So, I do the only thing I can do. I tell George, “Um, that’s just a picture from my father’s senatorial campaign.”
“I see,” George says. “Well, that’s all the time we have. Our thanks to Katie Willfield.” Then he leans a little closer toward me, real intimate, and I wonder if this is like at the end of The Daily Show, when the host bestows the special handshake of friendship upon favored guests.
But there is no special handshake.
“Oh, by the way,” George confides, “I love the china pattern you picked out.”
“China pattern?”
“On The Kat and Dog Blog, for when you’re in the White House. The Kat and Dog Blog—that’s you, right?”
And . . . CUT!
DREW
There’s one film that everyone in the world has seen and can agree is the greatest movie ever made.
I’m not talking about old classics like Gone with the Wind or Citizen Kane or more modern Best Picture winners like—heaven forbid—Titanic. (Like movies are supposed to be great and we’re all supposed to be so sad when the hero dies in the end? Jack didn’t have to die. He was strong, he could’ve pulled himself up on that floating door too. That door would’ve held both of them!) And I’m certainly not talking about The King’s Speech. (We’re supposed to feel so bad for the guy? So what if he had an impediment—he was still king!)
I’m talking about How the Grinch Stole Christmas. And I don’t mean the Jim Carrey abomination either. No, I mean the 1966 version, with Boris Karloff doing the Grinch’s voice as well as the narration.
Okay, so I’m talking about a cartoon.
Let’s call it a twenty-six-minute animated feature made for TV.
Anyway, am I not right? Everyone has seen The Grinch and everyone loves The Grinch. Even Jatheists, like Sandy. Sandy’s father is a Puerto Rican Catholic and his mother is Jewish. Sandy leans toward his mom but questions the existence of God, explaining the reason why he refers to himself as a Jatheist. If you ask me, he could just as easily call himself a Catheist but that doesn’t sound as cool—it sounds like he’s pro catheters or something. Not like that’d be something a person would be anti. Also, since he questions the existence of God, he should really refer to himself as a Jagnostic, but that doesn’t sound as cool as Jatheist either. Anyway, from a young age, my mom taught me not to question anyone else’s religion. Or lack thereof.
Of course it was Sandy, the Jatheist, who first got me started watching The Grinch. We were five and having a sleepover at his place close to the holidays and it was on TV. He’d seen it the year before and wanted to watch it again. I swear, near the end, I looked over at him and there were tears in his eyes. We still watch it together annually and he still cries every time. I’ve never said anything to him—why embarrass the guy?—but part of that could be that even if I’m not actually tearing up myself, I do get a lump in my throat.
And you know what that’s like, right? Because it probably happens to you too. It happens to everyone.
Sandy always starts to get teary when the Grinch is heading back up Mount Crumpit with all his ill-gotten Who booty. Morning has arrived and he has Max the Dog stop the sleigh. He knows that the Whos will all be waking up, discovering that Christmas has been stolen from them, and he can’t wait to hear the sounds of them weeping.
Only he doesn’t hear that at all.
The Whos hum, their humming starting out low but steadily growing in joy and resilience to a fever pitch, a crescendo of sheer goodness that almost can’t be believed. Then the Whos sing that crazy indecipherable little Who song, their voices soaring up the snowy mountain. (I mean, really. “Fahoo fores”—what is that?)
And the Grinch realizes that no matter what he’s done, he couldn’t steal Christmas.
It’s a killer emotional moment—gets me every time.
So, this? What I’m about to tell you about? It’s exactly like that.
It starts out low and begins to grow.
There’s just one difference.
In my case? It’s not about anything good.
It starts out low.
I’m at my locker, getting my books for first period. I hear a voice call my name, turn around, and who do I see but Millicent Carraway walking by. I start to say the usual “Hey, how’s it going?” but there’s something in her smile as she opens her mouth that stops me. She leans closer, mutters a word, and it’s only when she’s gone that the word penetrates my shocked brain.
Did she just call me a wimp?
No, that can’t be it.
But when I search my mind for possible alternate words that rhyme—“limp, primp, pimp”—none seem to apply, nor are particularly reassuring.
Maybe she called me a chimp?
I shrug it off.
So yeah, it started out low, but then it began to grow.
And it’s a little harder to shrug off a short while later when I’m in English class. We just finished reading The Book Thief last night and now Ms. Parmalee, the teacher, is asking all kinds of questions. At first, they’re just your basic opinion questions, the kinds of things there’s no real right or wrong answer to. Like, did you find the characters believable? Or, did you like the writing style? Or, would you read another book by this author? People raise their hands like crazy to answer those questions. It’s like those lame participation trophies given out just for good attendance or for being on an athletic team, no matter the team’s ratio of wins to losses. I hate those trophies. It’s like sending a message that simply showing up is enough. Like it’s an accomplishment to be physically there, even if you don’t actually do anything, or even if your team sucks.
So yeah, people raise their hands, falling all over each other to answer these dinky questions, because they know they’ll get credit for class participation, even if their answers are stupid or totally off the wall, like when Tom Meeker says, “I would absolutely read another book by this author, but only if he writes one involving a lot of cats.”
But then, as inevitably happens, the dinky questions move to thinking questions. Also inevitably, hands stop going up. This means that Ms. Parmalee, rather than waiting for volunteers, will call on helpless victims instead.
“Drew?” she says. “Can you tell us what the effect is of the mystery surrounding Max’s life after his reunion with Liesel after the end of the war?”
I read the book and what she’s asking doesn’t even make sense to me. She must steal these questions, clearly designed for maximum confusing wordage that might trip kids up, from some kind of online guide for teachers. There’s no way she’s making all of this up on her own so early in the day.
But that’s the thing. It is early in the day. And I am not a morning person. In fact, I’m more of the kind of person who thinks all students would achieve more if the school day started a few hours later. And maybe ended a few hours earlier. So maybe if she had asked me this question after ten in the morning—better still, after lunch—I might have something for her. But as it is, all I can do is shrug and say: “I got nothing.”
And that’s when Susie Fallow—shy Susie Fallow, whom I haven’t heard say a single word to another human being since like third grade—pokes me in the shoulder with her eraser and mutters the word, “Wimp.”
I spin in my seat and Sandy, seated beside me, spins too.
“Did Susie just—” Sandy starts to say.
But he never gets a chance to finish, because now the second word I’ve heard from Susie’s mouth in eight years comes flowing out:
“Scared.”
And a third: “Weak.”
And a fourth: “Coward.”
Followed, finally, by a vehement return to the first:
“Wimp.”
Oh, man. Something’s definitely going on here.
KATIE
Once I recovered from the shock of having George ask me about my china pattern, I realized I would have loved to discuss it with him. I’m sure George wouldn’t have minded since we both have excellent tast
e. But by the time I did, the interview was over, I was being whisked offstage, and that was that.
Oh, the things a person wishes she could do over again. If I could, not only would I discuss my china pattern, I’d also ask George, “Just who does Samantha Reilly think she is? An out-of-nowhere candidate with no previous political experience?”
To which George might counter, “Well, Ross Perot was just an American businessman, and he ran in 1992 and 1996.”
To which I’d counter, “Right. But that was on an Independent ticket.”
To which George might counter, “But there’ve been others who’ve run for the major party nominations in the past.”
To which I’d counter, “Like who? Herman Cain? The Godfather’s Pizza guy? And just because some have run for the nomination, it’s not like any of them got it.”
To which George might counter, “But this time, one has. Polls show the American people are increasingly tired of the same-old same-old in politics. They don’t want Washington insiders, they want an outsider, making Samantha Reilly the perfect populist choice.”
Okay, come to think of it. I’m glad we didn’t have that discussion.
As soon as I’m out of the glare of the set, I check my phone and see that I have one text. It’s from my father:
Katie, there’s something we need to discuss.
Even though we’re aware that it’s common practice to text in abbreviations, my father is firmly against it. He always says that full sentences are what sets us apart from lesser animals—well, that and opposable thumbs—a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agree. So I text back in kind:
What about?
I wait for his reply expectantly, my excitement growing. He’s probably so impressed with how I handled being on national television, he wants me to be a more front-and-center participant in his campaign. Maybe he’ll even send me out to stump for him in Iowa.
But when his reply comes back, there’s no mention of Iowa at all. In fact, it’s downright cryptic:
It can wait until after school. But as soon as you get home, come see me.
Hmm . . . that’s perplexing.
Oh, well. I shrug it off as Kent holds the door for me and I climb into the back of the limo with a sigh. I sigh because while a few people have taken phone snaps of me, there is no real press in sight to mark my progress. Did I mention that I blame Bill Clinton for this? Here’s why:
Once upon a time, the sitting president’s children were fair game for the press. Those children were considered public property, much in the same way that the offspring of the royal family in England still are. Why, Tricia Nixon was even married at the White House in 1971 in a ceremony that was aired on national television. (So romantic. If a person’s going to ever get married, could there be anything more romantic than a White House wedding?) And don’t get me started on poor little Amy Carter! Poor little Amy Carter was mercilessly ridiculed by late-night comedians—I’m looking at you, SNL! But then along came Bill Clinton. He and Hillary basically said, “Take all the cheap shots at us you want to, but leave the kid alone. We’re the public figures here but she’s not. She’s just a kid who didn’t ask for any of this. Let her be a kid.” Chelsea was twelve at the time her father was elected and the press listened. They attacked Bill and Hillary at every turn, but wonder of wonders, they left Chelsea pretty much alone.
True, the Bush girls later came under some heat, but they were nineteen when their father was elected, and therefore practically adults. But the Clintons? They set the template that the minor children of presidents should not come under close public scrutiny, not unless they invite the press and cameras in, a precedent that the Obama children were later the beneficiaries of. Was there ever anything in the press about Sasha and Malia, except for the occasional pictures of them on vacation wearing incredibly cute clothes? If there was, I don’t remember it.
So like I say, this is all Bill Clinton’s fault. Because while maybe Chelsea and the Obama girls were happy flying under the radar, being allowed to live as normal lives as possible while their fathers were serving the greater good, I’d love a little public scrutiny. I’d love a little more limelight.
We start heading back toward Connecticut when a thought occurs to me.
“Kent,” I say, “do you think we could stop somewhere for a Cronut?”
It’s been hours since I ate my earlier-than-usual breakfast and, remembering the array of goodies I passed up in the green room, I’m suddenly famished.
“Sure thing, Miss Katie.”
• • •
School.
With my early morning appearance on That Morning Show today, my father told me in advance that if I wanted to, I could just skip the whole day of school. After all, what would be the point anyway of going to school when I will have already missed several periods of classes? But I told him that I wanted to go. I said that I felt it was important for me to get in as much class time as possible since, with campaign season heating up, who knew how many days of classes I might miss this fall? (Of course, I’ve made arrangements with the school, so I can keep up with assignments no matter what else is going on.) Plus, once he wins and we’re in the White House, come January Willfield Academy will be behind me forever. If he’s president for just four years—which I don’t see happening—I’ll be in college. And if he’s a two-term president, which of course he will be, I’ll be twenty-four, a college graduate, possibly a grad school graduate, maybe even a PhD. Maybe I’ll even be married! Well, probably not that. As soon as I graduate from college, I’ll probably go into politics like my father.
Anyway, that’s what I told my father: that I didn’t want to skip school today because I couldn’t bear to miss these last days at Willfield Academy.
But really?
I’m here for the accolades.
Even in a school as exclusive as Willfield Academy—where everyone’s families are wealthy, where everyone’s parents are some form of a professional big shot—being on national television is still a very big deal. We boast not one but four Olympic hopefuls and we have pep rallies for them regularly. There’s Harold Chu, who plays table tennis; Carol Zabriski, who does air pistol/air rifle; Janice Jacobs, who competes in something called eventing (it’s some horse thing); and Jim Stevens for racewalking. Of course, none of these are exactly edge-of-your-seat, must-see marquis events like gymnastics or ice skating. Have you ever tried to watch racewalking? After thirty seconds, it’s like, “Time to reach for the remote.” I mean, what can you say about it? “Ooh, look at those elbows go”? But at the moment, those are our hopefuls. In addition to them, we also have a TV star, Marly Simpson. Actually, she’s an ex-TV star, which I think is kind of sad. At the height of her self-titled Disney Channel show’s popularity, Marly was easily the most popular girl in school. But then she grew eight inches in a single year, became too tall to play age thirteen anymore and lost her cute “kid” look, and her show got canceled. The part I think is sad is that her popularity sank like a stone. If people liked her when she was on top, they should have liked her the same when she was not. I don’t think Marly’s ever gotten over it.
That’s one thing I’ve always appreciated about my own lack of popularity: at least it’s a constant.
But yesterday, it was announced during morning assembly that I was going to be on That Morning Show today, so I’m sure people will be congratulating me right and left like they always do when any of the other students guest star on a TV show or win an Olympic medal or something. Of course, I won’t be stupid or naive about it like Marly. I know their flattering words will just be their flattering words, and instant popularity doesn’t really mean anything. No matter what happens, I’ll remain the same levelheaded girl I’ve always been. Still, I just know there will be a river of accolades flowing my way.
And as I open the door to Willfield Academy, that’s what I’m excitedly thinking:
River of accolades, take me away!
Huh. Well, that was strange.
> Because forget a little stream of accolades . . . There’s not even a trickle.
It’s as if I was never even on the show. Did no one see it? Was my segment canceled and I wasn’t told about it?
There’s only one tiny drop and it comes at the end of the very last class of the day, Political Science. I’m leaving the room when Mr. Snowden stops me with: “Katie, nice job on That Morning Show this morning.”
I know I said that success wasn’t going to change me, but the truth is, the absence of any kind words about my accomplishment has stung a bit. So it’s gratifying to finally have this acknowledgment, however meager.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Snowden,” I say, modestly lowering my eyes as my mood brightens.
Which is when Mr. Snowden chuckles and says, “But china patterns? Have your people learned nothing from Nancy Reagan?”
Now, what does that mean?
DREW
“Wimp” and words similar to it follow me through the morning and lunch. But it’s not until gym class—another thing about school that I would change, like, who is happy running around right after eating really bad food?—that the chorus rises in fever pitch to its crescendo. Only, unlike in The Grinch, that crescendo is the opposite of sheer goodness.
We’re playing volleyball, which in itself is stupid. I mean, come on, volleyball? It’s like this lame combination of tennis and basketball only without a circular net.
When it takes me two serves to get the ball successfully over the net, I hear, “Weak.” When I—graciously, I might add—allow the person next to me to take an easy shot, I hear “Coward” and “Scared.” And when the person on my own team—my team!—nails me square in the middle of the back with a serve, I hear everyone in the gym except for Coach Grigson, say a resounding “Wimp.” Hey, I may not care much about what other people think of me, but this is starting to get physically abusive!
Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .) Page 4
