Sixteen-year-old Ernesto Sandoval was buying an apple from the vending machine at Cesar Chavez High School when Carmen Ibarra came running up to him. She was a good friend of Ernesto’s, but she wasn’t his girlfriend. Naomi Martinez was the girl Ernesto loved.
“Ernie! Ernie! Ernie!” Carmen yelled. “My dad is running for city council!”
Ernesto smiled. Carmen could talk more and louder than anybody else he knew. She was very excitable. Everybody liked Carmen because she had your back when you were in trouble.
“That’s great, Carmen,” Ernesto said. “We need a good person in there.”
Emilio Zapata Ibarra, Carmen’s father, was a larger-than-life character. At Carmen’s parties, he wore a plastic sheriff’s badge from a cereal box. But nearly all his neighbors had stories of when he reached out to them with advice, money, or comfort in times of need. Ibarra defended the streets from gangbangers and drug dealers. He worked with veterans’ organizations and programs for the homeless, seniors, and teenagers.
“Yeah,” Carmen went on, “the guy who’s in there now, that Monte Esposito, he’s a big bag of wind. He likes to get on television and talk about all his big plans, but he doesn’t do anything. He’s been in almost ten years, and he’s done nothing. Problems that our barrio people took to him when he first got elected are still on the back-burner. Like that gangbanger hangout on Starling—the creeps are using it again. Some of the parents on that street have gone to Esposito for help, and his assistant says, ‘He’s studying the problem.’ The place needs to be condemned. If my dad gets elected, he’ll take care of business.”
“Yeah, I believe it,” Ernesto agreed, grinning. He was a little afraid of Mr. Ibarra, but clearly the man had a passion for justice and a sincere desire to help people. That was clearly not the case with Esposito. He was an entrenched politician who became less effective every year.
Naomi Martinez came walking over. “What’s going on, Carmen? What’s all the excitement about?” she inquired.
“My dad’s gonna run for the city council to unseat Monte Esposito,” Carmen bubbled. “Oh, there’s so much he wants to do for the people around here. He wants to have an open-door policy so anybody with a problem can come in and talk to him. With Esposito, you have to like wait three months just to see his assistant!”
Naomi grew very quiet. Then she spoke. “Monte Esposito is my dad’s cousin. They grew up together, and they’re very close now. Dad really likes Monte. He gets perks and shares them with Dad, like tickets to the football games.”
Carmen’s eyes grew very large. “Oh, I didn’t even know that, Naomi,” she responded.
“Yeah,” Naomi said. Her father, Felix Martinez, was a tough man who could be harsh. He domineered Naomi’s mother. He bought a pit bull a few months ago. Even though his wife was terrified of the animal, he forced her to accept it. His wife, Linda Martinez, locked herself in the kitchen when the dog was loose, and she trembled with fear. Now she was used to the dog—Brutus. She even liked him, but for a while living in her own home was terrible for Mrs. Martinez
Ernesto felt weird. He loved Naomi, and he really liked Carmen. Ernesto’s father, Luis Sandoval, taught history at Chavez High, and Ernesto had heard a lot of political talk around the dinner table. Dad often mentioned that Monte Esposito didn’t serve the people in the barrio. He served himself and his cronies.
“Esposito keeps his chair warm down there at city council, but that’s about it,” Ernesto’s dad would say. “We were trying to get a traffic light installed across from Veterans Hall. That way, some of those poor older guys don’t have to risk life and limb crossing at that dangerous intersection. But Esposito just stonewalled us. He’s been asleep at the wheel for a long time.”
Ernesto and his family had just moved back into the barrio a short time ago. For ten years they had lived in Los Angeles. So Ernesto didn’t know too much about local politics. His father, though, had kept in touch with friends he’d known in town since childhood.
Ernesto looked at Naomi and told her, “Your dad’s cousin will probably be reelected. People usually vote for the person who’s in.”
“Yeah,” Carmen fumed, her eyes catching fire. “That’s the problem. After you get elected, you don’t have to do anything. They just keep on electing you. You can just sit there collecting your salary and let the barrio go to the dogs.”
Naomi looked troubled. She was a bright student. She knew, as did everyone else, that Monte Esposito was a poor public servant. But she also knew how close her father was to the man. Naomi’s father didn’t take kindly to family members defying him. He had already kicked his two older sons, Orlando and Manny, out of the house just for standing up to him.
“Well,” Carmen declared, “I’m going to do all I can to help my dad get elected. The club we’ve formed, me and my friends, it’s called the Zapatistas. We’re gonna canvas the neighborhood and talk to people, pass out flyers.”
When Carmen walked away, Ernesto said to Naomi, “Well, I’ve never liked politics much.”
Naomi shrugged. “Last time Monte Esposito ran for reelection, I helped paint posters for his campaign. Me and Zack worked hard. We even had little parties at our house to raise money for him.”
“Uh, do you like the guy, Naomi?” Ernesto asked carefully.
“I don’t know,” Naomi answered. “My brother Zack said he’s a crook. Zack didn’t say that around Dad, though. Zack pretends he likes him. I guess Monte is Dad’s claim to fame. When the councilman goes to some big party, he always invites my parents. And they get to sit with the big shots. I think Dad would feel really bad if Esposito lost the election and wasn’t a councilman anymore.”
Ernesto was a little nervous. Deep in his heart he knew that Monte Esposito was not good for the barrio. Rumors even went around that the guy was a crook. Ernesto thought that Carmen’s father would do a lot of good in the community but wasn’t about to upset Naomi. So he kept his mouth shut. Nothing meant more to Ernesto than Naomi. Ernesto hoped that Carmen Ibarra wouldn’t expect him to join the Zapatistas. He just couldn’t.
Later that day, Ernesto had lunch with his best friend, Abel Ruiz. Abel was the first kid who reached out when Ernesto first came on campus as a stranger. Also at lunch were two teammates from the Chavez Cougar track team that Ernesto belonged to, Julio Avila and Jorge Aguilar.
“Carmen is really charged up about her dad running for city council, huh?” Abel asked. “That girl is hotter than a jalapeno pepper. With her working for her dad, he’s a sure thing to get elected.”
“Yeah,” Ernesto replied. “Emilio Ibarra is a good man, that’s for sure.”
“Esposito got in some trouble last year for going to the Bahamas on our tax money,” said Jorge Aguilar. “But he weaseled out of that somehow.”
Ernesto didn’t want to hear that. It was bad enough that Monte Esposito was not a good councilman. If he was also dishonest, that bothered Ernesto. The thought that he wouldn’t help to elect a good, honest man made him feel guilty—that he’d rather see the inept crook remain in place just so his girlfriend wouldn’t be upset. Ernesto felt like a creep, and he hated the feeling.
“I guess there’s always gossip about people,” Ernesto commented in a lame voice. “Esposito probably isn’t any worse than the other politicians we got in there.”
“My dad, he’s a war veteran, you know,” Julio chimed in. “And he’s got a buddy, calls him Rezzi. He’s a vet too. Rezzi used to work for Esposito. He’s told Dad stuff about Esposito that’d turn a guy’s curly hair straight. That’s what my dad said.”
Ernesto often saw Julio’s dad at the track meets. He wore old, threadbare clothing, and he looked as though life had stomped on him pretty hard. But Mr. Avila was proud of Julio. When Julio won a race, as he often did, the man beamed with pride. Julio was his only child, his only relative. His mother was long dead. Mr. Avila said his only reason for living was to see his son be successful. Maybe one day, Mr. Avila hoped, Julio would go the Olympics and win a gold medal.
“My grandpa was a vet,” Jorge said. “And he’s really old now. He says a lot of veterans hang out in the ravine ’cause they’re homeless. Grandpa wrote a letter to Esposito asking him if the city could do something to reach out to these guys. Grandpa’s doing okay. He lives with us. But the other guys, some of them have nowhere to go. You’d think something could be done. But Esposito never answered the letter. I guess he had better things to do, like hanging out in the Bahamas and playing golf with his fat cat amigos.”
The boys laughed and finished their lunches. Ernesto didn’t laugh. He always prided himself on having the courage to do the right thing. Luis Sandoval, his dad, walked the barrio. He struck up conversations with dropouts and even gangbangers, trying to turn their lives around. He did that even though it was dangerous, and Ernesto was intensely proud of him for doing that.
Ernesto didn’t feel very proud of himself.
Carmen then showed up. “Hi guys. I know it’s against school rules to pass out any campaign literature on campus. But I got a lot of really great brochures telling what my dad will do if he’s elected. I got the flyers in my binder, and I’ll give you a couple. But make sure you keep them out of sight. No campaigning on campus. That’s what Ms. Sanchez says, and she’s the principal. She makes the rules.”
Ernesto took one of the flyers. It showed a color photograph of Emilio Zapata Ibarra, a big, burly man with a handlebar mustache. Ernesto remembered the first time he met him at a party at Carmen’s house. He had a very intimidating presence. He had already established a neighborhood watch on Nuthatch Lane. Since then, the crime rate had plunged. Where burglaries had been common, they were now rare. The gangbangers and the dopeheads avoided Nuthatch Lane because of the big man with the mustache.
Julio took a flyer too. “It looks great,” he remarked, stuffing it into his history book.
“Sounds like this is the guy we need,” Jorge Aguilar affirmed.
By the end of the school day, Ernesto needed to talk with someone about his dilemma. Abel, Ernesto’s best friend, was the perfect choice. Ernesto lived on Wren Street, and Abel lived three streets down on Sparrow. While they walked home from school together, as they often did, Ernesto confided in Abel.
“Abel, you know how great things are going now for Naomi and me,” Ernesto began. “I mean, I liked her the minute I met her, but I never dreamed we’d ever be together. I thought she’d be with Clay forever, and I didn’t have a chance. Now everything is so good between us. I don’t want anything to ruin that, y’hear what I’m saying? I’d like Carmen’s dad to win that election, but I don’t want to get involved. Esposito is related to Naomi’s dad—a cousin—and his buddy too. If I got mixed up supporting Ibarra, it’d get back to Felix Martinez and make a problem for us—for Naomi and me.”
“I hear you man,” Abel sympathized. “My dad says all politics are dirty, that ordinary people should stay out of it.” Abel’s father worked as a laborer for a landscaping business. He didn’t believe in making waves over anything. He just did what his wife told him to do and kept his head down.
Ernesto sighed. His own father didn’t feel that way. Ernesto’s dad believed every citizen had the duty to be well informed and to fight for good government. Ernesto would have been embarrassed to tell his dad how he really felt. His heart and his conscience told him Ibarra was the best man for city council. But keeping his girlfriend happy was more important.
“That guy, Monte Esposito, you ever meet him?” Ernesto asked, as the boys walked.
“Nah,” Abel responded. “He don’t bother with people like us. Don’t stress about it, dude. We’re just the little peons. We can’t do much about anything. That’s what Dad says.”
Ernesto was a simple sixteen-year-old guy. He worked hard to keep up his grades at Chavez, ran on the track team, and worked for Bashar at the pizzeria. He didn’t want any problems. That was the bottom line. He was Naomi’s boyfriend, and she meant the world to him. The difference between a blah weekend and a blast was whether Naomi was riding somewhere with him in his Volvo.
“I seen lots of pictures of Esposito,” Abel added, chuckling. “He’s a big guy, got a beer belly. He’s like everybody’s idea of a crooked politician. Smokes big cigars. If you want somebody to play a political jerk in a bad movie, you’d pick him.”
“Well, he keeps getting elected,” Ernesto commented. “So somebody must like him.”
“He had some good ideas when he first got in, but then he got lazy, I guess,” Abel said.
“Well, it’s none of my business,” Ernesto declared. The moment the words were out of his mouth, Ernesto felt guilty again. He was saying that he didn’t care if the barrio had a bad councilman.
When Ernesto got home, his mother, Maria Sandoval, was talking about when her picture book was being published. Ernesto’s mother was a stay-at-home mom, and she had never done anything unusual before. But now she had written a picture book, and the printed copies would be arriving soon. Mom was very excited. So were Katalina and Juanita, Ernesto’s little sisters.
Eight-year-old Katalina told her mom, “I’m gonna show your book to everybody in third grade.”
Not to be outdone, six-year-old Juanita looked up from the jigsaw puzzle she was working on with Abuela Lena. “I’m gonna show it to everybody in first grade,” she announced, “and ask my teacher to read it to the class.”
When Ernesto put his books down on the table, Katalina spotted the colorful flyer lying on top of them. “What’s this?” she asked, giggling. “Mama, Ernie has a colored picture of Carmen’s daddy!”
“Oh,” Ernesto replied, “that’s a political flyer.”
Ernesto’s mother came over to the table, picked up the flyer, and read it. “My, this is well done,” she remarked. “No attacks on his opponent. Just a clear message of what he plans to do if elected. I was talking to Conchita about her husband running. I told her it’d turn their life upside down if he became a councilman. Conchita said they didn’t care. They’re both so fired up about doing some good in the barrio.”
“Mom,” Ernesto asked, “did you know that Monte Esposito is Felix Martinez’s cousin?”
Maria Sandoval nodded yes. “Yes. I shouldn’t say this, but I never liked Felix Martinez or his cousin. I remember them as boys tearing up the neighborhood. Very arrogant, I hope Mr. Ibarra gets in.”
“Well,” Ernesto declared, “I’m gonna stay out of it. I don’t want friction between me and Naomi.”
“Oh? Does Naomi think Monte Esposito is a good councilman?” Mom asked.
“Uh, I don’t think so, Mom. But he’s real close with her father and . . . You know how that goes,” Ernesto said.
Abuela Lena was Luis Sandoval’s widowed mother who had recently come to live with the Sandovals. She looked up from the jigsaw puzzle and spoke. “I remember years ago there was a councilman in the barrio named Harry Maynard. Mr. Maynard took a great interest in the young people. He contacted businesspeople and started a scholarship program for disadvantaged young people to go to college. It was such a blessing, and it never would have happened without his leadership. At the time my husband and I had these five children and not a lot of money. Luis and Arturo both got scholarships. Your father was able to become a teacher and Arturo a lawyer. The money helped our family very much. A good man like Mr. Maynard can make a difference in so many lives.”
“Yeah,” Ernesto recalled. “I remember Dad telling me about that. He always keeps a picture of Mr. Maynard on the wall in the den.”
Maria Sandoval was still reading the flyer. “Oh look, Mama. Emilio wants to bring that scholarship program back. The one Mr. Maynard started. It was called the Nicolo Sena Scholarship. It was named for a Mexican-American boy from the barrio who died in the Vietnam War.”
“That would be wonderful,” Abuela exclaimed. “Mr. Esposito showed no interest in it, and it died on the vine.”
Ernesto headed for his room. He got on his computer and did some research for Ms. Hunt’s English class. She was an excellent teacher, but very demanding and Ernesto wanted an A in her class.
Ernesto didn’t care for Felix Martinez, Naomi’s father. Ernesto spent as little time as possible at the Martinez house. For one thing, Martinez was always putting his wife, Linda, down, calling her “stupid” and “idiot.” And Mrs. Martinez seemed to take the treatment without complaint. On rare occasions, Felix even hit her. But she accepted the violence too, as part of her lot. Linda Martinez loved her husband, and she believed he loved her. Ernesto didn’t know whether Mr. Martinez loved his wife, but Ernesto hated how he treated her. Ernesto was tempted to campaign for Emilio Ibarra. He wanted to. Helping was the right thing to do.
Ernesto’s hands formed into fists. They were so tight his fingers hurt. He pounded his fists on the side of his chair in frustration.
Every time Ernesto made up his mind to campaign for Emilio Zapata Ibarra, all he could see were Naomi’s amazing violet eyes and her sweet face. She was a good person. She was kind and compassionate. But she loved her father with all his faults. If Ernesto took sides against her father’s cousin, he would only hurt her. Naomi would be in a terrible place. She’d be caught in the middle between the boy she loved and the father she cared for and respected.