The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  Sarah was indeed great with the twins. Me? Not so much. She spent a few awkward minutes trying to figure out how to interact with me before deciding that the best approach was to pretend I wasn’t there. After our pizza was delivered, she and the twins set up a board game with only three players. I crept up to my room and tried calling Penny.

  “Kate? Kate! Wffmm . . . !” There was so much noise, I could hardly hear her—a bass beat, people whooping. She must have been at a party. I finally gave up shouting “What?” and texted her that I’d try her tomorrow.

  I flopped back on my bed. If I were in California, I’d be at that party with her. She’d be forcing me to dance, mussing my hair, complimenting my outfit, even though she looked a million times better in her thrift store finds. I’d be relaxed, distracted, maybe even confident if I were at that party with Penny.

  But if I were at that party, it would mean that I was in California—and that would mean Mom was still alive. When I got home tonight, she’d be in the front room watching some old movie with her feet on the coffee table, pretending that she wasn’t waiting up. And she’d share her popcorn as I curled up next to her— I felt my limbs aching heavy, my eyes burning shut. With a deep breath, I forced myself upright and grabbed the dog-eared copy of The Fountainhead that Cal had loaned me.

  So far, it was sort of a romance novel, the story of a fiercely independent architect and the woman he loved. They were matched in their disregard for the opinions of others, their complete self-reliance.

  It got into my brain. That night I dreamed that I was knocking down the Coopers’ house and building a new one where I would live all by myself. In my dream, I was proud and alone. But the feeling of independence evaporated when I woke up.

  I just felt alone.

  9

  Thursday, June 19

  The Day Before the Press Conference

  Aka: Makeover Day

  138 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION

  Makeover Day had been scheduled on the whiteboard since Tuesday, so at least I was braced for it. I thought I was, anyway— Until I saw the new wardrobe the consultants had assembled.

  It was hanging in a ring around the upstairs conference room. Dresses. Endless dresses, in pastels, in bold colors, in solids and floral prints. That was it. Well—no. There were skirts. And sweater sets. With flowers. It was basically the closet five-year-old me would have chosen for sixteen-year-old me.

  “So! Cute!” Libby put her hand to her heart as she took it in.

  I tried to muster enthusiasm as Nancy joined us, but she shot me a wry grin.

  “I know,” she said. “Not my top choice either, but America likes girls in skirts.”

  Taking my arm, she strolled with me to the volunteer room, where the others had saved me a yard-sign-assembling seat. I glanced enviously at Nancy’s outfit, a midnight blue suit that made her complexion look milky white and glowing. It was impossible to tell how old this woman was. All I knew was that at whatever that age was, I wanted to look just like her—warm, poised, and elegant.

  “I’m taking you for a haircut at lunchtime,” she announced. “And after that—fashion show! They’re doing a little polling.”

  “Polling?” I blinked. “On what?”

  “Which outfits prospective voters like you best in.” She winced an apology. “I know, it’s ridiculous.”

  Libby brought me an un-asked-for coffee and left me in my usual post between Gary, an ex-marine in his seventies, and Pepper, a plump homemaker with opinions on everything.

  “Did you hear about the new airline restrictions?” Pepper started, and when I thought to look up again, it was lunchtime, and Meg and Gracie were walking through the door.

  The volunteers went crazy. I guess these two didn’t make many in-person appearances. While Gracie sprinted straight at me to report everything that had happened since breakfast, Meg moved slowly through the room, shaking the hand of each of the volunteers, learning their names, thanking them for their help, and in some cases inquiring after family members or mutual acquaintances. She was as warm and comfortable as I’d ever seen her, a campaign video come to life.

  She was great at this. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did.

  As soon as we were in the hall, her vibrancy faded like a tablecloth left too long in the sun.

  “I’m taking you for a haircut,” she said. It took me a confused second to realize that Nancy’s task had been reassigned to her.

  I hoped she couldn’t sense my disappointment. I guess as my stepmother, it did make more sense for her to come along than the Communications Chief of the senator’s campaign. Maybe Meg felt bad about last night, for forgetting about me and hiring that babysitter. Maybe she was trying to make up for it.

  “I’m getting my hair done too,” Gracie said proudly. “Just a trim.”

  The three of us drove to a salon in DC, trailed by a small security detail. When we pulled into the garden-lined parking lot, I saw a cluster of people waiting by the back entrance. They were holding cameras.

  My heart raced as we got out of the car. Why would the press be here? How did they know we were coming? Did the salon tip them off?

  “Bright smiles!” Meg wrapped her arms around us and gave us both a playful squeeze. She didn’t seem fazed at all by the sudden burst of attention.

  Of course she’s not surprised. The realization washed over me like a cold shower. They planned this.

  Someone from the campaign must have called the reporters, hoping to orchestrate a photo-op of Meg, her daughter, and notorious orphan/A-student/volunteer Kate Quinn—just three ladies out on the town, enjoying a family day, as if it were all perfectly normal.

  This is normal. I held Gracie’s hand and smiled up at one of the snapping cameras. It’s normal for them.

  • • •

  I came back to campaign headquarters with pretty much the same long hair, now a few inches shorter and layered so that it swept around my face, making my features softer, my eyes bigger. That’s what the stylist had told me, anyway.

  I fidgeted with the rubber band on my wrist, itching to throw my hair into its usual ponytail. But this was the Official New Look, and I didn’t want to aggravate anybody by messing with it.

  A girl came in to do my makeup before the fashion trial. They’d set up a curtained area in my TV lounge where I could change. Nancy met me in the hall to examine outfit number one, low-heeled Mary Janes and a light blue Lilly Pulitzer dress that pinched my waist and grazed my kneecaps. The shoes looked modest, but they were Louboutins. As in, way out of my league. I shouldn’t have looked at the label; now I was too nervous about scuffing them to walk straight.

  “You don’t have to talk much,” she told me as we walked down the hall, a note of resignation in her voice. “Just hi, nice to meet you, that sort of thing.”

  “So I shouldn’t give my opinion on US relations with Turkey?” I grinned. “Labor laws?”

  Nancy laughed, shooting me a conspiratorial nod. “No. Not today.”

  In a meeting room at the back of the building, eight random people with clipboards were gathered. And by random, I mean random—a college kid wearing a Kudzu Giants T-shirt all the way up to a sour-faced grandma in a pink pantsuit. But they all reacted the same way when Nancy led me into the room. They stared, unblinking, in bald-faced curiosity. I glanced down at my outfit, worried something that shouldn’t be was popping out. But it was my face they were watching. They recognized me.

  I felt a twinge of sympathy for zoo animals.

  Elliott stood in the back of the room, observing the proceedings with the impassivity of a god on high.

  “Hi,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  The focus group scribbled notes on their clipboards. A few smiled at me first. Others squinted like judges at a sporting event. Olympic standing-in-place—4.8 from the Russian judge.

  A half hour later, I repeated the process with a different dress—DKNY, gray, more modest—and a different group of people. T
his time, I noticed some holding cookies and coffee. One had piled-up masses of hair, like those photos of sister wives you saw in the paper. Where had they found these people?

  I gulped. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Nobody in that group broke a smile.

  And then again. Skirt and sweater set—a designer I’d never heard of, which I found weirdly comforting. Brighter colors. Heels higher than I was used to, but hopefully I’d have a chance to practice in them before the press conference.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I recited to Focus Group Three. Beyond a few faint, pitying smiles, no one reacted. At all. Just like the last two times I’d said it. So, drawing in a breath, I mixed it up a little. “Thanks for coming out today. Hope the cookies are worth it!”

  Elliott’s poker face drooped into a scowl, but that got a universal laugh, the tension broken. A middle-aged Asian lady winked kindly at me before starting to scribble.

  I didn’t hear the results until the senator came back to the office at the end of the day. The volunteers had trickled off one by one, and I’d slipped back into my comfortable jeans and sneakers, pointlessly straightening tomorrow’s stacks of bumper stickers, hoping for either a new task or a ride home. I’d even have settled for Triplecross at that point.

  Hearing the senator’s voice in the hall, I decided to fake a trip to the restroom as an excuse to say hi.

  But as Nancy’s voice rose over the senator’s, I slowed my step. “Not great. Not bad by any means, but not as positive as we’d hoped. The last group had the best response . . .”

  “What was the issue?”

  “Low on personality.” Nancy sighed. “It may have been the dresses.”

  Or maybe the fact that I wasn’t allowed to say anything?

  Stifling a scowl, I peeked around the corner. The senator was leaning heavily against the door frame, one hand cradling his forehead. I wished I could sink back into the wall.

  Too late. Nancy’s eyes landed on me. She grinned maniacally.

  “Good job today, sweetie,” she lied. “Tomorrow will be . . .” Her mouth moved soundlessly, hunting for the right sound bite. But for once, the communications guru was at a complete loss for words. I wanted to cry out something too, that I’d do better, help him win, that bringing me along was a good idea, but now I was too worried I’d say the wrong thing to say anything at all. Elliott would be so pleased.

  By the time the senator straightened up and turned to me, he had his TV face on—confident, charming.

  “Tomorrow will be a big day,” he finished for Nancy. “You’re right about that, Nance. So what do you say, kiddo? Let’s go home and get ready.”

  10

  Friday, June 20

  The Day America Gawks at Me on Live Television 137 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION

  I woke with a pounding heart.

  Press Conference Day.

  Dressed and ready, Gracie tiptoed in to shake me awake but found me staring at the ceiling, my mouth already dry.

  “Come onnn,” she groaned. “If you don’t come, Gabe won’t come, and then I’ll have to stay home too!”

  As we bumped south along the freeway, the road blurred around us, the noise a rhythmic thud punctuated by occasional car honks and cheers as other drivers recognized the name on the side of the bus: Cooper for America. Every so often, the senator opened one of the windows and waved.

  I spent the ride feverishly thinking about everything but the event ahead.

  Like this bus. The campaign called it the Locomotive, and given the long line of official cars surrounding us, it did feel like we were aboard a train. Ahead were two security SUVs and just behind, two black Secret Service cars. Behind them was a secondary bus filled with staffers—and bringing up the rear, what they called the Caboose, a shabbier bus carrying the press corps who’d been assigned to shadow and report on Senator Cooper’s campaign.

  Today, they would be reporting on me.

  I adjusted my outfit for the twentieth time, feeling the sweater scratching my armpits, the skirt’s zipper digging into my waist. Of course, the consultants had picked the highest heels for me to wear. I was having trouble balancing in them. And I was sitting down.

  At least the inside of the Locomotive was sleek and comfortable, lined with plush booths currently filled by senior aides, the same lucky-duckies who’d gotten seats at the table on my first day at headquarters.

  I tried to settle in. I’d been hoping to sit with Nancy, but she was in the Caboose, giving one-on-one interviews with the more important reporters. And Lou had traveled ahead to meet with the field staff coordinating the press conference. Too bad—I could have used one of his goofy pep talks right about now about how unsquirmy I was, how there was absolutely no way I would flail in front of the reporters in these heels, fall on my face with my skirt flipped up, then leap to my feet, blowing hair off my lips, smiling and waving— Think about something else.

  In the back was an office—a real one, with a desk, WiFi, a TV that was always on. I craned my head. The senator and Elliott Webb were there, leaning close over the desk in hushed debate. Everyone else on the Locomotive was making laughing, nothing conversation about sports and movies. It was as if they’d all met in secret and agreed not to talk politics.

  They probably had. Another campaign strategy—Operation Chitchat.

  Next to me, Meg was gazing out the window with an inscrutable expression. I tugged at my skirt again and wondered if she was as anxious as I was. Opposite, Gracie and Gabe were filling out a book of Mad Libs, cracking each other up with each new entry. I got out The Fountainhead, half hoping Cal would notice, but he was typing frantically on his laptop.

  My eyes landed on the long schedule of events pinned near the front of the bus. I squinted, reading.

  “Carsick?” Meg asked, offering me a sip from her water bottle.

  “No,” I admitted. “Confused.”

  She set down the bottle, listening.

  “Why are we having the press conference in Pennsylvania?” I asked. “Why not DC? Or Massachusetts, at your house there?”

  Meg’s eyes brightened. “We had a number of events already scheduled in Pennsylvania today, including Senator Tauber’s retirement dinner tonight. Elliott thought—”

  “So this was Elliott’s decision,” I said, confirming what I’d already guessed.

  “Would you have planned it differently?” Her tone wasn’t confrontational. More . . . professorial.

  I thought.

  “Not necessarily. Keeping to the schedule makes it look like the campaign is on track. Like the press conference is no big deal. And if it doesn’t go well, we can redeem ourselves later in the day.” Meg smiled faintly, and I sensed that I’d hit on the right answer. “But I wouldn’t have picked today.”

  “Why not?”

  “This should be Senator Tauber’s big moment. His retirement. We’re hijacking it.”

  Meg looked thrown. Then she let out a sigh. “Bernie’s been in Congress for close to twenty-five years, Kate. Trust me—he knows how this game is played.”

  I knew she was right. Anyone who’d been a career politician that long had probably upstaged more than a few of his own colleagues over the years. Even so, this tactic felt a little too much like Elliott Webb—equal parts savvy and slimy.

  So when Nancy climbed onto our bus at a rest stop in Delaware and announced dully, “He’s coming. Last-minute schedule change,” I enjoyed the dismay on Elliott’s face perhaps a little too much.

  Gracie stood up. “Who’s coming?” She had her Mad Libs pen at the ready, making her look like the world’s youngest campaign strategist.

  “President Lawrence.” Meg sighed, turning to Nancy for confirmation.

  Nancy nodded, sinking. “He’s going to spout some line about bi-partisanship, about the value of a long record of service, but we know what they’re really doing.”

  Yep. Stealing the spotlight. Just like us.

  “I don’t see a problem.” Sena
tor Cooper emerged from the back office, shrugged, picked up a newspaper. “The more the merrier.”

  “It’s shitty,” Nancy blurted. Gabe gasped, Gracie giggled, and even Meg hid a smile. “I apologize, sir.”

  “Language, language.” Elliott tsked, not looking up from his notes, and Nancy, passing him on her way to the back of the bus, shot him the bird. I mentally replayed the exchange all the way to Valley Forge, PA, my smile lingering even as a makeup artist crouched beside me to fix my face.

  When we got to Valley Forge, the press army was already gathered in a field lined with old-timey fences and historical plaques, lonely cannons dotting the horizon. As our bus rolled through a police barricade, I saw that a simple stage had been erected in front of the press, security waiting. I spotted James and felt my nerves quiet a little—if the mob descended again, I knew he’d pull me out.

  Gracie had to be physically restrained from bounding off of the bus before Elliott could line us up—with Gracie in the rear.

  “We have to save the best for last, don’t we, Grace?”

  She glared at him so viciously he flinched.

  In front of me, Gabe’s hands trembled. His face was drained of blood, mouth set in a grim line.

  “Hey Gabe, hold my hand,” I said. He squinted, hesitating, then glanced up at his mom. The makeup girl was dabbing her nose with powder and she didn’t look down. I nudged my hand into his balled-up fist and leaned closer. “I’m scared too.”

  He peered up, blinked, and decided to believe me. Why shouldn’t he? It was true. My hand was disgustingly clammy, but I think that was comforting to him, proof that I was as terrified as he was. He squeezed it tight.

  “They’ll start snapping as soon as the doors open,” Nancy murmured, tucking a strand of my hair back into place. “So be ready. You can do this.”

  I nodded, barely hearing her above the sound of my pulse.

  “Remember the talking points, if anything—”

  “No.” Elliott elbowed her aside. “No talking points.” His eyes burned into mine. “No talking at all, ’kay? Stand there and . . . look pretty.”