The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  He pointed at me. “Kate. Get dressed.”

  I glanced at my jeans and T-shirt in confusion before catching his meaning. Libby scrambled aboard as the doors were closing, clutching a Starbucks cup and a hanging garment draped in plastic. I reached for both, but she handed the coffee to Elliott.

  Meg peered up from her newspaper. “I thought we had the day off.”

  “Not Kate,” Elliott grunted. “She’s blowing up. But don’t get too comfortable. We might need you later too.”

  “Blowing up?” I asked.

  Elliott clenched his jaw before answering, like he was fighting to remain civil. “Your little stunt yesterday seems to have paid off. We did some phone polling last night and your likeability quotient skyrocketed. Yours too, Meg,” he added with a vicious smile. “Believe it or not.”

  She ignored him.

  “So get dressed. We need you out there, visible. Go.”

  Another skirt and sweater-set. It was like they’d decided this was the magic outfit, the only one America would like me in. I myself suspected that if I slugged Elliott on live television, my “likeability” would shoot even higher.

  Instead, the day called for more waving and smiling alongside the senator—at a local greenmarket, then with the crowd gathering for a town hall meeting. But today, the attention felt different—more focused, not a frantic blur like yesterday. People wanted to talk to me—even more than the senator in some cases.

  “Good for you!” a big-haired woman shouted from the steps outside the town hall meeting, getting a round of applause from the crowd, and I thanked her, not really sure what she was congratulating me for.

  The more surreal it felt, the easier it became to stand in front of all those people, have my photo taken, hug kids I didn’t know, and keep smiling even when my cheeks were shaking. It helped that I felt like smiling. Everywhere we went, crowds of people had shown up to tell us how much they liked us. An elderly woman in a flower-print dress grabbed my hands and said she was praying for our family. A grinning young couple held up their red-cheeked toddler so he could kiss my cheek. A burly chef at a diner shouted that he’d vote for my father and “tell everyone I know to vote Cooper too!” It was crazy. It was hard not to be affected by it. And even if they were strangers, it was weirdly comforting to hear that they cared what happened to me.

  Some of them spoke as quickly as they could while I moved with the senator down the greeting line. One middle-aged woman told me that she’d been unemployed for fifteen months, but knew Senator Cooper would fix the economy. A man in his thirties showed me his prosthetic ankle and teared up when he talked about the country he’d lost that leg defending.

  The senator stopped and listened to everyone, wrapped up in their stories, their questions and concerns. I watched along with everyone else, buoyed by the waves of hope radiating out from him through the crowd. This wasn’t a political act. It was what drove him. At every stop that afternoon, the senator lingered so long chatting that Elliott and Nancy had to practically drag him back onto the bus. He cared about these people—you could see it.

  Sunday was much the same, as we rolled deeper into the Midwest, from a visit to a mega-church in Michigan to a private dinner with high-level Chicago donors that I hadn’t been invited to—until the hostess called and said I “must, simply must come along.”

  At the crystal-laden dinner table that night, I felt a surge of gratitude to my mom for having drilled etiquette into me. I knew which fork did what and when to put my napkin in my lap, to speak when spoken to and at the correct volume. But this turned out to be an easy crowd. They asked about school, how I was enjoying the campaign trail, nothing tricky. They all agreed that the “impertinent reporter” was completely unprofessional and should be fired. When I spoke up in his defense, the ballerina-thin hostess pressed her hand to her heart.

  “She is dear, Mark. What a blessing.”

  After dessert, the senator got up to talk business in the study with some of the gathered men, and I suddenly felt like we were in some period piece movie where the ladies were now supposed to go play the pianoforte or embroider. Meg stifled a yawn, but as the senator passed my chair, he patted my shoulder and smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. It was enough to get me through the next half hour of polite chitchat, back to our latest hotel, and into another unfamiliar bed.

  Before I sunk into sleep, I mulled over the utter implausibility of being in this hotel room—the Ritz Carlton or Four Seasons or wherever on earth I was—being out on the campaign trail, my name and face all over the Internet, on the cover of newspapers across the world, my likeability being polled, tested, reported on. Was there anybody in the world who could understand how strange this was?

  Of course there was, I realized. Andy Lawrence.

  In only two minutes of conversation at Senator Tauber’s party, Andy had struck me as overconfident. Sly. Defensive too, like he was watching at every moment for a weakness he could make a joke out of.

  And yet—he really did seem impressed by my maneuver at the press conference. It was like he thought I’d done it as a dare, managing to one-up both Sexy Ronald Reagan and the cow prank at his prep school in one fell swoop. When I replayed the conversation in my head, he seemed . . . envious.

  I tried my best not to waste valuable sleep time thinking about the president’s son. But his face lingered in my mind even as I started drifting off, and all through the next day, I wondered whether he was on the road too, whether we were waving and smiling at the exact same time.

  12

  Wednesday, June 25

  The Day I Officially Got So Used to Waving that I Started Doing It in My Sleep.

  Seriously. It Woke Me Up.

  132 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION

  “Can you explain these numbers?”

  The cable news pundit squirmed. “Only in part. I mean . . .” He let out a desperate laugh. “This is a massive bump.”

  A cheer rippled through the clutch of staffers surrounding the Locomotive’s office TV. I craned my head to see past them.

  Mustached Chuck snorted. “I can’t explain these numbers—and I’m the pollster.”

  Nancy shot me a wink over her shoulder. “I’ve got a theory.”

  Before I could ask her to elaborate, Lou barreled aboard the bus, hoisting a box of doughnuts as a trophy, his bald head shining under the bus lights like a beacon.

  “Eight points!” he shouted, and the bus went wild. I tapped my lips with my fingers, glowing with exhilaration. I wasn’t sure what the senator’s numbers were before, but I guessed that eight percentage points were enough to put him back in the game—maybe even ahead of President Lawrence.

  As the crowd broke, clamoring for doughnuts, I crept closer to the TV.

  “This press conference was a big win,” another pundit was saying, holding up a hand as if to stave off argument. “He moved quickly, he owned up to it. Personally, I think Cooper’s decision to mend his family was heroic, given the circumstances.”

  I glanced at Nancy, wondering if she’d caught that word. Then my eyes shot back to the TV, suspicious. Was this guy on the Cooper payroll?

  “You talk about family values. I think the numbers we’re seeing reflect the reality of family values in today’s America. Listen—nobody’s perfect, but this man is dealing with his issues in a way that Americans see as very honest and brave.”

  Campaign plant or no, the others on the news program seemed to agree.

  “And don’t forget Meg Cooper,” interjected a female pundit. “The power of a woman scorned.”

  Reel footage appeared on screen, Meg waving in front of a red, white, and blue banner, an almost sardonic smile on her face.

  “She’s often come across as aloof, prickly—something the campaign’s worked hard to combat, but this has really humanized her. I mean, this is not as simple as a Stand By Your Man scenario. The fact that she’s embraced Kate Quinn is remarkable. This girl is the very symbol of her husband’s betrayal
. Talk about generosity.”

  I drew in a sharp breath, wishing I could rewind the last ten seconds and unhear what I’d just heard.

  “At the risk of sounding aloof and prickly . . .” I turned to find Meg squinting at the TV with an expression of weary amusement. “Don’t we have better things to do than watch this trash?”

  As I winced in agreement, she walked away, eyes closed, cradling her hot coffee in her palms while reciting, “One hundred thirty-two days to go.”

  Taking Meg’s advice, I managed to avoid listening to the TV for the next few hours. But at the next campaign stop, still stinging, I couldn’t resist asking Nancy to spell out her theory on the senator’s sudden success.

  She raised her eyebrows. “You, silly. Isn’t it obvious?”

  I flushed, shaking my head. “Some lady on the news just called me a ‘symbol of betrayal.’”

  “Don’t listen to the news.” Nancy turned to face me. “Listen to me. We’re polling better now than before that New York Times article broke. How do you explain that?”

  Was it really possible that I’d gone from “symbol of betrayal” to valuable member of the team in a matter of days? And if it was that easy for numbers to jump sky high, what was preventing them from dropping off a cliff again—and me with them?

  Before I could answer, Nancy nudged me with her elbow.

  “Voters like that you grabbed that mic.” Her step was bouncy with triumph as she walked away past Elliott. “Ask Chuck—he’s got the polling to prove it.”

  • • •

  Voters wanted me to grab a lot more mics. I soon learned that the campaign was fielding a barrage of solo interview requests, from late-night talk shows, People magazine, MTV. The thought sent me into cold sweats at night, worrying there’d be a knock on my hotel door at 6:00 A.M., Elliott’s voice shouting “You’re going on The Today Show, put on a dress!”

  But that didn’t happen, thanks to Nancy, who made sure that all requests were met with a polite but firm no. I thought she was shielding me. But on the bus Wednesday, Cal leaned low over his laptop to whisper, “ATV’s got an exclusive. Shawna Wells. Family interview. It’ll air as a one-hour special. Pretty cool, huh?”

  I couldn’t answer. Shawna Wells used to be the co-host of a morning show that my mom watched every day before work. Now she anchored the evening news on ATV. I remembered watching her one night as she sat with the president of a country in Eastern Europe and charmingly eviscerated him for human rights violations.

  When I saw that, I was in awe of her.

  And now I was terrified.

  “We’ll do it in Massachusetts,” Elliott decided. “I’ll send some folks up to air the place out.”

  He convinced Nancy to push the interview a month so that the team could “prep” me better. I had to admit, a month away sounded a whole lot better than first thing tomorrow.

  Maybe by late July, this would all feel like no big deal.

  • • •

  My life consisted of rolling panic attacks at the very mention of the word interview, along with recurring nightmares about being filmed in something embarrassing—zit cream, a too-small towel, my old nightgown with bunnies spelling out “I Love You” in balloons. So you’d think the last people I’d want to hang out with would be members of the press.

  But all along the campaign route, I found myself perversely drawn to the Caboose—that last, shabby bus in line, full to bursting with chattering reporters.

  As we caravanned our way across the country, we often stopped at the same lunch spots, staffers and press interchangeable as they stood in clusters, waiting for their sandwich orders to come up. They seemed to all know each other.

  Cal made a running joke of it, teasing the Caboosers with the prospect of a scoop. In Indiana, he whispered to a young blogger with a hipster haircut, “Off the record? I like your T-shirt,” and later in the week groaned, “Off the record? I’m hung over,” to a clutch of cable news reporters he’d obviously shared drinks with at the last hotel stopover in St. Louis. I laughed, and then hid it, feeling like they were all at a secret party that I hadn’t been invited to. Later, I watched them loudly board their bus with a twinge of envy—especially when I saw that black-haired New York Times reporter getting on, tucking her laptop into her saddlebag and all her top-secret information along with it.

  Her name was Dina Thomas, I’d learned. She’d been on the political beat for fifteen years. She won the Pulitzer three years ago for reporting that a big-city mayor was embezzling city funds to build a vacation home.

  When we stopped for burgers at a roadside stand in Kentucky, she went to eat at a picnic table away from the rabble. The senator stayed on the bus with Louis, going over the campaign budget, while Meg tried to get Gracie to stop stealing a road-sick Gabe’s French fries. Unnoticed, I slipped away.

  Dina looked up from her laptop with a curious expression when I approached, pushing her sunglasses on top of her glossy black hair.

  Maybe it was learning that I’d be interviewed by Shawna Wells on national television. Or maybe the fact that I’d recently—finally—allowed myself to read that fateful New York Times article, which even after all the buildup was staggering in its details about my life. Whatever was spurring me on, it had managed to shove me out of my comfort zone. This was my chance.

  I sat.

  “You sure you want to be seen chatting with me?” she asked, clearing her throat. “They seem to have you on a pretty tight leash.”

  I flushed at that, but didn’t flinch. “I have some questions,” I said, then quickly added, “Off the record.”

  Dina’s eyes twinkled. “I thought you might.” She shut her laptop and rested her hands on it. Her fingernails were trimmed short, bitten maybe. “If you want to know how I found out about you, I’m sorry, but I can’t help. I protect my sources. I’ve been subpoenaed, court-martialed, physically threatened—but I’ve never revealed a source who didn’t want to be revealed.”

  “I, um . . . okay.” Thrown, I glanced over my shoulder, but nobody seemed to have taken notice of me over here. “It’s just—I didn’t know who my father was. My mom never told me. So I don’t understand how anyone could have—”

  She cut me off, but kindly. “Kate. I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you. I wish I could help you understand, but I can’t. All I can say is, in my experience, the truth always comes out in time.”

  There was so much I wanted to ask. Like how she’d found out about my mother. Not just the bare facts: college degree, profession, date of accident, but the impression Mom had made on everyone around her. The words she’d used to describe my mom were sparing, but unnervingly spot on.

  “. . . A community leader known as much for her relaxed warmth and constant humor as for her passionate advocacy on behalf of the East LA residents her organization served, Emily Quinn raised Kate privately, shielding her from the spotlight of her own often public role . . .”

  Dina was crumpling her ketchup-stained napkin. She gave me a smile that indicated good-bye and I knew better than to argue.

  Cal watched me get up from the table and return to my waiting burger, his eyebrows raised.

  “I asked her where she got her sunglasses,” I said.

  He grinned. “Ask Nancy—she’ll get you a pair.”

  After that, I kept my distance from the press corps, contenting myself with watching and eavesdropping. Dina was a brick wall, a nice one, but obviously unmovable. I focused instead on mentally preparing myself for the interview to come, hoping that Dina was right, that one day soon it would all become clear.

  • • •

  When we got back to Maryland on Thursday, a fresh hell awaited me.

  Almost all of the campaign’s television ads and print materials featured the senator’s family. Now that I was an honorary Cooper, it was time for new ones.

  But that wasn’t even the problem.

  The day of the commercial shoot, I woke from a nervous night of half-sleep and che
cked my flip phone for the time.

  I checked it again.

  Then I sat bolt upright in bed and clutched it with both hands.

  I had 213 missed calls. Over a thousand texts. From what I could scan, all of them were from strangers, some so profane that I threw the phone onto the bedroom floor and stared at it unblinking as it buzzed.

  And buzzed again.

  Downstairs, Libby was waiting for me, bearing a brand-new smart-phone and a wince of apology.

  “We have no idea how it happened.” She shook her head as if traumatized. “A campaign contact list leaked. Some awful blog posted it online last night. I hope nobody prank-called you yet!”

  I handed her my phone, and her face went pale. As she helpfully imported my contacts into the new phone, she chattered away about how the Internet had already exploded into a heated debate over protecting the privacy of minors.

  “So in a way, it’s a good—”

  Another text came in and her nose wrinkled.

  I didn’t ask.

  By the time we left the house, I was still creeped out, but took comfort in the now familiar sight of James waiting by the car in his crisp suit, somehow looking both friendly and dead-freaking-serious.

  They’re just words on a phone, I reminded myself. And photos, my brain added before I shoved that lovely thought away. Either way, nobody was ever going to get past James. My attention was drawn anew to the guards manning the gate as we drove past the press siege. They were here to protect us, buffer us from all the people out there who didn’t support us, who wanted to find dirt on us, or make malicious contact for the thrill of it, or worse.

  There are people out there—total strangers—who hate me, I realized, and rubbed my arms against an imaginary chill. The glass of the car window felt flimsy all of a sudden. But that was silly. I knew it was bulletproof.

  The commercial shoot only added to the bizarreness of the day. We filmed it an hour away at a supporter’s house that none of us had ever been to. However random, the place was lovely—green lawns flanking an artificial pond full of non-artificial ducks. The crew had set up a picnic and Gabe got confused when the cameraman told him not to eat the food.