The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  “A . . . campaign?” I shook my head, starting to squirm with pretty, red-haired Nancy squinting at me, with the voices of the press roaring low outside the front windows. “I’m sorry—that’s not right. My mom hated politics. It’s not her, there’s some confusion, or . . .”

  Nancy pressed her lips together, rocking onto her heels. “So you didn’t know. She never told you who your dad was.”

  I opened my mouth but no sound came out, just this hiss like white noise. I swallowed hard. “No.”

  “There might have been a reason for that, Kate.” Her voice was bedtime-story soft. “You see . . .” She glanced at the door to the kitchen before continuing. “Senator Cooper was married at the time.”

  Married. For one hazy second, I thought she meant to my mother. But why would she keep that from . . . ?

  Oh.

  “No.” I clamped my hand over my mouth, shocked by the sound I’d made, the sound my brain was making, and stood up, away from her, away from this. “That’s not my mom. It isn’t possible—there’s been some misunderstanding.”

  My uncle had his head bowed.

  “That is not my mother.” I let out a shrill laugh. “Barry, tell—”

  Tess sighed. “Tell her. Or I will.”

  My uncle stepped forward, hands clenched in his pockets and shoulders stuck in a shrug. “Your mom did work on that campaign, Kate, when she was in college, in Massachusetts. I remember our folks were so glad she was helping the Republicans. And then one day she quit, just like that. Said she was going out to California, didn’t tell us a thing else. We lost touch with her for a couple months and then she told us she was pregnant with you. We asked and asked, but we never could get out of her who the daddy was.”

  Neither could I. She’d told me so much about her childhood in the South, about going off to college. How she fell in love with California. But never why she’d moved there. And never, ever, would she speak a word about my father. Deep down, I’d always assumed he was dead, that one day she’d admit it to me. She was so moral, so focused on how she treated others, on the impact she made in the world. The thought had never for a second crossed my mind that my father might be out there. That my mother would have ever been “the other woman.” She’d always said she’d tell me one day, when she felt I was ready. But that day never came.

  I don’t know what happened around me or how much time passed, but the next thing I noticed was Nancy taking a call and the senator and his entourage heading for the front door.

  “We’ll have a statement for you tomorrow, Tom . . .” Nancy followed the group as if pulled by the tide, phone still pressed to her ear. “That’s all I can tell you, and you’re lucky I even answered on a day like this. My first call tomorrow. Yes.”

  Bird of Prey was murmuring into the senator’s ear, just loud enough for me to make out. “Don’t say a thing. Look confident. This is great news. Non-news. A wave, a smile, nothing guilty, and don’t engage.”

  The nice bodyguard had his hand on the front doorknob.

  “Wait!” Everyone turned to look at me. “You’re leaving?”

  And then, it cracked. All the numbness, the strangeness, the sheer lunacy of this day shattered like a frozen pipe, and out came the waterworks.

  I covered my face with my hands. I was not supposed to be bawling. Not in front of these strangers, not rocking back and forth, saying, “I don’t understand this, I don’t . . .”

  And then an arm was around me, a silk tie brushing against my cheek. Not Uncle, went my brain. I blinked up into the senator’s face. He wasn’t looking at me, just holding me up, patting me like I was a baby, saying, “Shhh . . . there, there. We’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll figure this thing out.”

  He smelled like cedar. Was this what fathers smelled like?

  Across the room, Leprechaun shot me a cheery thumbs-up, and I was so confused by the gesture that I stopped crying long enough for all of them to get out the door.

  “Well!” Barry clapped his hands. “Pasta for dinner?”

  3

  Wednesday, June 11

  This Is Actually Happening

  146 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION

  I woke with the usual litany of realizations.

  I’m awake.

  I’m in South Carolina.

  My mom is dead.

  But now, a new one—an oh yeah that made me bolt upright, nearly capsizing my twin mattress into the frame.

  My father. I have a father. Maybe. Probably. Oh my God.

  Outside my window, I could hear voices, the whirring of generators. And something else—a piped-in announcement, muffled by bad speakers.

  I pulled back the yellowed lace curtains. The police were here. They’d put a partial blockade around our house, but the press still lined the block, waiting. For me.

  I closed the curtain with a sigh. At least with the cops here, no one could climb the oak tree in the side yard to get a shot of me in the bathroom.

  The light was faint outside. Streetlamps still lit. I turned on my ancient flip phone. 6:07 A.M. and wow—twenty-seven missed calls and texts. Spotting Lily’s number, I flinched, remembering that I’d blown off last night’s invitation, but her text didn’t even mention it. “Saw the news! Call me if you need ANYTHING.”

  Most of the other texts were from my best friend Penny back in California, increasing in freakedoutedness from “Kate? Anything you care to tell me?” to “Turn your phone on I’m DYYYYYING” to a simple, elegant “ARGGGGGHHHDEADcallme.”

  My fingers ached to push that call button and wake her up immediately, if only to hear her reassuringly brassy voice on the other end of the line. But no—not now. Later. When I knew what on earth to say.

  In the dingy light of the bathroom, I brushed my teeth, trying to conjure the senator’s face while analyzing my own. His eyes—those were probably the closest match. My mother’s were hazel, long and narrow like a cat’s, while mine were blue and round. I’d inherited Mom’s tiny stature, that was for sure, what nice people called “petite,” my doctor called five-two, and Penny called “at least a quarter hobbit.”

  My mouth wasn’t quite Mom’s, though. My hair was dirt brown where hers was sunset auburn. My nose was smaller, stubbier. Mom used to call it a ski-jump nose. When I was little, she would slide her finger down its bridge, and when it hit air, she’d let out a yodel, like an out-of-control skier.

  My vision blurred. I swiped at my eyes and blinked hard to refocus, on the faucet, the cracked grout, anything but Mom. Thinking about her sent my brain along the wrong track, the down track, the track that pulled like quicksand, stronger and stronger the deeper I sank.

  I didn’t have time for quicksand. It was 6:22 A.M. I had to hurry.

  I dug through my closet for something nice, something I’d wear to a college interview maybe. Everyone was so dressed up yesterday, the men in suits, Nancy in her silk sweater set and skirt. The best I could find was a plain blue cotton dress that my mom had bought me last year and I’d never worn. I slipped it on, yanked off the tag, and hurried downstairs to my uncle’s office, where I curled up in his swivel chair and clicked the computer to life.

  Barry’s homepage was a news feed. My name was in the headlines.

  My cursor hovered—and dashed away. Not yet. Focus.

  Google. Senator Cooper. I started with the Wiki.

  Age forty-seven. Born and raised in Massachusetts. Harvard undergrad, Yale Law. Worked as a public defender, then switched to the district attorney’s office in Newton. He left to pursue a seat in state government.

  His campaign was based in Boston’s Kenmore Square neighborhood, near the Boston University campus.

  That was where my mom went to college.

  An image floated up: Mom as a young woman, auburn hair pulled into a ponytail, a backpack across one shoulder as she strolled the campus, spotted a sign for campaign volunteers, stopped to take a look.

  But then another image drove that one out—the real one on the screen. Th
ere was a woman standing next to Senator Cooper in most of his campaign pictures.

  Her name was Margaret Abbott Cooper. They’d been married for nineteen years. The photos showed a tall and elegant woman, her hair a smooth, ash-blond helmet that just grazed her shoulders. There was a chilliness to everything about her—except for her eyes. In every photo, I saw a spark of humor in them, like someone had told a good joke just before the click.

  I read on quickly, reeling from each new tidbit. Especially this one: They had two children. Twins. Eight years old. Their names were Grace and Gabriel.

  A brother and sister? It was possible. Suddenly the world had cracked open and everything was possible. I couldn’t tell whether they looked like me. I stared at their pictures until a ray of sunlight on the computer screen reminded me to hurry up.

  Today would not be like yesterday. Today, I would be prepared.

  Click. Google: Cooper for America.

  The official campaign website was so crammed with slogans, it was impossible to find actual information. I gave up and found a blog with a list of political staff members.

  The friendly redhead was Nancy Oneida, Senator Cooper’s communications chief, in charge of “crafting his message,” whatever that meant.

  The Chief Strategist for the campaign was that tall, groomed guy—Bird of Prey—the one who’d glared at me. Elliott Webb. The blog called him a “Machiavellian wunderkind.” It sounded appropriately pretentious to me.

  Louis Mankowitz was the crinkly-eyed leprechaun. He and Senator Cooper had been roommates at Harvard. He’d worked on all of the senator’s campaigns, starting with his run for state congress.

  That was the one my mom worked on. He must have known her. He might even have known about . . . whatever there was to know. I still wasn’t ready to think about that.

  The blog highlighted other staff members, but I didn’t recognize them from yesterday. Those three must have been the senator’s core team, then. Nancy, Louis, Elliott. The ones he trusted most—or as the blog put it, his “inner circle.”

  The doorbell rang. Voices filled the house. The invasion had begun.

  In the kitchen, Barry was overloading a tray with coffee mugs, putting sugar in some, milk in others. I heard the front door opening and shutting, more people spilling into the living room, others back in the den where the TV was blasting. This was a bigger group than yesterday. Barry winced at the just-emptied coffeemaker.

  “They have such specific orders,” he muttered. “This one’s two-thirds a Splenda packet?”

  “Let me help,” I said, hoisting the tray. As I ducked into the hall, I glanced back. “I’m sorry about all this.”

  He looked too confused to reply.

  There were ten people in the TV room. The senator wasn’t one of them. I spotted Nancy, though, casually gorgeous in khakis, pointing to something on the TV screen as she chattered into her phone. Then I followed her finger—and nearly dropped the tray.

  I was on TV. My picture was, anyway. And not just any picture—my most recent yearbook photo. They’d taken that shot a few weeks into the school year, only two months after Mom died. I’d barely been able to get out of bed that day, hadn’t remembered to primp for a photo shoot, and wouldn’t have cared anyway.

  I should have cared. Because there I was, looking half homeless, dirty hair thrown into a ponytail, dead eyes, splotchy skin, strained smile.

  On national television.

  “How did they get that photo?”

  Everyone in the room stopped talking.

  Nancy leaped from the sofa. “She should not be doing that!”

  At first, I thought she meant I wasn’t allowed to come in, but then I saw her waving wildly to staff members and felt hands gently prying the tray from my fingers. Leprechaun winked over the coffee mugs at me. “I got this, kiddo.” Louis, I remembered. Campaign Manager.

  As he circled the room distributing drinks, Nancy hurried over with an indulgent smile.

  “Early riser!” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m impressed—my kids don’t get out of bed at this hour for anything less than a trip to Disney World.”

  It surprised me somehow that Nancy had kids. She seemed to exist in a different sphere, free from such messy things as families and theme parks. She pinched the fabric of my sleeve appraisingly.

  “And don’t you look nice? Elliott!” Her voice hardened, and I glanced behind me to see Bird of Prey in the doorway, surveying the room as if searching for a mouse to pick off. “Doesn’t Kate look nice?”

  She seemed to be proving some kind of point, like they’d made a bet and she’d just won.

  Instead of answering, Elliott blinked once and said, “Leave.” Instantly, most of the room hurried out the door, still chattering, jotting notes, until only Nancy, Louis, and Elliott remained. The inner circle.

  It was a neat trick. Elliott must have learned it at Evil Political Power-Player School, along with “Grooming for Maximum Intimidation.”

  “She does look nice,” Elliott said, shutting the door. “Better than yesterday, anyway. And a hell of a lot better than that photo they keep showing.”

  I felt my cheeks flush. It wasn’t like I’d planned to look like crap in my yearbook shot—and yesterday I’d been dressed to take a test, not to meet a firing squad of reporters.

  “I’m on that,” Nancy said. “We’ve got a couple of family shots leaking to the press right now.”

  “Did Mark approve them?”

  “Are you joking?”

  I followed their conversation like a Ping-Pong match. There was a strange energy between them, like if one wrong word was said, somebody might start chucking ninja stars.

  Nancy smiled, eyes narrowed. “I’m keeping him above the fray.”

  “And where is he now?”

  Louis the Leprechaun blinked, startled, as both of his colleagues turned to him. “Talking to Meg! He’ll be here soon.”

  Meg. His wife.

  My skin prickling, I turned away from their conversation. On TV, thankfully, my photo had vanished, replaced by footage of President Mitchell Lawrence and his family at an event for his reelection campaign. The president’s blond son was waving from the center of the screen. He was probably about my age, with a lopsided smile and a funny look in his eye, like he was searching the crowd for an escape route.

  Good-looking, if you were into that golden boy sort of thing. Lily Hornsby had a photo of him in her locker.

  I felt a chill, and sure enough, Elliott was staring at me.

  “We need to decide what to advise,” he said.

  “I’ve decided.” Nancy laughed mirthlessly. “I’m just waiting for you to agree with me. As usual.”

  “Can’t hear myself think . . .” Elliott grabbed the remote and muted the TV. I glanced over to see my photo back up, and now stats scrolling on the screen: my age, my mom’s name, my . . . GPA?

  I collapsed onto the sofa. “How do they know so much about me?”

  Louis shrugged affably. “Most of it was in the New York Times article.”

  I stood up again. “There was a New York TIMES article?”

  “That’s what started all this.” Nancy sighed. “We got an early tip-off, but they rushed to publication. We beat the press here by less than twenty minutes.”

  “So . . .” I held on to the sofa. “Is that how he found out? The article?”

  Louis patted my back. “If you’re asking whether your dad knew about you before the article, the answer is no. He had no clue, kiddo. I can promise you that.”

  Your dad, he said. Just like that. So it must be true.

  “And he was dying to meet you!”

  The two men stared at Nancy until her grin dropped away.

  Elliott cleared his throat and motioned to the sofa. “Have a seat, Kate. I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

  He sat opposite me in Uncle Barry’s La-Z-Boy. I felt suddenly defensive of this room, glad that Barry and Tess weren’t in here to see Elliott perched on
the edge of the recliner like he didn’t want his suit to touch it.

  “Do you follow politics?”

  I hesitated. Did I know about the Electoral College, the executive branch, the names, political parties, and dates of office for every US president? Yep.

  Did I know the first thing about anyone running for office right now? Um . . .

  “Not much,” I admitted. Elliott’s face seemed to brighten.

  “What do you think of the president? You a fan?”

  “Elliott,” Nancy groaned. He shushed her and she stomped away.

  “I . . .” I wasn’t sure what he was looking for. “I don’t really know enough to form an opinion.”

  To my shock, he smiled. “Are you pro-choice? Pro-life?”

  “Elliott!” Both Nancy and Louis cried out this time. I most certainly did have an opinion about this one, but by now I’d caught on to what he wanted. I gave him my blankest expression.

  “I haven’t really thought about it.”

  Elliott nodded and rose from the chair. “Okay, Nancy. But this is your play. I want to make that crystal clear. If she gets out of line, you rein her in. If she crashes and burns—”

  “I’ve got it,” Nancy snapped.

  Me. Crashing and burning?

  Outside, there was a roar of voices.

  The TV switched to live footage. A mob of reporters, an overcast sky, a house with white siding, the big bodyguard from yesterday, and right behind him, the senator, making his way to my front door.

  • • •

  The sky had become heavy, threatening to unload at any moment. I warily scanned the senator’s suit, hoping it wasn’t some kind of rare material that would disintegrate at a drop of rain.

  He looked stiffly around the backyard, opting finally to lean-sit on the plastic slide of the jungle gym. I stood gripping the swing chain, bracing myself.

  I had a working theory, developed during the maddening eons that the senator and his advisors had just spent speaking privately behind the closed doors of the TV room.

  He’s going to tell you to deny it. He’s going to explain that he can’t possibly ever see you again. This is an election year. I could ruin his life. I really don’t blame him.