“True enough,” Candace agreed, nodding. “In that case, why don’t you play a little something for us? I understand you and the governor have a duet in mind. When we come back from break, we’ll hear from Governor Brandon and the clarinet hero! And later, how to save money on a home loan, plus hosting the perfect barbecue with Chef Marietta!”
As soon as we were off the air, the governor and I scrambled to get ready. We stuck our reeds in our mouths, and got our music stands set up at the right heights, while a technician checked the mikes. Everything was in order. We were ready.
Except that when we looked at our sheet music, it wasn’t sheet music at all. It was a room-service menu. I was so hungry that I started scanning it without even meaning to.
EGGS BENEDICT ~ $19.99
PASTRY PLATE ~ $18.99
FRESHLY SQUEEZED ORANGE JUICE ~ $7.99
“Eight bucks for orange juice?” I said. “Are they serious?”
“Welcome back, America,” Candace was saying, somewhere far away, while I thought about getting bacon, eggs, waffles, and orange juice.
“How did this get in here?” asked Governor Brandon. “What happened to our—to our—It must be here somewhere.…”
“Governor, Aidan?” Candace was saying while I frantically sorted through our cases for something, anything we could use. I could just imagine the headline: Disorganized Governor Could Never Be President. Lost Music Leads to Lost Race.
“We have a little snag in the plan,” the governor said. “Somehow our music didn’t make it from the hotel room to the studio. I’m not sure what happened.” She looked at me, a little bit panicked.
I didn’t know what was going on, but I wasn’t going to let this one mistake bring down her candidacy. This was a minor snafu. After she’d been so nice to me and my town, I could handle this for her.
“You know what? It’s my fault, Candace,” I said. “I’m sorry. It was my job to have the music ready, and as you said, I’m a little tired. I guess instead of grabbing our sheet music, I picked up this menu instead.”
“Oh.” Candace laughed, then looked a little confused, as if she wasn’t sure how she was going to fill the next few minutes of airtime. “Well, can you play, uh, Eggs Benedict for us?” she joked.
I smacked my forehead with the menu. “I can’t believe I did that. What an idiot, huh? But I can play something from memory. Would that be okay?” I asked.
“Could you? really?” The governor looked as happy as if I’d just told her she’d won the November election. As if she were floating in the ocean, about to sink, and I’d just thrown her a life preserver.
“That would be perfect,” Candace said. “Ladies and gentlemen, the clarinet hero, live in our Cleveland studio. Hit it, Aidan!”
I smiled at the camera, then launched into “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
In a way, everything goes back to baseball. When you want to avoid a squeeze play, you bunt.
“Aidan, you were great! I can’t thank you enough.” Governor Brandon gave my shoulder a squeeze as we walked off the set five minutes later, post-national anthem and post-interview. “You really know how to come through in the clutch.”
“Thanks. It’s no problem,” I said, relieved this performance had gone way better than my last. “I’ve been playing that since fourth grade.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she said. “I meant how you covered for me on national TV. Did you hear everyone cheering in New York when you were done?”
“Now that’s what I call a fluff piece,” the general complained backstage as the producer unclipped our mikes.
“Fluff nothing,” said the governor. “We got all my ideas across and then some. And wasn’t Aidan terrific?”
“Yes. He was,” the general grudgingly admitted. “But that whole Facebook movement is ridiculous. I mean, is the American public that dumb? Don’t they know you have to be thirty-five to hold office?”
“It’s called having fun. You should look into it,” Stu told him. “Here, Aidan. Your mom’s on the phone. I called her to make sure they knew you’d be on and we’ve been chatting for a while,” he said. “She has a lot of questions for you. A lot.” He handed me his BlackBerry.
“Mom?” I said, edging away from the crowd so I’d be able to hear her.
“You were great, honey!” my mom cried. “You were fantastic—everyone in town was watching you. You looked tired, though. Have they been working you too hard? Have you been eating enough? I know you don’t like to try new foods, and I wanted to make sure they’re getting you things you like. Have you been drinking enough milk?”
“Mom, I’m fine,” I said. I’d only been gone twenty-four hours—not even—and she had a million questions.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yup,” I said. “I overslept—that’s all. I stayed up late watching the game last night.”
“Is it true that they want you to be vice president? Oh, can you just imagine?” Mom sounded a little delirious.
“Mom. It can’t actually happen,” I said.
“Yes, I know, but just the thought that people want it to happen. And with my favorite candidate, too! Oh, I’m so proud of you, I could just burst.”
“Mom, calm down,” I said. “Hey, did Dad get to watch?”
“No, but we had your grandparents record it for him on their DVR,” she said. “Aidan, do you know anyone else who’s ever been on national TV and had people hold up signs for them? You’re magnetic. You’re special. It’s like I’ve been telling you for years. Height doesn’t matter. Personality does.”
“Right, okay, Mom, whatever.” She was starting to embarrass me.
“Hear that, shrimp?” Christopher asked, getting on the phone. “Being short is okay as long as you score us tickets to live in D.C. for the next four years!”
“Thanks, Christopher. Listen, I have to go now. Stu needs his BlackBerry back,” I said. “Important calls to make. Bye, everyone!”
“It’s okay, you could have talked longer,” Stu said as I returned his phone to him.
“I know, but my brother was insulting me,” I said. “It’s nothing new, but I didn’t exactly want to get into it with him.” As much as I kind of missed Christopher and everyone at home, I’d been enjoying being somewhere on my own for once. It was a little bit scary at times, but I also liked it. Besides, I had something I wanted to ask Emma. “Where’s Emma?” I asked.
“Green room. Why don’t you go find her and have some breakfast? We’ll be moving on soon, and I’ll go check in with the general and Bettina, see what the plan is. Stay there—do not leave,” Stu told me.
“Right,” I said.
I found my way back to the green room. It was easy to find, what with the security posted outside the door, protecting Emma.
She was sitting alone in the corner, on the sofa. She looked up at me, and her face was streaked with tears. Emma? Crying? She didn’t strike me as the crying type.
She quickly brushed her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “If Kristen was here, she’d tell me not to do that,” she said.
“Probably,” I said. That reminded me: I need to clean my own face, get rid of all that beige and pink makeup stuff. I grabbed a napkin, wet it with water, and scrubbed my face. “What’s up?” I asked Emma.
“What do you think is up? My mom’s poll numbers. Her chances at becoming president. You know, I thought you could handle this, but I can see I’ll have to do more myself,” she said.
“What?” I asked, tossing the makeup-streaked napkin in the trash. I moved on to the food buffet and started filling a plate with pastries.
“You weren’t supposed to play well,” Emma said. “You weren’t supposed to be funny like that, and sleepy, and come to the rescue.”
“I wasn’t?” I asked, mid-bite of a cinnamon roll.
“No! I was counting on you to mess up!” she said. “That’s why I gave you a menu instead of your music. But you messed up at messing up.” She threw up her hands. “Ca
n’t you do anything right?”
“What? You’re the one who stole our music?” I asked. “That could have been a disaster!”
“I know! It was supposed to be. You were supposed to make a fool out of my mom, not make the country like her even more,” Emma continued. She glanced at the door, ran over, and pressed her ear against it.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Of course you don’t.” She sighed, exasperated. “You messed everything up for me. I only suggested you come along on this dumb bus tour so that you could ruin the campaign, not save it.”
“This was your idea?” I shook my head. “No way. It was the Haircut’s idea.”
“No, it wasn’t. The Haircut agreed with me, but I thought of it first,” Emma insisted. “I don’t want her to win. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Obvious? Why wouldn’t you want her to win?” I asked. I finished the cinnamon roll and moved on to a raspberry Danish.
“Have you seen what happens to first daughters? Do you have any idea?” she asked. “You have to dress nicely all the time. You have to go to private school. You can’t go anywhere without a bunch of security people hounding you. Wherever you go, the media follows you. Everyone wants to go to your wedding. You could even end up on a show like Dancing with the Stars.” She shuddered.
“Are you really worried about all that now?” I said. “Already? She’s only running for president; she hasn’t won yet.”
“No, but if things keep going the way they are … she’ll probably write a book about me. A children’s book. Everyone will love it and be like, ‘Oh, Emma’s so cute,’ except I’m not cute, and I don’t want to be that girl. We’ll have to wear matching outfits to the inauguration; we’ll have to stand outside and freeze; we’ll have to—”
“Have to what?” I asked. “Travel, see the world, have every opportunity—”
“Yes, but in matching outfits!” she cried.
“I think you have that wrong,” I said, trying to remember if I’d ever watched an inauguration. “You’re thinking of Christmas pictures and junk like that.”
“Still!” she cried. “Isn’t that bad enough? When we met you, I figured you’d be the perfect person to ruin my mom’s chances. You were supposed to be horrible for the campaign, a downright disaster. Not make her even more popular.”
I tried to think how I would feel if my mom were running for office, if she had a shot of becoming that important or that famous. I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like. “Well, I think you should try to look on the bright side,” I said.
“What bright side?” Emma asked in a flat voice.
“All the good things about living in Washington, D.C.!” I said.
“Have you ever lived there?”
“No, but—”
“Well, then, how do you know?” Emma cried. “And what about moving away from all my friends? Never being able to play baseball or other sports again? Never being on a team? Never just going down the street to get an ice cream?”
“It wouldn’t be ‘never,’” I said. “Just four years.”
“It might be eight!” Emma said. “Look how popular my mom’s getting. By the time she leaves office, I’ll be in college. And you know who would follow me to college? Secret Service. Paparazzi. reporters. Do you have any idea how much I hate having my picture taken?”
“But you’re so good at it,” I reminded her. “You always smile.”
“I’m faking it. Duh.” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh. Well, what about the fact this is something your mom really, really wants? Doesn’t that count?” I asked. I reached for a bottle of orange juice and unscrewed the cap.
“Sure. I’m all for her being governor. Don’t get me wrong,” Emma said. “But this national stuff? I mean, would you like to spend a couple weeks of your summer campaigning on a bus?”
I swallowed the juice and said, “I am spending part of my summer with the campaign.”
“Well, don’t worry. You’ll be gone soon,” she said.
I gulped, nearly choking on my next sip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll screw up for real, and the same thing will happen to you that happened to me. Watch. You think you had a bad YouTube moment?” She handed me her iPhone. “Check this out.”
She showed me a video of a pep rally for her mom, early in the spring. Emma was standing onstage behind the governor, not paying attention. Then she started making goofy faces at someone in the crowd. When her mom invited her up to the mike to say something, she opened her mouth and let out a loud, very disgusting burp.
Her mom looked like she wanted to sink into the floor and never come out again.
“Wow. A million and a half views. Talk about viral,” I said.
“I know. It was awful, and Mom’s been trying to live it down ever since. I’m too much of a ‘live wire.’ They actually think I did it on purpose!” she said.
“Well, did you?” I asked.
“No. Well, maybe. Anyway, that’s beside the point. My dad and my brother get to be at home, but I have to be out here reforming my image. They go swimming, play baseball, go out for ice cream, hit the amusement park. But I have to go to luncheons. I finally figured out what that means. Lunch that lasts an eon,” she said. “I miss my friends. I miss my room. This whole campaign is ruining my life.”
“So instead you set me up to ruin the campaign. Why don’t you do it?” I asked.
“I tried, okay? And I got put in Miss Hartford’s Country Day School for Girls,” she said. “I got a whole new wardrobe of dresses and sweaters. I used to dress like you.”
What was she talking about? “Like me? really?”
She considered me and my outfit. “Well, no. Not that bad.”
My face started to burn.
“But I used to wear normal clothes, not party clothes,” Emma went on. “I didn’t have to style myself or have Kristen approve my outfit every day. There’s nothing wrong with purple hair, not when it’s crazy hair day at Miss Hartford’s Country Day School.”
I didn’t know how to tell her this, but I really didn’t care about her clothes or her hair. “I don’t have any sisters,” I blurted out.
“Oh, I know,” she said. “I know everything about you.”
“You do?” I asked.
Emma nodded. “I’ve been doing research. If things don’t go right for me, you’ll find out about it.”
“Are you … ? Wait a second. Are you threatening me?” I asked. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know what that sounded like. T.J. had threatened me lots of times. “Are presidential candidates’ kids supposed to go around threatening people?”
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. “You guys all set?” Kristen asked, poking her head inside. “Did you get enough to eat? The bus is ready to roll.”
I followed Emma, and we headed back to the lobby, where a few reporters were still hanging around, even though it seemed as if everyone important, like the governor, had already left. They swarmed to me and Emma like bees around an open can of Coke.
“So, Emma, what do you think about your friend Aidan here running for vice president?” one of them asked.
“We’re not taking any questions,” Kristen said, trying to get between the microphone and Emma.
“No, it’s okay,” Emma said. “Him for vice president?” She pointed at me and laughed. “For one thing, it’s impossible. For another, he dresses pretty badly to be vice president.”
The reporters laughed and struggled to get even closer to her. Emma looked a little penned in, like a wild animal when it’s captured. Her right eye started to twitch. The pressure was really getting to her—the pressure of trying to bring down her mother’s campaign, that is.
“I’m just saying, not everyone is how they seem,” she said in a sweet voice.“Some people have skeletons.”
I stepped up. “We all have skeletons,” I said, wishing I could just tell everyone the truth about Emma. “That’s what bones are.”
/> “Not like that, you idiot,” she said under her breath. Then she smiled sweetly for the reporters again. “We’ll just have to see what happens in the next few days. I’ll leave it to my mother to talk about her real pick for vice president.”
“That’s enough for now,” Kristen said, pulling Emma toward the exit.
Emma entered the revolving door and spun through it to the outside.
I tried to follow her, but she jammed the door with her foot and kept me from turning it. I stuck out my tongue at her. I’d had enough of being set up to look like a fool. If she thought she was going to use me to sabotage her mom’s campaign, she was wrong. I wasn’t going to ruin it for her. Governor Brandon hadn’t done anything to hurt me, and besides, my mom was a big fan of hers—and I was becoming one, too.
If Emma wanted to bring down the Brandon campaign, she’d have to find some other way.
“You slept through Fort Wayne.”
I rubbed my eyes and looked at Emma. Why was I sleeping on the bus?
Oh. right. I’d stayed up too late at the hotel the night before, watching a movie, after campaigning all day following our Wake Up, America! appearance. After Cleveland, we’d visited Youngstown, Akron—I was actually losing track of all the stops we’d made. Then I’d had to get up early, have a campaign breakfast, and start all over again. This morning we’d already been to Mansfield, Westerville, and Lima—all towns in Ohio that I kind of knew. If everyone in Ohio didn’t know about Governor Brandon by now, I’d have been surprised.
I had cousins in Lima, but I didn’t see them in the crowd, or they didn’t see me. They were second cousins and I hadn’t seen them in a while.
“Why didn’t you wake me up for Fort Wayne?” I asked. I’d never spent much time in Indiana, even though it was so close, and I was curious.
Emma shrugged. “My mom wanted you to sleep. She said being on the campaign trail had worn you out.”
“So now what?” I asked. “Where are we going?”
“Some county fair. It could be fun,” Emma said. “Of course, it won’t be nearly as good as the Minnesota State Fair.”
How Not to Run for President Page 10
