by Debra Diaz
Emily:
Give and Take
"Egg salad, again!" I moan as I remove the
mushy, warm sandwich from its plastic baggy. Egg
salad sandwich, potato chips, an apple and a Ding
Dong. The same lunch every day. Janine checks out
my lunch as she thoughtfully chews her bologna,
Frito and mayonnaise sandwich.
"Where’s Stacey?" I ask.
"In the cafeteria," Janine answers with mouth
half-full. "I’ll take the Ding Dong if you don’t want
it."
Janine, Stacey and I are nerds. I think that’s
why we’ve remained best friends for so long. Stacey,
who is tall, skinny and flatchested, wears a mouthful
of braces, and is tough and hardheaded. Sweet,
naive Janine is petite and curvy, has long, dishwater-
blonde hair that never seems to be washed often
enough, and wears glittery blue cat’s-eye glasses
that sit halfway down her nose. I’m tall and skinny
like Stacey and so backwardly shy that I don’t think
I’ve spoken up once in class this year. I think it is
our sympathy for each other that keeps us together.
"I hate those guys," Stacey whispers from
behind us as she slips her thin legs through the
metal table bench and plunks her lunch tray down
on the table. We follow her gaze to a nearby table
where Cheryl Mann, Marla Madigan, and the rest
of the pep-squad bunch gather for lunch.
"Well, you’re not alone," I answer.
"But they’re really nice. . .most of the time," Ja –
nine says in their defense.
"Yeah, most of the time," I sarcastically answer.
Stacey digs into her spaghetti and I watch her
gaze wander back to the nearby table.
"Stacey. Stacey!" I shout.
"What!" she snaps as she turns sharply toward
me.
"Why are you paying attention to them? You
don’t even like them!"
"I’m just watching! Just leave me alone, okay?"
I look at Janine, who shrugs her shoulders. I
pull out the second half of my sandwich.
"Hi."
Looking up from my lunch sack, I see a tall varsity-
jacketed Jeff Hauser towering above me.
"Hello," I answer.
"So I hear you’re in the Honor Club?" he asks.
"Yeah, so what?" I answer nervously.
"What else are you in?"
"Why do you want to know?" I ask.
"I just want to know if you’d like to run for student
body president, because I’d like to be your campaign
manager."
"Me?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Well, I know I don’t know you that well, but I
like you and I hear you’re really smart and are
involved in a lot of things like the yearbook and
sports. Stuff like that. And I think you’d make a
good president."
I glance at Stacey, who looks skeptical. Janine
sits wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
"Hmmm,. . ." I answer. "I think I have to think
about it."
"Okay. Well, let me know tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay."
Jeff joins his basketball friends, and together
they walk away in a pack towards the cafeteria. I
reach into my sack, pull out the Ding Dong, carefully
unwrap the foil cover and sink my teeth into the
spongy chocolate cake.
"What are you going to do?" asks Stacey.
"What do you think I should do?" I say faintly.
"I think you should do it. He wants to help you,"
Janine chirps.
"Yeah, but why does he want to help me?"
"There’s something disgusting about him,"
Stacey comments.
"I think he’s cute," says Janine.
"On the other hand, there’s a lot of things you
could do as president," adds Stacey.
"Like what?"
"Shorten the cafeteria line. Let girls wear pants
to school. . ."
Janine cuts in, "Get better equipment for the
girls hockey team, abolish P.E. showers. . . ."
I jump in, "Longer lunch periods, shorter classes
and make cheerleading illegal!"
Janine, Stacey and I explode in laughter.
"Well, at least I could try, right?"
"Right," they answer.
"Mom."
"Yes."
"What do you think of me running for president
of Lincoln Junior High School."
"M’ija, I think you should do anything you want
to do."
"No, Mom," I say exasperatingly. "I’m asking if
you think it will be a good idea for me to do it."
"If that’s what you want to do."
That’s not what I want to hear, but that’s the
way Mom is. It’s always "Whatever makes you
happy m’ija." I want her to tell me, yes, do it, it will
be good for you, or, NO, don’t do it, it’s a big mistake.
I want someone to tell me what to do. I get
tired of making all the decisions.
When I ask my sisters for advice, Gloria says do
it, Rita warns me to stop bothering her, and Laura
says I should run for cheerleader instead. I don’t
ask Dad.
I decide to run. I say yes to Jeff, and immediately
he’s making plans.
"We have one week to campaign, then next
Monday we give our speeches and later that day we
vote. On Tuesday, you’ll be president. We need to
start now. We need posters, banners, handbills, rallies.
. ."
I beg Mom for money to buy art supplies.
Together Stacey, Janine and I create ten posters,
three ten-foot butcher-paper banners and one hundred
mimeographed handbills. During breaks and
lunch periods, Jeff stands on a table in the lunch
plaza and gives speeches praising my qualifications
and promising I’ll make a great president. He’s cute
and funny and everybody loves him. He’s so good he
sells me on myself. Still, every now and then I wonder
why he’s doing this.
Monday arrives and I am terrified. The students
fill the amphitheater. Jeff gives a funny introductory
speech and then it’s my turn. I stand and
nervously read my short speech from carefully written
index cards. And then it is over. The students go
wild and give both of us a standing ovation. I return
to my seat and collapse against Janine and Stacey.
They tell me I did good. Somehow, something
doesn’t feel right.
The following morning, during homeroom, the
winners are announced. I am named president.
At break I track down Ellen Hauser, Jeff ’s
younger sister and a friend of mine from elementary
school. I find her out near the back of the school,
sneaking a cigarette with her girlfriends.
"Hi, can I talk to you for a second?" I ask her.
"Sure, hey, congratulations on winning."
"Thanks," I say quickly. Ellen has always been
nice to me. With her pudgy body and too-loud laugh,
she is kind of an outcast herself.
We walk away from the group and I blurt out,
"Ellen, why did Jeff help me win?"
"What do you mean? He was your campaign
manager; he wanted you to win," she answers.
"No! Why did he ask me to run, why did he
want me to win?"
"That’s a stupid question. Didn’t you want to
win?"
"Yeah, but . . . I mean, he didn’t even know me.
And I’m not really a part of that crowd, you know."
I look at her and I remember the chubby first
grader who was out half the school year with pneumonia.
She never really seemed to catch up after
that.
"Please, Ellen," I plead, "you know what I
mean."
She looks down at her unlaced sneaker and
gives in.
"Well, I don’t know why, but Jeff really hates
this school and he wanted to mess with it and leave
it in bad shape. Electing a Mexican girl president
was one way of doing it. But you know, I don’t know,
it seems like he kind of got to like you, and after
that he campaigned because he wanted to. Jeff likes
to win. I don’t know, he’s my brother, but he can be
kind of a jerk sometimes."
I run out into the baseball field, feeling
ashamed and angry and stupid. I hate him. I stop in
the middle of center field and sit down and cry. How
can I face them? I’m a joke. My mind races. Maybe I
can quit. Or maybe I’ll transfer out. I lie on the cool
grass and close my eyes wishing I could disappear
and never see any of these people again. Instead I
see the whole amphitheatre in front of me, filled
with laughing and jeering faces. In the distance, I
hear the the first bell ring and I will my body to
leave, float up into the air and fly far away. Feeling
lighter and lighter, I open my eyes and see below me
the playing fields and the tops of the school buildings.
Then the tardy bell rings, loud and shrill, and
I’m down on the field again. Wiping my eyes with
the back of my hand, I shake the grass off my dress
and reluctantly head back towards class. As I walk
down the hallway, students warmly congratulate me
and suddenly it hits me—it doesn’t really matter.
Jeff will graduate in two weeks and be gone forever.
People voted for me and I won. I guess we both got
what we wanted. I was not only going to be president,
I was going to be a good one.
(THE RED CAMP is reprinted with permission from the publisher of The Red Camp by Debra Diaz (University of Houston – Arte Público Press, 1996) to buy a copy of THE RED CAMP, go to their website at http://www.arte.uh.edu/view_book.aspx?isbn=1558851690)