Your Own Worst Enemy

by Gordon Jack

  Almost simultaneously, the front doorbell rang. Tony was confused. Were his parents home already? Why would they be ringing the doorbell? And since when do airport cabs broadcast Chinese news?

  Tony opened the door and saw Doug and his white friends standing on his porch with alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

  “Ready to celebrate?” Doug asked, stepping over the threshold. Before Tony knew it, the guys had stormed into his kitchen and were shoving bags of ice into his freezer.

  They were followed by a steady stream of kids Tony only half recognized. Most of them jokingly congratulated him on his victory. “Not my problem!” a number of seniors said after high-fiving him. A few admitted that they hadn’t voted for him, but were happy to move past the acrimony of the election and focus on more important things like prom and grad night.

  In the span of a few hours, Tony’s house filled up with drunk teenagers who danced on his parents’ Ming ivory rug and threw up in the guest bathroom. This party was just like the election—something that had taken on a life of its own until Tony felt powerless to stop it.

  In the midst of all the mayhem, two guys who Tony had never seen before walked up and introduced themselves.

  “I’m James, your vice president,” the tall, skinny black guy said. Tony decided to call him Bow Tie.

  “I’m Brian,” the other guy said. He looked familiar, kind of like Mohawk, only with neatly parted hair. He wore a light blue polo and khakis, almost like he had dressed up for the party, not knowing that most people wore clothes they were fine barfing on.

  “Nice to meet you,” Tony said, looking at the crowds crammed into his kitchen. “You should get a drink.”

  “That’s okay,” the guy said. Tony had already forgotten his name. Was it Brain? He looked smart. Tony decided to call him Brain.

  A girl bounced into Tony, nearly knocking him over. “Watch it, bozo,” she slurred, and stumbled off.

  Tony turned back to Brain and Bow Tie and rolled his eyes. He wondered if they were a couple. They’d be cute together, he decided, like those dudes on that TV show The Big Bang Theory.

  “I’m excited to work with you next year,” Bow Tie said, patting his hands together in rapid, tiny claps. “We’ve got quite the agenda.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tony asked. Off in the distance, he saw a dude pressing his butt against the kitchen’s sliding glass door to moon a group of girls standing outside.

  “The ASB is really going to pump up the volume at the spirit rallies,” Brain said.

  “Those things are lame,” Tony said.

  “I know, right?” Bow Tie said. “That’s why were so excited to have you as our new emcee.”

  “Emcee?”

  “Yeah. You do know the ASB president is like the master of ceremonies at every rally, spirit competition, and cultural celebration.”

  “I did not know that.” If one more person hangs from that chandelier, it’s going to come down, Tony thought, turning his attention to the living room.

  “Next year we’re doing something I think you’re going to be really excited about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know the show So You Think You Can Dance? Well, that’s going to be the theme of every assembly. You and a partner will compete against other school leaders to see who will reign supreme on the dance floor.”

  “I am not going to do that,” Tony said.

  “It’s too late,” Bow Tie said. “We’ve already voted to make it happen. We’ve got this great dance instructor, Alonso, who’s going to be working with us all year long. You’re going to love him.”

  “James does a mean rhumba,” Brain said. “You better start practicing.”

  “I just wanted to bring chocolate milk back to the cafeteria.”

  “Oh, that’s taken care of,” Bow Tie said, swatting Tony’s signature issue away like a pesky fly. “My dad’s on the school board, and I got him to reverse his decision. Turns out milk sales plummeted when kids were just offered unflavored. So, problem solved.”

  “Now you can focus all your energies on the cha-cha-cha,” Brain said.

  “No, I’m out,” Tony said.

  “You can’t quit,” Bow Tie said.

  “The principal will never accept your resignation,” Brain said.

  “Tough shit.”

  “You could force her to get rid of you,” Brain said. “Like Stacey did.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl who drop-kicked you today at brunch.”

  “Yeah, how do I get her to fire me?”

  Bow Tie looked over at the girl drinking out of the fish tank. “If she finds out you were serving liquor to minors, that would do the trick,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This party?” Brain said. “How many of your guests can drink legally?”

  “Ha! You serious?” Then it hit Tony. He should call the cops on his own party! That would get him in enough trouble to have the principal fire him. He was ready for these people to leave him alone anyway. He had had enough of them invading his space and making disgusting mixed drinks with his chocolate milk.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he told the two guys standing in front of him with oddly impatient expressions. He pulled out his phone from his back pocket and dialed 911. “I’d like to report a party,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, that’s not an emergency matter.”

  “The kids are drinking lots of alcohol,” Tony said.

  “And lighting fireworks,” Bow Tie whispered.

  “And lighting fireworks,” Tony repeated.

  “Near the fertilizer bins,” Brain whispered.

  “Near the fertilizer bins,” Tony repeated.

  “And paint-thinner storage facility,” Bow Tie whispered.

  “And paint-thinner storage facility,” Tony repeated.

  A few seconds later, Tony hung up the phone.

  “Done,” he said. “If I were you, I’d leave now.”

  New Administration

  Epilogue

  7 MONTHS AFTER ELECTION DAY

  “IF WE OFFER a Spanish literature class, don’t we need to offer other culturally specific classes as well?” someone in the back of the room asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Stacey said. “We’re responding to demand. We don’t have enough Russians to support a Russian literature class.”

  “So the largest clubs get to decide which electives the school offers? That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “The admin asked us to gather student input,” Julia said. “The LSU overwhelmingly voted for this class.”

  “The GSA wants a LGBT history class,” Brian said. “Why isn’t that on our list of proposals?”

  “Because there are only five people in the Gay-Straight Alliance,” Stacey said. “And they teach The Color Purple in American lit.”

  “One book!” Brian said, punctuating the point by raising his index finger to the sky.

  “There’s not one Latino author in the entire curriculum,” Jenny said. “We deserve this.”

  A general murmur rose among the students in the class. They had been debating this for two weeks, and they had only eliminated seven of the proposed electives. The administration asked the leadership class to give them a list of five, and there were still eleven written on the whiteboard. Brian looked over at Ms. Callahan, their adviser, but she wasn’t getting involved. She preferred to let the students “manage the debate” and only stepped in to remind them of class protocols if necessary.

  “What if we change Spanish literature to Ethnic Studies?” Stacey suggested. “That would appeal to a broader group of students.”

  “I worry the curriculum might be too shallow,” Julia said. “If we try to cover all ethnicities, students won’t learn much about any of them.”

  “Not necessarily,” Stacey said. “I think it depends on the teacher.”

  “Who’s teaching these classes anyway?” Priya asked. “Do we get a say in that?”

 
“I can talk to admin,” Stacey said. “But they usually like to control staffing.”

  “Tell them we want Ms. Dunlap,” Priya said. “She never assigns homework.”

  “This raises a good point,” Ms. Callahan said. “You may not have any say in who gets hired. But you could encourage the administration to consider important factors when making their decision.”

  “Like what?” Priya asked.

  “Like do we want the teacher of the Ethnic Studies class to be white,” Julia said.

  “Are you saying a white teacher can’t teach an Ethnic Studies class?” Stacey asked.

  “I’m just saying, a teacher of color will bring a different perspective.”

  Brian leaned over to Cindy Po and whispered, “Here we go again.” Stacey and Julia didn’t agree on much and often used up class time defending their positions. Already this year, they fought over the new homework policy (Stacey thought AP classes should be exempt from the new time restrictions; Julia did not) and compost bins (Stacey wanted more bins around the campus; Julia wanted the cafeteria to switch to biodegradable plates and cups).

  Their differences kept the new leadership class interesting, and always led to richer debates about what was better for the school. This is what Stacey and Julia promised when they promoted the new elective in May of the last school year. “You don’t have to get elected,” they told students in the classes they visited. “You just have to want to get involved.” After all the drama of the spring election, people did want to get involved, and the counselors actually had to turn kids away when the class became overenrolled. Now there was talk of adding another section, although Brian wondered if the class would be as interesting without Stacey and Julia in it. Somehow, they found the perfect balance of discussion and decision-making to make every student feel they were making a positive difference.

  Brian also liked that he didn’t have to get people “psyched” for homecoming. School spirit still fell under the ASB’s responsibility, and they did a good job with their event planning, especially with James as president. After Tony was suspended, James took over and implemented his own reforms, including making homecoming court more diverse by having nominations come through clubs rather than class council. The king and queen this year were James and a girl from the LSU. They both wore tiaras.

  Brian took Julia to the dance, and Stacey went with a bunch of girlfriends, even though she’d been asked by a few guys, including Tony. He waited for Stacey to wander into the parking lot, then did a slow drive by with the message, Don’t fight me on this, girl. Let’s go to prom. painted on his Mercedes. When Stacey politely declined, he circled the lot a few times before finally getting a date. When the captain of the girls’ volleyball team saw the message, she squealed in delight and did a mock striptease on the hood. They’ve been together ever since.

  The bell rang, dismissing students from seventh period. Ms. Callahan reminded everyone to vote on the remaining elective choices by tonight since the deadline for submitting them to the administration was this Friday.

  “Where are you guys headed?” Stacey asked, zipping up her jacket. The warmth of their Indian summer had disappeared last week, replaced by crisper fall temperatures.

  “To the Tea House,” Julia said. “Wanna come?”

  “We could use your help narrowing down some of these college choices,” Brian said. Applications were due in a few weeks, and Brian still had more than twenty schools on his short list.

  “Think I’ll pass,” Stacey said. “Julia, where are you applying to?”

  “McGill University,” she said. “It’s in Montreal.”

  “Well, then, Brian, you should go to Middlebury.”

  “It’s on my list!” Brian said. “But it’s just so cold in Vermont. I’m freezing now and it’s only sixty-one degrees outside.”

  “I’ll keep you warm,” Julia said, snuggling up next him.

  “Ugh,” Stacey said, sticking a finger down her throat. “You guys are worse than my mom and Mr. Park.”

  “Shouldn’t you be calling him Dad by now?” Brian teased.

  “Never,” Stacey said. “I nearly bit my tongue in half when the minister asked if anyone objected to their union.”

  “I thought I saw you tear up on the wedding video,” Julia said. “You looked overcome with emotion.”

  “A little passive-aggressive of your dad to fly that drone in low during the exchange of vows,” Brian said.

  “Mom was the one who wanted the ceremony recorded,” Stacey said, smiling. “How was Dad supposed to know the drone would show up in practically every shot the wedding photographer took?”

  “The surveillance looks like she’s getting married in North Korea,” Brian said, laughing at the memory of the photo Stacey shared just after the ceremony. Stacey’s mom and Mr. Park are standing under a canopy of flowers. Just behind the minister’s head is the drone, hovering like some gigantic mosquito ready to suck the blood out of all three of them.

  “Actually, I think it’s great that Dad has finally moved on to the anger stage of grieving,” Stacey said. “That means he’s healing.”

  The sky was overcast and gray as they left the classroom. The news had predicted rain all week, but so far not a single drop fell from the sky. On their way to the bike racks, Brian saw his brother skateboarding through the parking lot, slaloming through the stalled cars lined up to exit. Brian waved, but Kyle either didn’t see or ignored him. That was okay. He was trying to be nicer to his little brother, both at school and at home. So far, it hadn’t made a dent in the wall of silence Kyle had erected between them. Kyle had taken Tony’s suspension and subsequent loss of the presidency pretty hard and retreated farther into his room than before. Brian figured his brother was channeling his rage about the “rigged system” into various chat rooms and social media platforms. Whenever someone reposted a hateful message or comment, Brian had to wonder if his brother was responsible for the anonymous post. It would catch up to him one day, Brian thought. Even the best trolls can’t stay hidden forever.

  Brian, Julia, and Stacey squeezed into the fenced-off area of the bike racks, along with the freshmen and sophomores at the school. Some boy holding a longboard the length of his body nearly decapitated Julia when he turned around.

  “Watch it, dude,” Brian said. The skater reminded Brian of Kyle, only this guy had a mop of red hair and freckles. Still, he and Kyle shared the same nervous energy that the board seemed perfect for channeling.

  “It’s too crowded in here,” Stacey said, shifting the blame away from the boy and onto the environment.

  “Hello? That’s what I’ve been telling you,” Julia said. “We need to expand the space.”

  “But where? The student lot already has a wait list for parking permits.”

  “Let the motorists find street parking, then,” Julia said. “We should be rewarding those getting out of their cars, not into them.”

  “I just don’t think that’s practical,” Stacey said.

  “There you go, favoring the practical over the optimal.”

  “What if we gave the skateboarders their own storage space? We could build those racks anywhere. That might alleviate some of the crowding.”

  Brian looked at Stacey and smiled.

  “It never ends, does it?” he whispered.

  “No,” Stacey said. “It never does.”

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is a little like running for office. The author gets all the attention, but he or she would be nothing without the hard work and dedication of people working behind the scenes. If it weren’t for these amazing collaborators, I would be that obscure name on the ballot running on a platform of mandatory napping and dinner waffles.

  This book wouldn’t exist without the insight and encouragement of my editor, Karen Chaplin, the best campaign adviser I could ask for. She’s the one who suggested I write an election story and then helped me channel my feelings about the 2016 presidential election into something that
didn’t sound like a giant scream for help. Anything you like here is the result of her input; anything you hate is me ignoring her advice.

  Adriann Ranta Zurhellen is the best agent a writer could ask for. She’s so good, I continually ask myself when she is going to fire me. Surely her talents are better used on writers who don’t put murderous chickens and cows from outer space into their young adult novels.

  Sheila Grau always gets the earliest drafts of my books and still encourages me to keep writing. As my sister, she’s not obligated to be nice, but she always is, which is weird because when we were younger she used to pin me on the floor and threaten to spit into my mouth.

  Robie Spector and Poppy Livingstone worked with me throughout the process, providing ideas and feedback on the story and characters. Robie went so far as to invite me to her quinceañera party so I could better understand and appreciate the details of this cultural celebration.

  Megan Gee is a talented writer I discovered back when she was in high school. When she becomes famous, I plan to take all the credit for being her inspiration. She made time in her busy college life to provide feedback that helped me shape the characters and story in important ways.

  Lyn Fairchild Hawks is the best pen pal a writer could hope for. Thank you for continuing to swap drafts with me and for giving me such detailed and thoughtful feedback. Thanks too for always siding with me whenever someone criticizes my work.

  Anne Battle, Donna Tracey, and Susana Herrera read later drafts of the book and provided much-needed feedback and also talked me down from the ledge when I wanted to hurl myself and this book into the ocean. Kym Sites also helped me work through some psychological issues, both personally and for the characters in the book.

  This book looks as good as it does because of the talent and hard work of Laura Eckes. Thank you for creating the pretty icing on my election cupcake.

  I am so lucky to live in the Bay Area and have access to an amazing group of writers who looked at drafts and helped me see and correct flaws and errors. Rahul Kanakia, Mary Taugher, Eileen Bordy, Ann Gelder, Shelly King, Katy Motley, Beth Sears, Anita Felicelli, and Harriet Garfinkle make me a better writer by giving me access to their work and seeing how this should be done. Matthew Liu and Mariana Giron supplied me with some of my favorite lines here and didn’t even need to be bribed with candy to help out.