It’s the first day back at school and I am, of course, wearing the school uniform: plaid skirt, white shirt, navy blazer. My tie is done in a tight full Windsor. Most of the kids wear their ties loose, and some even let the tails of their shirts hang out, but I don’t favor such a lackadaisical approach. If clothes make the man, they also make the girl, and you never know when cameras might be filming.
Oh, how I wish cameras were filming.
As I run lightly up the steps, a few kids call out, “Hey, Katie! Congratulations on your dad’s win!”
I thank them as I sail on by, but inside I’m thinking: Well, that’s new and different. No one’s ever congratulated me on one of my father’s wins before. Come to think of it, no one ever really talks to me, unless of course they have to, like if we’re paired up in science lab or on the same volleyball team in gym. And even then, it’s mostly just, “I’ll put the drops on the slide while you record the results” or “Can’t you hit the ball any harder?”
The truth is, I’ve never been what you’d call popular. It’s not like anyone’s specifically mean to me or anything, more like I’m just not one of the group. But that’s okay. I totally get it. For twelve years, my life revolved around helping my father win one election after another, so it’s not like I’ve had time to cultivate any friendships with kids my own age.
I know I said before that I was forced out of politics four years ago, but that was more in theory than in practice. My father’s former campaign manager urged him to let me have a more normal life and he agreed—like I said, in theory. But in practice? It’s impossible to keep a good woman—or girl!—down. Plus, politics is addicting. So I’ve kept on top of my father’s campaigns and the polls, worked behind the scenes, and of course whenever my father has needed emotional support, I’ve been there for him. I just haven’t been giving any more interviews to Katie Couric or otherwise basking in the limelight, that’s all.
The bottom line is, it’s not just that I’m not one of the group. I’ve never even had any friends at school.
From time to time, I’d tried to fit in when I was younger, but that never worked. I invited other kids to do things with me, only to have my overtures rebuffed. You might be surprised to learn that other kids don’t find the prospect of being driven around in the back of a chauffeur-driven limo while playing what I thought was a rousing round of the License Plate Game to be particularly appealing. And I’d tried again in high school, only to be met with similar disastrous results. It’s safe to say that kids my own age kind of scare me.
Every now and then this makes me sad, but mostly I’m okay with it. Once my father wins election to the highest office in the land, then I can have a life that has friends in it too. But until that day? Eye on the prize!
Still, it is nice having other kids congratulate me. It’s actually nice just being talked to.
As the day continues, so do the congratulations. It makes me curious. If I had the time, I’d finance a poll so I could do a study on why there’s been such a big change. But I don’t have the time because I’m too busy rushing from class to class, meeting my new teachers, collecting assignments.
In fact, I’m getting a fresh notebook from my locker before heading off to Political Science—what a joke, me being required to take that!—when I sense a hovering presence. I look to my right and there’s a boy there.
Now, that is new and different.
He’s very tall, at least a foot taller than my 5 foot 2 inches. And although his tie is almost dangerously loose, the hem of his shirt is completely free of the waistband, and the crotch of his pants is hanging low enough to—well, I don’t even know what to say about that—he is rather attractive. And the way he’s leaning against the locker next to mine and staring at me, I get the feeling he’s waiting for something.
“Can I help you?” I say.
“Yeah, listen, Katie, I was wondering: would you like to go out with me this Friday night?”
I almost drop my fresh notebook.
I’m about to say yes. After all, I’ve never had a boyfriend before; no one’s ever even asked me out on a date before! But then a thought occurs to me and I tilt my head to one side. “Do I know you?”
He looks surprised. “I’m Jayson. I’m the captain of the basketball team.”
“Oh. Well. Good for you.” I pat him on the arm. “Sure, I’ll go out with you Friday, but I have to get to class now.”
Inside, I’m dying. In a few days, I’m going on my first date!
“Great,” Jayson says. “I’ll walk you.”
As I walk toward Political Science, my notebook clutched against my chest, he falls into step beside me. That’s when it hits me: he’s walking me to class.
Hold the campaign-donation phones.
I think I have a boyfriend!
• • •
As others head into Political Science, Jayson stops me by putting his hand on my elbow. Then he leans against the wall near the doorway. I must admit, he does seem rather big on leaning. But once we settle more deeply into couplehood, I’ll be able to change that.
“So listen, Katie,” he says, “I was wondering.”
Suddenly he seems nervous, which is odd. He didn’t seem nervous when he asked me out on a date. What could be harder than that? Oh, gosh. Is he going to ask me to go steady . . . already?
If I was prone to internal screeching, I’d be doing that right now.
“Yes, Jayson?” I say, helping him along.
“Um, do you think your dad could get me courtside tickets to the Knicks when the season starts?”
“What? Why would he do that?”
“It’s just that, I’ve seen presidents at games before. I know that, like, when a guy is president, he can get tickets to whatever he wants to see. Really good tickets. So I just figured . . .”
“Oh, no, Jayson.” I shake my head sympathetically. What a ninny. Then I explain. “He couldn’t do that. Using his power and influence to do favors for friends—that would be unethical, not to mention a gross misuse of taxpayer funds.”
“Oh.” He looks puzzled. “Oh, yeah.”
My Political Science teacher, Mr. Snowden, shoots an impatient pair of raised eyebrows in my general direction as he holds the door.
“I’ve really got to go now,” I say. “So, what time on Friday?”
“Yeah, about that. I just remembered, I don’t think I can do this Friday.”
And he stops leaning and moves off.
Wow, that’s it?
That was a whirlwind relationship.
Oh, well. I shrug as I enter Political Science. I’ll be heading off to Washington in a few months anyway, so really it was a doomed romance from the start.
When I get home from an otherwise typical first day of school, I grab some carrot sticks from the fridge and put them on a plate with some chocolate chip cookies. Then I tuck a water bottle under one arm, pick up the plate, scoop up my white Himalayan cat, Dog, with my other arm, and head up to my room.
My room is my own pink-and-white palace. Every now and then, it occurs to me that I should update the decor, make it a more sophisticated color. But Dog and I like it, no one else ever really sees it except for my father and the maid, and anyway, we’ll be moving to Washington soon.
I sit down at the chair in front of my computer, position Dog on the tufted cushion beside me, and boot up.
Immediately, I go to “The Kat and Dog Blog.”
It’s something Dog and I started years ago. I’ve always wished people would call me Kat, but no one ever does. Everyone just calls me Katie. Well, except for my father, who calls me Kathryn sometimes, but only when he’s mad at me.
On The Kat and Dog Blog, we simply post whatever strikes our fancy that day. I might say to Dog, “Do you think our readers would be interested in learning more about the Magna Carta?” And then Dog will either curl up in my lap, which I interpret as a yes, or start licking himself, indicating that he thinks the day’s topic is a snoozer. But it doe
sn’t really matter. It’s not like anyone ever reads it. I’ve never had a single comment. In fact, whenever I check StatCounter daily, it appears that the only hits I get are from people who stumble onto the blog by accident, people who want to know the answers to questions like: “What do I do when my cat and dog try to kill each other?” Thankfully, Dog and I don’t have that problem.
I originally started the blog because I read an article in the Times about how it’s an activity some teens like to do. In the beginning, I thought I should tell my father and his people about it—you know, in case they had any objections—but like I said, no one ever reads it anyway.
“So,” I ask Dog, “what should we write about today?”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Yes?” I call out, turning in my chair as my father opens the door and walks in.
“How was your first day back at school?” he asks.
Sometimes, he acts so much like a regular dad, it’s tough to remember that soon he’ll be the Leader of the Free World.
“It was good,” I say, “different.” I’m about to tell him about my whirlwind relationship with Jayson, but as he perches on the edge of my bed, I notice he looks nervous. Odd. I seem to be having that effect on males today.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Look, I know I promised I wasn’t going to ask you to do any more campaigning for me—”
“A promise I never asked for,” I cut in.
“—and I know I said I wanted you to have a normal teen life, but . . .”
My excitement starts to grow. “Dad,” I say, trying not to appear too eager, “what are you saying?”
Maybe Marvin’s out as my father’s political adviser and I’m back in?
“It’s just that Marvin said he got a request today from one of the morning talk shows,” my dad says.
Oh. Marvin’s still in.
“You know how they’re always looking for new angles,” my father says.
Don’t I know it. The 24-hour-a-day news beast must be fed.
“Well,” my father says, “they’ve been going on and on for the past few weeks about how this is the first time since 1944 that both major-party candidates have hailed from the same state.”
“Right,” I say. “In 1944, it was Franklin Roosevelt and Thomas Dewey, both from New York.”
“Exactly. Well, they’ve kind of beat that into the ground, at least for the time being. So now, apparently they’ve seized on the fact that both Samantha Reilly and I have kids in high school who are exactly the same age.”
That doesn’t seem that newsworthy to me. Still, if there’s a chance I’ll get on television again . . .
“So what do they want?” I ask.
“They want to do a joint interview with you and Drew Reilly tomorrow, maybe even a series of interviews. You know who Drew Reilly is, don’t you?”
Well, of course I know who Drew Reilly is. I saw the pictures in the New York Times after the Democratic Convention. There was the Reilly family, Samantha and the First Man Wannabe and their little twins looking all spiffy and presidential-hopeful. Not that that will do them any good. If wishes were horses, everyone would ride—well, except for people who are scared of horses. And then there was Drew hanging in the background, looking all slouchy and removed. A good-looking slouchy and removed, but still. And even if I hadn’t seen that picture, based on the progression of this conversation, sheer logic would tell me who Drew Reilly is.
Actually, there’s something annoyingly familiar about him, like maybe I’ve met him somewhere before.
But who cares about that right now, because . . .
“Of course I’ll do it!” I fly at my father to give him a big hug. “And they want to do it tomorrow?”
“Yes. But what about you having a normal teenage life?” he asks, hugging me back.
That’s the funny thing about my father. He doesn’t seem to ever notice that whether I’m officially helping his campaign or unofficially working behind the scenes, my teenage life is as far from normal as can be.
“Oh, pfft,” I reassure him quickly before he talks himself out of this, “I’ll still have that. You know I love our life.” I may have gone all nonchalant on the outside, but internally I’m clapping quietly. Yippee! I get to go to a green room again! “It’s just one interview,” I reassure him some more, “maybe a series. What harm can it do?”
With my father gone, Dog and I return to The Kat and Dog Blog.
I’m so happy about this latest development, it’s tough to think about what to write on the blog today. I mean, I could write about the interview coming up tomorrow, but I don’t want to jinx it. So I go on yet another virtual tour of the White House and before long, inspiration strikes.
I realize that for state dinners, we’ll need to use the china with the presidential seal on it. But what about other events? What about every day?
“Dog,” I say, clicking on Google Images, “let’s find some pictures of china patterns.”
Several hours later, I’m in bed for the night, Dog curled up at my side.
Before turning out the light, I look at the framed portrait on my nightstand. It’s a picture of me when I was three years old, sitting in my mother’s lap. It was taken right before she died. I wish I could really remember her.
There are two mes. There’s the version I think of as the regular-print me, the one who lives out loud, for public consumption. And then there’s the other version, the one I think of as the small-print me, the part that no one else ever gets to see, unless you include Dog.
Small-print me misses my mom even if I can’t really remember her. Small-print me sometimes wishes that my life was more normal and that I was more like other people, that I went on dates and felt a part of things.
And sometimes, small-print me gets lonely.
DREW
The bus picks me up at the bottom of our driveway. It was a long walk. It’s a long driveway.
The driver smirks at me as I trudge up the steps. “Can’t you just take the limo?” he says.
I ignore him. The twins take the limo, accompanied by Clint, to their private school but I still ride the bus to mine. Even after my dad struck it rich, I insisted on going to the same public schools I would have in the old neighborhood. Of course, it’s not the same. In my old neighborhood, kids hung out together outside all the time, talking, playing sports, just hanging. Then we moved here and it’s like you can’t even see the next house. Plus, everyone just stays inside all the time.
My mom taught me when I was very young, “Drew, popularity doesn’t matter. If you have just one good friend in this life, you’ve got it made.” Of course it would be rich if she tried to say this to me now, the woman trying to court every vote in the country, hoping to win the biggest popularity contest America’s got going. Still, it was good advice to give a little kid and I’ve lived by that advice. I have Sandy. Even if he teases me mercilessly sometimes, and I him, we’ve been through thick and thin together, through poverty (ours), wealth (mine), sickness and health, and I still know that we’ll always have each other’s backs until the day one of us croaks.
All my other friends from the old neighborhood? Once my family had money, they changed. People liked me more because I had it or they resented me because I had it. And then there were the times, if I’d complain about something, I’d overhear other people muttering, “I wish I had his problems.” That’s the thing you learn fast when you have money: no matter how bad things get, you’re not allowed to have problems. The only one who didn’t change the way he acted around me was Sandy.
So do I need anyone else? For the most part, no.
I’m the only kid in my neighborhood who takes the bus, so I make the bus driver unhappy because he has to go all out of the way of his route just for me. But hey, that’s his problem. I feel like saying, “We pay taxes too, you know,” but instead just make my way down the aisle to an open seat. Along the way, a few girls shout congratulations on my mom gettin
g the nomination, but I just nod, plop down, put in my earbuds, and zone out by the window.
Soon the mansions disappear, replaced by seedier and seedier houses as we progress. Eventually, we hit Sandy’s neighborhood, a bunch of kids pile on, and in a second Sandy’s next to me.
“Dude,” he says, “I tried to text you last night but your phone’s not working.”
“Yeah, you’re going to have to use the landline from now on.”
“The landline? What are you, nuts?”
“Actually, it’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
I explain to him that my mom is usually pretty cool about things, but after Sandy tweeted my comments to him from the convention center (which I told Sandy not to tweet) and Instagrammed the pictures I sent him of me slouched in my chair looking bored, right before going onstage (which I also told Sandy were just for him), there was a resulting mini-scandal (“Democratic Nominee’s Oldest Too Cool for Glory”) . . . so my mom decided it was time for me and modern technology to part ways.
(Yeah, I know that’s a really long sentence with—count them—three parenthetical asides, but trust me, my mom’s side of the discussion was even longer and she didn’t even pause for breath.)
“She says it’s for my own good,” I say, “to protect me, just until after the election.”
“Harsh,” Sandy says. Then he considers before adding, “Sheesh. If I’d known this was going to happen, I would’ve posted something juicier.”
• • •
The first day back at school is always such a strange animal, with things either dragging or zooming by too quickly, sometimes at the same time. After what feels like a week, and yet almost before I know it, Sandy and I are at lunch.
I’m examining my burger for large, hard things—wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found something—when the bench I’m sitting on bounces. I look to my left and there’s Millicent Carraway.
“Hey,” I say as I take a huge bite of burger, having concluded it’s safe enough to eat.
“Drew,” she says, hand trailing up my arm, “I’m having a little party on Friday.”
Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .) Page 2
