Emma shrugged. “He was being annoying. And then there was this other time that I was texting someone during one of my dad’s speeches. Like that’s a crime against humanity.”
Lizzie furrowed her brow. For a moment Emma was afraid she was being judged. “Well, do you think you need to change?” Lizzie asked carefully.
Emma shifted on the bench as she thought about it. “I guess it would be nice for them to trust me, and not treat me like I’m some kind of problem kid. But why do I have to pretend to be America’s Perfect Daughter so my dad can get elected? It just feels dishonest.”
“Is that what they want you to do?” she asked.
Emma wasn’t sure how to answer that. She had a feeling they did, but it seemed hard to admit that. Instead she watched a guy on a patch of grass near the dog run, juggling—and dropping—tennis balls. He seemed to be just learning. “All I know is that I refuse to be different just because of my dad and his job. It’s not my fault he decided to do this. Why should I base who I am on what he does for a living?”
Lizzie shrugged. “I guess you shouldn’t,” she said.
Emma took out a pack of orange-flavored Trident Splash and handed a piece to Lizzie. “Have you had this yet? This stuff is the bomb.”
Lizzie laughed. “I can’t believe you just said ‘bomb.’ ”
“Hell, yeah,” she said. “I’m starting to think people don’t say that enough. I’m bringing it back.”
Lizzie laughed some more as they stood up from the bench and started to walk out of the park.
“Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing,” said Lizzie. “But Carina and Hudson would never tell anyone. You can always tell us secrets. As long as they’re totally juicy, of course,” she said, laughing. There was a chime, and she pulled her phone out of her bag.
“Who was that?” Emma asked.
“Todd. He’s with his mom today.” Quickly she tapped out a message to him. “She came in from London for the start of the trial.”
“What trial?”
“Todd’s dad.” Lizzie put her phone back into her bag as they headed toward a cute, French-looking coffee shop. “He was arrested last year for stealing money from his company. Lots of money. Like a hundred million dollars.”
“Did he?” Emma asked.
Lizzie shrugged. “He’s saying he didn’t. But if you go over to his place, it’s kind of easy to believe.”
“What does Todd think?” Emma asked.
Lizzie sighed. “Todd’s not his dad’s biggest fan. But he seems to think he didn’t do it, either.”
They walked into the coffee shop and a wave of frigid air-conditioning hit Emma in the face. A Jack Johnson song came over the speakers. “When does the trial start?” she asked Lizzie.
“Monday,” Lizzie said, dropping her voice as they walked to the counter. “I just feel so sorry for Todd. He’s trying so hard not to show it, but I know this is all killing him.”
As Emma surveyed a row of muffins behind the glass, she tried to imagine being in Todd’s shoes for a moment. Having a father who might be a criminal definitely made her situation seem a little trivial.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to bring you down or anything,” Lizzie said, smiling. “You okay?”
“Sure,” Emma said.
Lizzie checked her watch. “Okay. After this how about we stop in Lord of the Fleas?”
“Totally,” Emma said, giving her new friend a high five.
“Maybe the best thing you can do right now,” Lizzie said, “is not go to Banana Republic.”
Emma pulled out her Chrysler Building sunglasses and slipped them on. “I hear that.”
chapter 9
By the time Emma walked into the lobby of her building, her feet ached so much that she had to sit down on the threadbare sofa and slip off her sandals. She and Lizzie had gone into possibly every cool boutique east of Third Avenue, and in just a couple of hours she’d accumulated three big shopping bags and two blisters. All she wanted to do was take a nice long nap.
But as soon as she opened the door to her apartment she knew that a nap wasn’t in the cards. Enormous vases of white roses stood on the credenza and the small table by the front door. The smell of her mom’s mushroom puffs wafted from the kitchen. A cream and blue silk tablecloth covered the dining room table. It was pretty obvious: Her parents were having a party.
“Okay, I want these scattered across the table,” her mother said as she walked out of the kitchen holding a bag of votive candles. A cater-waiter followed her—a hot cater-waiter, Emma couldn’t help noticing.
“Just on the dining room table and in the living room,” Carolyn directed, pointing to the living room. “But don’t light them yet. People won’t be here ’til six.” She brushed some black hair out of her eyes and looked right at Emma. “Honey, can you please put on that yellow dress we got you at Banana Republic last year? And those nice gold drop earrings?”
“What’s going on?” Emma asked, mortified that the cater-waiter had just heard that.
“We’re having some people over,” she said. She held out the bag of votives to the waiter, who took them and disappeared into the living room. “People who might contribute to the campaign,” she said under her breath.
“Rich people,” Emma prompted.
“Potential donors,” she corrected. “Tom says this is all your dad should be doing right now. Raising money.”
“But why do we have to be involved?” Emma asked.
“Because we’re his family,” Carolyn said firmly. A sudden clatter came from the kitchen and she grimaced. “Just get cleaned up. They’ll be here in less than an hour.” She looked down at Emma’s shopping bags. “I hope those things were on sale.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “They were basically flea markets,” she said.
Her mom hurried to the kitchen, and Emma went straight to her brother’s door. It was closed, which meant that he was already home. “It’s me!” she yelled, pounding the door once with her fist.
Remington opened the door. His hair was still wet from the shower, and he wore a checked blue button-down shirt and dress slacks, which actually looked ironed. “Hey, Em. What’s up?”
“Why do we have to be at this party?” she asked, stepping into his room and closing the door.
“Because they want us to be,” her brother said. He grabbed a necktie off his desk and walked to his mirror.
“You’re wearing a tie?”
He gave her a look. “It’s a party, Emma. Mom wants us to look nice.”
“I just don’t get why we have to be part of this,” she said. “This is Dad’s thing. What difference does it make if we’re there or not?”
“Just walk up to people, shake their hands, and talk to them about the weather and what grade you’re in,” he said, passing one end of his necktie through a knot. “You’re better with people than you think. And it’s not like you have to say that much at the end.”
“What do you mean, say that much at the end?” she asked.
“Dad thinks it would be nice for us to say a few words. You know, about our generation. The problems we face.”
“Are you kidding me?” she exclaimed, sitting down on the bed. “We have to make a speech?”
“Em, calm down,” he said, sitting down next to her. “He just sprang this on me, too. It’s not like I have anything great to say.”
“Yeah, right, Captain of Speech and Debate.”
“Look, just put on a dress, and don’t dye your hair,” he said, smiling. “You’ll be fine.”
She went to her room, kicked off her sandals, and shut the door. Talk about her generation? Was he serious? She hated how people talked about generations, as if everyone who was born within the same five-year span was the same person or something. It was ridiculous. On the other hand, maybe she could just get up there in front of everyone and tell the truth: Hi, everyone. I guess you could say the real problem affecting me right now is that my dad has decided to put all of us on the world stage, a
nd I’m about to never have a private moment again…
After a quick shower she went to her closet and found the daffodil-colored dress her mom had mentioned. Yellow was her least favorite color, but for some reason, her mom loved it on her. Probably because it was exactly like something she would have worn. Sighing, she pulled it off the hanger and slipped it on. But to make up for the dress she gave herself a quick manicure with her favorite polish, which was the color of dried blood. And she gave her eyes an extra helping of purple liner. Her mom could make her put on a dumb dress, but she hadn’t said anything about cosmetics.
Out in the foyer, the doorbell rang, and then rang again. She heard happy voices of greeting, mostly male. After listening to the doorbell ring several times, she finally forced herself out of her room. It was time to get this over with.
She reached the living room and edged her way inside. Her parents’ guests all seemed to be in their fifties and sixties, and were engrossed in conversation with one another. Her mom and dad stood in the back of the room, chatting with an African-American man who Emma knew was the CEO of a huge Internet conglomerate.
“Mini-quiche?” asked the very cute cater-waiter, stopping in front of her with a tray and a knowing smile.
She grabbed one and a napkin. “Thanks,” she said, giving him a smile in return, but he moved on to a woman with a Botoxed forehead.
She chewed her mini-quiche. Maybe if she stood here and ate, she would look like she belonged here. Or maybe if she just slipped out, she thought, nobody would notice. Slowly, she started to creep toward the door. And then she saw Walker come into the room. He looked handsome and grown-up in a purple-and-gray-striped button-down shirt and gray tie, and in his hands he held a bouquet of white roses.
“Walker!” she yelled, causing some of the guests to look her way.
With a smile, he waded past some of the guests and came to stand at her side.
“What are you doing here?”
“Rem invited me. Sorry I’m late.” He handed her the flowers. “I brought these for your mom. I know they’re her favorite.”
As she held them she imagined for a moment that Walker had brought them for her. Then she put the thought out of her mind. “So I take it you know about my dad?”
“Rem told me this week. With your parents’ okay, of course. Not that I’m surprised. I mean, we were all kind of expecting it.”
Emma just leaned down and smelled the flowers.
“So… um, how was your first week at Chadwick?” he asked, taking a glass of San Pellegrino water from a passing cater-waiter.
“It was pretty good. I think I can see why you and Rem like it so much. I guess I thought it was just for total nerds like you guys,” she teased.
He laughed. “So you still think I’m a nerd?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I mean, you still get a four-point-oh every semester, right? And what did you get on your SAT? A twenty-three sixty?”
Walker blushed. “Twenty-three forty,” he said.
“Nerd,” she teased.
“Like you’re Miss Slacker,” he said back to her. “Didn’t you get awards in math at your last school in the city?”
“That was a fluke,” she said. It was kind of annoying that Walker knew so much about her past.
“Hey, man,” Remington said, coming over to them. “Thanks for coming!”
“You bet,” said Walker. “You sure it’s okay that I’m here?”
“Of course. Come over and meet the CEO of Time Warner.”
As Remington led him away, Walker looked back at Emma. “See you,” he said. For a moment it looked as if he didn’t want to leave her. And then the two of them disappeared.
Emma stood there holding the flowers, until it occurred to her to give them to one of the waiters. Walker thinks I’m smart, she thought. So why was I trying so hard to tell him he was wrong?
Suddenly there was the chiming of a fork against a glass, and Emma turned to see her father trying to get everyone’s attention.
“So, before I bend everyone’s ear,” he said, speaking above the noise of the crowd, “I would just like to thank you all for coming here on such short notice.”
The guests immediately stopped talking, and stepped back a few feet to give her father a stage.
“This is a very exciting time for me, and for my family,” he said, “and we wanted you all to be the first few people to hear about what we’ve got planned. And of course a few bucks to get us started wouldn’t hurt, either.”
The guests laughed. Emma had to admit that he had very good comedic timing.
“And I also want to thank my lovely wife, Carolyn,” he continued, “who very graciously decided to host this event at the last minute, before I go back down to Washington.”
Her mom came to stand next to her dad. She looked different with her hair swept up in a topknot, and with eye shadow and mascara on. “After twenty years, I think I’m used to my husband being spontaneous,” she quipped, eliciting some chuckles.
“And I’d also like you all to meet my children,” her dad said. “First is my son, Remington, who’s standing over there.”
Her brother waved from his spot next to the piano.
“He studied History and English at Cambridge this summer, and now he’s in his senior year at the Chadwick School, where he captains the swim team and the speech and debate team.”
Impressed oohs and aahs rose up from the crowd. Emma felt a distinct urge to flee.
“And this,” her dad said, pointing at her, “is my daughter, Emma.”
The guests turned around to look at her.
“She just turned fifteen,” he said.
The guests seemed to wait a moment for something a little more impressive, and then they tepidly clapped their hands.
Emma stared at the carpet, feeling her cheeks burn. So that was her defining accomplishment? She’d turned fifteen?
“As you know,” her dad went on, “it’s our children whom we always have in mind at election season—how to leave them a better world, how to ensure and safeguard their future. So I’ve asked each of them to say a few words to you about what they want, and what their generation wants. Remington?” her father asked. “Want to come up here and say a few words?”
The man standing next to Remington slapped him hard on the back, as if they were old friends. Remington took a few steps forward.
“Thanks, Dad,” he said, walking to the front of the room. “I guess it’s true. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About what’s waiting for me, for everyone my age, in twenty years.” He faced the crowd. “Global warming. Trillions of dollars of debt. An endless war in Afghanistan. A rising divide between the haves and the have-nots of America. But before I get too depressed,” her brother said with a smile, “I remember that I’m lucky. Lucky enough to know that right now, down in Washington, there’s someone who’s fighting for us.” He turned to look at Adam. “For me. For my generation. To make this country safer. To make sure that people my age won’t look back on their youth as the good old days. Thank you.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the room erupted into applause.
“Bravo!” someone shouted.
“Is your son going to be your running mate?” someone else yelled.
“Thank you, Remington,” her father said, practically bursting with pride. “Now I’d like my youngest to speak. Emma? Would you come up here and say a few words?”
Emma felt her stomach begin a slow slide down to her ankles as she walked over to him.
“So tell us your concerns, Emma,” her father said. “What are your worries? What keeps you up at night?”
Emma turned to face the room, struggling to think of something to say. Her brother had covered every possible worry she and “her generation” could ever have. The environment. The war on terrorism. Economic inequality, for God’s sake.
“Emma?” her father prompted. “Anything at all?”
She turned and saw To
m Beckett standing by the door. He was looking at her with the same smirk he’d had on his face at the Boathouse. As if he were just humoring her—the unwanted, embarrassing, inappropriate Conway.
“Well, you know, Dad,” she suddenly said. “There’s only one thing that keeps me up at night. Will Jen and Brad ever get back together?”
People traded uncomfortable glances. Nobody spoke. Her father froze.
“Dinner is served!” her mom said, breaking the sudden silence. “Now, if everyone just wants to move this way!”
The guests snapped out of their collective coma and began to move toward the dining room. Emma stood by herself for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. It had felt great to say that, she had to admit. But she also had the distinct, bitter aftertaste in her mouth of having done something foolish.
“What the hell was that?” Remington looked furious as he walked up to her. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said. “Take it easy, Rem.”
“Why would you do that?” His green eyes blazed. “Are you crazy? How could you do that to him? You just basically gave all the people in there the finger.”
She rolled her eyes. “It was a joke, Rem.”
“Do you think I like having to be the responsible one all the time? Do you think I like having a sister who’s a total goof-off?”
His words cut right through her. “I’m sorry, Rem—”
“Forget it.” He stormed out of the living room and across the foyer toward the dining room, where Walker waited for him by the French doors. From the slightly revolted look on his face she could tell that Walker had seen everything—and possibly heard everything, too.
Slowly she walked back to her room, shut the door, and lay down on her bed. She felt like she’d just been punched in the face. She’d never expected that kind of outburst from her brother. She’d actually thought he’d find her joke funny.
But instead he’d ripped her apart. That horrible loneliness swept over her. She realized that it didn’t matter what her parents thought of her, but Remington—he mattered. If he’d finally had it with her, then she would have nobody in this family. She’d never get through the next year on her own.
The Daughters Join the Party Page 7
