“Oh, you’re sorry for the rude way you yanked my earbuds out? Or maybe you’re sorry for the ridiculous things you just said to me?” I shrug. “Don’t worry. No biggie.”
“No,” she says, still with the gritted teeth. “I’m sorry for calling you a wimp on national television. And scared. And weak. And cowardly.”
Really, she could’ve just stopped at wimp. She didn’t need to go into all that detail. It’s not like I’m likely to forget that whole miserable incident.
Funny thing, though, before she mentioned it, I’d gotten so caught up in . . . interacting with her, arguing with her about other stuff, I’d forgotten it entirely. But now her words—her apology—bring it all crashing back, along with my anger. I’m about to tell her what I think of her, after which of course I’ll forgive her, because she did just in fact apologize, when she adds:
“My father said I had to apologize to you, that I had to be nice to you, and now I have.” She smiles obnoxiously as she makes an all-done-with-this motion, wiping one hand against the other.
Now it’s my turn to press my lips tightly together in suppressed . . . something . . . and grit out, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says perkily, her blond bun bobbing as she turns her back on me. Weird. I can’t help but wonder what that hair would look like if it was let loose from its pins.
“That was—” I start to speak, but rather than finish the sentence by pointing out “sarcasm,” I shake my head and then tilt it to put my earbuds back in. Crazy loon.
It’s tilting my head that causes me to see something I hadn’t noticed before. Along one wall, there’s a long table with all kinds of good-looking food items on it: bagels, pastries, beverages—even the fruit looks tempting.
I have a jelly doughnut halfway to my mouth when I hear what in some cultures must be described as a panicked shriek.
“You’re not going to eat that, are you?”
The shrieker, of course, is Katie.
“Why?” I say around a large mouthful of doughnut as she eyes the table warily like all the items on it are some kind of trap or maybe poison. “Are you worried about the camera putting ten pounds on you?” Another big bite. “Because if so, I gotta say it’s too late for that.” I pop the last of the doughnut into my mouth.
When I first said the word “Why?” she opened her mouth to speak, but as I kept on talking, she slowly shut it. And now that I’m completely done talking, she simply turns away and I hear a single muttered word come out of her mouth.
Wait. Did she just call me an amateur?
I’m about to express my outrage but instead I decide to just give up and listen to some music. What’s the use?
The woman with the walkie-talkie comes back, warns us we’ve just got two minutes, and I look at Katie. For the first time, she looks nervous. And I, I don’t know, feel kind of bad for her as I see her obsessively straightening her skirt. Isn’t she supposed to be more experienced at these things? But then I see her putting her hand to her belly, trying to flatten something that isn’t there, and it hits me:
What I said to her before—about the camera putting ten pounds on you and how it’s too late to diet—perhaps she found that offensive?
Oh, man. I hate it when girls obsess about their weight. I mean, they put so much time and energy into that stuff, and for what? Sometimes, I feel like telling them, “Dudes, if you weren’t spending so much time on this, you’d probably be able to take over the world!”
But there’s no time to say all that, because now the woman with the walkie-talkie is warning that there’s just one minute left, so there’s really only time enough to say:
“You shouldn’t worry about being too fat, Kat.” Kat? Where did that come from? “If anything, you’re too skinny.”
Her expression transforms from uptight to something incalculable degrees softer and she raises her little finger toward the space between her two front teeth. When I don’t immediately react, she repeats the gesture.
What? Is this sign language? Is she trying to tell me something?
I must look confused, completely lost, because she takes pity on me. Katie Willfield leans closer and, in a whisper, utters words that are kinder than anything she’s ever said to me thus far:
“Dude,” she says. The word sounds so awkward coming from her mouth—dude—and for a minute I wonder if she’s mocking me. But then I realize she’s just trying to speak my language as she gestures at her teeth again and adds, “You’ve got jelly caught between your two front teeth.”
KATIE
It’s not like hearing “If anything, you’re too skinny” is better than being reminded that the camera puts ten pounds on you or that it’s too late to diet. After all, who wants to be “too” anything? But I can tell, from the look on his face, that he means it as a kindness. As for the “too late to diet” crack, I think he must have meant that we are who we are and we bring that with us wherever we go—no sense in trying to change now.
Okay, maybe that’s reading too much into it.
Also, did he just call me Kat?
All I know is, he does mean it kindly, which is why I felt I had to warn him about the jelly in his teeth. I can tell he’s a total amateur. I continue on:
“When we’re out there, don’t look directly into the camera. That’ll just freak the folks back home right out, like you’re trying too hard. Instead, just focus on George, the interviewer. Pretend the two of you are having a private conversation and try to ignore the fact that half of America is listening in on it.”
It’s as I’m leaning close to him that I see that, even though he’s unwedged the glob of jelly from between his teeth, he’s still got white powder from the doughnut all over his face. That’s going to totally show up on camera. I raise my fingers toward his face—I’ve never touched a boy like this before—and he just looks down at me, puzzled, but right before making contact I pull my hand back, feeling my face flush. I wonder at that flush. Is it because of embarrassment about the unprofessional nature of my behavior, almost helping out the enemy, or is at the idea of almost actually touching him?
Well, there’s no need to get carried away here.
DREW
The woman with the walkie-talkie leads us out the door—past a man standing sentry who reminds me of Clint—and onto the set, which is somehow smaller than I expected it to be. There’s a tall woman standing on the other side talking to some people. She has a suit on, is impossibly thin, and has a helmet of hair that looks like it wouldn’t move in a force-five hurricane.
I hear a sharp intake of breath at my side as Katie mutters, “What’s she doing here?”
Before I can ask who “she” is, the woman with the walkie-talkie is attaching something to the back of my shirt, shoving another something in my ear, and Helmet Hair is approaching us, hand outstretched for a shake.
“Drew, Katie,” she says, “I’m Mimi Blake.”
“Where’s George?” Katie blurts out, shaking her hand dumbly.
“Weren’t you watching the earlier segments in the green room?” the woman asks.
I shake my head. I didn’t even notice the TV in the green room.
“George is on location, in Swaziland.” She smiles sweetly, gesturing for us to take two seats across from her. “I’ll be conducting the interview today.”
The woman with the walkie-talkie says, “And we’re on in 5, 4, 3 . . .”
I don’t know George from Mimi, but something about Katie’s reaction tells me this isn’t good.
As Mimi Blake introduces us to the viewers at home, for the first time, I begin to feel nervous.
After the introductions, she continues with, “Katie, George spoke with you at length last week, so I think we’ll begin today with Drew.” She turns to me. “Drew. Katie has spent most of her life on the campaign trail with her father. But this is all new to you, isn’t it?”
Now I officially cross over into full nervous territory as I realize that some sort of respons
e is required from me. I stare directly into the camera. “Yes, Mimi,” I say woodenly. “That is correct.”
That is correct? What kind of moron talks that way?
“You’re not really like any other candidate’s child that we’ve seen in recent years.”
Is there a question in there somewhere?
“Rather than dressing to impress, you dress . . .” With the back of her hand, she indicates my clothing from head to toe. Again, where’s the question? And how am I supposed to respond? Too late, I remember the tie in my pocket. I can’t put it on now . . . can I?
Looking directly into the camera, I say once more, “Yes, Mimi, that is correct.”
I feel a sharp stabbing sensation around my ankle and realize that Katie just kicked me with the pointy toe of her green high-heeled shoe. Hey! And, ouch! Still, it does remind me of what Katie advised earlier, that I should talk directly to Mimi, not the camera, like we’re just two people having a conversation.
This immediately reduces my level of nervousness. And you know what else reduces it? Anger at Katie for getting me into this mess in the first place.
As anger fuels me from the inside, on the outside I suddenly feel distinctly calmer. And, as Mimi proceeds to ask me questions, I realize that this is easy. I know these questions! And how do I know them? Because the TV network forwarded them to Ann in advance to show to me. And that happened, according to Ann, because Katie’s people set a precedent last time by insisting that that was the only way Katie would do the interview with them—if she could see the questions first. This struck me as cheating at the time. What kind of wimp needs to know the questions in advance? What could she possibly be scared of? Coward. But her fear is serving me well now as Mimi continues, “We’re told that, despite your family’s relatively recent elevation in fortune—unlike the Willfields, the Reillys weren’t born with silver spoons in their mouths—you still ride the public school bus and even go to your old public school. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, Mimi.” Look at me! No more robotic “Yes, Mimi, that is correct” for me. I’m nailing this thing! “I’m a big believer in public transportation,” I add. “I even took the train here today.”
“Well, don’t think you’ll be able to do that once you’re in the White House,” Katie blurts out, adding a muttered, “not that that’ll ever happen.”
What is it with that girl? And why does she get under my skin so much?
Oh, right. She’s annoying.
Plus, could she be right? If my mom wins, will my life really be that different? Excuse me while I retreat back into denial.
I decide to ignore Katie. Mimi does too, practically cooing at me, “Ooh, a real man of the people!”
She swivels her head sharply from me to Katie. I take this to mean that the camera will be swiveling to Katie now too, so I take this opportunity to whip my tie from my pocket and rapidly knot it around my neck. The ends wind up wildly uneven, but whatever.
After a dramatic pause and with a fake smile, Mimi says in a falsely cheerful tone that couldn’t be more menacing: “Katie.”
Just her name, full stop.
I have no idea exactly what’s coming next. What I do know is that for Katie, it can’t be good.
But for me? This is going to be very good. Because there’s nothing I can imagine enjoying more than seeing my enemy fall on her face.
KATIE
After Mimi’s menacing “Katie,” she turns to the camera and says, “We’ll hear from Katie Willfield after the break,” and we pause briefly for commercials.
I can’t say for certain what Mimi has in store for me once the break’s over. All I know is, it’ll be harder than those puffball questions she’s been lobbing at Drew. Why, she’s all but asking him, with moony eyes, to tell us all the reasons he’s so wonderful.
Ugh.
She’ll undoubtedly ask me some of the harder questions that George left on the table. Like if I ever felt shortchanged, growing up in a single-parent household in which the only parent spent most of his time focusing on his political career? Or if I have political ambitions of my own?
Both of those would be harder than the questions asked on the previous visit because they’re more personal. But that’s okay. I’m a professional. And I know how to use the personal professionally. The first question, I’ll answer by saying, I don’t feel shortchanged at all. When a candidate is as fit to lead the country as my father is, I can only feel privileged, blessed to be a part of his manifest destiny. And if it’s the second? I’ll say, It’s a little premature to throw my hat into the ring, don’t you think? and I’ll accompany it with a smile and a wink to let everyone know that, of course that’s in my future!
Oh, no. But what if, worst of all, she asks about the china patterns? There was nothing on the list of original questions about that but since George put it on the table with his comments, maybe it is considered fair game now? Still not a problem, I think as I stiffen my back. I’ll just fall on my sword. I’ll say, My father had no knowledge of what I was doing. Voters should not penalize themselves over childish high jinks that are my sole responsibility. And if she follows it up by questioning, Shouldn’t a parent know what his child is up to? Well, she won’t do that, because she’ll know that I could then counter with a question about her own lax parenting style, and believe me, she won’t want to go there. Everyone knows the Blake kids are nothing but tabloid trouble.
As we’re counted back down from commercial break and Mimi opens again with that eerie smile, followed by “Katie,” I’m feeling pret-ty good about my various strategies.
Then Mimi says, “Is it true what we’ve heard, that even though you’re sixteen, you’ve never had a romantic relationship in your life?”
What? She can’t ask that!
“Is it true you’ve never even been on a single date?”
I’m being blindsided here! How is it possible that she can do this? We had an agreement! These questions weren’t on the list! But then, with horror, it hits me: That agreement was for my last appearance on the show. We never had them sign one for this appearance.
Mimi leans forward in her chair and I can practically feel the camera moving in for a close-up of my humiliation.
“Is it true, Katie, that you’ve never been kissed?”
DREW
So for me? Actually? Seeing my enemy, my nemesis, fall on her face?
Not good. Not so good at all. Three short questions may not seem like much of a barrage, but that’s what it undoubtedly becomes as Mimi keeps hitting into Katie with rude question after rude question. A part of me thinks I should be enjoying this—I want to be enjoying this. After what Katie’s done to me, she deserves whatever she gets. But the thing is, she doesn’t. No one does.
While I’m thinking this, another part of me recognizes a shocking truth: Katie’s not just cute. She’s beautiful. The line of questioning and her obvious discomfort have brought out more color in her cheeks and made her green eyes sparkle. As she shifts in her chair, I notice the skirt of her crazy power suit is tight enough to show off what is undeniably an excellent pair of legs. Wow.
I see Katie open her mouth but no words come out. She opens it again and it occurs to me, even if she does manage to speak, she’s obviously so hurt, so crumpled by this, I doubt she’ll be able to help her own cause.
“Buses!” I suddenly shout.
Mimi whips her head at me. “Excuse me?”
“Buses! And trains! And . . . and . . . and subways! Did I forget before to mention subways? Really, any and all forms of public transportation—I can’t say enough good things about it. I just love the stuff.”
“That’s terrific, Drew. Like I said, a real man of the people. But we were focusing on—”
“And the most ultimate form of public transportation of all . . .” Did I really just say “most ultimate”? My English teacher would kill me. “Your feet!” I hold up my own two, clad in boots, to illustrate. For good measure, I waggle them around for a bit.<
br />
“Whoever invented feet,” I add, “they did one heckuva job.”
No matter how many times Mimi tries to yank the interview back to Katie, I just yank it right back with more of what will undoubtedly go down in television history as “The Ode to Public Transportation.”
As Mimi, with no other choice, finally wraps things up, I thrust my hand out for a shake. “Thank you, Mimi.” I shake extra firmly. “And I hope I’ve made myself clear here today: I just love public transportation!”
Two minutes later, we’re collecting our personal items from the green room—her purse, my iPod and Game Boy—and two minutes after that, we’re waiting for the elevator, the Clint-like guy behind us. Despite all the people bustling past, it’s like there’s a cone of silence surrounding us. Wow, is this awkward.
I want to ask her if she’s okay after what Mimi pulled. I want to say something to show support for what she just went through. But I can’t find the words. Won’t whatever I say just draw more attention to what happened? Make it worse? If only I could find the right words to—
At last, the elevator arrives. Katie steps on first, followed by doppelgänger Clint, and looks back out at me.
“You know,” she says, “there was no need for you to interfere like that. I could have handled that all by myself. I’ve certainly dealt with worse than the likes of Mimi Blake in my life.”
Then she punches a button.
As the elevator door starts to close, I yell through the ever-decreasing gap, “Yeah, well, thank you works too!”
KATIE
I exit the special door on the side of the studio, only to find the usual gaggle of stage-door Johnnys and Janes waiting there. It’s a strangely larger gaggle than usual, mostly female, and mostly fairly young. As they call out things to me—“Is it true you’ve never been on a date, Katie? Is it true you’ve never been kissed?”—I wonder bitterly: Shouldn’t a lot of these people be at school by now?
Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .) Page 7
