Red Blooded

by Caitlin Sinead

  “Tittle-tattle,” he scoffs. “You think it’s tittle-tattle to find out why your mother has been lying to you? You don’t think it’s important to know who your real dad is? Knowing who your real father is, well, it’s part of knowing who you are.”

  “Real father?” I mumble. I can’t help it, I shoot a glance over to Lisa and Dylan. It’s quick, but I take in Lisa’s deer-in-headlights look. Dylan’s jaw is stiff and something simmers behind his eyes. He isn’t looking at me though. He’s looking at the screen.

  I refocus. “Okay, who do they say my real father is?” I smile. Smile. Smile. Smile. If they’re insistent on keeping up this line of inquiry my best shot is to play along, make it a joke. Make it my joke.

  He straightens on their salmon-colored couch. “They don’t know.”

  It’s my turn to sneer. “This sounds like a very newsworthy story, especially as—”

  “Don’t you think it’s strange...” Gary leans forward as Grace just lets him run with this. I wait but he’s still, as though he’s wondering if I deserve to hear his profound insight.

  Fuck this.

  “What’s strange?” I ask.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange,” he says, “that you have red hair, when both your parents have, or...had, dark hair? There’s no red hair on either side of your family. Also, no one has your amber eyes.”

  I glance at a monitor that displays pictures of my aunt, my grandma, and my dad’s brother. Vulp had these pictures lined up. They had this ambush planned. But, they’re right. Aside from my dad’s mom, who had beautiful dirty-blond hair when she was younger, my family’s hair is dark. Not a strand of red. Not like mine, which looks like the part of the fire you use to get the best-toasted marshmallow for a s’more (at least that’s what my dad used to tell me).

  And the eyes. My mom’s family has blue eyes, and my dad’s has a mix of green and dark brown. None match mine. It’s hard to think.

  Dylan points to a stress ball in his hand. Right, they left me one next to my chair. I squeeze it, off camera, and remember other things Lisa and Dylan taught me, like thinking about a cool, calm lake.

  And, of course, I smile. “Genetics can be funny sometimes.”

  It was the best I had.

  “That’s the thing.” Gary talks with sweeping hand movements, obviously too excited to sit still. “Several leading geneticists have weighed in. They’ve looked at pictures of your family, and they don’t think it’s possible your parents could be your parents.”

  “I’ve got my mom’s nose.” I instantly realize this was the wrong thing to say.

  Gary smirks. “Yes, there’s an undeniable resemblance between you and the Carmichaels. You have your mom’s nose. You also have your aunt and grandmother’s smile. You’re fair skinned, like them. But look at your father’s family. What did you get from them? What did you get from your father?”

  “My spirit,” I say, because that’s what my mom always told me. I have my dad’s creative and adventurous spirit. Sure, I’m more dramatic than he was, but in my best moments I like to think I have the same mischievous ambition.

  Lisa flails her hands about as though she’s creating a new dance. She points to a poster that Dylan holds. It has intense, black scrawls in marker: Wrap It Up, Refocus On Election.

  “As much as I’d like to continue talking about my looks,” I say, with the most playful grin I can muster, “I have another interview in just a few moments, one where I’ll be discussing the Women’s Care Act, which my mom championed. But, by all means, I hope you’ll continue discussing my hair.” I pat my head in an exaggerated way and then beam as I wait for them to say goodbye. Gary doesn’t. Instead he laughs. Grace’s face is tense and pained.

  “Thanks so much for talking with us, Peyton. We wish you luck in finding out who you really are,” she says.

  It hits me in the jaw, and I have to think about rainbows and serene lakes so that I don’t scowl, or cry.

  The last interview immediately follows the Vulp one, so there’s no time to lose. It’s with another conservative-leaning host, but one with oodles more class than Gary could ever muster. I somehow manage to get through it, smiling and making jokes about how my mom was pretty sure I’d rebel in college by majoring in something like physics, instead of political science. And, the host asks, what has my mom’s best college advice been so far? Avoid guys who don’t know how to do their own laundry, parties where all the girls wear pearls, and professors who lean Republican. The last one gets a good guffaw from the friendly host.

  He smiles. “Did you pick Georgetown so you could stay close to your mom?”

  “That was a notch in the plus column,” I admit.

  “You two are close, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I answer, but my voice cracks. Not because it isn’t true. I can call my mom about anything. She makes a point to have dinner with me, just me, twice a week, which may not sound like much, but it’s a hell of a lot more attention than some of my friends get from their parents. We also email and text throughout the day. If I debate what color to paint my toes, I ask her opinion. If I think a teacher messed up a point in political history, we have a nerdy bitch session about it. If I’m worried about my friends, like if I think Annie is studying too hard or Tristan isn’t studying hard enough, I tell her.

  I trust her.

  So why are Gary’s words about my dad stinging me?

  As soon as the last interview ends, Dylan and Lisa are on me. “You did great,” Dylan says. “Given the circumstances.”

  Lisa’s not quite so positive, but at least she’s not mad at me. “I’m sorry about that. We have people looking into those allegations now, and we’ll figure out a strategy for you and prepared responses in case it comes up again, okay?”

  She says it like that’s all there is to it. It’s just the handling of the media, not the swarming in my head about how this nasty rumor about my dad may or may not be true. I held the tears in for too long while trying to be a shining example of an American teenager. They come streaming out now, down my made-up cheeks.

  Lisa’s mouth opens. Dylan raises his hand, as though to comfort me, but thinks better of it. “Torres,” Lisa says. “Can you, I don’t... Get something.”

  He scurries away.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you, Peyton,” she says. Soon Dylan’s back with some napkins from the snack table. He holds them out to me as though I’m a wild animal and he’s trying to bravely feed me.

  “Thank you,” I say, sniffing and scratching past the tears in my throat. I wipe my face as best I can without smudging my makeup.

  Someone calls Lisa over. There isn’t an ounce of hesitation before she runs off.

  I look up at Dylan. He’s got these deep lines between his brows and his shoulders are stiff.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  His dark brown eyes widen. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you look, I don’t know...upset?”

  His right lip curves up and he scratches his head. “I don’t know what to do when people cry.”

  “I do. I cry a lot.” The tears still linger in my throat. I hold up the napkins. “This is a good start.”

  “Okay, what’s next?”

  “Next?”

  He leans in a little. “You said this is a good start. Well, what’s next?”

  I continue dabbing under my eyes and swallowing tears. “Talking is good, so is water. And, well, of course, gummy bears.”

  He nods and pretends to type in his tablet. “Gummy bears, got it.”

  “Good.” I giggle. He grins. I get that weird feeling when you laugh and cry at the same time. But after our shared laugh fades, something deep within my gut pokes at me. Could the horrendous Gary be onto something?

  Chapter Two

  I’d like to say tha
t Peyton’s brave, but, actually, she’s curious. Like me.

  As a toddler, she’d look under her “big girl” bed before going to sleep. “No monsters tonight,” she’d say.

  “Nope,” I’d say as I pulled the cotton sheet up to her chin. This was our routine until one night she grabbed my hand before I left the room. “Tell me the truth, Dad. One day, there will be a monster.” I assured her no, darling, you’re safe. There isn’t a monster under your bed and there never will be. She looked to the ceiling with moist eyes.

  “But I have so many questions for him.”

  * * *

  As soon as we get back to the hotel, I slouch into the suite I’m sharing with my mom and slide into the corner. My mom is out and about doing very important things, of course. So I get busy on important things too. I scour Google for information about red hair genes. Huzzah. It is possible for red hair to be latent. Okay, so this rumor is complete shit. Right? What about my amber eyes? Those could also just pop up.

  Recessive genes, bitches.

  With a deep breath, I dive in. I find the original article on a blog known for stirring up right-wing, cockamamie conspiracies. If Gary had mentioned the source, I wouldn’t have taken it seriously. That’s, of course, why he didn’t.

  Still, my curiosity is piqued, and no matter what unreliable source started all this, the squirms in my gut are real. I read the comments. I’m re-reading some for the third time when Dylan knocks and opens the door a sliver.

  “Can I...?”

  I nod and he walks in.

  “Can you believe what people are saying?” I read aloud to him: “‘If there isn’t any truth to these rumors, then Peyton is some sort of squib. She looks nothing like Richard Arthur.’”

  He laughs as he looks down at me.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Squib.” He grins and shakes his head.

  I sigh and scroll back in the comments. “What about this one: ‘It’s obvious that Richard Arthur isn’t Peyton Arthur’s real father. He was a class act, and Peyton cries about being dumb all the time. Don’t believe me? Watch this video of her speaking at a learning resources class. Jen Arthur probably slept with some dumb idiot and produced that bastard.’” I don’t have to watch the video. I know what he’s talking about. I try not to cry, but my lips tremble and the water springs. “I cried because I was so proud of those kids. Four of them are dyslexic and two of them have an auditory processing disorder, like me. I tutored them for two years and they accomplished so much...”

  “Shh,” Dylan says softly. He skids down the wall to sit next to me, our bent knees knocking. He takes my phone and shakes it. “This isn’t productive. And it’s okay. We sent a Tweet scolding them for bringing in dirty politics while interviewing a candidate’s daughter. Everyone’s on your side here. Well, except a few crazies who like to post anonymous rants on blogs.”

  “You don’t understand,” I say.

  “I don’t understand the crazies?” He points to his Yale T-shirt. He wears a lot of Ivy paraphernalia even though he must not have a whole lot of Yale pride. He’s taking a whole year off just to be a campaign intern. “Do you remember how after we announced your mom as the pick, all of Governor Ruiz’s kids and grandkids came on the stage?”

  “Yeah.” It had been a crushingly cute moment. Governor Ruiz has five daughters, all older than me and most with absolutely adorable kids of their own. They were jumping and leaping on stage. The youngest ones grabbed my hand and, well, I might have done some frolicking with them too. “That was fun.”

  “For you, maybe,” he laughs. “Maria had me watch her kids, George and Paulo, after that celebratory dinner. Someone gave them chocolate.”

  He stares at me. I look to the ceiling because that someone just might have been me.

  “How could I deny cute six-year-old twins mini-brownies with toothpick American flags? It would have been unpatriotic of me not to indulge them.”

  He laughs, but it’s more of a grunt. “If you do it again, I’ll drag you into babysitting duty with me.”

  “Fine, deal. But what does that have to do with all this?” I turn to face him and knock his knee again. He jolts and scooches a couple of inches to give me some room.

  “It was the first time he had his family all together during the race. After seeing it, a few people—a few anonymous crazies—said that Latinos were like rabbits and soon we’d be taking over the country. The crazies asked if the country really wanted a bunch of Latino kids running around in the Lincoln Room.”

  “That’s silly. You know that’s silly, right, Dylan? Don’t let it offend you.”

  One side of his mouth curls into a side smile. “I know it’s silly. I don’t let it get to me. You know why?”

  “Because it’s not true.”

  “Because those people are crazy.” He leans back so his black hair sprays against the wall like a paint brush that’s being pressed too hard. “And it’s not true. I’m living proof. A Latino only child.”

  I laugh. “Call Guinness!”

  “I know, right?” He turns to me and grins.

  “It’s too bad. You’d be a good big brother.” I hold up my waterlogged, makeup-smeared napkins.

  His grin disappears and he looks away. “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry, did I say—”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  I stare at him, but he doesn’t turn around. I look at the swirls of carpet and the crazies continue to cast deep shadows inside my brain. Xenophobia is ridiculous. But could the rumors about my dad be true?

  “Hey,” he says, knocking his shoulder into mine. “You okay?”

  “What do you want me to say?” I ask.

  He takes a deep breath as he thinks. “That you’re doing well. That you’re cool.”

  “I’m not, but I don’t need to talk about it.”

  He does this thing where he kind of squints into the distance. I’ve seen him do it before, when Lisa asked him a succinct way to characterize Governor Ruiz’s views on abortion. “Well, do you want to be alone?”

  “Not really, but if you need to be somewhere...”

  “I don’t need to be anywhere, but I have to draft a press release on a new immigration bill for Lisa. I can write it here if you want?”

  “That’d be cool.” He must draft a dozen press releases and statements a day. He’s always typing up something for Lisa. Not a bad gig for a guy still in college, but he is really busy. He must have better things to do than hang out with me. I skid my fingers along the carpet. “Why did you come in here?”

  He flips open his tablet and clicks a few things, not looking up. “To check on you.”

  “Lisa wanted you to check on me?”

  He freezes, hand over the screen. “Something like that.”

  He goes back to clicking away on his tablet. I feel weird looming over his shoulder, so I get up and turn on the TV. It flashes to CNN: “Peyton was stunned. She didn’t even know how to—”

  Dylan leaps up. His fingers curl around my wrist as he gently pries the remote from my hand and turns the TV off. “I don’t think you should watch that. Just, you know, relax, or something.”

  “Right, I should just bury my hand in the sand.”

  He gives me an icy, serious look. I sigh. “Fine.” I lean back on the couch and stare at the ceiling. I let my chest rise and fall, but I’ve read the original article and comments so many times that they’re memorized, engrained in my brain.

  Have you ever noticed, too, that Peyton has amber eyes? Richard Arthur had brown eyes, and the Carmichaels are known for the piercing blue eyes, so what gives? If it was just the hair, maybe that wouldn’t be enough to give us pause, but those eyes...

  I swallow so many times that my throat begs for mercy. Could I be a genetic fluke? A squib, like in Harr
y Potter? I was born into my family, but my genes got all screwy so it looks like I don’t belong there. Or could it be true? Could my dad not be my dad?

  I sit up. “I know some of the commenters are just mean and have too much time on their hands, but what about the original story? Do you think there’s something to it?”

  Dylan pauses, thinking. “You know, it’s actually kind of clever,” he finally says, setting his tablet aside and resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward, hands folded, eyes focused. “Think about it. Your mom’s not only a widow, but a widow to a well-known and beloved author. They can’t touch that, right? But politics is all about taking a story that isn’t working for you, grabbing it by the balls, and making it work for you. They twist it. They make your mom the woman who cuckolds the beloved dead man. And bang, the grieving daughter, America’s sweetheart, is now the daughter who was lied to. The weeping widow is now the wicked witch. Genius.”

  At some point my mouth had opened. I have to consciously close it as I rub my nails along the fabric of the couch.

  “Shit, Peyton, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so blunt and—”

  “No,” I say, locking his stare so he knows I mean it. “I needed to hear that. I feel a lot better now, actually.”

  He blinks a couple times before nodding and sitting back.

  “Anyway, I get it. It’s just dirty politics.” I had meant to say it firmly, but it came out a little bit like a squeak.

  “It’s just dirty politics,” he repeats more solemnly.

  * * *

  I must have fallen asleep. I guess when your mind is swirling around as though every thought is a jimmy in an ice cream sundae and your spoon is twisting and scooping and mixing it all up, then, well, your brain gets a little exhausted and decides, you know what? I could really use a cat nap.

  When I wake up, my mom’s pushing some hair behind my ear and I have to wipe a little drool off my face. Shit. A quick survey of the room shows it’s Dylan-less. I close my eyes and breathe out.