The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  Penny laughed. “Please tell me you have a doll that looks just like you.”

  “I don’t, but if you can find me one, I promise I will carry it around to all of the campaign stops. It’ll be terrifying.”

  That was as close as we got to talking politics. We talked about almost everything else—my LA friends, my old school, how she was going to have to share a room with her little sister Eva when her brother Enrico was home on leave from the marines in a few weeks, how tragic it was that our favorite K-town restaurant had closed down. We didn’t talk about my mom. Penny had always been careful to let me bring her up first, and I didn’t this time.

  I didn’t tell her about Andy either.

  I wasn’t sure why.

  It felt like a secret—not so much that I’d seen him, twice now, or that he’d called me . . . but that I still thought about him calling, wondered if he would again. Maybe I didn’t want to admit that the opponent’s son took up so much space in my brain. Not even to Penny. Not even to myself.

  14

  Tuesday, July 1

  Gearing Up for a Week of Barbecue, Flag Waving, and Cowgirl Training (Probably) 126 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION

  We had a trip planned for July Fourth that, judging by the ambient stress level, seemed to carry a lot more weight than a simple jaunt to Texas.

  Even Meg was wound up tight and letting it show. Her daily recitation of how many days were left in the campaign had gotten louder and a lot less soothing in the past week. And in direct violation of her self-imposed “Campaign-free Zone” policy, she’d started inviting her own staff to the house every day that she wasn’t out campaigning. In a weird way, it reminded me of home, how my mom used to have her directors and board members over on weekends and evenings, everyone pitching in on behalf of the Cocina. It was a familiar environment, one that I felt comfortable slipping into.

  Since the press conference, something had shifted for Meg. She was alert now, actively involved, maybe even enjoying herself. Seeing how curious I was about the campaign, she’d started giving me things to do, local events to attend alongside her—small ones so far, meetings with supporters who’d asked about me. I jumped at the chance to help, hoping that the more I understood how the campaign machine worked, the more comfortable I would feel as a part of it—not just out on the road or at events, but in day-to-day life too. I kept waiting for the morning I would wake up at the Coopers’ house and not blink hard with shock at the still unfamiliar guest room surrounding me.

  Any day now.

  The Tuesday before July Fourth, Meg invited me to a women’s Political Action Committee luncheon where she’d be the keynote speaker. Since she knew most of the ladies in the room already, I assumed it would be another easy crowd. But that morning, Meg began to pace. Over breakfast, she asked me to critique her speech, wanted my opinion on whether the phrase “seminal moment” made her sound too elitist.

  And that afternoon, when she took the podium, she introduced me as “My stepdaughter, Kate,” saying the word so casually that it felt as though I’d lived with her for years, not weeks.

  “Poor Susan,” Meg gossiped on the ride home, referring to the event’s hostess. “She’s running for state senate again.”

  “You don’t think she’ll win?”

  Meg’s mouth quirked. “Considering she’s lost the last seven times she’s tried, I’d say the odds aren’t great.”

  I choked back a giggle. “This is her eighth try? That’s crazy!”

  Meg raised her eyebrows. “You think that’s crazy? Lydia Danforth, the one I introduced you to—”

  “The one who kept talking about her kids back in the Hamptons?”

  “They weren’t her kids. They were her llamas.”

  I blinked, not understanding.

  “She keeps llamas in her beach house. Not at. In. Ten of them.” She clamped her lips together. “I shouldn’t laugh. She’s one of our biggest supporters.”

  I stared at Meg, my jaw hanging open. She burst out laughing anyway.

  We were both still giggling when we entered the house and rounded the corner into the family room, where Gabe was leaning over the coffee table, hard at work on something. When he saw me, his face went blank. He scrambled away, clutching his project behind his back.

  “That was odd,” Meg said.

  I shrugged, thinking it wasn’t, really. It was just Gabe.

  But that wasn’t quite true, was it? It had been a long time since he’d acted so uncomfortable around me. I’d worked at it, steadily. Every time he was playing a video game or watching TV, I’d quietly, casually sit next to him, reading my book. Eventually he’d stopped reacting so weirdly to me. Until today, anyway.

  That night, I went up to my room to find a sketch of a seagull lying on the bed. I traced the edge of it, realizing why he’d had his hands behind his back when he fled the room. At the bottom, he’d written, “For Kate. Your brother, Gabe.”

  I smiled at the sketch again. Propped it on my dresser and sat down on my bed to smile at it from across the room. I had a brother now. A sister and a stepmom.

  It was nearly perfect. Except . . .

  I sank backward to stare at the ceiling.

  Despite fleeting moments here and there, the senator still felt like “The Senator,” the friendly politician whose campaign I was working on. Once again, I reminded myself of Louis’s words.

  Stick it out. He’s worth it.

  • • •

  On July second, the senator flew home from Oregon just in time to reboard the campaign’s plane, this time with us in tow. The press was assembled on the tarmac to document our departure from the DC airfield, buzzing with some fresh excitement that I didn’t really understand. By now, the photographers didn’t surprise me, not even at 6:00 A.M.

  When we landed in Texas, two luxury SUVs were waiting for us. In the back of the “kids’ car,” as Gracie dubbed it, the twins stared upward for most of the ride, mesmerized by the cartoons playing on the backseat’s TV. But my eyes were fixed elsewhere—on the flat landscape that stretched around us, the long straight roads and endless fields where long-horned cattle grazed. There were signs in Spanish that reminded me of home, rusted water towers and dingy billboards shouting “God Saves” or “This is Panther Country,” and quite a few “Cooper for America” yard signs too. The longer we drove, the more barren the landscape became. I found myself calculating how many miles we were from each tiny town we passed, in case we needed rescue.

  We were headed to the family ranch of the governor of Texas. I knew that much. Eric McReady had been a rival candidate during the primaries, the senator’s fiercest competitor. It struck me as odd that only a few months after a round of primaries that Meg had called “brutal,” we were vacationing with the former opponent’s family. Something else had to be going on.

  When we passed through the iron gates of the ranch, we entered a completely new world. The plants around the long drive were lush and manicured, not scrubby and sparse like the ones dotting the highway. We rolled past a tennis court, a rose garden, stables, and horse paddocks before finally arriving at the sprawling compound where the McReadys lived when they weren’t in the state capital. It was like the Emerald City emerging out of a poppy field.

  When the family came to greet us, I slipped out of the car wearing my practiced smile, guessing that more camera crews would be here to document the oh-so-friendly moment. But to my surprise, we were alone—apart from the twenty-plus staffers who bustled around coordinating each handshake.

  The senator and governor greeted each other warmly, as did Meg and Mrs. McReady. They all commented on how big the twins had gotten, which made Gabe slump and Gracie stand up even straighter. Then they introduced me to the governor’s blond daughter, Carolee, who looked about my age.

  Sure enough, as Carolee and I exchanged hellos, her perfectly coiffed mother chimed in. “Carolee is also sixteen!”

  Everyone reacted as if this were the most incredible coincidence the
y’d ever heard, like they’d just learned we were both badminton champions or shared the same bone marrow type and one of us was due for a transplant. Carolee twirled her ponytail and shot me a shy smile.

  “It’ll be nice to have somebody new to hang out with,” she said, and I instantly relaxed. “I thought maybe we could go riding tomorrow, if that’s cool with you?”

  We had a big barbecue for dinner that night, and I slept in the guest room that shared a wall with Carolee’s ridiculously luxurious bedroom suite. She’d said she was tired and ducked off to bed earlier than everybody else, but I heard her cell phone beeping with texts until well after midnight. I finally managed to doze off, listening to the sounds of an unfamiliar terrain, and dreamed of coyotes and horses and scrubby land a thousand miles away, flanked by ocean and mountains, me and Mom in the middle of it.

  • • •

  Mrs. McReady outfitted me with a pair of Carolee’s old boots and a cowboy hat while the horses were being brought around to the front of the house the next afternoon. The senator and Governor McReady had taken a break from their discussions to see us off. I’d ridden horses before in the canyons surrounding LA, so I wasn’t too worried about making a fool of myself in front of them—until I saw Carolee.

  She was wearing a tank top and jeans, like me, but hers looked painted on, her hat perfectly perched over a ponytail that spilled like spun gold down her back. Carolee rode without effort, one hand lightly clutching the reins of the second horse that trotted obediently beside her. Once I’d clambered into the saddle, I peeled my hair from my forehead and shoved it under the wide-brimmed hat, hoping I didn’t look as sweaty as I felt. Carolee waved cheerily at our families, but as soon as we cut off the driveway onto a horse trail and out of sight of the house, her face dropped into a mask of tragedy.

  She squinted over her shoulder. “Have you ridden before?”

  “Yeah, I—” Before I could regale her with tales of sunset rides to Mexican restaurants in the Valley, she cut me off.

  “Cool.”

  Carolee beeped. She dug a cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and slowed the horse so she could text a reply. I watched her with a mix of horror and admiration. It was as if she were transforming into a mermaid in front of me, or some other magical creature, the mythical Texan Teenager—who brings a cell phone out on a trail ride. I was surprised you could even get reception out here.

  Once she’d sent her text, she collapsed over the horse with a groan, arms dangling like she was settling in for a nap.

  After we’d gone past a cow field, skirting the edge of a barbed wire fence, and listed left for no good reason, I glanced at her with concern. “Are you okay?”

  She sat up, grudgingly. “I hate riding. It’s just like . . . ughh.”

  I waited for more of an explanation, but apparently that was all she had. Her horse swished its tail and she swatted peevishly at a fly with her hat.

  “It’s so fucking hot.”

  I had to agree. “But you must be used to it, right? Being from Texas and all.”

  “Yeah but . . .” She squinted up at me like it had just occurred to her that I was an idiot. “We have a pool.”

  “Oh.”

  “I wanted to hang out there today, not ride out on a fucking vision quest, but whatever. They wanted the house because Senator Cooper’s gonna ask my dad to be his runnin’ mate.”

  She turned to me, eyebrows raised, waiting for a reaction.

  “That’s what I figured.”

  Her eyes narrowed. I must not have acted sufficiently impressed. And then her smirk plummeted, as she remembered who my father was—the one who’d kicked her dad’s butt in the primaries. The top name on the ticket.

  Be nice, I reminded myself. If she’s right, then you’re going to be seeing more of her.

  Beep. She whipped out her cell phone and texted.

  We passed a gnarled old split tree with an actual buzzard sitting in it. Our horses seemed to be ambling along directionless.

  “Where are we going?”

  Carolee blinked blearily up at me from her phone. “The other stable.”

  I found myself scanning the grassy horizon, praying for the faintest glimpse of it.

  Another text came in and Carolee’s spine straightened. She held up her cell phone. “So there’s a party. I kinda want to go. Do you mind?”

  “Right now?” I asked, but she was texting again. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  “Cool, so let’s just drop the horses at the other stable.”

  “Sounds good.” Suddenly my tank top felt twice as crusty, the backs of my knees soggy with sweat. I hoped we’d have a chance to shower first.

  When we reached the stables, a shabbier version of the ones near her house, a shiny red pickup truck was parked on the dirt road that stretched beside the old wooden building. Its engine was running.

  Carolee helped me out of the saddle and put the horses away with sudden friendliness, shutting and locking the stable doors behind us. Then she turned to me with a sympathetic wince.

  “So . . . my boyfriend’s here and I think we’re just gonna head straight there. Can you call one of your dad’s people to pick you up?”

  I blinked, confused.

  Then it hit me, in mortifying stages. Oh. I wasn’t invited to the party. I’d misunderstood. And oh. She wasn’t even giving me a ride back. This was actually happening.

  “Um, sure,” I said, my head swimming from the heat and the complete ridiculousness of the situation.

  “Cool,” she said, and before I could even really process what was going on, she and the red truck were a dusty line receding into the distance.

  It was right about then that I saw the logic in bringing a cell phone on a trail ride.

  When I finally found my way past stray bulls, cow patties, razor-sharp shrubs, and heat-induced hallucinations to the paved driveway leading to the ranch house, my feet were blistered inside Carolee’s boots and my shirt so stuck to my back that I suspected it would have to be surgically removed.

  Bracing myself for a big fuss from the assembled Coopers, McReadys, and staff, I opened the front door instead to an empty house, the sound of a distant TV echoing through the vacant hallways. An elderly Hispanic woman in a ridiculous uniform poked her head in.

  “They’re out,” she said, and started the vacuum.

  I staggered to the open-space living room and stared through dancing sunspots at the massive television that hung beneath a mounted stag’s head. Fox News was on—broadcasting a press conference in the town square we’d passed through yesterday. The senator was speaking, turning it over to Governor McReady—his new running mate. So that’s where they all were.

  A cool shower, a greedy gulp of water from the tap, then I stumbled into bed for an unavoidable nap—and woke up after God knows how many minutes to the sound of my cell phone ringing.

  I picked up, expecting Meg’s voice or a staffer’s. Instead, it took me several blinks to realize I wasn’t still asleep.

  “Heya, new girl. How’s Texas?”

  Andy pronounced it the Spanish way, with an H in place of an X.

  I sat up so quickly my head spun. “How did you get this number?”

  “Charming as always, Quinn. Aren’t you supposed to be the polite one?”

  “Sorry. Rough day. Just out of curiosity—are you using the FBI to stalk me?”

  “Let me guess,” he said, ignoring the question. “They made you hang out with Carolee.” The name was a groan.

  I glanced out the window at the empty front drive. “How did you—”

  “Nightmare, am I right?”

  “No.” I flushed. “She’s really nice.”

  “Oh man!” Andy laughed ruefully. “That’s a diplomatic answer. Some might call it a politic answer. Or a lie. I’ve met her, you know.”

  Call me crazy, but it didn’t feel right to complain about the daughter of my dad’s running mate to the son of his competition.

  “She’s total
ly fine,” I started, but he cut me off.

  “What happened?” There was a long pause. “Seriously, tell me.”

  I drew in a breath. “She ditched me like five miles away at the other end of the ranch to go to some party and I had to walk back in cowboy boots and it’s a hundred degrees and I’m lucky I even got into the house because nobody’s here and I don’t know why people go on about dry heat being better because it absolutely full-on sucks.”

  “Oh my God.” Andy at least had the good grace to stifle his laughter. “Why did you say she was nice?!”

  “She is!” I let out a bewildered laugh. “When other people are around.”

  “She’s a stone-cold bitch, but I’m proud of you for trying here, Quinn.” I smiled. I couldn’t help it. It felt good to get all that out, like the first gasp of air after holding your breath underwater.

  A car pulled up outside. No, several. They were back, loud voices filling the house. I glanced at the doorway. I should get off the phone. Instead, I jumped up, flipped the lock on the bedroom door, and leaned against it, heart pounding.

  Nobody came down the hall. Why would they? I was supposed to be with Carolee, having wholesome fun out on the trail, or whatever else they imagined good Republican teenagers doing.

  Andy cleared his throat. “You still there?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed. “Yeah.”

  And then the unthinkable happened—

  We talked.

  More precisely, he asked questions, and I kept answering them, my finger hovering near the END CALL button but never able to press it, never quite able to get to “I’ve gotta go,” until before I knew it, an hour had passed, and I was in a full-fledged conversation.

  “Have you done the ‘Just popping into a local diner to grab some ice cream’ yet?”

  “Yeah, on like day two!” I laughed. “Everyone in the place looked so confused. It wasn’t ice cream, though. We got these disgusting loaded hot dogs.”

  “Which you were then forced to enjoy on camera.”

  “Yes! Because they’re the official food of Skokie, Indiana. I have no idea why. I’ve had nightmares about them.”