“I wouldn’t leave him.” She smiled.
A mosaic of emotions flickered across the senator’s face as he listened to their story, but what I saw most clearly was compassion.
“Were . . .” he started, but his voice came out hoarse. “Were you afraid of being discovered?”
Mr. Diaz looked at his wife and she squeezed his hand, passing strength to him through one little gesture.
“We are always afraid. We love this country. We are proud to be here. But we know that this country is not proud of us.” He leaned forward to meet the senator’s eyes, something imploring in his expression. “If we could have followed the rules, waited fifteen years for a visa and come over legally, I swear to you that we would have. But that was not a possibility. Not for us.”
Meg let her breath out very slowly. When I turned to look at her, she was swiping the corner of her eye.
Then Penny spoke up and it was my turn to get teary. “I was born here in LA. Enrico and Eva too, so we’re Americans. I wish they could be too.”
“We’re proud of our children,” Mrs. Diaz said simply.
The senator turned to me with an unreadable expression. “We are too.”
• • •
We rode back to the hotel in silence, the twins still perplexed about the tense room they’d walked into after running around the yard with Eva and Gus.
Finally, I got the nerve to cut through the quiet. “I’m sorry for the surprise. They’re just really important to me, so I wanted you to know them. Really know them.”
The senator nodded, but his eyes were troubled. He was staring out the window, seeing my city for the first time, the little missions with neon crosses in the window, the food trucks, the hand-painted signs in Spanish, a woman bent over her baby in a stroller as she waited for the light to change.
“They’re good people.” He said it almost sadly.
“You won’t say anything,” I blurted. “I told them they could trust you—”
“Of course we won’t say anything,” Meg said. “But I’m surprised that you opened them up to this, Kate. You’re smarter than that. What if the press had followed us here?”
“But they didn’t. So . . .” I swallowed hard. “I don’t need to worry, do I?”
I watched the senator for an answer, and found it in his thoughtful silence, the slack honesty of his features as he continued to process all that he’d heard.
He didn’t say another word about it until we were back in Maryland, groggy from the flight, all of us staggering to our bedrooms to nap ourselves back into clarity. As I was setting down my bag, the senator came in and leaned against the doorframe.
“You know, kiddo—that took courage, what you did. And faith too. Faith in me and Meg.”
I stood waiting for the ax to fall, the dreaded but. Seeing my expression, the senator stepped forward and opened his arms. I closed my eyes, and there he was, holding me up, solid and strong.
“Just wanted you to know we’re proud of you,” he murmured into the top of my head. “And that’s all we’re gonna say about it.”
Proud of me. He was proud of me. Under the swimming sensation of fatigue, it was hard to keep from spilling over into hysterics as he stepped away and gently closed the door.
Penny called that afternoon.
“Okay,” she said. “I get it. He’s amazing.”
26
Tuesday, August 5
Courting the Youth Vote
91 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION
Nancy had a surprise for me. She swore I was going to like it and took me to lunch to talk it over.
“You’ve been asked to do a PSA for Rock the Vote.”
She sat back and slapped the table in excitement, making our utensils rattle against each other.
“MTV?” My grin rose and fell in a millisecond. “Why would they want me? I can’t even vote yet.”
“Because,” Nancy admonished me. “You’re the It Girl of politics right now. Young. Gorgeous. Why wouldn’t they want you?”
“Gorgeous?” I rolled my eyes.
“InStyle thinks you’re gorgeous.” Her perfectly groomed eyebrows skyrocketed, then in one fluid motion, she pulled a magazine from her massive shoulder bag and tossed it at me. It was earmarked to the middle—a random photo of me walking down the sidewalk in DC with Gracie two steps behind.
“Street Style: Kate Quinn Cooper,” read the caption.
Apparently they liked my shoes. “This is crazy!”
“Told you so.” Nancy sipped her iced tea, made a face, and pushed it away. “Anyway, Senator Cooper thinks it’s a great idea.”
“And Meg?” I wasn’t so sure she’d go for it. Seeing her kids on the cover of Time was one thing—but coverage in InStyle and MTV didn’t exactly meet her upstanding-young-lady criteria.
“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” Nancy said tightly. “But it’ll be just you and me on this trip. New York City. Have you been? You’ll love it.”
• • •
On the taxi ride from the airport into MTV’s midtown NYC studios, I waited for a break in Nancy’s phone calls to try to finally clear the air about LA.
“Nancy,” I started, and she glanced up in surprise. “I’m really sorry I jumped to conclusions when I saw you in Cal’s room. I didn’t realize—”
“That he was gay?” She squeezed my wrist so hard it stung. “No one does. And let’s keep it that way.”
I scooted closer to the window. “But Cal said it wasn’t a secret.”
“He doesn’t care who knows. I do. For his sake. He’s young and stupid. Talented as hell, but . . . I tell him time and time again, you control the message. Nobody else.” She smiled. “Rumor is a runaway horse. You can’t just ride it. If you want it to go where you’ve decided, you have to yank way back on those reins. Does that make sense?”
“Sure,” I said, distracted by the image of Nancy as a cowgirl.
“Which reminds me,” she said casually, flipping through her iPhone. “They might pull a fast one. If they start asking questions, anything that sounds like it might be an interview, call me over and I’ll put a stop to it.”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly confused. “So I’m not supposed to say anything?”
“Just the pre-approved copy.”
Pre-approved. By whom? I’d certainly never seen it. So much for controlling the message.
• • •
As a production assistant guided us through the soundstages, I covertly searched for celebrities that I could brag to Penny about spotting, a continuation of our long-running game from LA. Penny had taken the lead with Matt Damon at the Third Street Promenade right after my Kudzu Giants close encounter, so I was looking for revenge.
Finally, in the greenroom, a familiar face popped out at me. Very familiar.
“At last!” he cried, jumping up from the sofa. “My costar has arrived!”
“Andy!” I nearly leaped across the room to greet him before abruptly remembering and slamming to a halt. “We’ve met, right? At that senator’s party?”
I cocked my head, praying he’d play along. Nobody knew that Andy and I talked on the phone at least twice a week. Everyone thought I was chatting with Penny or some mystery boy back in South Carolina—the same one who’d sent me a birthday present—and I put up with their winking hints about “somebody special” just so I wouldn’t have to cut the connection.
“Right.” Andy narrowed his eyes in mock confusion. “Kat, was it?”
I stifled a snort.
Nancy didn’t seem to notice. She was deep in conversation with what I presumed was the commercial’s director.
As Andy and I got “styled,” we made it into a game.
“So what’s your connection to politics?” I asked him in the makeup chair.
“I’m the youngest congressman in history.”
“That’s cool. Congratulations.”
“You?”
“Supreme Court Justice. I’m surprised you didn’t kno
w that, Congressman.”
“Huh. I had you pegged as Miss America.”
“I was just going to say the same about you.”
The director of the spot, a young woman with spiky black hair and a Sneetches star on the back of her neck, had watched us warily at first, but when she sat to give us the rundown, she seemed to relax. As far as she was concerned, we were from rival factions, so it was probably a relief to see us bantering. Nancy looked less than pleased by our rapport, though, so I scaled it back as the day went on.
Andy would not relent. I tried to ignore him. But it was hard not to feel giddy at his closeness, the sparks shooting off of him, his actual smiles, not just imagined ones over the phone, that little boomerang scar crinkling every time. I hadn’t seen him for weeks and I was buzzing. Hopefully, I was hiding it.
“So . . . what?” he murmured into my ear as we walked to the set. “Am I your dirty little secret?”
I stifled a smile. “You’re secret. Not dirty, per se.”
“Not yet. Did you get my birthday present, by the way?”
“Yes. Love it. So sweet of you. I don’t have a record player.”
He scrunched up his forehead. “Really? What’s wrong with you? Well, Christmas is coming up.”
“In five months.”
“If you’re that impatient, you can always come listen to it at my house.” Andy grinned. “You’ve got my address, right?”
I elbowed him and an anxious production assistant ran up the corridor to walk between us, chattering about how great it was to meet us both and didn’t we just love the energy here?
The spot was so simple it bordered on asinine, something along the lines of: “Your future’s up to you—rock the vote!”
The director kept asking me for a little more attitude, which I didn’t really understand, until Nancy stepped over to whisper in her ear, and she smiled tightly and called it a wrap.
Just before we were ready to go, though, the director slipped back over to us and said, as if it were a complete lark, “While we have you guys here all glammed up, maybe we could do a quick interview?”
I glanced nervously at Nancy, but she didn’t see me. She was on her cell, one hand against her head and her whole body stooped as if she were taking in some sort of disastrous news.
Andy looked at me. “Sorry, Liz, I think we’re both a little tired. Maybe another time.”
It wasn’t until she walked grudgingly away that Andy took my elbow. “What was that?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Are they beating you?” His laugh rose and fell. “Seriously, though. That redhead’s the boss, huh? You do what she says.”
I flushed. “It’s not that simple. I didn’t want to do the interview and she was supposed to bail me out.”
“But I bailed you out.” Andy winked. “You’re welcome.”
Nancy strode over, lips pursed. “All set?”
Before our teams could gather us up and cart us away, Andy cordially shook my hand. “Guess I’ll see you next week, then.”
I blanked. Was this some sort of code? Was he asking me out again?
“Debates?” Andy’s eyebrows rose. “First of three—St. Louis, ringing any bells?”
He smirked, obviously thinking that if we were debating, he’d be the victor.
“I knew what you meant.” I twirled my ridiculously trussed hair. “I’m just surprised they’re inviting you along. Aren’t you something of a . . . loose cannon?”
“We can’t all be political poster children, Kate,” he bantered back, and even though I knew he meant nothing by it, that last barb kept stinging the whole way home.
Nancy was distracted by some other snafu that apparently happened when the senator was leaving his office in the Capitol Building. A Spanish-language cable network had stopped him to ask about his immigration policy, and rather than smiling and moving on, he’d spoken with the reporter.
“He’s going to have to issue a clarification in some form,” Nancy barked into her phone to everyone she could get to listen. Finally, when she’d exhausted her call list, I had the chance to ask what exactly the senator had said.
“He said it was a complex issue that involved families and human beings, so he doesn’t take it lightly.”
I waited. She didn’t go on.
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough.” She ran her hand through her hair and I saw a glint of gray among the red roots. “We’re so close here and he cannot get wishy-washy on core issues.”
That sound bite didn’t sound wishy-washy to me. It sounded thoughtful, if anything. It sounded like he had taken his conversation with the Diazes to heart. But I kept my thoughts and my smile to myself.
Perhaps remembering her audience, Nancy drew herself up, becoming the Nancy I recognized, comfortingly poised. She rested her hand on my arm.
“You’re right, of course. It’s no big deal, just fine-tuning. But that’s why they pay me the big bucks!”
Her voice was false, singsong-y, her expression strained if you looked close enough, and I was sitting pretty darn close to the woman. It was like watching Santa Claus take off his beard. I’d always found Nancy so charming, so natural in her confidence. But now, sitting in this car careening down the FDR, her demeanor—the warmth, the human touch—now seemed as forced as my father’s politician mask.
The realization was enough to unsettle me, make me wonder if I could be accused of the same crime. Was I really such a nice girl? A solid kid? A strong one?
Or was Andy right? Was I just . . . beaten?
• • •
When I got back to the Coopers’ house that night, Meg was replaying a message on the home phone while the senator stood a few feet away, staring at it with a look of utter befuddlement. Hearing a familiar voice, I stopped to eavesdrop.
“Mark. It’s your mother.” Grandma Evelyn? “Just wanted to let you know I’m coming to your event on Thursday in Vermont. The Community Farmers one. See you there.” Click.
The senator squinted, shaking his head. “One more time.”
Evelyn’s voice filled the room again.
“Mark. It’s your mother.”
Little did I know that this voicemail was nothing short of earth-shakingly unprecedented. For the very first time in her son’s political career, the reclusive Evelyn Cooper was actually planning to attend one of his campaign events.
By Thursday morning, the campaign was in a full-blown tizzy. Gracie, Gabe, and I had been meant to sit today’s events out, but everybody was now jumping at the rare opportunity to document a full Cooper family tableau. What was meant to be a small, convenient blip on the campaign schedule had with one phone call become the centerpiece of the week, broadcasted everywhere.
Unfortunately, Evelyn wasn’t exactly playing along.
On the flight to Vermont, Nancy perched anxiously on an airplane seat across the aisle from the senator. “She’s not returning any of our calls. We’re trying to coordinate, but I’m not sure what to expect here.”
Not having spoken to Grandma Evelyn since we’d visited her, I wasn’t sure what to expect either. Would she still find the Goodwin line continuing strong in me? Or would she be disappointed once she saw me, the political poster child in her Ralph Lauren sundress, smiling and waving like an automaton?
As soon as we pulled up to the event, I could see how ridiculous all the hype was. Beside a large, ramshackle community farm, there was a wide field where close to a hundred people sat in folding chairs around a central microphone and two portable speakers. Not bad attendance for the New England Chapter of the Community Farmers of America. But surrounding the modest crowd was a mob of reporters, invited by the campaign to bear witness to the fact that the senator’s mother did, in fact, exist.
One problem—she was nowhere to be found.
“Maybe she chickened out?” Meg murmured to her husband.
The senator shot her a rueful smile. “I gave up on trying to figure out my mom’s motivati
ons a long time ago.”
He turned to me, Gabe, and Gracie, and his expression brightened, solidified. Campaign face. But was it just me, or could I make out a bit of hurt in it?
When we reached the field, he slung an arm around me while he waved to the crowd, and instead of looking for the first camera, I hugged him back, just a little extra squeeze to take away the sting of his disappointment. He patted my shoulder in silent reply, then strode away to the microphone to the sound of polite applause from the assembled farmers.
The senator started his speech by ad-libbing a different version of the intro he’d planned.
“I’m here today, not just as a political candidate, but also as the son of a New England community farmer. I’m sorry my mom couldn’t join us, but I think she’d have appreciated the chance to see firsthand what people like you are able to do for your communities, and to hear about the ways I plan to help you in those efforts if I’m elected president.”
After the senator’s comments, it was time for Q and A. And the first person to stand up—four rows deep into the crowd, microphone in hand—was Grandma Evelyn. She was wearing a denim button-down with the sleeves rolled up and a straw hat so ridiculously wide that I couldn’t believe we hadn’t picked her out of the crowd the moment we got here.
“It’s Grandma!” Gracie whispered, squirming in her seat.
Gabe squinted. “What’s she doing?”
Meg sighed through her smile. “I have no idea.”
Evelyn tapped the microphone. “For those who don’t know, I’m Mark’s mother and I’ve been a member of this chapter since 1986.”
The bored press corps erupted into life. The senator fought to wipe shock from his face.
“What a surprise!” He laughed. “I’m glad you could—”
She cut him off, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from her jeans pocket. “I have a few questions. Firstly—how do you plan to support small farms as we fight against corporate giants with their genetically engineered seeds cross-pollinating and ruining our crops?”
The crowd murmured agreement. The senator drew a deep breath and answered, as if she were any concerned citizen in the crowd. I was impressed. A few probing questions later, Evelyn passed the microphone to a young, bearded man in the front row and the senator’s shoulders drooped ever so slightly as he finally exhaled.
The Wrong Side of Right Page 21
