The reporter scribbles in his notepad. The others do too.
“That’s all we have time for today.” Meryl steps in seamlessly. “Thank you for coming, and congratulations again, Squeaky.”
The bright lights are killed, the reporters record their tags back to the anchor desks, and the crews begin to pack up. With a quick, over-the-shoulder wave goodbye and a deep breath of relief, I slip out of the room.
My head hurts from the tight milkmaid braid pinned across the crown of my head, and my first impulse is to pull the pins out and let my hair free, now that I’m not on TV anymore. But there are usually public tours coming through at this time of day. You can bet your last penny that every single one of those people is going to have a camera at the ready. Which means I must be ready, too.
I make my way through the East Wing, nodding at the occasional Secret Service agent stationed outside of closed doors and at certain junctures in the labyrinth of halls, all the way back to the Executive Residence.
What I really want to do right now is change out of this dress, wash the makeup off my face, and take a long nap before dinner. But as soon as I close my bedroom door, my phone dings with a new text message. I glance at the display, and my heart beats out the three most perfect syllables in the world:
Emily.
She’s the one person I always want to hear from.
But her message is just a series of about ten question marks, attached to a news article. I’m surprised, because politics is the one subject we usually don’t touch.
First Daughter Squeaky Chamberlain Voices Support for Controversial Free Speech Bill, the headline reads. Controversial. That’s the same word the reporter used. The piece has accumulated over a hundred comments in the last five minutes.
Huh.
A new text pops up on the screen, from my best friend, Hudson: Are you OK?
Why would he ask me that? What is going on?
I scan the article Emily sent, but it’s brief and relies on the reader already being familiar with the ins and outs of the proposed bill, which were only released yesterday. Opening my laptop, I type “First Amendment Reinforcement Act” into an internet search.
A lengthy description of the bill tops the news feed, but I can’t help myself—I bypass it in favor of search result number two. It’s a video interview, posted earlier today, with Senator Phyllis Bautista, Dad’s rival in the upcoming presidential election. I don’t usually follow the Bautista campaign, but this interview is with the entire Bautista family.
And.
Emily is Phyllis’s daughter.
And.
I’m in love with her.
Talk about star-crossed.
Emily and I first met a year ago, at the annual fund-raiser for the Millennials in Politics Initiative. We hit it off immediately, and have had a pretty consistent text thread going ever since. We’ve seen each other a few times too, but it’s always been at official events.
With the Secret Service breathing down my neck and reporting back to my parents, it’s not like the daughter of the enemy and I can just meet up any old time for coffee or a movie.
I came out to her as bisexual a few months ago; she was only the second person I’ve told, after Hudson. She was every bit as amazing and supportive as I’d known she’d be. But I haven’t dared confess my feelings for her.
Emily’s been famously out and proud for what seems like forever, even though she’s only nineteen now. I, on the other hand, am very new in this incredible, shiny world where girls flirt with each other and kiss each other and fall in love with each other.
In the video, her hair is up in a messy topknot, and her lipstick is so pink and bright that if I saw it in a store I’d wonder what on Earth the makeup company had been thinking. But when I see it on Emily, I know—they had someone like her in mind. Someone gorgeous and fearless.
I stare at those perfect lips, and my face warms.
“I wanted to give you an opportunity to comment on the pending First Amendment Reinforcement Act vote,” the interviewer says to Phyllis.
Phyllis’s expression goes somber. “I appreciate that, Nia. As you may know, President Chamberlain has vowed to sign the bill if it passes the House and Senate. We cannot let this happen. If enacted into law, this bill would be extremely detrimental for our country.”
Slowly, the rational, not love-struck part of my brain shifts from Emily! gear into Pay attention! gear. What does Phyllis mean, detrimental?
“Can you explain that a bit more?” Nia asks. “I know many Americans are confused as to how and why you might be against further protection of the First Amendment.”
Yes. I am one of those Americans. Thanks, Nia.
“Well, that’s because the wording of the bill is confusing. Intentionally so, I might add. This so-called ‘First Amendment Reinforcement Act’ is only about protecting the First Amendment in the most technical of senses.” She sounds tired, as if this is something she’s had to explain many, many times, to negligible effect. “In reality, the bill will allow businesses to discriminate against LGBTQ people, citing religious beliefs.
“Doctors and hospitals will be able to turn away gay and transgender patients, even in cases of emergency. Employers will be able to fire queer employees without cause. Banks will be able to hike up mortgage rates for LGBTQ families. And so on.”
My face has gone from warm to full-on hot. What she’s saying can’t possibly be right.
I press the space bar to pause the video. Out the window, across the North Lawn, past the fountain and the fence, tourists crowd the sidewalk, pointing their cameras this way. I lean back a bit, out of view.
Yes, Dad believes in the “traditional” definition of marriage being between a man and a woman, but it’s not like he’s mean to LGBTQ people or anything. Once a lesbian pastor from a church here in D.C. came to visit the White House and Mom and Dad were perfectly pleasant to her. Surely Phyllis is just doing the politician thing—molding the narrative to suit her purposes, demonizing the opposition.
If your parents are so accepting, Savannah, why haven’t you told them about you?
I stuff the traitorous question back down inside, where it belongs, and press space bar again.
“Here at the network we’ve heard from many citizens who feel that if this bill becomes law, they’ll no longer be welcome in their own country,” Nia says. “How do you respond to them?”
Phyllis puts an arm around Emily and tugs her close. “We understand what you’re feeling. This is a very real concern in our family as well.” Emily nods in agreement. “But I promise you, even if Congress votes in favor tomorrow, the fight is far from over. We are working hard in the Senate to ensure the bill moves no further.”
“And if you don’t succeed?” Nia presses.
“Well, then the American public will show the incumbents how they feel about their choices come Election Day, won’t they?”
Another text from Emily comes through.
I can’t BELIEVE you went on TV and said you support this bill. After everything you confided in me?? I don’t understand.
It’s followed by a sad face emoji. The really heartbroken one.
I pull up the Google Alerts I’d set for myself. The proclamation of my support for the apparently anti-LGBTQ bill has spread fast.
A piece titled “Squeaky ‘Respects’ and ‘Appreciates’ Father’s Bigoted Agenda” is trending on Twitter. Side-by-side photos of me and Emily, making it look like we’re standing off, with “Vs.” scrawled in the center are plastered all over the web.
My Instagram handle is tagged in dozens—no, hundreds now—of images of people’s middle fingers, with the hashtag #RespectAndAppreciateTHIS. Known hate groups are releasing statements commending me on my bravery and thanking me for my support.
Everyone knows the internet is filled with hate and jealousy. With baseless opinion
and “fake news” and manipulative wishful thinking. I don’t have to believe any of this.
But.
There’s so much here, from reputable sources. Non-American ones. And in that video, Phyllis spoke off the cuff, impassioned, without a pre-written speech, embracing—literally and figuratively—her gay daughter in front of the entire world. She said the word queer like it was as common and regular as cheeseburger or school bus.
It doesn’t seem like political posturing.
Reluctantly, I open a new window and bring up the bill. It’s long-winded and, like Phyllis said, a little confusing. But I keep reading, going over the same sentences three and four times in spots. By the time I’m done, the sun has begun to set. I flip my desk lamp on, close the window shades, and sit back in my chair.
There’s no denying it; it’s all there, in black and white. This bill my dad loves so much is aimed at hurting people. People like Emily. People like me.
And now the whole world thinks I’m all for it.
I slam my laptop shut.
The room is silent, but my ears are pounding. My head hurts. My stomach hurts.
How did this happen? All I said was I trust and respect my father. I was doing what I was supposed to do. What’s expected of me.
I stare at my phone for a long while, deciding what to say to Emily. Finally, I just write, I’m so sorry.
It’s the truth; I’m sorry I hurt her. I’m sorry I said anything to that reporter at all.
She doesn’t write back.
* * *
“Dad,” I say as soon as he joins me and Mom at the dinner table. He got back from France this morning, so this is the first family dinner we’ve had in over a week. And I need to get this out before I lose my nerve. “Um, I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about the First Amendment Reinforcement Act?”
He selects a bottle of wine from the list one of the kitchen staffers has presented him with, then glances at me. “Why?”
I force myself not to break eye contact. “I don’t know if you’ve seen the news today, but I’m kind of being raked over the coals right now for saying I support the bill. Not that I actually said that, in so many words, but...” I shake my head. “Anyway, I’m just trying to understand what it’s all about.” More to the point, I’m trying to understand what his intentions are with it.
In my opinion, there’s a difference between a law that’s meant for good but some jerks finding a loophole and using it for bad, and a law that’s designed to cause people harm. After my hours of reading, I’m pretty sure I know which this is, but there’s still a huge part of me that wants to give my dad the benefit of the doubt.
“It’s about protecting our base human right to freedom of speech.” He tilts his head. “I thought you knew that.”
“Yes, but isn’t the First Amendment already pretty solid? There’s tons of precedent in the justice system, and apart from cases of treason—”
“No, Squeaky. It’s not solid. You just said it yourself—you shared your opinion on a political matter, which is every American’s prerogative, and yet the press is... How did you put it?”
“Raking me over the coals?” I mutter.
“Exactly.” Dad tastes the wine, and nods to the server. She pours Mom a glass, then Dad. “We’re living in an era of such inane political correctness, that a person can’t share his or her opinion without a witch hunt.”
Of course it took Dad only about five seconds to completely turn my argument back on myself. The man is a born politician. But he’s not only my president. He’s my father. I know him better than most.
I take a deep breath. Say it. “I read that the bill will make it easier for people and businesses to discriminate against the LGBTQ community. Was that purposeful?”
Mom coughs. “Squeaky! This is not appropriate supper conversation.”
But Dad studies me curiously. Whether it’s because I’m pressing him on an issue for the first time in my life, or because I said the phrase “LGBTQ” in my parents’ presence, or—oh, God—because my mention of LGBTQ has made him suspicious about why this subject might be important to me, I’m not sure.
I start to itch under his surveillance, my temporary bravery making a hasty retreat. “It’s just that I’m old enough to vote now,” I add quickly. “And, um, reporters are starting to ask me my opinion on this stuff. I need the facts.”
I hate myself. For backtracking, for cowering under my powerful father’s gaze, for avoiding an opportunity for an honest conversation.
Hudson once asked me when I’m going to tell my parents I’m bisexual.
My answer was simple: Never. They don’t need to know.
It’ll be easy to pretend I like only boys—because I do still like boys. Sometimes. I just happen to also like girls. One girl in particular. One stunning, radiant girl.
I take a sip of ice water, wishing I was twenty-one and could have a glass of wine, too.
Finally, Dad replies. “Your mother’s right. This is not an appropriate topic for supper, Squeaky.” Dad turns to face Mom, and the two of them begin a quiet conversation about his visit to Normandy.
It’s not an answer. But it speaks volumes.
I sit there, my heart beating hard. The food on my plate looks about as appetizing as a bucket of concrete.
My phone buzzes from where I’d tucked it between my thigh and the chair cushion. For one sweet moment, I hope it’s Emily texting back, telling me it’s okay and she understands. But it’s Meryl.
* * *
The annual Millennials in Politics Initiative banquet is tomorrow evening at six. I’d originally RSVP’d no because of the busyness with the campaign right now, but after today I think it wouldn’t hurt to foster some goodwill with the media. Any objection or conflict in your schedule I don’t know about?
The Millennials in Politics fund-raiser! The spark of hope comes back.
Will the Bautista kids be there? I type. She’ll think I’m asking because if they’re there, it will look good, optics-wise, for me to be there too. But I couldn’t care less about my father’s campaign at the moment.
Yes, they’re on the guest list, she replies.
OK. I’ll go.
Your car will be leaving at five thirty. Dress is cocktail attire.
* * *
I do everything I’m supposed to do. I pose and smile on the step-and-repeat, I wave to the small crowd outside the venue, I let the Secret Service forge a path in front of me and trail closely behind me, I speak to the reporters.
The House passed their version of the First Amendment Reinforcement Act this morning, and it’s now headed to the Senate. I get a lot of questions about that. This time, I keep my answers so neutral they’re flat-out beige. I suppose I could, at any moment, give the reporters my real feelings about the subject, now that I have feelings on the subject, but this isn’t the venue. Besides, there’s only one reason I’m here right now, and I won’t be able to concentrate until I find her and set things right.
It takes ages to make my way through the hundreds of mingling attendees; I have to stop every few feet to shake a hand or give a hug or sign an autograph or exchange pleasantries. But finally, finally, I spot her, standing with her sister Tess and some other people I don’t recognize. She’s laughing at some unheard joke, and my heart beats those three lovely syllables again.
I’m still a couple yards away when she looks up, and our gazes lock like magnets. Even with everything that still needs to be said, even with the way her smile falters into a little frown when she sees me, all I can think is, There you are.
I stop walking. Give a little wave. Try to keep my breathing level.
The corners of Emily’s pink-lipped mouth turn down, but she excuses herself from her group and comes over to me. Her slinky gold dress leaves very little to the imagination. I swallow.
“Hey,
Squeaky,” she says, softly enough that no one except the two of us would hear. She knows exactly what it’s like to have the world’s eyes on you.
“Hey!” I wish we could hug hello, but her body language is still standoffish.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“It was a last-minute decision.”
“Oh.”
“How are you?” I ask.
“Honestly?” She searches my face. “I’m...confused.”
Fair enough. I take a small step forward. “Emily, I am so, so sorry.”
“You said that.” I watch as she catches her sister’s eye. Tess raises her eyebrows in a You all right? way.
Emily nods, and turns back to me. “You know, when we first started texting, and you said you didn’t want to talk about politics, I figured it was because you’re around it all the time and needed a break. Or because you didn’t want our friendship to be defined by who our parents are. Not because you’re one of those self-hating queers who secretly believes in all the stuff that makes life a hell of a lot harder for anyone who isn’t cis, straight, white and rich.” Her tone is biting.
What? I wave my hands frantically, trying to keep up. “Emily, no. You’ve got it all wrong.”
The hurt in her eyes pierces my soul. “Squeaky, did you or did you not say you respect and appreciate what your father is trying to do with this bill?”
“No!” I shake my head. “I mean, yes, I did, but I didn’t mean it.”
“Right. Of course.” She doesn’t believe me.
I want to grab her shoulders and rattle her. Shout the truth so loudly that she’ll have no choice but to accept it. But we can’t do that here. I quickly assess our surroundings and make a decision. “Follow me,” I whisper. “Please.” And without waiting to see if she does, I take off, ducking and bobbing through the crowd, and slipping through a door marked Employees Only.
I find myself in a long, stark hallway, empty apart from a few suited servers en route to and from the kitchen. Jennifer and Sandeep, two of my Secret Service agents, are right behind me. At the end of the hall is an exit sign. I march in that direction, looking back only once, when I hear the door to the banquet hall open again. It’s Emily.
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