The State of Us

by Shaun David Hutchinson

  “And you remember our daughter, Mindy,” Mr. Maguire said.

  Mindy stepped out from behind her parents and offered me her hand and a smile. “Hi, Dean.” Mindy was tall like her father, but she had her mother’s black hair and expressive brown eyes.

  Mindy’s presence took me by surprise. It was the first time I could remember my parents inviting someone my age to one of their parties. “Mindy. Hi. I mean, hi! Why don’t you all come in? My parents are this way.”

  In the kitchen, my mother and father were putting the finishing touches on dinner, and hors d’oeuvres had already been plated and laid out on the counters for the guests to enjoy. “Mom? Dad? The Maguires are here.”

  The doorbell rang again, and I spent the next few minutes running back and forth, showing in the Weirs, the Palmers, the Hansens, the Moskowitzes, and the Canteros. Soon, the adults were drinking wine and chatting, spreading through the dining room into the sitting room, while instrumental music provided acoustic atmosphere. I was passed from one adult to the next like an oddity to be marveled at, fielding questions about the campaign and what I’d learned and being told how fascinating it was and how lucky I was to have the opportunity to witness history being made. For my part, I answered their questions, agreed, or smiled when I had nothing to say, just as I’d been taught. I was comfortable around adults in a way that I wasn’t always with my peers.

  Eventually, I tried to slip away for a moment so I could see if Dre had replied to me on Promethean. We had been in the middle of a conversation when the guests had begun to arrive, and I was eager to answer the questions Dre had asked. I didn’t notice Mindy standing beside me until she spoke. “Hi, Dean.”

  I didn’t know Mindy well. We had been in youth group together, and she’d volunteered locally through the church with me a few times, but she didn’t go to my school. From what I remembered of her, she was nice but hadn’t made much of an impression. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  Mindy was holding a highball glass filled with ginger ale and ice, but it seemed like she was only holding it to give her hands something to do because it was still as full as it had been when I’d gotten it for her shortly after she’d arrived. “So much fun,” she said. “I enjoy the part where adults I hardly know treat me like an anomaly because I know a few words with more than two syllables.”

  I grimaced. “They probably think all teenagers are brain-dead and sit around huffing dry-erase markers.”

  “Whatever. I’m just here for the free food.”

  “Really?”

  Mindy rolled her eyes. “No. I’m here because my parents told me that I didn’t have a choice. I was supposed to be hanging out with my girlfriend huffing dry-erase markers.”

  I forced out the laugh I’d practiced for those inevitable times when one of my parents’ friends made an awful joke that I still had to pretend to find hilarious. “Funny.”

  “That’s me,” Mindy said. “I’m a comedienne or whatever.” She tapped the side of her glass with her fingernail. “I’m betting you’re not the kind of son who’d know how we could sneak some actual alcohol into my drink, are you?”

  “Sorry. I don’t drink.”

  Mindy sighed. “Of course you don’t.” Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I don’t either, not really, but this party is boring. How much trouble do you think I’d get in if I went into the bathroom and set the house on fire?”

  My mouth was still hanging open when my mother walked up. “Mindy Maguire, it’s so lovely to see you.” She was stunning in a black cap-sleeve peplum dress.

  “Thank you for having me, Governor Arnault.”

  “Janice, please.”

  Mindy had transformed from whatever she’d been a moment earlier into a demure, fawning sycophant, and her performance was as compelling as it was bizarre. “You have such a beautiful home. Thank you for inviting me.”

  My mother preened at the compliment. “Why thank you, dear. And thank you for keeping Dean company. I sometimes worry that he doesn’t spend enough time around people his own age.”

  “Dean’s been great,” Mindy said. “He was just telling me how much he loves working on your campaign and that you’re exactly the kind of woman this country needs in the White House.” She patted my arm. “You’re an inspiration.”

  “Dean is a remarkable young man,” she said. “But I don’t want to monopolize your time. I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about.” My mother smiled at me. “Dean.”

  “Mom.”

  The moment my mother’s back was turned, Mindy shoved her drink into my hand. “Ugh, I need to puke. Where’s the nearest toilet?”

  Again, I didn’t know whether Mindy was serious or joking, so I pointed her toward the downstairs bathroom and then took the opportunity to run upstairs so that I could check my messages. Dre had apparently been busy and bored.

  DreOfTheDead: where’d you go

  DreOfTheDead: dean

  DreOfTheDead: dean

  DreOfTheDead: dean??!

  DreOfTheDead: kidding

  DreOfTheDead: i’m just bored

  DreOfTheDead: im waiting for my dad to give his speech at the rally

  DreOfTheDead: ive heard it SO MANY TIMES

  PrezMamasBoy: Hi, Dre. It’s Dean.

  PrezMamasBoy: Sorry. My parents are having a dinner party, and the Maguires brought their daughter, and I guess they expected me to entertain her.

  DreOfTheDead: dean arnault: babysitter

  PrezMamasBoy: She’s hardly a baby. She’s our age.

  DreOfTheDead: . . .

  DreOfTheDead: did anyone else bring their kids????

  PrezMamasBoy: No.

  DreOfTheDead: so your mom invited a girl your age to the dinner and you havent figured out shes trying to set you up yet?

  PrezMamasBoy: It is not a setup.

  PrezMamasBoy: Either way, I only have a minute, so to answer your questions in the order you asked them:

  PrezMamasBoy: Star Wars.

  PrezMamasBoy: Hufflepuff, obviously.

  PrezMamasBoy: Before the party I would have said flight, but now I wouldn’t mind invisibility.

  PrezMamasBoy: And I guess I don’t have a preference. I’d be happy with either or neither. It’s all the same to me.

  PrezMamasBoy: I’ll talk to you soon.

  PrezMamasBoy: ~Dean

  Thinking about Dre, hoping I’d get to see him again, was the only thing that was going to get me through this party. I plastered my fake smile back on and reentered the fray.

  Dre

  MY DAD WAS a rock star. He stood on the stage in front of an audience of thousands—it didn’t matter what state or city we were in—and he owned them from his first word to his last. But speaking in front of crowds like that hadn’t come naturally to him. Anyone who’d followed his career might’ve thought otherwise because he’d come out of law school as the kind of lawyer all the top firms in the country wanted to hire and had started making a name for himself working with the Nevada attorney general’s office. But if someone went way, way back, they’d find a shy high school boy—the son of Mexican immigrants—with acne and a stutter, who wouldn’t have been caught dead speaking in front of five people, much less five thousand. Becoming a rock star had taken time.

  My dad didn’t call himself a rock star when he told the story. I’m pretty sure he didn’t think of himself that way either. Instead, when he told his story, he talked about finding his voice. How he’d become part of a punk rock band in high school, which had helped him confront his fear of performing. How he’d joined the debate team and had learned how to use his voice to fight for the issues he believed in. How he’d been ashamed of his heritage because it had made him different, and how he’d learned to embrace it because our differences are what make us stronger. How he’d come from a family that hadn’t been able to afford to send him to college, so he’d worked through his undergraduate degree and then through law school. How, as a lawyer, he’d used his voice to fight for those who couldn’
t.

  I’d heard him give this speech so many times I could’ve given it myself. But it wasn’t me people loved, it was my dad. And I guess I couldn’t blame them because I loved him too. He was goofy and embarrassing, and I didn’t care how many bands he was in when he was my age, the man couldn’t sing, but he was still pretty great. Most of the time.

  I sat backstage waiting for the reporter from Teen Vogue to show up. They’d asked for an interview and I’d been cool with it, and Dad had okayed it so long as Jose sat in. Probably more to protect the campaign from me than me from the reporter. Jose was standing nearby, talking on his phone, waving his hands like he was swatting flies. The man was stitched together from scraps of anxiety, and I wondered what he would do when the election was over and there was nothing left for him to freak out about. Who was I kidding? Jose was the master of finding problems to freak out about.

  I used the downtime to see if Dean had answered my very important questions, and I grinned madly when I saw he had. Kissing Dean had changed me. The world was brighter, the stars were nearer. Dean had been wrong in the cemetery. Magic was real. I still didn’t know how we’d gone from cussing each other out to kissing, but I wasn’t gonna overthink it. Fine, I was definitely going to overthink it, but not right then. For at least a little while, I was going to enjoy the high of knowing I’d made out with a Hufflepuff who didn’t have a definitive opinion on the exceptionally important question of pie versus cake.

  “Andre Rosario?”

  I finished typing my last message, fired it off, and closed my phone. The woman standing over me was curvy and bright with a short Afro and this violet shade of lipstick that was kind of everything.

  I stood and held out my hand. “Dre.”

  “Holly Clarke.”

  “I loved the piece you wrote about internet call-out culture,” I said. “I bet you got a lot of shit for trying to show both sides of that.”

  Holly flashed a wide, genuine smile. “I try never to read the comments.” She motioned to the chair by mine. We were close enough to hear and see my dad but were hidden from the audience. “The research was eye-opening, though.”

  “You ever decide whether the internet mobs are a force for good or evil?”

  “It’s never one or the other,” she said. “Often it’s both. The internet gives a voice to marginalized people who are usually ignored when they speak. But the speed at which that shit travels discourages deep reflection and rewards shouting the fastest and loudest.”

  “Right? You wouldn’t believe the trolls I gotta deal with sometimes.”

  Holly gave me a look like, Did you really just say that? and said, “I am a queer black woman writing about stuff most folks don’t care to think about. Trust me; I believe.” She laughed, and I hoped it was to let me know I hadn’t stepped in it too badly.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I just have to get my foot out of my mouth.”

  Holly laughed again and held her phone out, setting it on her lap. “All right if I record?”

  I didn’t care, but I checked with Jose, who’d been half listening since Holly had shown up. He nodded tersely and kept on with his phone call.

  “Cool,” Holly said. “This is mostly a profile, and I’ve got to tell you that you’ve got a lot of fans on staff. I thought a couple were going to give me a shove down the stairs so they could take my place.”

  This was the part I found weird. I understood why people flocked to my dad, and I was happy that so many people liked the work Mel and I did on Dreadful Dressup, but I didn’t get why they were curious about me. I was no one. There were so many people who were a hell of a lot more interesting. Shit, there were tons more teens who’d done amazing stuff with their lives and deserved to be profiled than me. But Holly wasn’t asking them questions, so I did my best to answer and not look like a fool.

  We started off easy, talking about my childhood and school and Dreadful Dressup and what it was like thinking my dad could be the president. Eventually, the talk turned to actual politics.

  “Is it safe to say you probably wouldn’t vote for Governor Arnault?” Holly asked.

  “Pretty safe,” I said. “Like, she’s nice and all, but I can’t see voting for someone who wouldn’t protect everyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean a president’s gotta be willing to protect the rights of all people, even the ones they don’t like.”

  “Are you referring to Arnault’s stance on LGBTQ issues?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’re people, and if she wins, she’d be our president too, but she thinks trans soldiers should be kicked out of the army. How’s that fair? How’s that being the president of everyone?”

  Holly smiled along with my answers and nodded like she was hanging on every word. I’d been in some tedious interviews, but this one wasn’t so bad. “How about Jackson McMann?” she asked. “Young people, surprisingly, seem drawn to him. Do you have any thoughts?”

  “From what I’ve seen of him, he’s kind of a dick.” Jose threw me a warning look, but I ignored him. “You worked on group projects in school, right?”

  “I hated them.”

  “Me too,” I said. “So you know how there’s always the type-A who’s gonna wind up doing most of the work, a couple of people who’ll contribute just enough to slide by, and then that one dude who argues with decisions and complains nonstop, but never offers any actual solutions to the problems?”

  I could tell by the grimace on Holly’s face that she did. “Justin Forsyth. Eleventh-grade chemistry.”

  “That’s how I see McMann,” I said. “My dad’s out there offering solutions to a lot of problems, and McMann’s just sitting around shooting them down without offering any of his own. We’re averaging, what? Like a school shooting every twelve days or something like that? And my dad’s trying to come up with ways to prevent them, but all McMann wants to do is blame people with mental illnesses, and how’s that gonna fix anything? It’s not.”

  “So you think McMann doesn’t have any actual policy goals?”

  I shook my head. “He’s all about making people afraid of anyone who isn’t like them, because if we’re too busy fighting each other, we won’t notice he’s a fraud.”

  “You recently spent some time with Dean Arnault,” Holly said. “How was that?”

  I froze. My blood ran cold, but I was sweating because she knew. “Did not.”

  Holly frowned. “Didn’t you volunteer for Habitat for Humanity in Belle Rose, Louisiana?”

  Relief flooded through me. For a moment, I thought she knew about Boston, and I was wondering if I could pull the fire alarm and flee. But she didn’t know because of course she couldn’t. No one knew.

  “Oh,” I said, covering with a laugh. “Yeah, that.”

  “Must not have been memorable.”

  “It was fine,” I said. “Dean is fine. Nice, I mean. He’s nice. We painted.” I needed to stop talking before I ruined everything.

  Holly cleared her throat and paused for a moment, eyeing me with what I hoped wasn’t suspicion. Thankfully, Jose hadn’t been paying attention. “Are there plans for you and Dean to appear together again? Maybe visit a few high schools to talk to students about the importance of voting? You could even hold your own debates.”

  “No one wants that,” I said. “Do they? Jose?”

  Jose leaned toward us. “What?”

  “Are there schools that want me and Dean Arnault to visit them together?”

  “There have been a few requests.”

  Holly’s half grin said, See?

  I’d been trying to figure out how Dean and I could keep seeing each other, and so far all I’d come up with was that we’d both be at the next debate. But Holly’s suggestion was kind of genius. The only problem was making it happen.

  I shrugged and said to Holly, “I don’t know. Dean probably wouldn’t wanna debate me anyway.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Too scared of being shown up.”
>
  Holly laughed, and I smiled like this was all a big joke. “Well, maybe we can get him to change his mind.”

  “I hope so.” I caught Holly throwing me a look of curious confusion, so I quickly added, “So I can kick his ass.”

  “Of course,” Holly said, though I got the feeling she didn’t quite believe me. “One last question: As an out, gay Mexican American, do you feel any pressure to be a role model?”

  I was sure if Dean had been asked a similar question, he would’ve come up with something brilliant to say, but I had nothing. “I don’t feel like a role model,” I said. “I’m just Dre, you know? And I think all any of us can do is just be the best versions of ourselves that we can.”

  As Holly thanked me for sitting with her and took off, I couldn’t help wondering if I was being the best version of me. If there were kids out there looking up to me, what message was I sending them by sneaking around with Dean? I didn’t have an answer for that, and I wished I did.

  Dean

  DINNER WAS A family-style smorgasbord that I was hardly given a moment to eat any of because Mr. Cantero insisted on hammering me with questions like he was giving me a pop quiz. Mindy appeared to be enduring the same treatment at the other end of the table, though she seemed to be handling it with more grace than I. Truthfully, I was distracted. Ever since I’d kissed Dre in Boston, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and this dinner was torture because it was preventing me from talking to him. Then there was the comment Dre had made about Mindy. My parents had never tried to set me up before, so I doubted that was why they had invited her, but there was a small seed of uncertainty that grew bigger the more I thought about it.

  I tried to sneak to my room to talk to Dre between dinner and dessert, but Mindy slipped in before I could close the door.

  “So this is the bedroom of Dean Arnault?” she said. “It looks like a hotel room.”

  “I like things to be neat. It makes them easier to find when I need them.”