Imaginary Enemy

By Julie Gonzalez

Jane White goes by the pen name Gabriel when she writes letters to Bubba, her imaginary enemy. She’s been writing to Bubba (short for Beelzebub) since second grade, blaming him every time something in her life goes wrong. It’s never her fault! She doesn’t want to admit that her impetuous behavior and smart-mouthed comments often land her in trouble. And now that she’s a teenager, Jane’s slacker ways exude an I-don’tcare attitude. But Jane does care. She cares about fitting in at school; she cares that Sharp deMichael and his brothers next door think of her as normal and start excluding her from their offbeat plans; and she definitely cares the day she receives a letter from Bubba. How can an imaginary enemy write back? Just as the time comes for Jane to face her lifelong foe–she must also decide whether or not to assume responsibility for her actions.

Spilled Milk

It’s not unusual to have an imaginary friend. Many people do (or did, at any rate, somewhere in their histories). But me? I can honestly tell you that I have no imaginary friend. Not one.

What I have is an imaginary enemy. He’s such a satisfying companion—very therapeutic to have around. He’s helped me through a number of personal disasters and misadventures over the years. I call my imaginary enemy Bubba—short for Beelzebub, which is a biblical devil’s name. Pretty good way to address an enemy, wouldn’t you agree?

Bubba’s not necessarily physically unattractive, but this is one of those “it’s what’s on the inside that counts” situations. ’Cause that’s where Bubba reveals his true colors—on the inside. He’s a sneak and a liar and a troublemaker who delights in seeing my life go wrong. My miseries are his homemade ice cream. My heartbreaks are his Godiva chocolates. My failures are his double cheeseburgers and deep-dish pizzas. You get the picture.

When Bubba makes me angry, I write him a letter expressing my displeasure. The first time I wrote to Bubba was in second grade.

Dear Budda,

You spilled milk on the lunchroom floor. I slipped in it and ripped a hole in my new overalls. My knee bled. Everyone laughed. I don’t like you.

Sinfully yours, Gabriel

Gabriel isn’t my real name. It’s just the name I use in my relationship with Bubba. No point in being overly familiar with an enemy, especially an imaginary one. Gabriel, like Bubba, is biblical—one of the heavenly superstars, along with his pals Michael and Raphael. Gabriel is chief of the archangels—God’s right-hand halo polisher. Kind of like vice president if God is top dog. I imagine him to have beautiful ivory-colored wings tipped with moonlight and a halo of red gold that undulates like the ripples on the surface of a pond.

With my Bubba letter clasped in my hand, I asked my teacher, Mrs. Perkins, for a piece of tape, but when she realized I wanted to hang my message on the classroom wall, she refused. “Jane, why are you writing Buddha a letter about spilled milk?” she asked.

“Buddha?”

“The founder of the religion Buddhism. He was a very wise spiritual leader.”

“Not Buddha, Bubba,” I replied insistently. Cold air from the air conditioner breezed though the hole in the knee of my overalls.

Mrs. Perkins raised her eyebrow. Just one eyebrow. That was the coolest thing about her—she could raise her left eyebrow like a marine raising the flag up the pole. “Then you inverted your lowercase Bs again.” She tapped the letter. “Who’s Bubba?”

“A dirty rotten milk-spilling creep,” I answered.

“Go sit down and behave yourself, Jane.” Mrs. Perkins sounded exasperated. I stalked back to my seat clutching Bubba’s letter and stashed it in my math folder. A fairly modest beginning to what has proven to be a long and fruitless relationship.

Since you know my name’s not really Gabriel, I might as well tell you the three embarrassing appellations my parents attached to my birth certificate sixteen years ago. I can’t believe they did me such dishonor. Start with Jane. That’s J-A-N-E. As in Plain Jane, which the more poetic schoolyard bullies have called me since kindergarten. Along with Birdbrain Jane, Migraine Jane, and Jane the Pain. All because my parents named me after this prehistoric aunt of Mom’s who they particularly admire.

My middle name’s even worse. Venezuela—like the South American country. Great name for a country. Very lyrical and seductive. But a middle name for a girl? Venezuela? That’s where my parents met. It was nothing terribly romantic if you ask me. My mother was visiting her college roommate, a beautiful but unsuccessful South American poet, and my recently divorced father was on a fishing vacation with his brother, my uncle Grayson. Dad’s cooler of semifrozen baitfish leaked on Mom’s suitcase in the hotel elevator, and she insisted he buy her a new one because of the awful smell and the stains. Who knew they’d end up with a bunch of kids and a dog? When I complain about my name, Dad thinks it’s a real laugh to say, “We could have named you Caracas instead of Jane.” (For the geographically impaired, Caracas is the capital of Venezuela.)

Now (drumroll, please) for my absolutely generic last name: White. Like clouds or snow or cotton. Like flour or sugar or milk. Like boredom.

When I was just over a year old, my parents got frisky. My brother Lysander was born nine and a half months later. He’s named after one of the confused, love-struck youths in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Dad’s a Shakespeare freak). My brother hates his name. Go figure. He tells everyone to call him Zander.

Sixteen months after Zander came my sister, Carmella, whose name evokes visions of bonfires, gypsy music, starlit nights, and silver bangles. Me Jane, Plain Jane—You Carmella. Talk about a prize-winning recipe for some vicious sibling rivalry.

Dear Bubba,

Shakespeare might have his “What’s in a name?” thing, but he wasn’t dubbed Jane Venezuela White. Why would you ever allow anyone to go through life being addressed so blandly? And you claim to love me.

A rose by any other name, Gabriel

My half brother, Luke, who’s five years older than me, sat by my side on the sofa playing a video game. He’s the offspring of Dad’s youthful marriage to his high-school sweetheart, Sandy. “Gotcha,” Luke said as his character zapped mine. The screen lit up in neon blue flashes as my player sizzled and lost a dose of power.

“Bully,” I snarled.

He laughed. “No crybabies allowed.”

“I’m no crybaby,” I protested. Crybaby was the ultimate insult someone could hurl at an ornery seven- year-old.

“Pay attention, loser!” He detonated his weapon and my character strobed once again.

I pushed a pulsating radioactive boulder over him. “Take that!”

His character fizzled out in a puff of purple smoke. “Yikes!” he exclaimed, laughing.

“I like it when you come over,” I said. Luke spent Wednesdays and alternate weekends with us. And sometimes he came for unscheduled visits. This was one of those. He’d ridden his bike to our house after school.

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