breath.
“I know my father will make a good president because . . .” I pause. It’s hard for me to get the words out. They’ve been shoved down my throat for so long now, saying them feels like regurgitating. Even worse, Joe thinks I’ve paused because he taught me to. Said it makes me appear more genuine, like the thoughts are just occurring to me. “Because he’s my hero and he’s never let me down.”
My parents look like they’re about to cry. I feel like I might too. It’s not that that the words are a lie, it’s just that, who even talks like that? When Joe originally asked me the question, I answered, because Papi works super hard. Like, night and day, he’s working his butt off. And yeah, I know that’s not exactly presidential daughter material, but it could’ve been finessed. Joe didn’t even bother. He didn’t even butcher what I said. More like he took an order for ham and offered up sliced cheese. And now I’ll be humiliated in front of 2.5 million people. That’s the show’s viewership, one of the highest, if you ask Joe. Or even if you don’t. He’ll still brag about it to anyone who’ll listen.