The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  “Think Christmas cards, Gabe,” the senator laughed. “Real life—but prettier.”

  It took us a while to get to pretty. They tried some shots of us all piled onto a red-and-white checkered picnic blanket, awkwardly leaning over each other to grab prop food, and when they yelled “More chatting, please!” the senator blurted, “How was your day, dear?” to which Meg replied, “It was very odd. I put together this lovely meal and then strangers showed up with cameras and started ordering us around!” Pretty soon we were all actually laughing, even Gabe, who had to be constantly admonished for looking straight into the lens in abject terror.

  Next came shots of us strolling the grounds in different combinations: the senator and his wife, me and the twins, me and Meg, and finally me and the senator. As the cameras rolled, our fake conversation morphed into a real one.

  “You’re doing great,” the senator said. I laughed, thinking he meant the commercial, but he patted my back. “Everybody tells me what a trouper you’ve been, kiddo. Keep it up.”

  I flashed a very real smile and the crew yelled, “Cut!”

  On our way back to campaign headquarters, my brain replayed the senator’s comment in a broken-record loop. Was there a promise implied in that “Keep it up”? Keep it up . . . and then what? If I kept trying hard, kept inexplicably boosting his polling numbers, maybe this could stretch longer than just the summer, all the way to November fourth. And by then, they’d be so used to me, it would make all the sense in the world to invite me along to the White House.

  At the thought of that big, columned building, my brain shut down. 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I’d still never seen it except on the news and in movies. It seemed like a jump too far, ridiculous, like we were all campaigning for the chance to teleport to Jupiter. But the White House wasn’t a fantasy to the senator. It was the reason he got out of bed every morning. And if I could help put him there, I would.

  It was a future. A possible future. It had been a long time since I’d dared think that far ahead.

  As soon as we walked into HQ, Tim the Surly Campaign Aide blocked my way.

  “There’s someone on the phone for you.” His Adam’s apple rose with indignation. “The campaign phone. A friend from South Carolina?”

  Rolling my eyes, I pried the phone from his clenched hand. It had to be Lily Hornsby—my only friend from South Carolina. We weren’t exactly on phone-catch-up terms, but maybe she wanted to say hi. She must have called my dead cell number and thought to try me via the campaign. But when I picked up the receiver, the voice on the other end was male.

  “Greetings from the Palmetto State.” His voice was teasingly familiar, dry and ironic, with no Southern drawl whatsoever. “Your cell number’s not working. FYI.”

  My brain sputtered like a beached fish. Was this a stranger? Someone from school I’d never paid attention to? Or . . . oh my God. Oh. My— “This is Andy Lawrence, by the way.”

  “Why are you calling me?” I glanced over my shoulder at the staffers passing in the hall and ducked behind a cubicle wall.

  “I’m bored,” Andy replied. “I actually am in South Carolina, you know, so it wasn’t technically a lie. My dad’s got us going to three backyard barbecues today. Three. Have you dealt with this yet? You have to eat at all of them or it’s rude, and people keep pushing food at you like you’re their Save the Children sponsor child. I don’t know how I’m gonna get down another rack of ribs. It might not be physically possible. Seriously, I’m thinking of becoming a vegan for the next five hours. What are you doing?”

  I froze. “Why?”

  “Just curious.” I could almost hear him smiling on the other end of the line. “Not much of a phone talker, are you, Quinn?”

  “No, I . . .” I let out a flustered breath. What was the matter with me? Just find out what he wants and get him off the phone. “I’m a little rusty, is all. We’ve been shooting campaign ads today, so I haven’t had to do much besides smile and mime eating.”

  “Mime eating?” He laughed. “Yikes. Want some ribs? I’ve got an endless supply. I’ll deliver them to you myself.”

  Just then, an aide walked by with a stack of pizzas and I almost floated after the smell like a cartoon animal.

  “Dammit, I’m on.” Andy let out a mournful sigh. “Nice talkin’ to you, Kate Quinn. ’Til next time.”

  And click.

  Tim craned his head around the corner, his eyebrows knotted in accusation. I held my breath, wondering if he’d known all along who I was talking to.

  “Personal calls are not allowed on the campaign line,” he hissed, snatching the phone back.

  As Tim stomped away, I collapsed against the cubicle, buzzing, replaying the nonsensical conversation in my head, hoping I hadn’t just done something stupid by mentioning campaign ads to the president’s son.

  He is the enemy, I reminded myself. Beware.

  13

  I was sitting on the floor in Gracie’s room on Friday afternoon, teaching her to play Spit, when Senator Cooper popped his head in.

  “I’m heading to Oklahoma for a fundraiser—wanna tag along?”

  Gracie’s face lit up, game forgotten. I glanced up at the senator, and was surprised to find him looking past Grace at me. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

  “Well?”

  “Yeah!” I blurted. “Sounds great.”

  Gracie stood, scattering our cards across the carpet. “What about me?”

  “Mom says no this time.” He put on a fake stern expression. “And she’s the boss.”

  As soon as he was out of sight, Gracie fled downstairs. A few seconds later, I heard a door slam.

  “Yikes,” I muttered. Did she do this every time she wasn’t allowed on the road?

  I straightened up the game and went back to my room to pack—but no need. A full bag was already waiting for me at the end of the bed.

  • • •

  This fundraiser was a special one—a benefit concert, Winchaw Junction headlining. I knew they were a country band, but wasn’t sure I’d recognize their music.

  “Should be a good time,” the senator said. It already was. We were traveling to the event via a donor’s private jet, most definitely the first time I’d ever skipped security lines and hopped straight onto a plane from the tarmac like an old-time movie star. It was thrilling—until we climbed the stairs and saw Elliott Webb inside, laughing raucously with the portly older man who owned the plane.

  As the senator joined them, I retreated to a seat in the back and belted myself in, glad I’d brought a book along. But when we started to roll down the runway, Senator Cooper came to sit beside me.

  After takeoff, the silence stretched from comfortable to awkward. I forced myself to turn from the window and smile at the senator.

  “So, are you a big country music fan?”

  “Sure.” Something in his expression made me suspect otherwise. I raised my eyebrows and he chuckled. “Full disclosure? It’s not my favorite. I’m more of a blues guy, myself. Don’t tell anybody.”

  “Blues.” I stared at him, still skeptical. But then he slid lower in his chair and kicked his feet out, a sly smile spreading across his face, and a different man started emerging—someone I’d actually believe was a blues fan. The salt and pepper in his brown hair suddenly looked less perfectly distributed. I could picture him on a porch swing, coaching a soccer game, shopping for power tools. He seemed like a dad. Was this how voters saw him too?

  “I do like some country,” he admitted. “The classics. Johnny Cash. And stuff that veers more toward folk. I’ve got a million old Bob Dylan tracks.”

  I had to cut him off there. “Bob Dylan? But . . . you’re a Republican.”

  He laughed. “I won’t say I align with all his views, but I appreciate the spirit behind his lyrics. And I love the music itself.”

  “That’s—awesome.”

  I didn’t blurt out what popped into my head next, that my mom loved Bob Dylan. She had a million old records too.


  Maybe he already knew. Maybe they’d bonded over that when she worked for his campaign. Maybe Bob Dylan was the first crack that led to the dam bursting, to infidelity, to me.

  • • •

  The concert was held at a huge fairground in what had looked from the air like Middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma. The whole place was festooned with campaign banners, posters homemade and official, streamers and balloons, a massive Cooper for America backdrop hanging behind the stage.

  As a local politician took the stage to introduce us, the senator turned to me in mock concern, fidgeting with his tie.

  “What do you think, kiddo? Presentable?”

  “You look fine to me, but . . .” I put my hand to my jaw, the way I’d seen Elliott do when he was thinking. “We’d better bring in some consultants and run a quick poll. Too risky otherwise.”

  The senator let out a laugh so loud and sudden that the staffers watching the stage for us turned in alarm. He shot them his trademark thumbs-up, me a wink, and then as his name rang out, strode away onto the darkened field, and I stayed behind, glowing. It was just a stupid little joke, but he’d liked it. My father thought I was funny.

  As the spotlight flashed across the entranceway, there came a roar that seemed to rise from the ground itself. The place was going crazy, guitars twanging, the lead singer taking the stage to introduce “The man who will restore the country that we know and love . . . !”

  Easy crowd, I told myself to calm my nerves. All of these people are supporters of Senator Cooper. And they won’t be looking at me. There are lots of people on stage, I’ll slip right in once security cues me that it’s safe to go.

  But if it’s no big deal—why am I entering by myself?

  As if in answer, my name blared from speakers all over the field. The crowd started screaming again.

  A local coordinator turned to me, her face glowing with fervor. “It’s you, Kate! You’re on!”

  I walked out of the safe zone into the roaming spotlight and felt it catch me and stick, hot and blinding, vaguely registered the Jumbotron broadcasting my giant face, remembered late to smile and wave, and thought, of all things, of Andy Lawrence, what he’d said on the phone last week.

  “I’m on.”

  I thought I’d known then what he meant. Now I really did.

  • • •

  The senator sat with Elliott on the way home, talking strategy, tomorrow’s visit to a factory in Ohio, the dietary habits of koalas, for all I knew. I was asleep before the plane took off, my ears still ringing and my cheeks sore from smiling.

  I half woke when I thought I heard my name. Somebody had tucked a blanket over me.

  “She did well,” the senator was saying, his back to me a few seats away.

  “You got lucky with her,” Elliott said, and I perked up a little, surprised at his sentimental tone. “We all did. It’s amazing—she’s the most docile teenager I’ve ever seen.”

  What?

  Docile. Like a barnyard animal.

  A branded cow.

  “She’s a good kid,” the senator said.

  No matter how many times I replayed it in my head that night—as the plane descended and touched down, as we drove away, as my body welcomed my bed but my brain refused to yield—it still sounded like he was talking about somebody else. An intern, maybe, or a friend’s child. Not his own.

  “She’s a good kid” was the beginning and the end of that thought. It was the sentiment of somebody who wasn’t curious to learn any more.

  • • •

  “Steelworkers built this country,” cried the senator the next day, his stage surrounded by industrial equipment. “And together, we can move it forward!”

  A healthy smattering of applause rose up from the crowd of factory workers who’d stopped work for the senator’s visit. We were all dressed down today, the senator forgoing a jacket and tie, sleeves rolled messily up, as if to demonstrate that he too had experience working in factories.

  When the senator came down from the stage and made for the crowd, Lou smiled at the rest of us.

  “Not bad, huh?”

  Cal shrugged, texting someone on his BlackBerry. “He skipped a line.”

  “No,” Nancy blurted, staring at her own phone. “No! This cannot be happening again!”

  A few startled factory workers turned to stare, but Nancy was already stalking out of the cavernous industrial space before we could ask what happened.

  Before she got to the door, we found out for ourselves. Five black-suited men with fingers pressed to their ears flanked the entrance, staring in confusion at the gathered crowd.

  “Oh fu—jeez,” said Lou, eyes cutting to me and then back to them. He ran a hand over his bald head. “Can you spell snafu?”

  “S. N . . .” Cal looked up. “Ohhhh shit.”

  “What is it?” I asked, already guessing the answer. No wonder Nancy was upset.

  “Prepare to hail the chief,” Cal groaned, pocketing his phone and hurrying to flank Nancy, who was jabbering irately at the Secret Service agents, as if they were responsible for what had to be an epic scheduling mishap—the senator and the president making the same campaign stop on the same day.

  Even Meg’s eyes were wild as she made her way out of the throng. “How did this happen?”

  “I’m gonna find out,” Elliott growled, appearing from nowhere. “For now, let’s speed this up. Everyone get in, get out. On the bus in five, before anybody gets any photos.”

  In the fake-cheerful chaos that followed, I decided to beat the crowd to the Locomotive. Gabe and Gracie met me at the bus’s door.

  “Can you get us a bag of Doritos?” Gabe whispered.

  “Just one.” Gracie smiled. “We can all share it. It’s hardly anything!”

  “Please? We’re starving.” The way Gabe moaned it, you’d think he was a dying street urchin.

  Doritos were clearly not part of the Approved Cooper Family Diet. But . . . I didn’t know that, did I? I could do this for them. I had five minutes.

  Okay, three.

  Entering through the side of the factory, I jogged down a dim hallway, toward the vacant break room I’d spotted as we paraded into the event.

  It wasn’t so vacant anymore. A smash sounded from inside the room.

  “Come on, you asshole!”

  I hesitated a second before rounding the corner—just long enough to smother a laugh.

  Andy Lawrence and the snack machine were locked in battle, his hands grasping its broad sides and leg ratcheted back, ready to kick.

  This was too good.

  I cleared my throat. Andy turned, his face flooding gloriously red at the sight of me.

  “Quinn . . .” His eyes blinked hard. “Fancy, uh, meeting you here.”

  I stepped between him and the machine, spotting a Cheetos bag dangling teasingly off the end of its coil. I gave the glass a gentle flick and through sheer dumb luck, it dropped with a soft thunk into the dispenser.

  Luxuriating in his thrown expression, I handed Andy the Cheetos.

  “How did you do that?” He squinted suspiciously at the machine.

  I shrugged. “Maybe it just wanted someone to be nice to it.”

  A smile stretched across his face, one crooked corner at a time. “You’re a very wise girl, Kate Quinn.”

  I felt my ears go red and knew my face would follow. “Gotta go!” I said, and hurried out with a backward wave before he could seize the upper hand once again.

  I made it to the bus seconds after Elliott, but he was already glaring at his watch as if I were hours late. Ignoring him, I plopped myself down next to Gracie and stared out the window at the president’s limousine, hoping no one would notice that I was trying to wrestle away a smile.

  “Kate?” Gracie whispered.

  I held my breath as I turned to her, but still couldn’t squelch my giddiness.

  She raised her little eyebrows. “Doritos?”

  “Oh.” My grin evaporated. “Shoot.”

/>   • • •

  The senator was touring the West Coast for the next few days, the rest of us given time to “unwind.” Easier said than done. On the second morning, while Meg was outside watching Gabe demonstrate his new and improved cannonball, Gracie and I snuck a curious look at the news.

  On CNN, some guy in a bow tie was jabbering on about what voters want.

  “They don’t care about his life—they care about their own, first and foremost. This extramarital affair, the Kate Quinn scandal—it’s becoming, increasingly, a non-issue . . .”

  The anchor interrupted to argue. “We’re talking about a secret child here—let’s not oversimplify . . .”

  The ticker scrolled by: “Kate Quinn Scandal a ‘Non-Issue.’”

  I heaved a sigh. “At least they’ve stopped calling me a love child.”

  “Yeah.” Gracie snickered. Then her face dropped. “What’s ‘love child’?”

  A throat cleared behind us, and I spun. Meg’s mouth twitched—with suppressed amusement? Hopefully?

  “Outside,” she ordered. “You will spend the rest of the day acting like normal children. Go.”

  As we skulked out of the living room, Meg went for the remote. But before she could flip off the TV, I heard the anchor plug the next segment: “Next up, Cooper’s hard line on immigration, and what it means for the Hispanic vote . . .”

  The words hard line echoed chillingly in my head long after the TV fell silent. When Penny called after lunch, I almost blurted them out in place of a greeting. She’d know what they meant. But I hesitated to bring it up. She was so upbeat, so eager to hear how everything was going that I didn’t want to spoil her mood. Or mine.

  And besides, we had more pertinent things to discuss. Like: “What is with all the dresses? Every time I see you on TV, you look like you’re wearing an American Girl costume.”

  “Yes, I’m dressed as Katie Cooper,” I deadpanned. “I’m from 1950. I’m twelve years old, and I love ponies and playing the trombone.”