by J J Arias
There was no doubt the governor’s saccharine words were meant to embarrass, but they gave Mila a rush. With pale cheeks flushed pink, she stood to speak, even though no one else had. Nothing like a challenge.
“Apologies to my fellow staffers,” she started, causing visible consternation. “My rudeness was unintentional.”
For a moment, the room collectively relaxed, but Mila had no intention of sitting down.
“If I have misjudged the priority of politeness over honesty, then I retract my comment. However,” she said firmly, her back straight and her icy blue eyes fixed on the governor, “if you are interested in actually doing something new, why don’t you focus on a different demographic?”
“Please, don’t stop there,” Governor Fernandez begged sarcastically when Mila paused longer than a beat. Her clenched jaw and rushed words gave away her growing irritation. “Educate us with your superior knowledge.”
“Mila,” Tim whispered as he tugged on her hand. “Stop,” he suggested reasonably. She pretended not to hear him. There was no stopping her runaway train and no reason to make him collateral damage.
“I’m sure I don’t have to remind this room, or Governor Fernandez, that despite thirty-eight percent turnout in voters aged eighteen to twenty-four, only twelve percent cast a vote in your favor. Why?” she asked for affect without pausing as she launched into her answer. “Because they found an eighty-year-old rich guy who moved here from upstate New York more exciting and relatable than a forty-year-old woman of color born and raised in the state she’s spent her entire career serving. So, no, I don’t think going to a golf course or a pancake breakfast is going to get anyone excited for anything. Much less will it take the focus away from my existence.”
The pointed words hung in the room like a light fixture. The truth of what Mila had said was uncontroverted. She’d not told them a single thing they hadn’t known. And yet, she realized that perhaps no one had ever expressed the facts so directly and without a spoonful of sugar coating.
With unwavering eye contact, the governor and Mila stared at each other. Sweat collected at the base of her spine, but Mila didn’t so much as shift her weight to ease the pain in the balls of her feet caused by new pumps she hadn’t broken in yet.
The room was so painfully silent, Mila wondered if perhaps she was experiencing some bout of hysterical deafness. And then the marble of the governor’s face creased on one side and Mila expelled the breath she hadn’t noticed she was holding.
“Thank you for that very informative postmortem on my election,” she said with a practiced grin. No one else in her line of sight dared to change their horrified expression to match. “Do you have a suggestion? Or do you wish to go on with your observations?”
Mila returned some of the moisture to her mouth before speaking. “This weekend the arts district is closing down the streets to turn the entire area into a massive carnival—”
The man near the coffee interrupted. “Oh, that’s her groundbreaking idea, clowns and—”
Undeterred, Mila projected her voice to drown him out. “To raise money for the conversion of one of the empty warehouses into one hundred and twenty-five studios affording transitional housing to homeless youth. I believe the main floor will offer access to computers, training, health services, and other resources.”
“The cost of something like that would be astronomical,” a woman scoffed. “There’s no way they can raise that kind of money with ring tosses and balloon darts.”
Without shifting her gaze away from the governor, Mila responded. “Can you imagine how much attention your presence would bring to their mission? It’s completely charity based, no public funding, and who can find fault with the apolitical cause? When you were mayor, you focused a lot of your attention on children. That played very well on a bipartisan level. My suggestion is that you go back to those roots and do something that will make a difference to real people living in your backyard. Plus, Blankenship can’t ridicule this without looking like a complete tool.”
When she finished, Mila took her time sitting down before crossing one numb leg over the other.
“Great contributions, team. It looks like we’ve run over time.” Josephine sprang from her seat as she addressed the room. “We will send out a memo this afternoon announcing what event the gov—”
“I hope to see you all in attendance at the carnival this weekend,” Governor Fernandez interrupted with a hand on Josephine’s padded shoulder. “Bring your friends and family,” she added with a smile, “and be ready to have some fun for a good cause.” She turned on her heels and disappeared through the paneled door.
Uninvited and the last to leave, Tim and Mila were the only two left when the room emptied in fifteen seconds flat.
“Holy smokes,” he muttered under his breath, large hands gripping his knees as if trying to keep his legs under him.
Her adrenaline was pumping so hard it formed an overinflated balloon in her throat. She wanted to shrug and play it off like nothing of note had happened, but it was impossible. Instead, she nodded and forced herself to her feet.
* * *
“This is so cool!” Tim explained as he clipped a metal contraption to his belt. Shouting over the loud music, hundreds of conversations, and candy-filled children, he continued. “It shoots out change,” he added as he pressed a lever on one of the four cylinders and produced a quarter, holding it up like an uncle pulled it out of his ear.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” Mila replied with the hint of a smile.
“I’m not spending it,” he said, offense prominent on his face. “It’s for the fundraiser. They’re going for a low-tech vibe,” he explained, as if she hadn’t been the one to facilitate his participation in the charity event.
“The 1920s were a little early for Apple Pay, I guess,” she added with a wink and good-natured slap to his arm.
“Hey, don’t crumple me up,” he complained, arranging the garter band around his long-sleeved white shirt. “I couldn’t find an authentic one on short notice, so my grandma made it for me.”
“It looks great,” Mila offered, trying her best not to laugh at his very serious distress over the jostling of his costume. His look, complete with slicked down hair and red bowtie, matched the red sashes around his biceps. “I’ll see you later,” she added before setting off toward the end of the row.
Moving slowly behind the throng, she admired the work that had been put into the transformation. The theme, Roar for our Youth, had been a huge crowd pleaser. As if any of her artsy neighbors needed any excuse to dress in period costumes. Mila herself enjoyed what her tailor had created. The slim fit of the vertical black-and-white striped pants and tight red vest with nothing underneath, coupled with a black satin top hat, completed a sexy but tasteful ensemble. Red lips and black eyeshadow added drama to her look.
The streets were painted with incredible chalk murals in the style of sideshow posters, but with portraits of the kids and their hidden talents like yodeling, juggling, and fast crossword puzzling. As she passed the storefronts that had been covered with colorful booths lining the sidewalks, excitement flooded her senses.
“There she is!” a man with a handlebar mustache, blue swimsuit, and boater hat greeted her excitedly as he finished assembling a tower of metal bottles.
From behind the group waiting to take their turn at knocking down the newly arranged stack, Mila craned her neck and asked, “Where do you want me?”
“Don’t let my husband hear that,” he joked before handing three small balls to a lady in exchange for a handful of bills. “How about the dunk tank? I think they need someone to take over for the afternoon.”
Mila nodded before wedging herself through the crowd and venturing deeper into the sweaty horde. By the time she arrived at the big blue plastic tank with a window on the front, the clear water in the tank looked refreshing.
“The next victim!” a thin guy in striped shorts and a tank top called down from his preca
rious perch over the water. He ran his fingers through his dry undercut before climbing over the side of the fence protecting him from wayward baseballs.
“Looks like it,” Mila joked as she glanced up at the little metal seat a few feet above the tank. “How bad is it?”
“I don’t know,” he replied as he tossed a towel over his shoulder. “No one managed to hit that thing. I’m starting to suspect it’s broken,” he added, pointing to the small red target in front of a loose net. “One guy spent a hundred bucks. He was so pissed.”
Like an exotic feline, Mila climbed up the little ladder and stretched her muscular legs over the fence to balance herself like a bird on a wire.
I should have worn more sunscreen, she thought as her reddening shoulders burned. The vest would not leave flattering tan lines.
Mila crossed one leg over the other and gave the appearance that the hot metal disk serving as her seat was the most comfortable spot in the world. Within seconds, a line formed behind the ticket-taker, who took the handfuls of cash enthusiastically.
From thirty feet away, person after person missed the two-inch round lever that would send her tumbling into the cool water below. As the afternoon heat grew more intense, Mila wished someone would hit the damn thing head-on. Glancing blows hadn’t been enough to trigger the seat to release from its locked position. She was starting to agree the game was rigged.
“Governor Fernandez!” Mila yelled when she spotted a black cap in the middle of a sea of blue police uniforms. There was no doubt as to who they were escorting.
Her call caused a wide-brimmed sunhat to stop and turn. It took Josephine a moment to detect the source of the sound, but when her eyes finally found Mila, she smiled.
“Take a chance for charity!” Mila called again, this time getting the attention of the black cap. The governor grinned politely before turning back to her original path.
“Come on, Governor!” the ticket-taker shouted. “This is the biggest money maker here today. Won’t you make a contribution to the kids?”
When the crowd echoed for the kids, she was forced to turn back and give them more than the wave she’d previously offered.
“I’m sure there’s someone with a better arm than me!” she called in apparent hopes of appeasing the crowd.
“Even better!” someone replied. “If you suck, it’ll mean that much more money for the homeless kids!”
The observation was met with raucous cheers and encouragement. Mila watched the governor’s face like a hawk. She saw the exact moment the perpetually composed woman accepted her fate. The change was so slight, little more than a few muscle twitches in her forehead and cheeks, but it was like the slipping on of a well-worn mask. She whispered to one of the police officers in front of her, and in a moment, they were moving like a unit toward the dunk tank.
“You can have my place in line,” a man with a visor said as he stepped aside for the entourage.
“Very gracious of you,” she said, her smile bright and false. Josephine handed over a ten-dollar bill while one of the staffers snapped a picture of the governor winding up with baseball in hand.
Mila reflexively gripped the bottom of the seat as if that would save her from the undignified dunk. It’s for a good cause, she reminded herself, as the crowd grew larger and more cellphones came out to memorialize the events.
When Governor Fernandez’s first pitch sailed a foot above the target, Mila let out a deep breath.
“It’s not my lucky day,” the governor said to the crowd, continuing to avoid eye contact with Mila, who’s bright blue eyes, sparkling from the sun, were peering down at her with unwavering interest.
“You can’t give up that easily!” a little boy said from next to one of the guarding officers. “It takes a little practice,” he insisted.
The governor’s smile was tighter than before. The mask was slipping under the midday heat and judgment of so many eyes. With a little more coaxing and encouragement, she acquiesced again. Three more balls missed their target, but the crowd only grew more encouraging with each failed attempt.
“It’s really hot up here,” Mila said when the governor looked like she’d had enough. “It would be really great to take a dip, but it looks like you’re better at talking than doing,” she heckled as she peeled off her top hat and threw back her head to shake out her straight hair, made frizzy by the humidity of her own sweat.
Governor Fernandez couldn’t ignore her then, shooting her an icy stare before glancing at Josephine and offering a tiny nod. For her part, Josephine tried to remain expressionless as she paid for another baseball, but Mila caught the hint of a grin.
After another ball found the safety net, Mila made a show of stretching out to the side as if basking lazily in the warm rays. From the corner of her eye, she saw the olive-skinned woman’s jaw tighten as she gritted her teeth. The crowd multiplied as people held up money, offering to dunk her on the governor’s behalf.
Mila smiled as she repositioned herself. She’d easily raise a few hundred bucks in fifteen minutes at that rate.
“Come on, tap into those Cuban roots!” someone shouted.
“You can do it!” encouraged another.
The governor’s expression turned sinister as she pulled down her cap and dried her left hand on the material of her jeans. With a last look at Mila, she looked at the target with focused intensity.
Oh, crap, Mila thought as her forehead creased and her stare became deadly. With the practiced form of a major league pitcher, the governor moved with lightning speed as she hurled the ball at the target. The sound of the metal clang reverberated in Mila’s ears before the seat slipped out from under her and the sizzling heat of her skin was cooled with a thousand gallons of water.
When she emerged from the tank, hair slicked back and dripping with water, the crowd was losing its collective mind. The state police struggled to keep the excited group back as people tried to reach in for back slaps and high-fives. The governor’s eyes were glistening with self-satisfaction when she glanced at Mila, who’d hoisted herself back to her seat. Without giving it any thought, Mila met her gaze with a wink and lopsided red smile.
* * *
“That girl is absolutely infuriating,” George complained as she climbed into the back of the black SUV, throwing off her hat and untucking her stuffy blue polo with the state seal emblazoned on one side.
“Well,” Josephine replied as she looked down at her phone. “The image already has more likes than anything we’ve posted in a month,” she said, turning her phone over for her to see. “Looks like we’re at three thousand, and we’re usually lucky to break three hundred.”
George hardly spared it a glance. She didn’t want to see herself throwing a baseball. It would only be a matter of time before it was manipulated in some way to mock her.
“She’s so damn brash and brazen,” George continued, grumbling as she blasted herself with air conditioning. “It’s bad enough we had to come to this thing today. I mean, who plans anything in the afternoon when it’s still ninety degrees outside?”
“It was a good idea,” Jo said. “Definitely better than anything else going on this weekend. Who can take issue with needy kids?”
“And then calling me out like that. Who does she think she is?” George complained, barely aware of Josephine’s words. “It’s fine to have the photo op, but it’s like she wasn’t going to be satisfied until I dunked her in that meningitis Petri dish! What did she want? The news to get a whiff of it? How great is that going to look when they talk about it? Vindictive Governor Engages in Water Torture of Husband’s Stripping Mistress,” she said as if she were gesturing over a marquee.
“The lady doth protest too much, me thinks,” Josephine murmured as she swallowed her smirk. “Listen, it was all in good fun, and now no one can accuse you of having given her the fellowship just to keep her under wraps,” she added, her sights on the bright side as usual.
“Oh no, they sure as hell can’t even accuse me
of keeping a low profile,” she grumbled before dropping her head back into the seat in a sign of surrender. “Why can’t she just go with the flow?” George asked, unable to understand why the woman appeared intent on challenging her every time she had the misfortune of sharing space with her. “What have I done to draw all this ire from her? I gave her a great opportunity, and she has only responded with contempt. She knows I can’t fire her and she’s using it to drive me insane!”
“Or,” Josephine started after a beat, “she was trying to get as much mileage out of that interaction today and raise a good deal of money.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s the excuse for the meeting this week and her disdain for rules and authority?” George shot back with unrestrained frustration. If that Mila person were anyone else, she would have fired her weeks ago. She was not a fan of limitations or debts.
“You could also just see her as a strong-willed, ambitious woman who wants to make the most of her experience and doesn’t want to waste her fellowship year doing glorified data entry. She’s not unlike a girl I once knew,” Josephine countered with a shrug as if asking pizza or Chinese tonight?
A bolt of lightning ricocheted through George’s body before finding an exit point through her pupils. “I was nothing like her,” she managed when the offense had cleared her throat and afforded her the ability to speak once more. “I have never been such a—”
“Such a determined and relentless pursuer of your goals with aspirations bigger than your circumstances?” Josephine laughed as she interrupted her oldest friend. “Maybe you can tell that to someone else, but not to the person who’s known you since you were seventeen-year-old Georgie Fernandez,” she said with a chuckle. “You were exactly like that. Pushy, opinionated, and yes, brash and brazen too.”
George crossed her arms over her chest and glowered. “I would never have taunted a sitting politician at a charity event for homeless children,” she insisted in an effort to have the last word. There was no way the comparison was going to ride all the way home with them. She had to push it out.