“Come on.” I start making my way before I can change my mind. Before I even think of what I’ll say. This is probably not the best move, but I’m just so anxious to do something, anything, that doesn’t involve me hiding or shutting up that suddenly no other plan really matters. It’s kind of like that moment before you jump into a freezing pool, when you know it’s going to suck but you’re already committed and running, unable to stop and both scared and excited at once. Like maybe you’re only doing it for the impact.
We turn the corner toward the gym and follow poster boards that read, ARE YOU 18 OR WILL BE BY ELECTION DAY? REGISTER TO VOTE TODAY. A small group of students stand in a line and at the end of it, there’s Jackie. Filling out forms and stacking them into neat little piles. Flashing each student a crisp, white smile and high-fiving them like civics is the most exciting thing in the world. She has a whole setup with her table and a blue canopy that’s plastered with signs and stickers, which show the date of the election, the last day to register, and a bunch of GET OUT THE VOTE logos. By the far-off end of the table, away from Jackie and all the students, there’s a poster that has the words KNOW YOUR CANDIDATES in big block letters. A neon yellow arrow points down at what looks like a stack of sea-green papers, but as I get closer I see they’re actually baby blue. So, not the forms Jackie was handing out at the library. I pick one up and see that it’s a voter’s guide.
DO YOU KNOW YOUR CANDIDATE’S POSITION ON THE ISSUES THAT MATTER TO YOU?
Below the headline, a chart lists each candidate and their stance on several issues, everything from foreign policy to taxes to immigration and LGBTQ rights. The columns are tiny, so it only lists their last names. I scan it and find RUIZ four squares from the top.
“Mariana!” I set the paper down at the sound of Jackie’s voice. “You came. Did you change your mind?”
“What? No. No. I was just . . . looking?” My tone rises at the last syllable. I sound like a shopper talking to an overeager salesperson. To make matters worse, just to have something to do with my hands, I start straightening up the stack of papers.
“You can take one of those, you know.”
I wonder what she’s trying to get at. Does she think I actually need one? As if I don’t know my own father. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Okay . . . well, can I help you with anything?”
“Did you write in the yearbook?” I blurt out. “About my dad?”
She looks as confused as I must sound. “The yearbook? I write for the paper. That’s why I wanted to interview you—”
“About my father?” I say again.
“I don’t think you get what I’m trying to do.”
“I’m pretty sure I do. I wish you’d just leave me out of it.”
She studies my face. I can feel the edges of my lips start to shake, so I turn away and go back to fixating on the papers. I can’t stop staring at the little square with Papi’s name on it. Our name on it.
“Seriously, take one. They’re free.”
“I’m fine, okay? It’s nothing I don’t already know.” I step away, afraid if I say another word Jackie will know I’m lying, will know that she’s already won whatever game it is she’s playing. Her face turns into a semifrown and then she kind of just shakes it off before quickly turning her attention to someone else in line.
I find Vivi and signal for us to go, grateful that she knows me well enough not to ask how it went. I’m so embarrassed that I begin to feel lightheaded, a clump of regret climbing up my spine and blocking all the air from my brain. It courses through my blood and my veins, a nervous energy that I can’t get rid of no matter how much I try to focus on anything else.
I get to class and tap my pencil against my notebook, waiting for today’s lecture to begin. When it finally does, none of what Ms. Walker says registers. All I can think to write at the top of the page is the one question I haven’t been able to get out of my head since I saw it.
Do you know your candidate’s position on the issues that matter to you?
I spend the rest of the period trying to list the answers, but I come up completely blank.
four
The Florida primary elections are in exactly three weeks, and the big home interview is this Friday, just three days away. I know this because Joe wrote a countdown on the mini whiteboard that hangs on our fridge. Joe has been on Papi’s staff for years, and he’s always stopping by the house to pick up things that he says are for the office, but that are actually personal things for Papi like an extra tie or his blood pressure and allergy pills. It wouldn’t bother me so much, except for the fact that we also use the whiteboard to set reminders for Papi’s medications, and every time Joe changes the numbers for the day’s countdown, he smudges the dosage information. Papi’s going to have a massive sneezing fit and a mild heart attack one day because Joe can’t be bothered to use a calendar.
This afternoon I find Joe standing against the sink, eating a bowl of leftover picadillo that Gloria made last night. He’s got a paper towel tucked into his collar, and in between bites he checks his phone.
“Hey. What brings you here this time?” I ask. It’s not the way it used to be, when Papi ran his campaigns out of our apartment. There are no yard signs to pick up here, no boxes full of files or mailings that need to be collated.
He swallows a mouthful of beef. “I told your mom I’d take Gloria to Publix. Then I gotta get back to campaign HQ to prep for the rally tomorrow.”
He actually says HQ instead of headquarters. Then he looks at his watch and points at me with his fingers in the shape of a gun. “Two forty-five sharp. Remind your mom for me?”
“Yeah. Fine.” Mami is the last person who needs reminding. Sometimes I think Joe makes up tasks just to feel useful.
“Do you know what you’re wearing yet?” He says this like he thinks we’re bonding, like choosing a new outfit is the only way I’d ever get excited about Papi’s campaign.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Don’t be nervous. Remember what Jamie taught you. Your role is a supportive one. You’ll just be in the background.” Joe is always repeating Jamie’s media coaching tips to me, which makes me wonder if Papi told him about my stage fright. I begged him to keep it a secret, but I guess even Joe doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out that I’m uncomfortable in front of the camera.
You know what I never noticed until I got on TV? It’s not just that my palms sweat almost as much as my armpits or that my pulse is suddenly louder than a Nochebuena party right before someone calls the cops with a noise complaint. It’s that I forget how to be human. I have to remind myself to breathe, to put one foot in front of the other, to keep my weight evenly distributed so I don’t just suddenly fall to the ground, even if I’m standing still. And making my face look natural is really hard. There is either smile or don’t smile, nothing in between. It’s the same with my hands—nothing I do with them feels right when people are watching. Essentially, my body shuts down, and everything that happens next is a blur. No matter how much I focus on the present moment, or try to “be here now” like Jamie says, I inevitably go on autopilot like some kind of robot. A nodding, smiling, clapping teenage robot.