The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  I wondered where Nancy was in all of this. She’d called me the It Girl of politics just a few weeks ago. If that were the case, why were they burying me?

  Uncle Barry was wondering the same thing. He called a day earlier than the usual Thursday check-in, worried that he hadn’t seen new TV footage of me for a while.

  “I’m fine,” I promised him, and he seemed to believe me. As he chatted on about the summer heat and plans to surprise Tess with a vacation for her birthday, I felt my mind drift, watched the walls of the kitchen and imagined them inching closer and closer together.

  Gracie and Gabe at least had friends to go hang out with here in DC. I told myself I was content to play online Scrabble with Penny and read, but the silence of the house grew louder the longer it lasted. More than once, while everyone else was out campaigning, I thought I heard the front door open or cars pull up, but when I rushed to the window to look, only the empty front drive stared back at me. After three days of this, I started gravitating to the backyard in the vain hope that one of the security guards might feel like striking up a conversation.

  And after more than a week of it, despite the fact that Andy was texting me photos of fish from his campaign visit to Alaska, I found myself praying that another mysterious invitation would arrive.

  It didn’t. But something else did.

  Something I never would have wished for.

  28

  Monday, August 25

  The Day of the Storm

  71 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION

  Meg shook me awake before dawn.

  “What’s the matter?” I sat up in a panic.

  “Tornadoes,” she whispered. “We have to go.”

  I clutched the bedsheet. “Tornadoes? Here?”

  “No. In Kansas. We’re flying out in an hour.”

  A text came in from Andy as we drove to the airfield. “See you in KS?”

  So the Lawrences were headed there too. Of course they were. It was the presidential thing to do. But why bring the whole family, if not for the cameras? Both the president and the senator were using this as a political moment and it was so transparent that it seemed like a misstep to me.

  No matter how uneasy I felt, I knew to keep my mouth shut. They’d made it abundantly clear that my opinions were unwelcome.

  Everyone but Meg, anyway. She still asked me to read her speeches. It was something.

  As our plane started its descent toward the small Kansas airfield where we’d be landing, all of those thoughts left my head, replaced by a stunned, echoing nothing.

  You could see it from here. There were houses, normal, intact, neatly arrayed houses—and next to them, colorful rubble, a streak of trash, trees leveled. You could make out the path that the tornado had traveled, smearing the map as it went. A downed water tower. A circle of fire trucks. As we got closer, my eyes caught on a streak of brick along the roadside that had once been an overpass, an overturned tractor-trailer. And past all that, what was once the outside of a town, now no more than a razed field littered with fallen walls.

  “This is . . .” My words ran out. “I can’t believe this.”

  Meg rested her hand on my shoulder as she peeked past me out the window. “Neither can I. But this is why we’re here. To see and to help, however we can.”

  The senator met us at the airfield with no cameras in sight and clutched the twins to his chest, as though he’d spent the night terrified for their lives. I shot him a wave before he had the chance to feel bad about not hugging me too. He smiled over Gracie’s head at me, and there was sadness in it. He’d seen the same devastation we had from the air.

  I glanced away, burying the theories I’d formed on the way here. How had I gotten so cynical? The senator wanted his family with him today. That was all.

  Meg walked with me and the twins to the town square where the Red Cross had set up a temporary command station, while the senator lingered a few blocks away talking to FEMA. We’d just set to work unpacking boxes of supplies when the press showed up and started filming. And a moment later, we all looked upward as the sky filled with the sound of chopper blades. Emblazoned on the wide flank of the descending helicopter was the presidential seal.

  When the First Family made their way down the ravaged block to the Red Cross station on foot, surrounded by security officers, staffers, and members of the press, I found a way to peek from the tent, hoping to catch a glimpse of Andy.

  I saw him all right, walking a few steps behind his parents, hands dug deep into his trouser pockets—but it wasn’t quite the Andy I knew. His face was gray with horror, an expression that mirrored those of all the volunteers around us. Andy looked older, more serious than I’d ever seen him.

  A cameraman walked backward in front of the family, documenting the president and his wife shaking hands with local people. I watched Andy glance warily at the news crew and duck out of frame, his eyes searching for a place to hide.

  I put down a crate of water bottles and waved, and when he spotted me, a spark seemed to flare inside him. He shot me that familiar lopsided smile, glanced over his shoulder at his family, and jogged over to hide in the tent with me.

  “You’re helping.” It was more a compliment than a question.

  I shrugged weakly. “There’s not much I can do. I wish we could start rebuilding, but they’re still finding people in the rubble, if you can believe it, and you have to be certified to help with that.”

  “It’s awful.” He looked confused, like he’d never been confronted with something like this before. Maybe he hadn’t. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

  “I’ve volunteered after wildfires in California. And this setup is a little like my mom’s food bank.”

  “It reminds you of her.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “It’s weird—I can almost imagine she’s here. Like she’s just past that building where I can’t see her.”

  He half smiled. “What’s she doing?”

  “She’s . . . handing out canned goods super-fast—like a windup toy.” His eyebrows knotted, and I laughed. “That was how she worked!”

  “Where are you staying?”

  I blinked, startled by the subject change. “A motel, I think. I’m not sure which one.”

  “I’ll find out. Tonight, maybe . . .” He shrugged. “Another stroll?”

  I glanced at the First Couple. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “They’ll be too distracted to notice,” Andy said. His eyes were locked on mine, intense, unwavering.

  I looked away. Meg was watching from the other side of the tent, her arms full of first aid kits, but her curiosity piqued by our conversation. I picked up the crate again, hoping she wouldn’t see how familiar we were with each other.

  “And if they do notice,” Andy went on, resting his hand against mine. “We’ll tell them the truth. That we met. And we like each other.” He leaned in. “A lot.”

  Andy’s mom was looking for him. Hadn’t spotted us yet. He groaned and stood.

  “We will meet up tonight. No outs.”

  Before I could contradict him, he was gone.

  After the senator returned and convened with the Red Cross leaders for a few minutes, he took us to some of the houses that had already been cleared. I saw a woman walking through the remains of her home, picking up items to throw away or keep, her eyes empty like she was sleepwalking. Across what used to be the driveway, a man was staring at his own home in disbelief. It had barely been touched by the storm, except for a few shingles torn loose from his roof and a tree branch that had broken through a front window. Next door, his neighbor’s house was a ragged shell.

  “What’s going to happen?” Gabe asked. “Where will they go?”

  “There are shelters set up,” I answered. “In the school gym, at the Y. Some people will stay at hotels until their homes are rebuilt.”

  “I wouldn’t want to stay at a school gym,” Gracie said, her nose scrunched. “We’re staying at a hotel,
right Dad?”

  He smiled faintly, rustled her hair, then wandered off to help a woman lift a beam off of what used to be a child’s bed. I watched them talking, too far to hear what they were saying. The woman started to cry and the senator let her crumple against him.

  I looked around for a camera. There wasn’t one, and I felt like a terrible person for even checking.

  This was my father. Not the senator from Massachusetts, running for office every second of every day, but just Mark Cooper, a guy who was trying his best to understand and to help. As he strode ahead of us, I rushed to catch up. I wanted to say something. That I got it, that I wanted to be a part of this, that what was important to him was important to me too.

  But I couldn’t think how to say it, so we walked together in silence. As we reached the end of the road, he put an arm around me and squeezed, kissed my cheek without saying a word, then strode off to join the aides who were waiting for him with clipboards and cell phones ready.

  When we got to the motel where we’d be staying, I realized my own phone had been stuck in a bag all day. I had one message—a call from Penny. I sat on the edge of the hotel bed and listened, eager for the familiar voice on the other end.

  But what I heard chilled me.

  “Kate?” Penny was crying. “I don’t even know how to say this. I.C.E. came this morning. They’ve taken them, Mom and Papi, I don’t know where. To jail, I think?”

  My hand shook the phone against my ear as Penny gasped a breath.

  “Enrico’s back at Camp Pendleton, and they were going to put me and Eva in foster homes, but Mrs. Washington took us, at least for now. We’re together, but . . . oh God, Kate, get your dad to help them. Please Kate, take it back.”

  The message cut off so suddenly it might as well have been the sound of a bullet. Take it back, she’d said.

  Her parents are being deported. And she thinks my father did it.

  I called her, my fingers shaking against the phone’s buttons. It went straight to voicemail. I hung up before the beep, my mind too chaotic for my mouth to form words.

  How could this have happened? It couldn’t have been the senator. He’d never do such a thing. But had his comments in that second debate tipped someone off? Could I.C.E. have traced our steps back to my birthday lunch in LA? It didn’t seem possible. The only people who knew were the Coopers and James, and I trusted him. I trusted all of them.

  Could it have been coincidental? Given that the Diazes had lived in LA for twenty-five years without anyone bothering them, it didn’t seem likely. It had to be linked to meeting the senator. Had the Lawrence campaign hunted them down? Oh my God. Had Marta tipped them off?

  I shuddered, my stomach souring—but the thought didn’t ring true. Whatever her faults, she was dedicated to that community. She’d never betray them.

  Some reporter, then? It would be a huge scoop—after the Denver debate, all of America must have been wondering who that undocumented family was.

  I ran from my room onto the motel platform, determined to find the senator, beg him to help however he could. But a man was blocking my way, leaning on the railing as he smoked a cigarette.

  Elliott. He turned to look at me, and was I imagining it, or was there a glint of amusement in his eyes? More than amusement. Triumph.

  Suspicion hit me like a blast of wind, and with it a memory—Elliott calling Meg from Denver, his question a roar: “Who is this family?”

  I staggered, a new picture forming of the man in front of me.

  “What did you do?”

  A thin stream of smoke crept toward me as he exhaled. “Can you be more specific?”

  “The Diazes.” My fists balled up, my breath coming hot.

  He grinned slowly. “So that’s who they were.”

  “They’re being deported.” And now I couldn’t stop. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Why would I know that?” Elliott dropped his cigarette and let it smolder on the asphalt of the parking lot below, waiting, like this was a game and it was my turn.

  And right then, I knew it. He’d done this. It was written all over him—his smugness, his shifty eyes. He must have gotten his hands on the security rolls from my birthday, and in his fury over the senator’s sinking numbers, decided to eliminate the source of the problem. He couldn’t get rid of me. But he could get rid of my friends.

  He sighed as if bored, tried to pass by, but I blocked his way, staring him down.

  Elliott’s eyes were dark pools. There was an unsettling nothingness behind them. Chilled, I blinked.

  He chuckled. Started away.

  And I started to shout.

  “Look at you! You’re disgusting!” The words felt like poison, stinging my mouth as they left my body. “You’re not even sorry, are you? Not even a little. These are people’s lives, Elliott, and you don’t even care!”

  Elliott turned, his brow furrowed in mock confusion. “Why should I be sorry? You shove your illegal immigrant friends into the public eye, and shockingly”—he clutched his hands to his heart—“the authorities find out and handle the situation. Blame me if you like. I don’t give a shit. This is all on you.”

  I couldn’t move. I reeled like he’d punched me in the gut. Elliott smiled.

  “And I think you know that.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Over Elliott’s shoulder, I saw Andy perched on the top step of the motel stairway, watching Elliott, his head lowered like he was ready to charge. My momentary surprise presented enough of a break for Elliott to sweep past me, slam himself into his own room, and pull the cheap curtains closed.

  Andy hurried over like I was about to collapse. And then my knees went all funny and I almost did, except I grabbed his arm and he grabbed my waist and I blinked up to see his face close to mine, his eyes concerned, but that familiar boomerang scar quirking as he smiled.

  “What the fuck, Quinn?”

  I pushed myself gently away, hands trembling. The next breath I took felt sharp, like inhaling water, and I realized numbly that I had started to sob.

  “Whoa,” Andy muttered. “Okay. Come with me.”

  We both glanced around the quiet parking lot, almost lovely in the dusky light, then he took my hand and led me downstairs, around the back of the motel and along a desolate residential street.

  When we got to an empty dirt road, Andy hung a right, pulling me lightly by the tips of his fingers. We got to a section of intact fence lining a wide ocean of wheat stalks. Without asking permission, Andy gripped my waist and lifted me so that I was sitting, perched above him on a long wood beam.

  “Now.” He placed his hands to either side of me. “What happened?”

  “Elliott.” I shook my head, bile rising in my throat. “He’s evil.”

  “I can see that.” Andy laughed mirthlessly. “But what exactly did he do?”

  I drew a deep breath and told him, starting with Penny, what she meant to me, how I’d introduced the Coopers to her family, about the bridge I was trying to build between their two points of view. The joy I’d taken in seeing the senator’s position soften and evolve.

  Andy drew closer as I told him more and more, my hands clasping the fence so tight, I felt the wood splintering into my palms. His arm crept warm around my back, one hand sprawled steady against me—it stopped my shaking, made my breath more even, made me able to talk at all.

  But when I told him about Penny’s voicemail, he recoiled like I was toxic. I might as well have been. Elliott was right about one thing. This was my fault.

  “How could I be so stupid?” I jumped off the fence and paced away. “I should never have exposed them like this. Meg was right. Everybody’s right! I’m an idiot.”

  “No.” Andy’s face was as grave as I’d ever seen it. He held me in place, one hand on each of my shoulders, his feet rooted to the ground, planting me with him. “You are not an idiot. You are a good person who doesn’t deserve any of this bullshit.”

  “It’s Ellio
tt. He’s poisoned everything. He’s a . . .” My mouth moved, soundless, scrambling for a suitable word.

  Andy squinted at me, a smile dawning. “Go on. You can say it.”

  I squinted. “What?”

  He cocked his head. “You never curse, do you?”

  “My mom used to tell me that words had power. You should save the harshest ones for times when you really need them.”

  “Kate?” He took my hands and squeezed. “This is one of those times.”

  A laugh bubbled out of me. “You’re right!”

  He nodded.

  “Fuck,” I said. It felt awkward, but satisfying, so I said it louder. “Fuck!”

  I turned, half expecting to see a group of horrified Kansans standing there, but my only witnesses were swaying crops and a few unimpressed blackbirds. I liked this, screaming, kicking the dirt road, and hollering into the sky.

  “This has been a fucked-up year!”

  I laughed, gasping for breath, and remembering Andy, twirled back to him.

  His face had grown serious. And it wasn’t the sympathy and anger of a moment before that I saw in him now. His eyes were pained, like I’d stabbed him. But just as I started to ask what was wrong, he blinked and started away, holding one hand out behind him for me to grab.

  “Come on.”

  I fell into step and took his hand, feeling my body calm. “Where are we going?”

  “To fix this.”

  As we neared the town, its streets humming with generators, I realized we were still holding hands. I glanced around for onlookers, but no one was in sight, just empty news vans, parked cars, the afternoon’s last golden light dancing against their metal roofs.

  “I’ve gotta go,” Andy said, turning to me with a frown. “But listen. Fuck this campaign. Do not let them tell you who you are. You’re not an idiot. You’re amazing, Kate Quinn. I see you.” He nodded at my confused expression. “I saw you right away. That stupid press conference, grabbing that stupid microphone. The real you. You’re better than all of them. Jesus . . .” He let out a desperate laugh. “You’re even nice to vending machines!”