But the kisses are the worst part. They’re just long enough for me to remember what he tastes like, but there’s nothing behind them. They’re quick and stoic. They’re all for show. They crush me.
A week and a half of this torturous back and forth. And then, one day, it’s the morning of the Vice Presidential Debate. It’s the most important part of the campaign for my mom. She’ll go head to head with Vice President Oberto and offer the American voters an alternative.
We walk home from my final class before our flight to Florida. Students swarm the campus, tizzying and turning as they head to dinner or study groups or weeknight parties. A few people look our way or point at us as we go, which isn’t unusual.
He reaches for my hand again, but it’s too much. I twist away and close my eyes but the world topples and brick hits my knee hard. Shit, I’m on the ground. And so is Dylan. He kneels next to me with worried eyes. “You okay?”
“Nothing the pain of embarrassment can’t overwhelm,” I say with warm cheeks. He smiles and grabs my waist to pull me up. He lets his fingers linger on me, even after I’m standing. “Thank you,” I say softly as heat sears where his hands hold me. He blinks and leans toward me. He pulls my hips to his and clutches at my dress. His mouth is on mine. I sigh and reach around him, as his tongue feels wonderfully familiar and exotically foreign all at once. His fingers slip up my spine and curve around my neck, pushing gently so we can kiss more deeply.
I am a jiggly mass of human body parts ready to do whatever he wants.
I slip my hands just under his shirt, running my thumb along his waistband, and feel him groan. Something strong and hard develops below his waist. Okay, I know what it is.
I pull back and smile at him. He turns away, closing his eyes. “Sorry, I got...I didn’t mean to...”
“It’s okay,” I say. I mean it.
He turns back to me, forehead stern. “No, it’s not.”
A stone grows in my belly. It weighs me down. I’ve been waiting and wanting a real kiss. I got it. But he didn’t want to give it. He doesn’t want to kiss me.
“We better get going.” He finds my hands and continues walking.
I have him but I don’t.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Don’t wait for things, not if you can help it,” I told Peyton after she said she would save the Kennedy Center gift certificate I gave her for a special occasion. “Every Tuesday is a ‘special occasion.’ Nobody knows how long they have.”
* * *
We settle into our seats. My grandparents and my Aunt Victoria, my, well, biological mom, sit to my right, and Dylan sits to my left. Our “relationship” has generated a ton of positive feelings from the press and the public, so the campaign wanted to have us next to each other for the inevitable shot when the candidates’ families are mentioned.
The cameraman gives the announcer, a commentator from PBS, a nod, and then the fingers count down.
“Welcome to the first and only Vice Presidential Debate,” the moderator says. “I am honored to moderate this debate, which will cover both domestic and foreign policy issues. Applause is only allowed at the end of the debate and right now, as I welcome Vice President Oberto and Senator Arthur.”
We applaud wildly and my hands get sore from the clapping. My heart yammers in my chest, so I can only imagine what my mom feels.
She does great though, all poise and style as she responds to the first question about a nuclear Iran and the next about universal health care. She talks in confidence about our debt with China and the need to keep abortions legal but rare. She nails it when she says that gay marriage, like the battle over interracial marriage in the 1960s, shouldn’t be left up to the states. She and Ruiz are the first major party candidates to say that.
But then there’s a question about the younger generation. The voters like me, who will be going into the polls for the first time. The college students who look at their dismal job prospects. The multiple twentysomethings still living with their parents.
The commentator asks Vice President Oberto, “What would you say to these young people? What is the solution for them?”
“Well,” Vice President Oberto sniffs and curls his fingers over the podium. “I think all of these kids are independent. They don’t need or want a government strapping them down. When you’re working ten-hour shifts waiting tables, you don’t want the Federal Government to take a chunk of your hard-earned money. Under our continued leadership, we will lower taxes and keep government in its rightful, minimal place.”
My mom clutches her podium as her jaw stiffens. That’s not good. We don’t want millions of Americans to see her jaw stiffen.
The commentator turns to her. “Senator Arthur, do you have a response?”
She swallows. “Yes, I do. When you’re working ten-hour shifts as a waitress, you have more than just your paycheck on your mind. You’re thinking about your health insurance, you’re thinking about birth control, you’re thinking about your student loans, you may even be thinking about whether or not a prescription drug you’re taking is actually okay for you. The federal government doesn’t get in the way. From advancing women’s rights to regulating products, Governor Ruiz will ensure the government continues to both pave the way and make sure the way is safe for everyone.”
There’s no applause, because we can’t clap. But my heart warms. I lean to Dylan. “I’m sure she lost a few independents with that, but I don’t care, I loved it.”
Dylan smiles. “Me too.”
The commentator turns to Vice President Oberto. “A one-minute response.”
“The kids today don’t need us to pave the way, they want to pave their own way. And safety. Well, life isn’t safe. Who says the government needs to coddle us? Kids these days don’t want to be coddled and cooed to. They can take care of themselves. Just the other day I met with entrepreneurs in their early twenties. One of them graduated from Yale at 22, got some money from his parents to get a startup going, and now, at 24, is worth three million. He doesn’t need the government’s help, he needs the government to get out of the way.”
He wraps up with some equally pedantic and paternalistic closing thought about “kids these days.”
My mom gives a forced smile when it’s her turn to respond. “Well, as a Yale alum myself, I can assure you that young entrepreneur doesn’t represent the needs of the average student.”
I look at Dylan, quick. His closed eyes and pinched brow reflect what I’m thinking. She shouldn’t have said that. Sure, we get what she means. It’s easy for Republicans to talk about how the over-reaching government “hurts” privileged college students who can “take care of themselves,” but they’re ignoring the average 20-year-old, who depends on student loans, or help with health insurance, or a host of other things. But she’s lumped herself in with that privileged student. Instead of sounding like she has empathy for others, she sounds like a rich woman looking down on the sad, poor lot of others.
I can practically hear the scratchings of “limousine liberal” as commentators prepare their post-debate remarks.
She gets it. She shifts and refocuses for thirty seconds on how the government helps youth.
But the sound bite will live in infamy.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When you’re a parent, you do a lot of things you never thought you would. One rainy day when Jen and Peyton were supposed to have a “girls’” afternoon, with tea and crumpets and mani-pedis, Jen was called away to do damage control on a project at the firm.
So I baked with Peyton, getting bits of dough all over my fingers. I sipped tea with her, only messing up three of her dolls’ names. I even painted my toenails a bright pink and purple and orange. Her silly seven-year-old smiles, as I tried to neatly get all the fluorescent colors on my nails, were worth it.
*
* *
I know the campaign isn’t just going to let me hop to New Haven to let me stand in line and have Representative Roberts sign his book for me. Oh, and perhaps acknowledge I’m his bastard offspring. But, I’m more convinced this is the best way to get to him. I just need to get to New Haven, and soon.
I have to give them a reason, and I can’t let them be in a position to say “no.” I think for days about this. I think while I’m in anthropology class sketching out notes about tribes. I think while Dylan grabs my hand and pulls me toward him, his fingers slipping into my belt loops, when we’re at a party. I think while I’m washing my face and while I’m mixing crackers in my mac & cheese at Leo’s and when I’m picking out lime green rain boots down on M Street. I think, I think, I think.
I get nothing.
That is, until this morning, three days before the event, as Dylan and I learn we won’t just be attending a fundraiser in New York City this evening. Lisa says we’ll be a little late—I’m going to be on Marie’s Corner, a show where Marie Boucher talks with guests on pastel couches under big, bright lights about the latest viral videos and celebrity-laden rehab facilities.
“She’ll want to talk about you and Dylan,” Lisa warns as Dylan and I get in the shiny black car with facing seats in the back that picks us up from JFK.
Dylan shifts in his seat, but I say calmly, “I’m ready for questions about Dylan, but maybe I can shift her to some other, more important things.”
Lisa rubs her temple as she continues looking through her notes. “Mmm-hmm, like what?”
“Education reform,” I say. “I’d really like to talk about teachers’ unions and how they can reform in order to better educate America. I wouldn’t be the first kid of a candidate to deviate a little from the policy of the campaign. It’s just my opinion, after all.”
She looks at Dylan with piercing eyes. “What do you think, Dylan?”
Dylan squints into the distance, over Lisa’s shoulder, before finally focusing on her. “I think it’s a great idea. We’ve gotten some flak for her being a puppet for the campaign, right? If she voiced her own opinions, it would show she isn’t. She has her own issues she cares about.”
Lisa flips her pen nervously. “I need to talk to Bain about this.”
That’s more than I’ve ever gotten before. I breathe fast and smile big.
“But first,” she says. “We need to go over what you’ll say about Dylan. You have to convince them that this is real. Any whiff that this might be done for publicity would be incredibly bad.” She doesn’t need to say it. I know. We wouldn’t just get the slut comments like Bain suggested. It could be much worse. They could accuse the campaign of pimping me out.
Lisa sighs. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s been useful. And I’m also glad it isn’t authentic.” She looks at Dylan. “That would be inappropriate and it’d cause us other kinds of headaches.”
Dylan scratches the back of his neck and stares out the window.
“What do you mean?” I ask, because I often talk before thinking.
She folds her arms and rests her knees on her elbows as though we’re having a “talking to.” “Real relationships are precarious. They involve raw emotions that can’t be controlled. It’s not professional to bring that lack of control into a campaign.” Her eyes flit to Dylan. “Whereas fake relationships can be easily managed. Your fake relationship has been working for us, and that’s great. Let’s have it continue to work for us, okay?”
I nod. Dylan runs his hands through his hair.
Lisa points at me. “What did you first like about Dylan?”
Dylan turns his head, sharp, back to me. I can’t see him staring, because I’m looking at Lisa, but I can feel him staring. I can hear his breathing, soft and low. And I can smell him. That oaky smell gets me every time.
Lisa looks up, her arched eyebrows screaming. “We don’t have a lot of time, Peyton. What would you say if she asked you that?”
“Do we have to do this with him here?”
Dylan covers his mouth but I can tell by the way his cheeks rise over his fingers that he’s smiling.
God, I want to punch him. Or kiss him. And that’s the problem.
“Peyton, it’s going to take thirty minutes to get to the studio. This is the time we planned to go over this. What are you going to say when Marie asks you what you like about Dylan?”
I open my mouth, but the only things that come to mind are how good he smells, how well he kisses, and how fantastic it feels when he laughs at one of my inane comments. Like the other day when I told him I used to get chickpeas and peeps confused, which resulted in a rather odd Easter morning when I was nine. He laughed, even though we were alone. I was the only one around to hear his laugh, and he let me.
“Come on, Peyton,” he says. “I’m not a Neanderthal. There’s got to be something about me you like?”
“I like a lot of things about you,” I say, despite my better judgment. Or, you know, any judgment. I hadn’t really analyzed that comment before it spouted forth.
Dylan smiles but I’m ratcheted away by Lisa, who bonks my knee.
“Him,” Lisa says.
“Him?”
“Him. You like a lot of things about him. Remember, you’re talking to Marie Boucher, not Dylan. Tell Marie,” she points to herself and repeats the question. “What did you first like about Dylan?”
I cross my legs, leaning forward, trying to get into interview mode. “I didn’t realize how great Dylan was when I first met him. I mean, I thought he was cute.” I smile and can’t help the tingling feeling in my cheeks.
“That’s good,” Lisa says.
“But he was so helpful to me on the campaign. It’s hard. But he’s made it easier. He knows how to make me laugh when I’m crying, and when he looks at me, it’s like all the other problems dissolve into the background.”
“That’s sweet, Peyton,” Lisa says. “You can use that, but the more specific you get the better. Okay? What’s something specifically that you could—”
Her phone zings and she grabs it, holding her finger out to me.
“He said what?” Lisa’s eyes bulge.
One second turns into multiple seconds as she gets into a deep conversation. Apparently Ruiz made a joke about Baptists on a radio show. It was a nice joke, something about how they have great cornbread, but a Latino Catholic presidential candidate making jokes about Baptists isn’t exactly the best thing, so, of course, it’s a small firestorm that needs to be quashed.
I look out the window again at the traffic and the rain.
Dylan’s hand brushes mine. I flinch.
“You can just make something up. Say how you like that I’m dedicated and smart and driven, or something.”
“But that’s not what I like about you.”
He looks like I plunged my fist into his gut.
“I mean...” I say as I concentrate really hard on pushing up my cuticles. “I’ll figure something out.” I watch the droplets of water cry down the windows and hang desperately on the glass before being flung away by the wind.
All this is too much to handle, so I think instead about what I’m going to say about education reform. Lines I’ve held in my head for months now, just waiting for the green light and the right platform. I get ready to practice it in front of Lisa and Dylan, but Lisa’s fire takes the whole ride to put out. Soon we’re stopping and starting among the yellow cabs in New York and pulling up in front of a big image of Marie Boucher.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“That’s you!” Peyton said, pointing at the screen so her nail covered my chest. Well, my on-screen chest.
“Yep,” I said. “Back it up so we all can see.”
She walked backward until she fell into my lap.
“What are unions? What are yo
u talking about?” she asked.
“They’re interviewing me about an article I wrote about a candidate from Missouri who thinks teachers are paid too much.”
“Are they?” Peyton asked, her four-year-old finger thoughtfully touching her cheek.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Too complicated for me?” She asked, scowl ready.
I lowered my gaze. “Too complicated for everyone.”
* * *
Marie air-kisses her guests on both cheeks when they come out. On screen, I thought it looked fake, but with her kissing noises and her perfume right up in my face, it relaxes me.
We sit down. She’s wearing a light gray dress and a big, dangling string of pearls. “So, you’ve had quite a couple of months? College. New boyfriend. This whole presidential election thing.”
I nod along to the first two and pass my hand through the air at the “election thing.” “Oh, that’s nothing. Barely a blip on my radar.” I giggle and the audience mirrors me.
“Of course,” she says with a honey-colored voice. “But seriously, you do seem to be handling it well. There must be some moments when the pressure gets to you.”
I smile. It’s not perfect, but I can make it work. Lisa hadn’t exactly okayed the education thing, but she hadn’t said no either. It just dissolved into the air of everything else. So I’m going with it. “I’m not going to pretend that it isn’t difficult at times, but when I know all the good that my mom and Governor Ruiz can do, it’s more than worth it. Plus, I like the opportunity to connect with people. I met a woman who also lost her father, and she said my dad’s book helped her.”
I wait for the solemn nods to end. I had to throw that in there. And it’s okay. My dad wouldn’t mind being used as a lead in. He always wanted me to be the Joan of Arc for people with learning disorders, except for that dying-at-the-stake part.
Red Blooded Page 19
