Imaginary Enemy

by Julie Gonzalez

  “You’ll know,” said Carmella. “You’ll turn green. And your stomach will lurch.”

  “She doesn’t know anything. You won’t turn green,” I said. “But this dinner is going to be good and you won’t get food poisoning,”

  “How far is it to the hospital, Mom? Just in case? Can you get me there in time?”

  “Enough, Zander,” said Dad. “Looks delicious, Janie.” He sounded like he had reservations.

  “Smells safe,” admitted Carmella tentatively.

  “I can’t believe you people!” I exclaimed.

  “Hey, this is good,” said Zander in shock after taking a bite.

  “What did you expect?” I asked, but I was relieved that he was eating and couldn’t answer.

  I sat in my computer tech class, ignoring both my teacher and the keyboard. Instead, I text-messaged Emma (who was sitting across the room banging away at the keys like a concert pianist) to remind her that we were supposed to meet some other kids at the bookstore after school. I personally thought the bookstore was a strange place to hang out, but that was the plan, and I wasn’t about to get left out simply because I wasn’t exactly bookish. “Besides,” Madison had assured me, “last time we listened to music the whole afternoon, remember?”

  “Emma,” I whispered, trying to get her attention, and signaled her to check her messages. She glared at me and kept working. Sometimes Emma exasperated me. For over three years I had tried, without success, to influence her with my slacker mentality. She didn’t comprehend how much easier life could be without such an overblown work ethic.

  I met her at the door when the bell rang. “Why’d you ignore me?”

  “I was working. Doing the assignment, which I know you didn’t do.”

  “I did part of it.”

  “You’re not even a real slacker,” she said, hitting me at the core of my being.

  “What?”

  “You do expend energy—tons of it—on stuff. You just pick useless things like text-messaging me about the same thing six”—she checked her cell—“make that seven times in one day. A real slacker wouldn’t bother repeating herself.”

  I felt like I’d been slapped. All these years I’d carefully cultivated an image that she was now calling a sham. I gaped at her, unsure how to respond.

  She grinned. “You know I’m right.”

  Was she?

  “See you after school. Bye, Jane.” She walked away, and I knew she’d won that round.

  Dear Bubba,

  What does an overachiever like Emma know about the basic tenets of slackerism? Nothing, that’s what. Emma’s my best friend and I’m grateful to have her in my life, but sometimes I wish she’d loosen up and live a little. I mean, what kind of person would stay home and study for a biology test when she could be at the movies with Madison, Samantha, and me? That’s just not normal behavior. She needs to learn to prioritize.

  Complacently,

  Gabriel

  The Entrepreneur

  “Janie,” my father said when he sat down.

  “Yeah, Dad?” I clicked the remote, changing the channel to Iron Chef, my current favorite show.

  “You interested in making some cash?”

  “Doing what?” I hoped it was nothing too strenuous. As a slacker (I still claimed that title, in spite of Emma’s declaration), I am a firm believer in energy conservation, especially when it comes to my energy.

  Dad crossed his arms. “At least give me the courtesy of turning off the TV and looking at me.”

  I reluctantly punched the Power button. The secret ingredient on this episode was grouper, which our freezer was packed with after my father and Uncle Grayson’s last fishing trip on the Annika Elise. “What’s up, Dad?”

  “There’s a tournament at the marina on the twenty-second. Thought I had everything covered, but apparently there was a communication breakdown. Mr. Castle, who usually brings in his trailer, is already committed to the swap meet at the fairgrounds. I’m not sure I can get someone else on such late notice.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Grill hot dogs, hamburgers. Maybe sell drinks and chips. Nothing fancy.”

  “And you’d pay me? How much?” It was one of those Einstein E=mc2 deals. Income – (output + energy spent) = net gains or losses. For me to commit, the gains had to be significant and risk free.

  “I’ll buy the products. You cook them and sell them. Pay me back what I fronted and you keep the rest. Although you’ll probably need help, so you’ll have to split it with your partner. I thought Zander could join you.”

  “Zander?” That was something I hadn’t written in to the equation. Another drain on energy expenditure—a huge one.

  “It’s a big event. You could make some decent money.”

  “Yeah, maybe. What if we don’t sell enough to cover your expenses? We get nothing?”

  “We’ll work it out. Calculate a fair wage based on what you do sell. But we’ve hosted this tournament for years, so I doubt that will be an issue.”

  “If Zander’ll help, I’ll do it,” I agreed with some reluctance. “Emma’s got a soccer meet in Orlando that weekend anyhow.”

  Sharp was loading Elliot’s van with some equipment. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Elliot and I are going out to Sage Creek. He wants to record the wind in the saw grass and the water flowing over the stones. Stuff like that.”

  “You still do that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doesn’t it get boring?”

  “No. It’s pretty exciting, actually.”

  “It’s kind of weird, you know. Regular people don’t do stuff like that.”

  “So what do regular people do?”

  “I don’t know…watch TV, eat, work, sleep. The usual.”

  “Well, that sounds pretty boring to me.” He shoved the last box of tangled wires into the back of the van and shut the doors. “See you later.”

  “Zander, I told you to chop the onions. We’re almost out.”

  “I will when I finish this, Jane. Don’t be so bossy.”

  I flipped the burgers on the grill. “You’re lucky I let you in on this deal. Dad asked me, you know.”

  Zander capped the jar of pickle relish and set the cutting board on the table. “I don’t see why I always get stuck chopping the onions.”

  “Quit your whining,” I snapped. My demeanor changed completely as a man approached. “Yes, sir, how can I help you?” I smiled like a model in a toothpaste ad.

  “Two cheeseburgers,” he said.

  When he paid me, I held his change over the tip jar on the table just long enough for him to get the message.

  “Score!” I said, nudging Zander as the man disappeared into the crowd. “I’m good at this.”

  “We’re good at this,” he corrected me, wiping away the tears streaming from his eyes. “And you’re doing the onions next time.”

  “You smell like a barbeque grill,” said Carmella, wrinkling her nose.

  “Go away. I’m taking a shower after we count our profits,” I said, raking a handful of quarters across the table. “Okay, Zander, we still owe Dad another fourteen dollars and eighty-seven cents.”

  “You’re paying him in all change?” asked Zander.

  “Don’t have enough change. We’ll have to give him some of these ones.”

  “But he probably doesn’t want all those loose coins.”

  “Money’s money,” I said, dumping Dad’s share into a vinyl bank bag.

  “So, Dad, when’s the next tournament?” I asked when I handed him the front money. The bag was quite heavy because of all the change rattling around inside.

  “We have one next month,” he said. “The Elks Lodge is raising money for St. Jude’s.”

  “Can Zander and I do the food again?”

  “You think it was worth it?”

  “Heck yeah. We each made two hundred twelve dollars. And eighteen cents.”

  “You should put s
ome of that in the bank. And put some aside for supplies for the next tournament.”

  “You could front us again.”

  He laughed and held up the bulging bank bag. “I don’t think so. I might need a dump truck to get this to the bank.”

  “Maybe I’ll add potato salad to the menu next time,” I said. “And brownies or cookies. I love to bake.”

  “Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” he warned.

  “Me?” I asked in disbelief. “I’d never do that.”

  Dad didn’t comment—he just grinned and started stacking quarters on the table.

  Electricity

  As tenth grade unfolded, I found myself so caught up with my friends, many of whom now had driver’s licenses, that I hardly saw the deMichaels—not even Jazz and Harmony, who spent about half their time at our house. I distanced myself from my own family, too. I dashed home to change clothes, slept there, and shared the occasional meal with them, but my focus was elsewhere.

  Sometimes, I felt an empty sort of loneliness—like my hours were filled but my essence wasn’t. It was as if some crucial wire had been disconnected, so that even though other wires were snaking their way into my system, without that essential wire, the current wasn’t as smooth as it should have been.

  On those lonesome days, the end of the pier next to the Annika Elise became my cocoon. I’d dangle my legs over the side and watch the bayou meander past and the birds overhead swoop and soar. Almost by accident, I came to relish the sound of the water lapping on the banks and the cries of the birds. I found the rustle of the wind in the reeds comforting. Oddly, at those times I felt close to Elliot and Sharp, whose obsession with sound defined them.

  I was with Emma and Madison at the music store when who should walk up but Chase McClusky. He still looked basically the same. He was wearing a navy blue blazer emblazoned with the coat of arms representing the private school he now attended. Sure, he was taller, and his face was more sculpted than it had been in eighth grade, but not radically so.

  He approached us with a big smile and wrapped his arm around me like we’d been the best of friends. He had someone with him—a kid who reminded me of Bryan Latham. “Jane, we sure had some great times back in the day, didn’t we?” Chase asked. The puzzled look on Emma’s face told me she was just as surprised as I was.

  “Hi, Chase,” said Madison.

  “Girl, you look fabulous,” he said. “Love what you’ve done with your hair.”

  Madison blushed and feathered her bangs with her fingers. “Thanks.”

  “This is Dylan,” he said, gesturing toward his friend. Then he swept his arm to include the three of us. “These beauties made middle school bearable. Emma, Jane, and…um…um…”

  “Madison,” said Emma, touching Madison’s forearm.

  “As in Madison Avenue,” laughed Chase, but no one else did, not even his pal, who seemed confused.

  I looked at Chase like he was a space alien. Suddenly, the hero-worship I had channeled his way all through middle school evaporated. This guy, who I’d built up to be some Adonis, was so impressed with himself he made me want to barf.

  “Hey, Jane, didn’t you have a fling with my man Bry somewhere along the line?”

  “No. You must be thinking of someone else,” I said.

  “But Jane—” Madison began.

  “Bryan was never my type,” I interrupted. “He tried too hard to be you, Chase.”

  Emma’s eyes got huge, and I saw her suppress a giggle. Madison simply looked lost, so I knew we’d have to explain it to her later.

  I glanced at my watch. “We’re late, ladies. Let’s go.”

  I marched out of the store, leaving Emma and Madison with no option but to follow me. We all burst into laughter and exchanged high fives as we headed for my mother’s car.

  “What was wrong with me?” I asked as we were pulling out of the parking lot. “I actually thought he was fabulous! He’s so pathetic.”

  “He’s still cute—you have to give him that,” said Madison.

  “Till he opens his mouth,” said Emma. “Too bad he doesn’t come with a Mute button.”

  “You rock, Emma,” I said, laughing.

  “Yay! I love chili,” said Carmella.

  “Put that spoon away. This isn’t for you. It’s for the tournament this weekend. Not expensive to make, but I can sell it for three dollars a bowl. Add fifty cents for garlic bread. Twenty-five cents for grated cheddar. Another fifty for cole slaw. It’s quite profitable. And it’s less labor intensive than hamburgers and hot dogs because all the cooking is done in advance. A big pot of chili is a worthwhile undertaking.”

  “So let me have one bowl,” she said.

  “For three dollars.”

  “Oh, come on, Jane.”

  “Okay then, I’ll give you the family discount. Two fifty.”

  “Just forget it.” She tossed her head and snatched a pear from the fruit bowl. “And for your information,” she added, “you spend so much time in the kitchen that you don’t know anything that goes on around here.”

  “Excuse me? That’s not your attitude when you’re grabbing a fork and digging into one of my creations.” I put the lid on the bubbling pot of chili. “Besides, nothing goes on around here.”

  “Yeah, what about Harmony and Zander?”

  “Harmony and Zander?”

  “She thinks he’s cute.”

  “He probably doesn’t even notice her.”

  “They played cards yesterday. Just the two of them.”

  “Oh brother. I guess that left you with Jazz, eh?”

  “Actually, I’ve got my eyes on someone else.”

  “Who?” The process of elimination took only a moment, considering the two twelve-years-olds were still homeschooled.

  “Jason Blackshire,” she announced smugly.

  “Jason Blackshire?”

  “You know…at the corner. He’s so nice, and he’s funny, too.”

  “That skinny kid?”

  “Lean, Jane, lean. Don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

  “There’s no such thing as a secret with you and Harmony around.”

  Renaissance Man

  “I love baseball season,” Emma said with a sigh. It was spring of tenth grade and we were sitting in the hot sun on the bleachers watching a scoreless baseball game.

  “Since when?” I asked.

  She grinned. “Since I started seeing Tony. When else?” Tony was an outfielder for the team. It had surprised me when Emma admitted to being attracted to him. I’d always imagined her hooking up with the chess club type, not a center fielder with an average IQ but fabulous shoulders. “He’s throwing a party tomorrow night. Wanna go?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  So there I was at Tony’s backyard bash, feeling awkward because the only person I knew well was Emma, and she was mostly occupied with Tony. I was talking to some kids when something hit my hand. “Yuck!” I cried as I dropped my drink, which splashed on my hand, jeans, and shoes. I turned around to see an orange Frisbee rolling across the grass.

  “Oops.” A dark-haired guy was standing a few yards away looking embarrassed. His smile was illuminating. I’d seen him around school and knew he was a junior, but I’d never met him. He picked up the Frisbee, then said, “Sorry,” rolling his Rs with a lyricism that charmed me to my toes.

  Tony laughed. “Raphael, you’re such a klutz.”

  Raphael (who I came to call Demonseed as our relationship regressed) had straight white teeth and eyes like black coffee. “Not all of us were born to be ballerinas” was his reply. Everyone laughed. He grabbed some napkins from the table and wiped my dripping hand, an act I found oddly intimate but not offensive. Tony made introductions, and somehow, by the time Emma and I were piling into her car, Raphael was holding my hand and making plans to see me the following night.

  My first evening with Demonseed was pretty standard. We went to a movie and for a bite to eat. But to me, it was anything but standard.
I thought he was the handsomest, funniest, nicest guy on earth. And he liked me!

  That night was the first time I’d been kissed since that awful graduation party where I allowed Bryan Latham to put his mouth on mine only because it was on my goal list. Raphael’s kiss was nothing like Bryan’s. This one sent sparks flying through me.

  For our second outing, along with Emma and Tony, we met a bunch of other kids at the bowling alley. I didn’t even have to be embarrassed about my pitiful bowling scores, because Rafael’s were worse than mine. Tony kept calling him Gutter Ball. Emma kept saying I was distracting him. The whole evening was very entertaining and I couldn’t wait to see Raphael again.

  Our third time out, I affectionately called Demonseed Rafi. “Raphael,” he said firmly. Turned out he was awfully vain about his name. “Raphael was one of the greatest artists of the Italian Renaissance.”

  “Raphael was also a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle—a hero on the half shell,” I replied, remembering the endless childhood hours I’d spent at the deMichaels’ watching their DVD collection of those sewer-dwelling turtles and fighting over who got to be which turtle when we played in their backyard. “And one of the archangels,” I added in tribute to the celestial companion of my alter ego, Gabriel.

  Demonseed laughed. “Either way, it’s Raphael, not Rafi, understand?”

  “Sure, I understand.” I started humming the theme song to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Raphael covered my mouth with his hand, then with his lips. Wow!

  Dear Bubba,

  I’d rather be named after a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle/archangel in heaven/Renaissance artist than some fossilized aunt who drools in her soup. Can I change my name to Donatello?

  Cowabunga, dude!

  Gabriel

  “Jane made cookies,” Zander said to the deMichael boys. “Her own special recipe.” He grabbed the platter from the counter and took it into the family room.