Imaginary Enemy by Julie Gonzalez

sheets of paper from a notebook.
    “Goals? Why?”
    “It’ll give us something to shoot for.”
    “I’ll just refine my talents as a slacker.” I yawned.
    “No. You need to get over that and think of real goals.” Emma uncapped her pen. “Hmmm…”
    “I’ve got one.” I grinned. “I’m going to get my first official kiss.”
    Emma laughed. “That’s not what I meant, Jane. I was talking about stuff like ‘make straight As’ or ‘run for class president.’”
    “Oh. Boring stuff. I like my goal way better.”
    “But Jane, goals should be personal achievements.”
    “A kiss is definitely personal.”
    “But hardly an achievement.”
    “It’s a matter of perspective,” I explained.
    Emma sighed and printed “JANE” in all caps at the top of one sheet of paper. Beneath, in smaller letters, she wrote “Eighth Grade Goals.” Her script was tidy and precise. On the other sheet of paper she wrote “EMMA, Eighth Grade Goals.” Then “Make straight As.”
    “Don’t put that on my list. It’ll never happen,” I said.
    “It could.”
    “Believe me, it won’t.” I grabbed the page labeled “JANE” and wrote “No Ds or Fs.” My penmanship was barely legible. “This might happen.
Might.
It’s at least within the realm of possibility.”
    “Really reaching for the stars, huh, Jane?” asked Emma.
    “Just being realistic.” “First kiss,” I penned beneath “No Ds or Fs.”
    Emma snatched the pen. “Soccer team captain,” she wrote on the EMMA page.
    “Paint my yucky purple bedroom,” I added to my list.
    Emma sighed. “Jane, set some serious goals. Something that’s a challenge.”
    “These are challenges. A kiss, passing grades, new paint.”
    “Kisses and paint are superficial.”
    “Then you don’t know much about kisses,” I retorted.
    “Like you’re an expert.” She rolled her eyes and wrote “Learn to count in French, Russian, Mandarin, and Spanish” on her sheet.
    “Boring. You really need to get a life,” I said.
    “I happen to like my life,” she responded as she added “Raise money for Ronald McDonald House.”
    “How are you going to do that?”
    “Collect soda can tabs. We can leave a jar in each classroom for kids to put tabs in. And advertise on the announcements. Make posters. You’ll help, won’t you?”
    “I guess,” I said and wrote “$ for McD’s” at the bottom of my list.
    She slid my page toward her. “Turn in every assignment,” she printed in bold letters. “Now sign it.” She handed me the paper.
    “What?”
    “Sign it.”
    “Like a contract?”
    “Yeah. Like a contract. You’ll never get into college if you don’t act more responsibly.”
    For some insane reason, I scribbled my signature at the bottom of the page.
    “I’m going to hold you to it,” Emma said. “At least the homework and grades and money for Ronald McDonald House.”
    “Oh brother…sign yours, Miss Save the World.”
    Emma proudly wrote her name in cursive letters beneath her clearly stated goals. Her first, middle, and last names. And I knew she took her commitments seriously, because that was how she was. I inhaled and reread my goals. And I made a secret promise to myself that I’d follow through and prove to Emma that I wasn’t a total loser.

    I watched Carmella and Harmony playing in the backyard. They had layers of silky scarves draped over their bodies and flowers braided into their hair. They sang as they danced in a ring around the trunk of a towering pine tree. Then our dog, Banjo, bounded across the yard, and I laughed to see that he, too, was adorned with a wreath of flowers encircling his neck.
    I envied the nine-year-olds the unselfconscious abandon of their games. They seemed so happy and innocent. I wondered whether, if Chord and Sharp had been girls, we’d have played the kinds of games Harmony and Carmella did.
    “Hi, Carmella,” I called as I walked outside to the deck.
    She and Harmony shrieked and ran into the bushes.