The Daughters Join the Party

by Joanna Philbin

  “I think they’re probably in the back,” her brother said, taking the lead through the crowd.

  As Emma followed she remembered the first time her dad had run for the Senate, when she was seven. The whole family had driven from town to town all over the state, making stops at diners or town halls or even someone’s house. She and her brother would play with the other kids while her father spoke to a group of five or fifty. He never got tired, never got bored, even when they hit four different towns in a day. People would tell him terrible things about taxes and unemployment and health care, and he’d listen with superhuman focus and attention. Then he’d give a speech and make people laugh. Even if people started out angry, the event would usually end with them surrounding him, just wanting to shake his hand.

  Just like now, Emma thought, as they found him on the patio of the Boathouse, shaking hands, laughing at jokes, and generally spreading his charm around like gooey hot fudge. There were adoring, almost goofy smiles on some of the people’s faces tonight, as if her dad were a rock star. Had they done that a year ago? She didn’t think so. Then again, the last time she’d seen her dad speak to a crowd had been at West Point, where she’d been too distracted by the male cadets to really notice the way anyone was looking at her father.

  “What are we supposed to do?” she asked Remington as they waited outside the patio doors.

  “Just wait here,” he said. “That way at least we buy some time.” He pointed to her hair.

  Just then Emma spotted her mom in the crowd. She looked lovely in a sleeveless black shift dress with a gold belt, but she seemed to hang back from her husband. Cocktail chatter wasn’t her thing. Her mom was much better at serious talking—deposing a witness, say, or addressing a court of appeals. Emma had no idea how her mom would survive a presidential campaign. A Senate campaign—two of them—had been hard enough on her. New Yorkers had criticized her for having such a high-powered career, for not wearing enough makeup, even for being too skinny. It would probably only get worse now.

  After a few minutes a gray-haired man wearing a gold pin in the shape of a leaf in a circle slipped behind the podium.

  “Excuse me, everyone,” he said into the microphone. “May I have your attention, please? It is our great pleasure tonight to have Senator Adam Conway with us. He is not only a born and bred New Yorker, but a man who believes in change. A man who has proven himself able to cross party lines and make the promise of change a reality. A man who just might be the best hope for this country in the next election.”

  He was cut off by applause and foot-stomping and yelling. The noise was almost earsplitting. Emma looked at Remington, wondering if he was as affected by all of this as she was. But he didn’t seem fazed by it at all.

  “But that’s not why he’s here tonight,” the man continued, looking at her father with adoration. “He’s here because he has shown a commitment to the environment that has been unparalleled. And when we were searching for someone to speak here tonight, he was the obvious choice.”

  Emma turned her head suddenly and saw her mom staring at her with a clenched jaw. Or, rather, staring at her hair. Uh-oh, she thought, and looked away.

  “So without further ado,” the man said, “I give you the junior senator of New York, Adam Conway!”

  Emma’s dad made his way to the podium, waving and smiling. “Ladies and gentlemen,” her father said into the microphone. “Parks Commissioner, and my fellow New Yorkers, thank you for having me tonight. I have to say, I’ve never seen so many people in town on a Sunday in August. What happened? Did they close down the Hamptons?”

  The crowd tittered.

  “As New Yorkers we understand the importance of green spaces,” her dad continued, “and Central Park is New York’s greatest resource. I remember coming here every Saturday with my father, begging him to put me on the carousel. Of course, at that time, in the early seventies, it hadn’t worked in almost ten years…”

  Emma always tuned out a little when her dad made a speech. She was scanning the crowd, looking for a cute guy, when a girl her age caught her attention. There was something familiar about her—curly red hair, a long nose, and big eyes that also seemed to be checking out the crowd. It was Lizzie Summers, Emma realized. Without hesitation, she left her brother’s side and began to work her way through the crowd, toward Lizzie. Normally she would have waited for her dad to finish speaking, but after the day she’d had, she needed to see a friendly face, pronto.

  “But in all seriousness,” said her father, “I think New York City is the perfect microcosm of this country. Its diversity, its work ethic, its refusal to bow to the daily threat of terrorism. In New Yorkers we truly have the best of what it means to be an American. And not a day goes by that I don’t feel fortunate to represent this city, and this state, down in Washington. And in conclusion,” Adam said, “I’d just like to say that change is possible. We don’t have to resign ourselves to ecological disaster. We can live a better life. Starting now. Starting tonight!”

  As the crowd began to applaud, Emma walked up behind Lizzie and tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Hey, Emma!” Lizzie said, throwing her arms around Emma. She’d grown taller since the last time Emma had seen her, but her hair was still a gorgeous coppery red color and thick with curls. “I was hoping you’d be here,” Lizzie said, pulling away from her. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “I know,” Emma said. “Thank God you’re here. I think we’re the only people in here under sixty.”

  Lizzie smiled. “Your dad gave a great speech. And hey, cool hair. What color is that?”

  “Berry Wonderful,” Emma said, surreptitiously scanning the room for her mother.

  “I would love to dye my hair,” Lizzie said. “But it’s so thick and crazy it probably would take a day and a half.” She twisted a lock around one finger and then let it go. It sprang back into a curl next to her cheek.

  “Maybe for one of your modeling shoots,” Emma said. “I saw that story in Rayon. It was really cool.”

  “Thanks, but it wasn’t really my scene. The people were kind of shallow. Except for this one photographer I met. She’s normal. And cool. And so talented. I still model for her sometimes.” Her voice trailed off. Emma could see that talking about herself embarrassed her. “So, is your brother here?”

  “Yeah, he’s lurking around somewhere. Like I said, we’re the only people here under sixty.”

  Lizzie smiled. “He went to Cambridge this summer, right?” she said.

  “Yes,” Emma said, rolling her eyes.

  “The real Cambridge—not an American program, right?”

  “Yup,” Emma confirmed.

  “Wow. He’s shaping up to be Chadwick’s resident genius.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Emma muttered.

  “How’s Rutherford?” Lizzie asked, changing the subject. “The last time we hung out you were on your way there.”

  Emma hesitated. “It was okay. I actually got kicked out this morning.”

  “Really?” Lizzie looked horrified. “For what?”

  “I snuck out of my dorm. To see a guy. And I got busted.”

  Lizzie looked slightly impressed. “I got suspended last year. For skipping school.”

  “You did?”

  “For a modeling job,” Lizzie said. “My parents totally freaked. And I have to admit, it was a dumb move. So, where are you going to go?”

  “Go?” Emma asked.

  “To school?” Lizzie asked.

  Emma grimaced. “My parents want me to go to Chadwick.”

  “Oh my God, you have to!” Lizzie said, grabbing her arm. “We’ll totally take care of you.”

  “Who will?” Emma asked, almost alarmed at Lizzie’s reaction.

  “Me and Carina and Hudson. They’re my best friends, they’re amazing, and they’ll love you. You have to come.”

  “Really?”

  Lizzie nodded. “Definitely.”

  Camera flashes lit up the room, and
craning her head, Emma saw her dad, her mom, and Remington posing for pictures.

  “Whoops,” Emma said. “I think I’m supposed to be over there.”

  Lizzie turned around. “Yeah, you better go,” she said.

  “I’ll be right back,” Emma said as she walked away. Moving through the crowd, Emma couldn’t stop thinking about what Lizzie had said. She hadn’t expected Lizzie to be so welcoming. Maybe going to Chadwick would actually be tolerable.

  “Excuse me,” she said to a middle-aged couple blocking her path. “Excuse me, please.”

  Tom Beckett suddenly stepped in front of her, stopping her progress. “There you are,” he said, smiling. “You enjoying the party?” Flashes popped behind him.

  “Sorry,” she said, trying to pass him, “but I think I need to get over there.”

  “Just wait here,” Tom said in his deep, raspy voice. “They shouldn’t be more than a minute.”

  “But I think I’m supposed to be in the pictures,” Emma said.

  “Actually, we’d rather you weren’t. At least, not tonight.” Tom gestured to her hair. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Emma looked at him. “So you don’t want me in the picture, or they don’t want me in the picture?” she asked, pointing to her parents.

  He gave her an unbearably fake smile. “Both,” he said.

  For a moment she was too shocked to speak. And then the words slid out of her mouth. “You’re a jerk,” she said. She turned away from him and melted back into the crowd.

  A waiter glided past her with a tray of champagne flutes balanced on his palm. She grabbed one. The waiter didn’t even notice. Emma had never drank alcohol, but now seemed like the right time to try it out. She threw her head back and took a big gulp of champagne. The liquid burned her throat. She bent over, coughing. Her vocal cords felt like they were on fire. But as soon as she could, she took another gulp, just as her mom walked up to her and grabbed the glass out of her hand.

  “Emma,” she snapped. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Remington walked up to them. “What’s going on?”

  “You let your sister come here tonight?” Carolyn asked him in a harsh whisper. “Like this?” she asked, pointing to Emma’s hair.

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” he said. He glanced at the flute in Carolyn’s hand and looked at Emma. “Are you drinking?”

  Her father approached them. “What’s going on, Carolyn?” he asked in a careful voice. He stole a glance at Emma.

  “I just caught her drinking,” she said.

  Her father’s face went pale. “Take her home,” he said to Carolyn. “Now.”

  Her mom grabbed her by the wrist and began walking toward the door. “Remington, you, too,” she said.

  “Why do I have to go?” her brother asked.

  “Go with your mother,” Adam said, and his voice was so low and furious that Remington followed without another word.

  As they walked through the restaurant, people stared openly at Emma and her purple hair. By now they knew who she was.

  Emma stared straight ahead, her eyes on the door. Outside she could see night falling in the park, and she wondered, for just a moment, if she could somehow tear off toward Sheep Meadow and leave this family once and for all. After all, wouldn’t it just make everyone’s life easier if she were gone? Nobody would have to dispatch a guy in a dark suit to keep her out of family photos. Nobody would have to be scandalized by her taking a sip of champagne.

  And then something made her look back.

  It was Lizzie, hovering near the hostess stand, watching her. There was no judgment on her face. There was almost no expression at all. But just as Emma passed, Lizzie gave Emma a gentle, sympathetic smile, and Emma could have sworn that she waved.

  chapter 5

  “It was champagne,” Emma said as their cab bumped down Lexington Avenue. “I had a sip.”

  “In front of all those people there,” her mother said angrily. “In front of your father. What is the matter with you, Emma? It’s like you’re intent on embarrassing yourself.”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” Emma said. “You’re embarrassed. No matter what I do. You didn’t even want me in the photos.”

  “With purple hair?” her mom asked.

  “I know you want me to be fake for these things, but I can’t help it if I’m just being myself.”

  “Right, I forgot,” said her mom. “Dyeing your hair purple is really getting to the core of who you are.”

  The cab made a hard right onto Ninetieth Street and Emma slid into her brother, who was being typically silent.

  “It’s this awning up here, please,” Carolyn said to the cabbie as they turned onto Eighty-ninth Street. “Emma, you’re grounded until school starts. Do you hear me?”

  Emma looked past her mom and didn’t say anything.

  “I said do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Emma replied thickly.

  The cab pulled up to the curb.

  Remington opened the cab door and he and Emma got out.

  Carolyn stayed in the car. “I’ll see you at home,” she said. She looked at Remington. “Thanks, Rem.”

  Remington shut the door and the cab sped off. They stood on the curb in awkward silence. “Happy now, Em?” he asked.

  Emma followed him into the lobby. “Don’t be like that,” she muttered. “I didn’t do anything to anyone.”

  “Right. You never do anything to anyone, Emma. It’s always our fault, for getting mad.”

  They got into the elevator and rode up in silence.

  “What do you have to be mad about?” she asked as the elevator doors opened and he unlocked their front door.

  “Because I’m tired of you acting like this,” he said, tossing the keys onto the credenza in the foyer. “I know you’re smarter than this. But you want everyone to think you’re some slacker who’s obsessed with messing up her life.”

  “I’m just trying to think for myself. Which is something you could do a little more of, by the way.”

  Remington’s face darkened. “Fine. The next time you want to ‘think for yourself,’ ” he said, hooking his fingers into quotation marks, “don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.” He disappeared into the hall. A moment later, she heard him close his door.

  Emma stood alone in the foyer. Her brother’s words hung in the air like a bad smell. She hated him. But she also knew that he was almost, almost, right. Anger and shame rose up in her throat, making a terrible ache. She went to her room and slammed the door. Hard. With any luck, she thought, she had cracked the old paint.

  An hour or so later, she’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt and had watched enough funnyordie.com to put herself in a better mood. But now, as she lay on her bed, listening to the sounds of cars going down the street, the old, creepy thoughts started to come back. Like what if there was no God? What if it was all some massive science experiment that just barely worked, and one day something would snap and it would all end? What if she was just one of billions of people on a planet spinning like mad in some endless universe? What if everyone was truly, completely alone? Fighting with Remington always did this to her. It made her feel anxious and scared and alone. She knew what she needed to do.

  She walked to her bedroom door and eased it open. The hall was dark and quiet, but beyond it she could hear the din of CNN and voices in her parents’ study. They were home.

  Quietly, she tiptoed to her brother’s closed door. “Rem?” she whispered, tapping at his door.

  “Yeah?” she heard a voice say.

  She opened the door. Her brother was in bed, reading The Autobiography of Mark Twain.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just kind of lost it tonight. It’s been a really hard day.”

  Her brother let the massive book flop onto his chest. “It’s just hard for me to stand by and watch you do dumb stuff sometimes. I want to understand. I really do. But sometimes it just doesn’t make sense.”

  She kicked at the wheel of
his chair. “I’m sorry. I know.”

  “Okay. Now, please, get out of here. I need to crash. I’m on England time.”

  She smiled with relief and closed the door. But then she heard her mother’s voice coming from the office.

  “What a day. First she gets kicked out. Then she turns herself into something out of a video game. And then drinking, in public…”

  “We used to think that she’d grow out of it,” her dad said.

  “Well, she’s not growing out of it,” her mother said. “It’s getting worse.”

  “Just in time for this campaign,” her dad said.

  “Has she always been like this?” a voice asked, and Emma knew right away who it belonged to: Tom Beckett. In her parents’ office. Talking about her. She couldn’t believe it.

  “It started when Adam moved down to D.C.,” said her mom. “She was always a little headstrong, a little stubborn, but that’s when she really started acting out. She worshiped Adam. And when he left I just couldn’t fit the bill.”

  “So this is my fault?” her father asked in an irritated voice.

  “All right, guys,” Tom said. “She just got home. Maybe she’ll settle down.”

  “Or maybe this isn’t the best timing,” her father said. “If she’s going to be this unpredictable…” His words trailed off. “What can we do, Tom?”

  Just then a chiming sound came from her bedroom down the hall. It was her cell phone. Emma ran to her room and shut the door. It was a Facebook alert, telling her that Lizzie Summers had just requested to be her friend. She clicked Confirm and then threw the phone on the bed. She sat down next to it, oddly shaken. She wished she hadn’t overheard them. There was something in the way her parents and Tom had been discussing her—as if she were a campaign obstacle instead of a person—that made her feel even more anxious than before.