“Lizzie? I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” Lizzie said in an icy tone, as Mr. Weatherly began to call roll.
Yikes, Emma thought. Lizzie was mad at her. It only compounded the dread that she was already feeling.
Her pariah status continued for the rest of the day. Mr. Barlow barely noticed Emma in the hall, and at speech practice that afternoon, Walker kept his head down almost the entire time, except for when he had to deliver a killer monologue on why cell phones should be allowed in schools. During the entire speech, he didn’t make eye contact with her once.
After practice, as people trudged out of the library, she forced herself to approach him. “Great job,” she said, as he began packing up his book bag. “That was, like, your best one yet.”
“Thanks,” he said, shoving his books into the bag.
“How’ve you been?” she persisted. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine,” he replied. He seemed to be in a gigantic hurry. The zipper on his bag stuck and he had to literally force it to keep moving.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He finally stopped his frantic movements and looked at her. “Actually, yeah. How could you give that ridiculous speech?”
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“I’m serious,” he said, scratching his head. “That was terrible. That wasn’t you at all.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t approve,” she finally said.
“You were doing so well, Emma,” he said. “You were really becoming… I don’t know… the best version of you,” he said. “And then, last weekend, I had no idea who that person was onstage. It didn’t even look like you.”
“Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?” she muttered.
“I am telling you how I feel,” he said. “It was a mistake. You’re better than that.”
“Okay, I got it, all right?” she snapped. “Do you think that’s what I wanted to do? No. They made me. They changed it on me at the last minute.”
“You could have said no.” Walker threw his book bag over his shoulder. “Your dad’s the one running for president. Not you. You could have said no.”
“Well, what’s it to you, anyway?” she yelled. “What do you care what I say? Do you want me to tell you what I think of you?”
She couldn’t stop herself, even though Walker’s expression had turned stony.
“I think you couldn’t handle being my brother’s friend anymore,” she said. “I think you just couldn’t take the competition and you decided to never speak to him again. I think you’re a terrible, terrible friend. And I think you hold grudges, too. He asked you over for dinner that night, and you didn’t even have the decency to say yes.”
Walker’s jaw muscle began to pop up and down.
“So that’s what I think of you,” she said. “Mr. Four-Point-Oh. So you can just stop judging everyone else.”
She brushed past him and walked to the door. Her heart beat so rapidly that she almost tripped on the stairs, and when she got to the lobby she ran through the doors without giving Dori even the smallest glance.
She turned uptown on Madison and walked a few blocks, until she was well out of the private-school zone. On East Ninety-fourth Street, she turned toward Fifth, and found her favorite spot to be alone: the deep, curved stoop in front of the Russian Consulate. She sat down on the edge, out of the sight of passersby, and let herself cry.
chapter 26
“So what’s after Toledo?” her mom asked as she put a basket of rolls on the dining table.
“Cincinnati, Detroit, Iowa City, and then down in Orlando for a bit,” said her father, helping himself to some roasted chicken. “They’re expecting Senator Gibbons to make his announcement any day now, so they’re really ramping things up.”
Emma took a bite of her salad. When she’d finally made it home that afternoon, half-drenched from the rain, she’d heard her dad’s voice in the office and seen his battered luggage in the foyer. She knew that she was supposed to be happy that her dad had surprised them with a quick pit stop at home for the night, but his timing couldn’t have been worse.
“So I finished my Harvard application,” Remington said. “I’m turning it in tomorrow.”
“Good for you,” her mom said.
“What about Yale? You finished with that one?” Adam asked.
“Not yet. But I will be,” he said. “I’m going up there in a few weeks.”
“You are?” their dad said, eating some green beans.
“I have an interview, and I know some people up there,” her brother said. “They said I can spend the night in the dorm. Get a real feel for the school.” He took a sip of water. “You think I could borrow the car to go up there? It’s only a two-hour drive.”
“You can also take the train,” Carolyn said. “It might be easier.”
“Let him take the car,” Adam said. “That’s fine. And what about Columbia?”
“Application is in,” Remington said.
Emma poked at her rice with her fork. It was almost like she wasn’t there.
“So, Karl Jurgensen’s throwing me a fund-raiser,” Adam announced. “At the Temple of Dendur at the Met.”
“Really?” her mom asked. “When were you going to tell me this?”
“It just happened,” Adam said, his eyes gleaming. He turned to Emma. “You’re friends with his daughter, aren’t you?”
She nodded, uncertain where this was going.
“Well, how would you like to speak with me there? It’s only fitting, since all your friends will probably be there.”
She struggled to think of the right response. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“What do you mean?” her dad said. “You’ve been doing a great job.”
She put down her fork. “The last one didn’t seem to go over so well.”
“It didn’t? I thought you did perfectly.”
Emma watched him devour his chicken breast. “Dad, can I ask you something? Are you still embarrassed by me?”
Her father looked up from his chicken. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Why did you let them change my speech like that?”
Her father patted the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “First off, I’m never embarrassed by you,” he said. “You’re my daughter. But those polls came back and people were upset, and Tom and Shanks thought we could use a slight change.”
“I thought you liked me being myself out there,” she said. “I thought that was what got you guys so much attention. Or am I wrong about that?”
“Emma, a campaign is always honing its message. That’s part of it. You can’t take this all so personally. You’ve done a wonderful job. And you really ran with things the other day. You’re a team player.”
“But did you see the blogs?” she asked. “Did you see some of the stuff they said about me? And you?”
“If I read every blog…” her father said, giving her mother a smile.
“You don’t believe that all of the teenagers in America are brainwashed idiots. I mean, come on.”
“Emma,” her mom said, in her best mediator’s voice, “you did a wonderful job the other day. And your father wouldn’t have let you make that speech if he thought it was going to harm him in any way.”
“But what about me?” she asked. “What about harming me? Did you see the way they made me dress? The way I had to look?”
Her father dropped his fork. “Do you think that I can go out there and say whatever I want to?” he asked. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s being told what to say? Or how to look? Or how to be?”
“Adam,” her mom said in a warning voice.
He pushed his chair back from the table. “Look, honey, if you don’t want to do this anymore, fine. I’m not going to make you.”
She worked her napkin around and around her finger.
“It’s just that you’ve changed,” he went on. “You’ve really come into your own. And
it’s been a thrill to watch. For all of us.”
Have I really come into my own? she thought. Or have I just turned into your prop?
“So all I’m asking is for you to come with me to a very glamorous event at the Metropolitan Museum of Art with all of your friends, and speak to a bunch of people,” he went on. “But if you don’t want to do it—”
“I’ll do it,” she said. The napkin was wound so tight that her finger had gone numb.
“Great,” Adam said. “I’ll have Tom and Shanks call you with the details.” He stood up. “And now I think I have to go make some fund-raising calls. Dinner was wonderful.” He patted his wife on the shoulder, then went to his office.
Emma untwisted the napkin, letting the blood rush back into her finger. She’d made the decision she wanted to make, but something about this still didn’t feel right. Her brother picked at his food. Her mom had stopped eating altogether and was taking careful sips of white wine. Something had changed in the dynamic of the Conway household, Emma thought. Something else had come into its own: her dad’s thirst to win. And she wondered if her family was going to survive it.
After dinner that night she wrote Lizzie an e-mail: Dad just asked me to speak at this event hosted by Carina’s dad… Said yes, but I think I should back out. Should I?
By morning, Lizzie hadn’t written back.
chapter 27
The speech for the event at the Met came by e-mail a few days later, sent from Tom Beckett’s assistant.
Karl Jurgensen event, read the subject line. Sitting in the Chadwick computer lab, Emma clicked on it with trepidation and read the first line.
America’s youth is our future, and right now that future needs serious help.
“Ugh,” she said. It was almost an exact rehash of the speech she’d given at the University of Pennsylvania: America’s youth were out of control, too wrapped up in their cell phones and their video games to buckle down and make sacrifices. What a joke, Emma thought, sending the speech to the printer. Sure, her dad didn’t want his kids playing video games all day, but she knew for a fact that he didn’t blame Sony PlayStation for the country’s problems. Why was his campaign doing this? Why were they making him sound like some bitter old-timer who’d fought off grizzly bears on his way to school? It didn’t make any sense. She knew her dad wasn’t like this.
She got up and went to the printer, where the one sheet sat in the tray, daring her to pick it up. This was going to be a huge mistake, she thought. There wouldn’t be press at a private fund-raiser, but her friends would be there, and that was bad enough.
As she was folding the speech in half and about to slip it into her notebook, she saw Lizzie walk into the lab. Lizzie barely looked at Emma as she sat down behind one of the Macs and opened up her Gmail.
Emma wasn’t surprised. Things between them had been weird since the event at the University of Pennsylvania, and for the past few days Lizzie had barely said a word to her. Emma had been fine with the semi-silent treatment, but now, as she stood just a few feet away, she thought to herself: Enough is enough.
“Hey,” she said, walking over. “What’s up?”
Lizzie looked at Emma over her shoulder. “Oh, hi,” she said. She turned back to her e-mail.
“How are you?” Emma said.
“Good,” Lizzie said tonelessly.
Emma wanted to ask her if she’d heard from Todd but she knew that now wasn’t the time. “So, I think I told you that I’m speaking at this thing tomorrow night at the Met,” she ventured. “Can you come? Carina and Hudson are coming.”
“I really don’t know,” Lizzie said, not turning around. “My mom wants me to help her with stuff.”
Emma pulled out the empty chair next to Lizzie and sat down. “Um, are you mad at me?” she asked. “It feels like you’re mad at me.”
Lizzie let go of the computer mouse. “I just was shocked to hear what that guy said about Todd. Not wanting him around your dad’s campaign. And you didn’t say anything back to him about it.”
“What was I supposed to say?” Emma asked, feeling herself get angry. “When he’d just switched that speech on me and I had no idea what was going on?”
Lizzie shook her head. “The old Emma would have told that guy to go to hell,” she said. “And you said nothing. Like it was just… okay.”
“Because I was completely freaked out about other stuff!” Emma said.
“Don’t yell at me,” Lizzie said, getting up and walking away.
“Look, I didn’t mean to blow it off—I think that guy’s a total jerk, too,” Emma said, following her. “I just didn’t know what to do in the moment. You know? I would have said something to him later.”
Lizzie turned on her heels and faced Emma in the hallway. “I’ve been a really good friend to you. I welcomed you to this school, I introduced you to people, you name it. But lately it just feels like this is all about you. You haven’t been here for me when I really needed you.” Her eyes started to get watery. “You’ve been so busy with this campaign and everything. And Todd has been through enough. He doesn’t need to be treated like a criminal on top of it.”
“Lizzie, what did I do? I don’t even get what you’re talking about!”
“Forget it,” Lizzie said, wiping her eye with the back of her hand. “Just forget it. Have a good time tomorrow night.” She hurried away down the stairs and out of sight.
Emma stood in the hallway for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She’d definitely lost friends before; that was nothing new. And a part of her thought that Lizzie had gone a little overboard.
But nothing had ever felt quite so harsh as seeing the back of Lizzie’s head as she ran down the stairs to get away from her.
“So do you know what you’re going to say?” Carina asked as the cab drove them down Madison Avenue.
“If you’re nervous I can give you some breathing exercises,” Hudson said.
“That’s okay, guys, I think I have it down,” Emma said, looking at all the lit-up boutique windows as they passed. It had finally stopped raining a few hours before, but a thick mist hung in the air, giving the Upper East Side the look of Victorian London—and adding to the dread Emma had been feeling since that morning. For the past day and a half she’d been debating whether or not to come down with a severe case of stomach flu just so she could avoid this night. Her hands felt sweaty as she held the Fendi clutch purse she’d borrowed from her mom. Her speech was folded up inside. Maybe it was a mental block, but she still hadn’t been able to memorize it.
“My dad’s really psyched to see you speak,” Carina said. “He told me. He’s been following you on the news.”
“That’s nice,” Emma said in a noncommittal way. “Do you think there are going to be any cute guys at this?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Probably not,” Carina said. “I’ve been to these sorts of things my dad does. There’s never anyone under forty. Ever. Though Hudson could probably find someone.”
“Shut up,” Hudson said, reaching past Emma to swat her on the arm. “I told you guys, I’m over that now.”
It was strange for Lizzie not to be there. Her absence could be felt in the car. Even though Emma hadn’t said a word to them about the fight, she assumed that Carina and Hudson had heard Lizzie’s side of the story, which only doubled the awkwardness.
The cab pulled up in front of the museum, and they all got out. Hudson wore a beautiful strapless lemon-yellow dress with a feathered neckline, and Carina wore a royal blue silk top, black denim leggings, and gold high heels. Emma had opted for a painfully plain black dress, black tights, and heels—and hardly any makeup, due to Tom Beckett’s e-mail reminder to look “fresh-faced.” The pink hair color was still there, though, and she absolutely defied him to say anything to her about it when she got inside.
“You guys look so pretty,” Emma said. “I look so… Ann Taylor, circa nineteen ninety-four.”
“You look great,” Hudson said, so sincerely that Em
ma almost believed her.
“Are they really that controlling over what you wear?” asked Carina.
“Oh yeah. The key word is fresh-faced,” Emma said facetiously. “I.e., boring and gross. So. Should we go?”
Their arms linked, they climbed the stairs to the entrance. Tiny lights hidden in the banisters cast a golden glow on the steps, while bright white spotlights lit up the pillars and arches of the museum’s exterior, and became halos in the mist. As they climbed, the churning in her stomach increased. Don’t do this, she thought. Turn back. Nightmare scenario fast approaching. But she kept going.
A fleet of security guards checked them in—her dad’s security needs were growing by the minute, it seemed—and they walked into the grand entrance hall, past a reception desk decorated with an enormous arrangement of flowers. Emma felt another warning pass through her. I don’t want to do this, she thought. I really don’t want to do this.
One of the museum guards gestured straight ahead. “The event is in the Temple—”
“Of Dendur, got it,” she interrupted, quickening her step.
“We came here in seventh grade for a social studies field trip,” Carina said as they walked down the hallway. “I hear it’s supposed to look pretty cool at night.”
“I wish Lizzie were here,” Hudson murmured.
Carina didn’t say anything.
I do, too, Emma thought. “Maybe someone will be taking pictures,” was all she could think of to say.
Slowly, as if she were walking through sand, she turned the corner and entered the main gallery, where the ancient Egyptian temple, lit from below by hot pink and green lights, loomed over a crowd of men and women in black tie. Tall votive candles lined a reflecting pool. A dozen tables covered with ivory tablecloths were lined up beside the glass wall that overlooked Central Park. But the elegance quickly faded as she spotted Tom Beckett moving through the crowd, pumping hands as if he were the one running for president. As he got close she hid behind a waiter handing out grilled shrimp on skewers. The last thing she wanted to deal with was making fake small talk with him. Or hearing about how she had to remove more makeup.
The Daughters Join the Party Page 18
