Blocked

by Jennifer Lane

  “I’m cool.” Liar.

  China peered over the top of her bodybuilding magazine and smirked.

  We bumped and dipped along. At one point it felt like a rollercoaster—but not one I ever wanted to ride again—and finally we skidded along the runway and rolled to a stop. I hustled to unclick my seatbelt before rising to open the side door.

  “Uh-uh, Mr. Monroe.” China held out her arm. “You know an agent has to deplane first.”

  I sat back down with a huff. Terra firma beckoned outside. The high-pitched whirring of the jet engines gradually declined as Brad unlatched the door and let the hydraulics push it outward, unfolding narrow steps down to the tarmac. He scanned the area before descending. Once China nodded at me, I got up to follow, and she exited the plane right after me.

  The rain had lightened to a drizzle by this point, and an airport tech wheeled a cart of luggage around the wing. Despite my protests that I could carry my own damn bag, Brad grabbed my duffle and led me inside the small building. I made a beeline for the popcorn machine, dumped a fluffy scoop into a white paper bag, then chilled on the leather sofa while I waited for China to bring the car around. Free popcorn was the best part of these small airports.

  The only person in the building was a ponytailed woman behind the counter. “How was your flight, Mr. Monroe?”

  “Peachy.” I crunched on more popcorn, then turned to Brad. “What’s taking China so long?”

  He frowned. “Why are you in such a rush? Classes don’t start till Monday.”

  I slowed my chewing. Why was I eager to get home?

  When I didn’t answer, Brad crossed over to the popcorn machine and helped himself to an overflowing bag. He plopped down next to me, and all we needed was a big screen to complete the movie-theater ambience. “Settle in—China’s gonna be a while. She has to scan the SUV for explosives.”

  Half-chewed kernels froze limply in my mouth. “Why’s that?”

  “Your mom got some more threats this morning.” He shrugged. “We’re beefing up security for now.”

  “More threats?”

  “You know those pantywaist jihadists. They’re not too impressed with a woman who wants to be president.”

  My heart thudded, and I wasn’t sure which was stronger: my fear for Mom’s safety or my anger toward the sexist pigs trying to thwart her rightful place as president. “What kind of threats?”

  “Eh, same old crap. ‘We’ll cut your head off and mount it on a stick, infidel.’ You know, terrorist bullshit.”

  My face felt hot. “You think you could’ve told me about this earlier?”

  “We typically don’t share threats with protectees. And now I see why.”

  “Great policy, Marine.” Not feeling hungry anymore, I set aside my popcorn and took out my phone. I wasn’t in the mood for games, so I opened my browser. On the university’s website, I pulled up the syllabus for my social science statistics class, and I checked out the required readings. “You guys have to take me to the bookstore later—gotta buy textbooks by tomorrow.”

  Brad grinned. “Already taken care of, Danester.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We got an agent to buy your books yesterday. And we’ve already mapped out the route to your classes. You just need to show up.”

  “Will you do my homework for me too?”

  He laughed.

  “No, I’m serious. My stats and research methods classes are supposed to be tough. They’re weed-outs for psych majors.”

  “Then you’ll have no problem, Mr. Four-Point-Oh.”

  My stomach tensed as I felt that old pressure to maintain my straight-A average. I wished I could allow myself a B and get it over with. But Grandpa Monroe and Mom had both excelled at Yale, and they expected a strong effort from me no matter how many classes I missed travelling for volleyball—or campaign events.

  I had to admit that a pass on the suffocating crowd at the bookstore did make the start of the semester slightly more palatable. And I also didn’t mind the agents driving me to class. I could direct my energy toward practice instead of wasting it by walking around the sprawling campus.

  “Dude, where were you guys last year when I was a clueless freshman? I totally got lost trying to find my classes the first day.”

  “At least Lucia won’t have to go through that,” he answered.

  A smile threatened to show itself when he mentioned her name, and I found myself agreeing with him, feeling compassion for her once again. What is my deal?

  An hour later, we pulled up to the greenhouse. Ugh, must be a slow news day. Eight or so reporters and cameramen lingered by the gate, and China slowed the vehicle. “I’ll let them ask a few questions out here,” she said.

  Next to me in the back seat, Brad shook his head. “Boss doesn’t want any interaction out in the open today.”

  “That’s why I’ll take a question or two here and won’t let them follow us in.”

  Brad’s attention was already focused on the throng of media outside the tinted SUV windows, and his hand rested on his weapon inside his jacket. “Make it quick.”

  China rolled down her window a smidge. “Mr. Monroe will take a question or two out here, but nobody inside the compound.”

  I waited a beat until a reporter asked, “Dane, do you support the student loan forgiveness program Senator Monroe unveiled last night?”

  That was a no-brainer. I darted to unroll the back window, but Brad reached over to block me, shaking his head.

  “But they won’t see me!”

  “That’s the idea, kid,” he whispered back.

  I frowned. This was the tightest security I’d experienced, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “Of course I support my mother’s program,” I shouted to the interior of the car, feeling like a dork. “Education should be our highest priority, and we need to make it easier for people to complete college degrees.”

  China smiled at me in the rearview mirror.

  “But what do you think about Governor Ramirez’s rebuttal?” another reporter asked.

  Shit. I hadn’t heard how Adolf had replied. I’d been too worried about Lucia’s response to that horrid photo to read the news this morning.

  “I didn’t hear the governor’s take on the program,” China said, rescuing me. “Would you enlighten me?”

  The reporter looked down at her phone and tapped it a few times, probably accessing her notes. “Governor Ramirez said the US government is already twenty trillion in debt, and therefore can’t afford to bail out student loans.”

  Naturally Adolf had said that—he was from the party of no. I cleared my throat. “I think it’s important to make fiscally sound decisions, and supporting education is one of them.”

  “Dane, how do you feel about living with the governor’s daughter?”

  I smiled as I looked through the gate to the house. Not as bad as you’d think.

  “That’s all for today, guys,” China said as she rolled up the window and inched the car forward. She must have intimidated the reporters as much as me because they did as she asked and stayed outside the gates.

  “Why didn’t you let me answer that question?”

  Her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “I thought I’d save your ass from saying something mean about Lucia. It might hurt your mom’s campaign.”

  I nodded. “Right…of course.” Everything for Mom’s precious campaign. And thanks for assuming I’d say something mean.

  After I tossed my duffle bag on my bed, I noticed Lucia wasn’t in her room. Had her afternoon practice run late? I strolled into the TV room and stopped short. Fucking Fox News was on, and the headline’s ticker tape ticked me off:

  Twenty Trillion in Debt and the Liberals Keep On Spending

  The Republicans had a lot to do with building that debt, I wanted to shout at the blond bimbo anchorwoman. Gulf wars, anyone?

  Then I looked at Lucia curled up, sleeping on the sofa, and my anger dissipated. Her head rested on the oversized p
illow by the armrest. She’d loosened her thick hair from its omnipresent braid, and shiny black strands fanned over her shoulder, partially obscuring her face. Her long legs, covered in black yoga pants, were tucked up to her body, leaving much of the long sofa free. For me.

  But how could she sleep with the screechy Barbie in her ear? I reached over and scooped the remote off the ottoman to decrease the volume. Much better.

  “Don’t change the channel,” Frank said in a low voice as he entered the room. “I’m watching that.”

  I frowned as he placed his beer on the end table and settled onto the very sofa cushion I’d coveted. I pointed at Lucia. “I was just lowering the volume.”

  “Heh.” He took a long pull from the bottle. “She’s been crashed for a while now.” He looked me up and down. “A stampede of donkeys couldn’t wake her.”

  I ignored that jab. “Why is she so tired?”

  “That coach of hers kept her hitting for an extra hour today. Poor thing could hardly walk after.”

  “What an ass.”

  His eyebrows drew together as he stared at me, surprised.

  “Well, he is an ass.”

  Frank nodded. “You got no argument from me. Why she came here to play for that man, I’ll never understand—”

  A long, luscious moan drifted from Lucia’s mouth, interrupting him. I noticed her arm twitch and a slight smile play on her lips. Just watching her made me smile, too. What the hell was she dreaming about?

  I glanced up to find Frank glaring at me.

  “What?”

  He looked down at his beer bottle, then mumbled, “Thought you hated Fox News.”

  Lucia shifted, and the leather crunched as she rolled onto her back. I could see her peaceful face in entirety now, her dark eyelashes casting shadows on her olive skin. A feeling of tenderness warmed my chest. “I do hate Fox News.” But I don’t hate this fox, I silently added, then almost snorted at my brain’s cheese factor.

  She exhaled a long breath, and with it the hint of a soft moan. My tender feelings vanished, replaced by a jolt of excitement in my groin. Let me jump into your dream, Luz.

  “Then why are you still here?” Frank demanded.

  “You want to keep your voice down?” I gestured to Lucia and jumped when I noticed she looked right back at me. “You see? You woke her up.”

  As a blush bloomed on her cheeks, she smiled at me. “You’re back from Milwaukee.” She lifted her arms over her head and stretched, and I tried not to gawk at the soft curve of her breasts as her shirt tightened across her chest. Tried being the operative word. When her long-ass legs extended down the sofa and the tips of her pointed toes brushed Frank’s thigh, she sat up a little, appearing surprised. “Hey, Frank.”

  “Hi, Lucia. How ya feelin’ after those practices?”

  Then she scrambled to sitting, and her entire demeanor changed. Her lips parted and her eyes narrowed as she looked up at me, and she scooted away toward Frank’s end of the sofa. Her chest seemed to heave with quick breaths.

  I tensed. Was she scared of me? Why the hell would she be scared of me? “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Her voice sounded strangled. She crossed her arms and wouldn’t look at me. She simply stared at the TV.

  What the hell just happened? “F-Frank told me Holter kept you long today.” My heart galloped as I searched for some way to connect with her. “Did he make you practice the same play over and over?”

  She acted like she hadn’t heard me.

  “So…classes start tomorrow. You’re so lucky the agents will drive you to your classes—you won’t get lost like I did.”

  Nothing. Her coldness felt awful. Mute Girl had been sort of endearing, in her shy, girlish way, but Ice Girl froze me to the spot, cutting into my heart. She glanced at Frank, then back at the TV.

  “Do you want to watch another channel?” he asked her.

  She shook her head.

  “Then would you like me to leave?”

  “No.” Lucia bolted to her feet. “I’ll leave. I need to go study my playbook.”

  She gave me wide berth when she circled around to go to her bedroom.

  “Hey.” My stomach clenched. “I could help you—quiz you on different plays?”

  She stopped with her back to me. Finally she’d acknowledged that I’d spoken, and I breathed out. But when she looked over her shoulder, her eyes dark and cold, my chest seized again. “I don’t want any of your help.”

  I watched her walk away, and my mouth still hung open when I turned back to Frank.

  He shrugged, then grabbed his beer and got up to leave.

  “What’s going on with her? Why is she mad at me?”

  The muscle lining his jaw twitched. “What goes around, comes around, I guess.”

  “What does that mean?”

  But he’d already left the room, leaving me alone in my dumbfounded state.

  “Dane, how do you feel about living with the governor’s daughter?” the reporter had asked me. I now knew how to answer: Ass loads of confusion.

  Confounding Variables flashed on the screen as the header for my psychology professor’s PowerPoint slide.

  Sounds about right, I thought as I settled into the back row of the two-hundred-seat classroom for my research methods class. It had been two weeks since Lucia had spoken multi-syllable words to me, and at first I’d definitely been confounded. But I’d since determined that Nina must have told her about the abortion, which had likely disgusted Ms. Catholic Right-Winger. Hence the silent treatment, which didn’t seem fair. She hadn’t even talked to me about it, and it’s not like that was a simple situation. And anyway hadn’t Lucia been the one to insist it was okay to disagree when Alejandro and I almost came to blows? I sighed. My past with Bitchy Nina still haunted me.

  Now that it was September, less than two months remained until the election. At least I wouldn’t have to live with Lucia “Ice” Ramirez after that. The polls showed our parents tied. The volleyball standings showed the girls’ team undefeated. And the update on my dick showed flaccid futility.

  Brad nudged my elbow, and I glanced at him. His bulky upper body spilled over the small college desk. “Pay attention,” he mouthed.

  I scowled and snatched my phone out of my pocket to text him.

  What are you, my father?

  His wary eyes scanned the class as he typed a response without even looking at his phone. I had to admit his technique impressed me.

  UR the one who said this class was tuff.

  Shit. He was right. I had to start listening to the lecture.

  “One confounding variable is the Hawthorne Effect,” the professor said as she clicked to the next slide, “which refers to the tendency for participants to alter their behavior when they’re part of an experiment.”

  I pulled up her presentation online and clicked to the current slide to type in some notes on my laptop.

  “The Hawthorne Effect refers to a lighting experiment done at the Hawthorne electric company in the nineteen-hundreds. Researchers found that increasing the factory lighting improved productivity during the experiment. But after the experiment ended, productivity decreased, despite the lighting changes. How could this be?”

  She looked expectantly at the class. Did she honestly think someone would speak up in this huge lecture hall? I knew the answer because my mom had told me about the study years ago, but no way I’d raise my hand. People already stared at me like I was a freak, given my armed companions. Last autumn my gargantuan height and student-athlete status had seemed to prevent students from approaching me in class, and this year the protective bubble around me had solidified.

  When nobody answered, she went on to the next slide. “The factory workers likely improved their productivity not because of the lighting, but because the researchers were watching them. It feels good to be noticed, to be cared for.”

  Yeah, it does. And it feels craptastic to be ignored.

  “Later research shows this effect
was likely overstated—other variables may have been at play. Still, this study warns us not to make spurious conclusions about cause and effect…”

  As she droned on, I opened my browser and perused Facebook posts, ignoring Brad’s disappointed scoff. My concentration was toast.

  When class ended, Brad’s thick arm shot out across my chest, blocking me from getting up. “Today we wait until everyone else has left.”

  I rolled my eyes. The agents constantly changed my routine as a security precaution, even making me skip class some days. The election couldn’t come soon enough.

  Finally, Brad and I stood. “This way.” He pointed the opposite direction from where we typically exited.

  “Where’s China?”

  “She’s meeting us by the car.”

  Right outside the building’s side exit sat not only my vehicle but another black SUV as well. “You’re in that one,” Brad said as he pointed to the unknown vehicle.

  I paused mid-stride. “Why?”

  “Dane, do as you’re told for once, dammit.”

  I flashed back to China’s lecture about following orders in public: “You defy us, you die.” I sighed. “Fine.”

  As I climbed into the backseat of Vehicle #2, the changeup all made sense.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  I gritted my teeth as I stared into blue eyes just like mine, only aged thirty years. “Hi, Dad.”

  Patrick DuPont extended his arms like he wanted to hug me, and I noticed the two agents in front watching, despite their efforts to pretend otherwise. I swallowed and accepted his hug. It seemed he’d shrunk since I’d last seen him, though he still topped six-four.

  “We’re rolling,” said the agent in the driver seat.

  I scooted an inch away from Dad as we stopped to let a teeming river of students pass by on the crosswalk. “Why are you here?”

  “Good to see you too, son.”

  “I have practice soon.” Mom always told me guilt-trips take a sender and a receiver, and I refused to let him play off his absence in my life as my fault.