Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .)

by Baratz-Logsted, Lauren

  One thing Drew and I don’t talk about much? The election. Partly because I don’t want to hurt his feelings, as I’m sure my father will win. But also, what’s the point in talking about something that can only be a source of tension between us? So when we’re together, I avoid the topic of the election as much as I can. I try to pretend it doesn’t exist, even though the clock is ticking.

  Just because we don’t talk about the election, however, it doesn’t mean we don’t talk about politics. Well, I talk about it anyway. It’s the one thing I’m an expert on and it continually amazes me how much Drew doesn’t know. Come to think of it, I’m also constantly amazed by how little the average American teenager knows about our political process. Those polls with the percentages of high school students saying they can’t name the vice president of the United States? Don’t even get me started. How depressing! Most people can name the president. I must say those who can’t really worry me.

  So I talk to Drew about your basic stuff: how a bill becomes a law, the history of the filibuster, what Lincoln has to do with the Log Cabin Republicans.

  It would probably surprise people to learn: Drew is growing very interested in all these things. At least, when I’m talking he seems to be.

  And while I teach him about politics, what does he teach me about?

  How to be a friend. How to have a romantic relationship.

  So there we were, going along perfectly happy. I had grown used to the fact that our relationship is one hundred percent confined to a garage—like Drew says, who wants the headaches of the paparazzi?—but then he gets upset about the fact that we are confined to the garage and we can’t do anything normal like go on a date in a public place, and that’s when I come up with my plan.

  “Next Friday,” I say, “they’re having a masquerade ball at my school. It’s to benefit some charity.”

  “I don’t see how that solves anything, Kat.”

  I take a moment to enjoy him calling me Kat again—I just love that!—before going on to state the obvious.

  “We could go,” I say, and then I add, just in case he doesn’t get it yet, “you know, together?”

  “How’s that going to work? You ever see when people do that in movies?”

  Of course I probably have, since I’ve seen a lot of movies. But I’m not sure what he’s getting at.

  “Probably,” I say. “And?”

  “They always have two main characters that like each other but don’t know it yet or something silly like that. Anyway, they both wind up at a masquerade ball and they both have masks on and then of course they wind up dancing together and of course their attraction grows, because they’re masked and being hidden behind masks they can let their prejudices of the other person go and let their real selves shine through. It’s supposed to be so dramatic and cool—he doesn’t know it’s her! She doesn’t know it’s really him! But in reality, the whole audience is like, ‘Dude, how can you not know it’s her? It’s the same chick—same body, same hair, same eyes and smile—but with a little tiny mask around her eyes!’ ”

  “You have given this a lot of thought.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I see what you’re saying, but that doesn’t really apply here.”

  “How can it not?”

  “Because the Willfield Academy Masquerade Ball isn’t really like that.”

  “How can a masquerade ball be not like a masquerade ball?”

  “Willfield Academy just likes fancier names for everything. For example, we never have ‘lunch’ if we can have a ‘luncheon.’ Every day, the midday meal is like a special event. And the masquerade ball? It’s just a fancier name for costume party. At least that’s what I think. I’ve never actually gone to one of these before.”

  “So you’re saying we’d wear full costumes? Not just silly little masks?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Cool! But what would we go as?”

  We decide to go as something where our costumes makes some sort of thematic sense together and to be characters from some famous movie. But once we decide those two things, Drew, despite his inordinate fascination with the way masquerade ball scenes are portrayed in film, leaves which film up to me.

  I scan my brain for things I’ve seen recently.

  “Titanic?” I reject it before he can with “Too tragic.” “Lincoln?” Another self-rejection from me as I point out, “Mary Todd was kind of a loon.”

  “Neither of those would be good anyway because,” Drew says, “like with the tiny-mask thing, it’d still be our heads on top of the costumes. Too recognizable.”

  I picture Drew with a Lincoln beard and a stovepipe hat. It’s not actually a good image.

  “You’re right,” I concede.

  “We really need something more costumey.”

  “Costumey? Is that even a word?” Before he can respond, I say, “Hey! I’ve got it!”

  “You do?”

  “We could go as characters from The Wizard of Oz!”

  As he thinks about this, I wait for him to come up with something to object to, but after a moment, he smiles. “Cool. I could be the Tin Man. If I have a bunch of silver makeup all over my face, no one will recognize me.”

  “And I could be Dorothy! I’ve always wanted ruby slippers. I wonder if they make them with real rubies? And I could get a red wig and maybe break into song—”

  “Um, Kat?”

  “Hmm . . .” I’m so busy visualizing what this will all be like, it takes me a minute to realize he’s no longer smiling. “What’s wrong?”

  “Cute as you’d look in a little blue-and-white-checked dress, and as, um, fun as it might be to see you break into song in public, you as Dorothy won’t work.”

  “You don’t think I could be a redhead?”

  “That’s not it. It’s just that, you as Dorothy . . .” He sighs. “It’s still not costumey enough. I’m sure the wig would be fine but it would still so obviously be you under it.”

  I’m tempted to be offended but I do see what he means.

  “So who else could I be? Not Glinda the Good—there’d be the same problem as with Dorothy. What other major female character could I be that requires a lot of concealing makeup?”

  “I’ve got it!”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re not going to suggest that I go as the Wicked Witch of the West, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  That’s a relief.

  “You should go as Toto.”

  This requires more than a narrowing of the eyes. It also requires hands on both hips and as much indignation as I can muster. “You want me to go as the dog?”

  “Everyone loves Toto!”

  “You may not have noticed this about me? But I’m a cat person.”

  “Think about it, though . . .”

  I don’t know. But there’s just something about Drew. As much as I want to hold on to feeling indignant, before long . . .

  “Sure,” I tell him. “I can be Toto.”

  But no sooner do we get that settled and I tell him I’ll have Kent pick up costumes for us at the shop in town than Drew says . . .

  “Oh, no.” He laughs. “It’s no good if we buy the costumes. We need to make them.”

  “Who are you—Martha Stewart? Real people don’t make their own costumes.”

  I could be wrong, but this is the closest we’ve come to having an actual fight since we first kissed. Which, when you think about it, is really amazing. If we’re in a fight, I’m sure I’ll win—I’m the one with common sense on her side.

  “Not everyone just goes out and buys stuff all the time,” Drew says, “particularly not items to be worn just once and then put aside.”

  I’m about to point out to him that, actually, people do this all the time. If he wants, I can put it in an essay and footnote everything.

  But then he starts talking about growing up poor, how before his family had money he and his mom used to make his Halloween costumes together because that’s al
l they could afford. This only serves to remind me that I haven’t even gone out for Halloween since I was very small, because the fall season has always been reserved in my house for politics. Suddenly, homemade costumes actually sound good.

  “Sure,” I find myself agreeing, “we could do that.”

  It never occurred to me before how difficult it would be to make my own dog costume. Of course, that’s probably not something that occurs to most people outside of costume designers in Hollywood who just happen to be designing outfits for actors dressed as dogs. Drew, on the other hand, finds making a Tin Man costume a breeze. Maybe it’s because he’s so handy with working on cars, but before I know it, he gets a bunch of cardboard to fashion into a barrel shape, a funnel for a hat, and sprays it all with silver spray paint. He tells me that on the night of the masquerade ball he’ll put silver makeup all over his face. All of the other items, like the funnel, he gets from his supply of stuff in the garage, but the silver makeup he’ll order online from a costume retailer.

  Like I said, easy.

  But me? With the strips of various shades of brown-colored crepe paper? The furry this and the fuzzy that? Not to mention, a tail? Let’s just say it’s a bit of a chaotic mess for a while.

  But that’s okay because we’re doing something in Drew’s garage other than bindiing the Corvair and we’re doing it together.

  And so the week flies by with only a few flies getting in the ointment.

  The first fly happens at school. It’s not that the masquerade ball has been called off—that would be a true tragedy, but no, I’m able to buy my two tickets for Friday night just fine.

  The fly is the mock election, which is held on Thursday.

  I walk into school in the morning feeling such a sense of excitement and head straight for the gymnasium, where the mock voting booths are set up. Students have put up signs on the walls lining the corridor leading up to the room. The signs say things like A VOTE FOR EDWARD WILLFIELD IS A VOTE FOR WILLFIELD ACADEMY and SAMANTHA REILLY FOR A BETTER TOMORROW THAN TODAY. I’m sure whoever thought of that last one thought it made sense. But personally? I find it grammatically questionable. There’s even one sign up for Bix Treadwell, the third-party candidate, that says: BIX TREADWELL: BECAUSE BILLIONAIRES CAN’T BE BOUGHT. Everyone knows Bix doesn’t stand a chance. I can only imagine that whoever put it up is some sort of idealist who believes that a third-party candidate can actually win a presidential election. Ha! Not in this century.

  I enter the voting booth and pull the lever next to my father’s name.

  Afterward, I accept my “I voted today!” sticker and proudly stick it to the lapel of my blazer. Over the course of the day I note that every single student I see in classes or pass in the hallways is also sporting the same sticker. I’m filled with pride. Every year, I hear some sort of horror story about the low percentage of voter turnout in American elections. It is appalling. Willfield Academy, on the other hand, has a history of having one hundred percent turnout for mock elections.

  I suppose that may be because it’s a requirement, but still.

  My school and patriotic fervor soars throughout the day. Honestly, I’m so proud of my father, so proud of my school, so proud of my country—there are no words for it.

  By all rights, these soaring feelings should reach crescendo at the all-school assembly held during the final period of the day. This is when the headmaster will read out the election results. This is when my father, in a mock election that is no doubt a harbinger of the real election in just four weeks, will be declared president. After all, Willfield Academy is like the Weekly Reader poll—its choices are always right.

  One can imagine my horror, then, when what comes out of the headmaster’s mouth is: “Samantha Reilly, thirty-nine percent of the vote; Bix Treadwell, thirty-three percent of the vote; Edward Willfield, twenty-six percent of the vote; and the cooking staff, with write-in votes, two percent of the vote.” He stares at the sheet of paper, perplexed for a moment, before concluding: “Well, I suppose the cooking staff has upped its game lately. So kudos to them!”

  Never mind the cooking staff. What just happened here? How is it possible that my father lost to both Samantha Reilly and Bix Treadwell? I suppose I should be grateful that the cooking staff hasn’t upped their game any more than it has—otherwise, he might have lost to them as well!

  All around me, I hear the buzz of whispers. And the only words I’m able to make out? My name. It feels as though every eye in the room is upon me, waiting for a reaction. But I refuse to give them what they want. People in my family are nothing if not stoic. So outwardly, I maintain a look of serenity. I even manage a smile because I refuse to reveal the panic and distress and sheer sadness I feel inside.

  I think of Willfield Academy’s founding fathers—aka my ancestors—and how they must be rolling in their graves.

  How could this have happened? Should I have campaigned harder for my father? Okay, I’ll admit I didn’t campaign here at all, but that’s only because I figured it was implied. I mean, yes, everyone knows that Connecticut leans liberal, and Willfield Academy is traditionally part of that liberal leaning—save the whales and yada yada. But wasn’t it safe to assume that, just like once upon a time America went in whatever direction Henry Ford went, that a school that actually bears the name of Willfield would go in the direction of the only candidate that shares that name?

  It’s only as I’m shoving my way out of the auditorium, noticing the strange smiles on other students’ faces as I pass them, that it hits me.

  This has nothing to do with my father. Whatever . . . this is, this mock election has been engineered with the sole purpose of mocking me. People have deliberately thrown their support in other directions as a vote not against my father, but against me.

  I have to admit, that stinks.

  It’s not like I’ve ever tried to win any popularity contests before, but still, I don’t think that before today I ever realized how much free-floating animosity there is in the world.

  Then I look at the bright side. Okay, so maybe nobody around here really likes me, but does that matter? After all, I have Drew.

  Then I think of the other bright side. If these mock election results are truly all just one big mock, then they have absolutely no bearing on the upcoming real election. They are a harbinger of zip.

  And you know what two bright sides make? A whole.

  The cooking staff, my foot.

  That night, I’m putting the finishing touches on my Toto costume, gluing strips of brown and autumn-hued crepe paper to the shell of a Ted costume I had Kent pick up—you know, Ted, like in the Ted movie?—when the second fly flies into my ointment. This one comes in the form of a phone call from my father on Cook’s phone.

  “Can you believe the latest poll numbers?” he asks without preamble.

  Can I? Actually, I can’t. Probably because I haven’t looked at them this week. And why is that? I’ve been too busy spending time with Drew.

  “The latest numbers are—” I start to say but then stop because I don’t know how to finish this sentence. Are the numbers phenomenal? Catastrophic? No, that last can’t be true. Maybe the numbers are just . . . numbers?

  But apparently it’s okay that I don’t know how to finish the sentence because my father continues with, “And the worst part is Bix Treadwell.”

  “Bix?” I say, truly shocked. How can Bix matter? He’s just a third-party candidate and a distant third at best.

  “This new tactic of his,” my father steams. In a mocking tone he adds what is apparently a new campaign slogan of Bix’s, “Above the Fray.”

  “It is kind of catchy,” I concede.

  “Catchy? Did you just call it catchy?” He sighs. “You’re not the only one who thinks so. The press is eating it up, so of course the populace is following suit. You’d think no one ever swore before to run a clean campaign—I do that all the time!”

  “True,” I say. And it is true. We do that and then we say wh
atever we want.

  “And he’s so clever,” my father continues. “He says that he’s running a clean campaign, that he’s ‘above the fray,’ when all the while he’s implying that Samantha Reilly and I are just a couple of mudslingers. I call that dirty pool, princess. What say you?”

  “Definitely dirty pool,” I agree.

  “Think about it! While claiming to be not slinging mud, what’s he doing but slinging more mud?”

  “Exactly,” I say. Then: “Just how bad are the poll numbers?”

  There’s a sharp intake of breath coming from the other end of the line.

  “Baby,” my father says, “do you honestly not know?”

  “I’ve just been very busy this week.”

  “With what?”

  “With school.”

  Well, that’s technically true, isn’t it? I’ve been busy with Drew, making costumes for the masquerade ball we’re going to tomorrow night, which is at my school—hence, I’ve been busy with school.

  “Well, stop!” my father practically shouts. “Eye on the prize, baby, eye on the prize!”

  Let’s face it. Parents are confusing. On the one hand, my father says he wants me to have a normal life, while on the other, well, look at him. Clearly, I get my vernacular and life outlook from him.

  “Of course,” I quickly agree. Then, even though I’m beginning to worry—could that stupid mock election at Willfield Academy actually turn out to be a true harbinger of national sentiment after all?—I hasten to reassure him.

  “I’m sure this is just a glitch,” I say. “You know the beginning of October is a notoriously fickle time for voters. They’re so busy watching the stupid World Series, they don’t know what they’re telling pollsters! But as soon as the face-to-face debates start next week, the public will see what a superior candidate you are and then this one lousy glitch will just be a bad and distant memory.”