The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  “I can beat you. I had to eat haggis last week at a donor party hosted by some rich dude in Florida whose ancestors were Scottish.”

  I covered my mouth. “That’s sheep guts?”

  “Sheep organs, actually. Wrapped in guts. That wasn’t even the worst part. The bagpipe player stood behind my chair for the entire meal. We were pretending our family was part Scottish too, so I had to act like I was really into it. I’m just glad they didn’t make me wear a kilt.”

  “There’s always next time. Gotta be more Scottish donors out there.”

  “It wouldn’t even matter at this point. I think the campaign has reached peak embarrassment for me.”

  I hesitated, surprised he felt it so keenly. I’d sort of assumed it was my inexperience that made me feel that way.

  Andy groaned. “I just doomed myself by saying that. We’re taping a warm and fuzzy family interview with some Spanish language news channel this weekend and I know they’re going to expect me to rattle off perfect español for the audience, since I’m in Spanish 4 and my dad can only say, ‘Somos una America!’ He really lays it on thick too, like Speedy Gonzalez. He doesn’t even know how insulting he sounds.”

  Andy’s next question cut my laugh off.

  “Have you done that yet? The big family interview?”

  I blinked at the ceiling fan, my pulse quickening at the thought of the top secret Shawna Wells exclusive, now only a few weeks away. “Nope. Not yet.”

  “You’re lucky. They’re excruciating. You can’t scratch an itch without the cameras zooming in and using that shot as an opener.”

  I decided to change the subject. “Do you have a list of approved sound bites?”

  “What, like, in a binder? Yep. But my list pretty much just says, ‘Don’t talk to anyone.’”

  I rolled onto my stomach. “They keep pulling me aside and giving me notes on how I veered off script when I was, like, asking somebody at a rally where the restroom was. Am I supposed to randomly drop taglines into everyday conversation?”

  “You could try it,” Andy suggested. “Nice weather, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes! But it’ll be even better with a healthy investment in clean energy!’”

  “Except our campaign would be: ‘Sure is beautiful out! Kinda makes you question the scientific validity of climate change, doesn’t it?’”

  “Wow, you’re good at this.”

  “Why thank you.”

  Andy’s laughter died in a sigh. “You got me in trouble, you know.”

  “I—what?”

  “Your famous line! ‘I’m proud that Senator Cooper is my father.’ Don’t get me wrong, I liked it at the time, but now it’s like the catch-all question for me. Every freaking reporter. ‘Andy—are you proud of your father?’ I’m not supposed to talk to the press, but I finally got fed up and answered the goddamn question just so they’d stop asking.”

  I grinned slowly. “What did you say?”

  “What do you think I said? I was like ‘Yeah, of course I’m proud of him. My father’s the president.’ I mean, what else was I gonna say? ‘No, I’m not proud, I think he really blew that meeting with the German chancellor?’ Of course I’m proud. Whatever, they took it the wrong way. I guess I kind of sounded like an asshole, like I was bragging, and they keep playing it on TV.”

  I cringed in sympathy.

  “Plus side is the campaign won’t even let me near reporters now. But I’m stuck in DC and I’m completely bored, which leads me to my next question. Um. Do you want to go out sometime?”

  “What?”

  The other end of the line got really quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you asking me . . . ?”

  This couldn’t be happening. This defied explanation.

  “Okay, let me rephrase: Do you want to hang out some time? Do something? For fun?”

  I tried to speak but couldn’t.

  “I’ll take that for a yes and hang up before you can change your mind. See you soon, Quinn.”

  Out in the living room, the strategists were watching Fox News, and sure enough, there was the video of Andy, saying, “Um . . . yeah. My dad’s the president.” And sure enough, he did sound like an asshole. I burst out laughing and Nancy turned from the news to nod at me.

  “Thank God we’ve got you and not him,” she said, to resounding agreement from all the gathered staff.

  The next day, at a huge Fourth of July picnic and rally, I smiled for the cameras wondering whether Andy was watching, wanting to send him some sort of a code, but unwilling to risk it.

  I barely noticed the fireworks.

  15

  Wednesday, July 9

  Swimming Laps

  118 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION

  Back in Maryland, the walls were pressing in.

  At first, I was thrilled that Meg had negotiated a week off for me. The senator was campaigning in the Southeast, Meg busy scheduling her own events, and Gracie and Gabe working through a backlog of play dates. I told myself I was content enough to dig through the Coopers’ oak-paneled library for books to read poolside—especially after Meg complimented me by noting that she was an avid reader at my age too. But then I found myself pacing the grounds like one of the guards, rereading the same page for the better part of an afternoon, and finally practicing the freestyle stroke I hadn’t used since I was nine and forced to take classes at the Y. My form had not improved. And my mind wasn’t in it. It was on a bus.

  Yep—I missed the campaign.

  Not the cameras or the waving—oh God, the waving—but the momentum of it, the sense that at any given moment I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

  And I missed the senator too.

  One night I heard Meg on the phone with him, a now typical conversation, strained in its courtesy. She handed the phone to Gabe, and then to Gracie, who chatted for a few minutes and then hung up.

  Gabe noticed. “You didn’t let Dad talk to Kate!”

  But then, he hadn’t asked, had he?

  Uncle Barry called a few minutes later, right on cue for his weekly check-in, and it was my turn to get on the phone.

  “Everything good?” he asked. “Having a good time? Getting along with the Coopers? Need anything from here?”

  It was almost as if Barry were reading from a list and ticking off each item when I answered. I knew he wasn’t the chattiest person over the phone—or in person—so I didn’t take it personally. But when he started to say the usual, “Whelp, have a good one,” I found myself scrambling for ways to extend the conversation, just to kill time.

  Before I could ask how hot it had gotten down there, he’d already hung up.

  On Thursday, out in the garden, Meg watched me methodically rip apart a dandelion head. Her forehead knotted.

  “We need to introduce you to some kids your age. It’s too bad Carolee doesn’t live close.”

  “Yeah!” I sighed. “Oh well.”

  I guess I wasn’t too convincing, because Meg cracked a smile.

  “I thought that might have been a stretch. But there are some nice families around here, with kids who actually have half a brain cell. I’ll see who’s around.”

  “I’m fine, really. I like hanging out here. It’s . . . downtime. I love downtime.” To prove it, I cracked their leather-bound copy of War and Peace.

  But an hour later, by some perverse magic, Meg got an out-of-the-blue e-mail inviting me to a birthday party. It wasn’t a politician’s kid, at least. Saturday night was the sixteenth birthday of Jacob Spinnaker, the son of an editor at the Washington Post. Jacob went to Farnwell Prep, the same school as Gabe and Gracie. I guessed that that was how the Spinnakers got Meg’s e-mail address. They probably figured I was bored, not knowing anybody but the Coopers.

  It was a nice gesture. I tried to get out of it.

  “I’m not much of a party person.”

  “That’s not true,” Meg admonished. “You’re great in groups.”

  “I should probably rest up, though. That S
hawna Wells interview is only twelve days away.”

  “And this will be a good opportunity for you to get your mind off of it.”

  “The restaurant’s in DC? I don’t know how I’d get there . . .”

  “They’re sending a car.” She raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t that nice?”

  I was going.

  Sifting through a closet jammed with dresses and skirts, I surfaced a pair of jeans, thinking this was, at last, a chance to dress like myself in public. But then . . . how public was this actually going to be? Would there be cameras? I finally settled for a green campaign-approved sundress, less dowdy than the others.

  As I was getting ready, I heard a familiar voice booming through the downstairs foyer. The senator was back.

  As Gracie and Gabe ran screaming from their playroom, I followed, taking the steps two at a time. He smiled over Gracie’s stubby ponytail at me.

  “Heard you’re Miss Popularity!” Then he frowned, considering. “Do you want James with you? Might be a good idea . . .”

  Oh God, just what I needed—to walk into a party full of strangers, flanked by a guy with a gun.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said as my Town Car pulled up outside. He didn’t look convinced.

  But then, giggling, Gracie and Gabe climbed onto the senator’s legs, and his wary expression changed to a playful one. As the three of them stumbled away down the hall making Godzilla noises, I hesitated on the porch, wondering if I should just go.

  “I’ll be back by eleven,” I called out, guessing that was a pretty good curfew. Nobody seemed to hear me.

  On the ride into DC, jitters set in. This was weird. A random invitation to a party full of strangers? It might have made sense as an excuse for the parents to mingle with the Coopers—but when Meg called the Spinnakers, they’d told her the party was “kids only.”

  The car pulled up outside a restaurant with towering glass windows that revealed an interior so swanky, I instantly regretted my choice of clothes. Cotton? Did I look wrinkled? Would they notice? I tried to pay the driver, in case the Spinnakers hadn’t, but he laughed and told me it wasn’t necessary. Come to think of it, there was an eagle symbol where the toll meter should go.

  As I was mustering the courage to open the car door, someone else beat me to it. His hair was carefully mussed like the first time I’d met him, his sleeves rolled up over lean arms, and his gray eyes flashing mischief. A Secret Service agent hovered five feet behind him.

  Now I wished I’d brought James.

  “You made it!” Andy offered his hand. I clambered out without taking it, a new picture forming in my mind.

  “There was no party?” The sidewalk seemed wobbly all of a sudden. “You did all this—sent this car?”

  “No, there’s a party. It’s Jake’s birthday—I just got you on the list.”

  I blinked again, dazed, and Andy added, “I go to Farnwell Prep with these guys.” He shrugged. “I told them they’d be idiots not to invite you.”

  The car drove away, leaving me with no other option than to trail after Andy. I had to admit, it did feel better walking into the restaurant with someone I knew, however strange the connection between us.

  In a private room in the back, five boys and four girls were seated around a long table laden with appetizers and what looked like cocktails but probably weren’t, given the eagle-eyed waiter hovering in the corner.

  “Guys, this is Kate,” Andy said, pulling out a chair for me.

  “Finally!” A red-haired kid with giant ears and a nice smile stood to greet me. “Andy won’t shut up about you.”

  I glanced at Andy, surprised, but he was doing some kind of complicated hand thing with one of the guys down the table.

  The dreadlocked girl next to me had a comically full mouth. “Nifftometchoo,” she got out. “Mini pizza?”

  We ate, drank Italian sodas in martini glasses, and talked, mostly about stupid stuff, the superhero movie that came out last weekend, the worst book on their summer reading list. They were possibly the most normal group of people I’d met since leaving South Carolina. They didn’t seem at all snooty like I’d worried they would be, given their prestigious school and the pedigrees of their families. And if they knew anything about me from the news, they made a really good show of pretending otherwise. Tonight, I wasn’t the top story. I was just the new girl that their friend Andy wouldn’t shut up about.

  I stole glances at him over dinner, noticing the way his fingers grazed mine as he passed me plates of food, how he made a point of including me in the conversation—and yeah, okay, I might have also noticed that he was weirdly handsome, sort of rakish when he grinned and probably still as athletic as that US Weekly photo underneath his preppy blazer. He caught me looking once and I thought for a horrifying second he’d tease me, but he just kind of flushed and Lucy, the girl sitting opposite, smiled at us like we were a basket of kittens.

  Did she think we were on a date? Did he?

  Once the meal was cleared and the party seemed to be dwindling, I wished red-haired Jake a happy birthday and thanked him sincerely for including me.

  He glanced at Andy. “Isn’t she coming?”

  “Hopefully,” Andy said.

  Jake grinned appreciatively. “Badass.”

  “Coming to what?” I asked.

  “I was getting to that.” Andy stuck his hands in his pockets. “So there’s this concert. Kudzu Giants. Do you know them?”

  I laughed. “Uh, yeah!”

  Everyone knew them. They were huge, in constant rotation on the radio but still completely indie in sensibility. Penny and I were both obsessed with them, but our parents had never let us see them play live.

  Andy grinned. “Wanna come?”

  We hopped in an armored SUV with four others, including Secret Service. A guy with a camera ran out of the restaurant after us and Andy just managed to slam the car door before he could snap a shot.

  And, like that, I realized what a stupid idea this was.

  That photographer had missed his chance of landing the front page of tomorrow’s tabloids by less than a second. I could picture the headline now: “Bipartisan Partying: Andy and Kate Hit the Town.”

  If this got out, it would be humiliating—not just for me, but for the senator and his staffers, whose jobs revolved around demonstrating how different I was from the president’s son.

  Sensing my mood shift, Andy squeezed my arm. “I won’t let them take a picture of us. I’d be in bigger shit than you, trust me.”

  That should have been comforting. But somehow I sensed that Andy didn’t really care how much trouble he got into. He was courting it just by calling me, inviting me out. Was that the real reason I was here? So Andy could feel the thrill of rebellion?

  The thought hit me dully. It felt uncomfortably like truth.

  The car was moving, and I wasn’t dramatic enough to open the door at a stoplight and bolt, especially given the security detail surrounding us. But as we drove, I forged a plan. Once we got to the concert, I would call a cab and head straight back to the Coopers’ house, no matter how much I was dying to hear Kudzu Giants—see them, live, in person . . .

  No. Whatever game Andy was playing, I didn’t want any part of it.

  As the car pulled into the back alley of the concert venue, I slid my hand into my bag. My fingers scrambled around my wallet, my set of house keys, a tube of Cherry ChapStick. Where was my cell phone?

  Andy held the car door open for me and I reluctantly climbed out, scanning the building for its name, location, any tidbit I could tell the taxi company so they’d know where to get me. Finally my eyes landed on a sign—a red, white, and blue one.

  “Reelect Lawrence ~ Benefit Concert.”

  My bag dropped to the ground.

  Everyone had piled happily out of the two cars behind me, but I let them pass, staring up at the campaign poster on the VIP door. Andy doubled back, his hand extended.

  I picked up my bag and clutched it to me. Backed away. �
�Why did you bring me here?”

  He grinned, all innocence. “I told you. For the band.” His friends waited impatiently at the back entrance, waving for us to join them. “Come on, Quinn, I snuck out of the White House for this.”

  I relaxed. A little. “You’re not supposed to be here either?”

  “No, I told you. House arrest until they can figure out how to spin me for the campaign. We’re gonna watch from the wings—I’ve got a buddy that fundraises for my dad, he’s hooking us up. Secret Service won’t tell my folks unless they ask, which they won’t. They won’t even come in this way. They’ll never know.”

  I made one more attempt to find my phone, and then I pictured it—sitting on my bedside table back at the Coopers, still attached to its charger. And like that, the charge got sapped right out of me. In my nervousness about coming out tonight, I’d forgotten my cell phone. How could I be so stupid?

  Behind me, the alley was empty, the cars that brought us already gone. As Andy glanced over his shoulder, I pressed my hand to my forehead. I could borrow a phone—call a taxi and bribe the driver not to say where he picked me up, but I didn’t like the odds that he’d keep quiet, given how much Nancy had told me tabloids paid for scoops. And this was a scoop.

  I could walk away. Find a payphone on the street. Did street payphones even exist in neighborhoods like this?

  A low rumble rose up from the building—a thrumming bass line, and then drums. They were starting.

  “Nobody will know we’re here.” I declared it more than asked it. Willed it to be true. “You promise.”

  Andy pressed his hands against my shoulders like he was holding me together.

  “I promise.”

  There was something solid about the way he said it, like his feet were rooted into the ground. I decided to trust him. For now. Just this once.

  16

  The show was amazing, euphoric, glorious—by Cal’s definition, I might even have classified it life-changing. I tried to memorize every detail to report back to Penny, but there was such a blur of activity back in the wings that I had no choice but to blur with it.