It’s Sunday afternoon and we’re in my garage. I called Sandy earlier to invite him over.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “It hasn’t been that long. What’s it been, just a few weeks?”
“A few weeks during which you kept telling me you were too busy with schoolwork to get together.”
“Well, I was busy.”
“Yeah, but you were busy with Katie Willfield.”
“Oh. You’ve seen the pictures.”
“Dude, the whole world has seen the pictures.”
Those pictures—I’d love to get my hands around the neck of the person who took them.
“So how come you didn’t tell me about it?” Sandy asks.
How come? Because, much as I love Sandy, he’s got a big mouth and we were trying to keep things quiet.
“I guess it just never came up,” I say.
“Riiiiiight. So, you still seeing this chick?”
“No,” I say and then immediately say, “Yes.” Because after all the things I haven’t told Sandy, I really can’t tell him that Katie and I are now broken up but only pretending to be together for the sakes of our parents’ campaigns.
“Which is it,” Sandy says, “yes or no?”
“No, I’m not seeing her today—I’m hanging with you today—but yes, I’m still seeing her. As a matter of fact, I’m flying out on Tuesday morning to St. Louis to, um, hang with her at the first presidential debate.” Before he can press me further, I say, “So, you want to help me figure out how to rebuild this engine?”
KATIE
In all my years of schooling, Monday will no doubt go down in history as the strangest of all.
Since my failed attempts to secure friendships years before, I haven’t bothered trying very hard to make friends with kids my own age. But if there is one thing I’ve learned in my time with Drew, it’s that it’s nice to have a friend.
So I do something—make that a whole bunch of somethings—that I’ve never done. I take the time to talk to other people. I compliment them on things they’re wearing that I like or on doing well at something in class. Previously self-sufficient, I ask people for help with things. In short, I take an interest. At first, it’s just to achieve an end. But as the day goes on, I find myself doing it for the simple pleasure of the thing itself. At first, people are hesitant, kind of like a bunch of Robert De Niros—“Are you talking to me?”—but people are more forgiving than you’d think they’d be. Most people, I think, are always willing to start fresh.
Okay, so maybe it’s just one day. And tomorrow I leave for St. Louis and three weeks on the campaign trail. And then there’s no telling what will happen after that.
But at least it’s a beginning. Who knows? Maybe after all this is over, I’ll finally have a life.
DREW
I’m wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt, and navy tie because Ann says that this isn’t like the night my mom received the nomination and if I don’t dress properly, it’ll reflect badly on my mom. The suit has to be navy, Ann told me, because Democrats always wear blue at these events while Republicans always wear red—well, the men don’t wear red suits, obviously, but they do wear red ties. If you ask me, this is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. Like, how stupid do politicians think the American voter really is? Do they honestly think the color of a tie or suit is actually going to make some kind of difference? Like, if the politicians didn’t wear the team colors, voters wouldn’t be able to tell them apart and would wind up voting for the wrong candidate? Which begs the question: Since Bix Treadwell is the third-party candidate, what team color will he be wearing?
Oh, and my hair? It’s trimmed a smidgen and slicked back—more of Ann’s ideas.
Yes, that’s right, folks. We are live backstage at the first presidential debate. We’ve got our own room—I can only presume the other candidates’ families also have their own rooms—and my dad and I are watching the action on a little TV. The twins are at home with Stella. When the debate is over, Dad and I are supposed to join my mom onstage and that’s when the real fun is scheduled to start. Yeah, right. After congratulating my mom, I’m supposed to hold Katie’s hand. This’ll be the first time I’ve seen her since I broke up with her and I’m supposed to act all lovey-dovey. That’s the opposite of what I’m feeling for her.
I don’t want to think about that right now.
What I’d really like to do is take out my iPhone and distract myself. My mom gave it back to me right before we got here. When I expressed my surprise, she said, “Of course I’m giving it back to you. How else are you going to take selfies of you and Katie when you go out on your date tomorrow?”
Right. My date. Tomorrow morning, before leaving town, Katie and I are supposed to go do something in St. Louis and take pictures of ourselves having fun together.
I’m not sure what I’m looking forward to less: holding her hand onstage tonight or going on a date with her tomorrow.
Yes, I would very much like to distract myself from all this by texting Sandy right now. There’s just one problem. After giving me my iPhone back with instructions for tomorrow, my mom was quick to warn, “But no getting in trouble.” And me and Sandy texting? Given the mood I’m in? That’s bound to lead to trouble.
Sheesh. I finally get my iPhone back and I’m so scared of doing the wrong thing with it that I can’t bring myself to do anything with it. What a world.
“I don’t believe this,” my dad says.
“What?”
“Aren’t you watching?” He points at the TV monitor. “That bozo just asked your mom if it ever made her feel guilty, leaving the twins at home while pursuing a life in politics. ‘Don’t you ever feel torn between your career and your family?’ ” My dad is clearly outraged on her behalf. “What century are we living in? They don’t ask the men those kinds of questions!”
This draws me in a bit to the debate. And the absence of anything else to do in the room draws me in even more. Before I know it, I’m actually watching. Soon, I notice there is a difference in the tenor of the questions addressed to my mom. If it were me, some of those questions might make me mad.
But if my mom’s mad, she doesn’t show it. In fact, she impresses me with her ability to listen closely to each question, and however ridiculous it might be, answer coolly and calmly. I don’t think I could ever do that. For the first time it hits me: she’s actually very good at this thing.
And you know who else is good? Edward Willfield. His approach is different than my mom’s. While her approach is more serious, his is more one hand in the pocket and a smile, like a favorite uncle casually telling you a story. As I pay more attention, I come to realize that he’s very good at not answering the question directly. Instead, he makes it seem like he does but then takes his response time as an opportunity to talk about whatever he wants to. Slick. I may have to try that in Social Studies class sometime—“Your question about the American Revolution is most excellent, Ms. Tomlinson. Now, let me tell you about the Civil War . . .”
You know who isn’t good at this debate stuff?
Bix Treadwell.
Not only does he fail to employ Edward Willfield’s slick trick of twisting questions to his own purpose, but his answers don’t even come close to making any kind of sense! He keeps rambling on about chickens and pots and some bizarre tax scheme that even I can tell would never work. On top of that, every time he’s asked a question, he prefaces his response by saying, “If my two esteemed colleagues would just stop slinging mud at each other for a minute so I can talk . . .”
But here’s the thing. My mom and Edward Willfield aren’t slinging mud at each other. They’re being so polite, it’s like two cartoon characters who want to go through the same doorway—“After you”; “No, I insist, after you”; “No, really”—only to get stuck together in the doorway when they try to pass through at the same time. If they were any more polite, you’d think they were friends. And when they talk, their policies are so close together, it’s tou
gh to tell them apart.
Bix Treadwell, though? He makes no sense. Who let this guy in? Oh, right. The voters did, because he’s a self-made billionaire who can afford to finance his own election. Which, I suppose, also technically describes my mom.
But still, the guy’s a loon!
The least loony person, though?
My mom, by a landslide.
The final question to all three candidates is the same:
“Why do you want to be president?”
Edward Willfield looks taken aback by it, like he wasn’t expecting so basic a question. Almost like he prepared for all the tough stuff, and in the process, neglected to consider this. For the first time all night, he falters. His response is scattered and seems to lack focus. Bix Treadwell’s response makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.
But my mom’s?
“There are only two reasons to run for the highest office in the land,” she says, “and they both must be true at the same time. You must believe that things could be better and you must also believe that you’re the best person to make it so.”
Simple. Direct.
For the first time I think: I’d vote for her!
For the first time I think: She deserves to win.
But then, just like that, it’s over. The audience is clapping loudly—during the actual debate they’d been instructed not to, so I guess now they’re making up for lost time—and my dad and I are being given the cue to join my mom onstage, which we do.
My dad kisses her, I kiss her. Then, as instructed, we cross the stage to Bix Treadwell’s family and congratulate them, do the handshake thing. (For the record, his team color is yellow. I realize it’s the only primary color left after red and blue. But if you ask me? It’s a mistake.) Finally, after the Willfields have also congratulated the Treadwells, the Reillys and Willfields meet in the middle.
My mom, Dad, and I all congratulate Edward Willfield. Then my mom and dad both shake Katie’s hand, and tell her what a pleasure it is to finally meet her. My mom even compliments Katie on her red suit.
And now it’s my turn to take Katie’s hand and kiss her on the cheek, that cheek that is still so soft. The crowd roars the loudest it has all night as I raise our clasped hands in the air.
“Kew! Kew! Kew!” people shout from all over the arena.
If I tried to smile any wider, my face would probably crack. And when I look out of the edge of my eye at Katie, I see that her smile is equally wide and forced.
I can’t help myself.
Out of the corner of my mouth, I whisper: “Traitor.”
And almost immediately, she whispers right back: “Jerk.”
Wait a second.
How am I the jerk here?
KATIE
“So,” Kent says brightly from the front seat, “who’s up for Cronuts?”
I’m in the back, as far to the right on the seat as I can possibly be, while Drew is as far to the left as he can be. The ocean of empty space between us is huge. Even though I brought several red suits with me—yeah, yeah, I know, they make people think of Christmas when I wear them, but that’s what Republicans wear at debates—today I have on the jeans I bought the first time Drew invited me over. I’m also wearing a thick sweater because we’re supposed to look like a normal couple in the pictures. Drew has on jeans and a T-shirt. I have a feeling he may regret this in the chilly Missouri weather.
And Kent with his bright offer of Cronuts?
Kent’s the only one who knows the real story of everything that’s happened with Drew and me. He knows how much I’m hurting. But he’s also a romantic and he thinks the situation can still be repaired. That it’s all some misunderstanding and we’ll laugh about it in the end.
I’m not laughing.
“No Cronuts,” I say.
“You sure?” Kent says. “Because—”
“Just drive,” I say. “Let’s get this thing over with.”
It’s been decided in advance, by our parents—talk about your unholy alliances!—that we should take pictures of our fake date at the Gateway Arch. It’s St. Louis’s most significant, recognizable landmark and it has been deemed that this will be the most romantic spot for us.
As we pull up, Drew cranes his head against the window. “Wow, it’s big.”
I say nothing.
“So tell me,” he says. “How did I wind up being the jerk here?”
I snort.
“Well,” he says, “that’s mature.”
“Those pictures?” I say. As if he doesn’t already know. “Of us outside your house?”
“How is that my fault?”
“You set me up.”
“What?”
I remind him about that night, me saying I heard something—rustle, snick, and snick—and him saying he didn’t.
“You planned it in advance,” I say.
“And why would I do that?”
“To embarrass me. You must have known about the story about your dad, you blamed me for that—which I didn’t do—and you wanted to get back at me.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t do that! I wouldn’t do that!”
“Really?” I stare at him, stony. “Gee, that’s what I told you when you accused me. Tell me: How did that work out for me?”
Drew opens his mouth but then closes it, his lips tight together. I’ve never been the best at reading people, but if I had to guess I’d say he’s frustrated.
“You know what?” he says, not waiting for an answer. “Never mind. Let’s just do this thing.”
He pushes open the door. As he gets out, he’s hit with a big gust of wind.
I get out on my side and walk around the back to his. Once there, I see him rubbing his bare arms with his hands.
“Didn’t you bring a jacket?” I say. “A sweater?”
“No.” He rubs some more, shivers some more.
“St. Louis can get very windy,” I say, “and it can be pretty cold already in October.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“Didn’t you look at the weather report before coming here? Not to mention, the forecasters say it’s going to be an unusually cold fall, especially back home.”
“Thank you, Farmer’s Almanac.”
“Funny you should mention that. They say it’s supposed to snow as early as the first week in November. I hope it doesn’t interfere with voters getting to the polls.”
“Not everyone’s lives revolve around this stupid election, Katie. I’ll be glad when the next three weeks are over with.”
“Why? Because we won’t have to wonder who the winner is anymore?” I ask. Then I amend with, “Well, unless what happened in 2000 and 2004 happens again.” I shudder at the thought.
“No,” he says, stopping his rubbing long enough to wave a disgusted hand. “So we don’t have to do this. So we don’t have to pretend anymore. So we don’t have to pretend to like each other.”
As if on cue a couple of strangers pass us, smiling. There’s something about those smiles. They’re not looking at us like, Oh, cute, a couple! They’re looking at us more like, Hey, it’s them!
Immediately, Drew puts his arm around my shoulders, I put an arm around his waist, we smile at the strangers and then look each other in the eye like there’s no place in the world we’d rather be.
After a few moments of this, I say through my forced smile, “Are they gone yet?”
Drew, through his forced smile, responds, “I think so.” Then we look all around. The coast clear, we drop our arms and our smiles.
“So,” I say, looking at the Gateway Arch. “Should we go up?”
“No. I don’t like heights.”
“How did I not know that?” I shrug. “I guess it never came up before when we were hanging out in the garage.”
At my mention of the garage, I grow wistful and I see a similar look cross Drew’s face. Can he be feeling what I’m feeling? Impossible. I push the feeling of wistfulness away.
“Well,” I say, “if you
don’t want to go up, would you like to hear about how the Gateway Arch came into existence? Because I was reading up—”
“I don’t want an architectural history lesson either.” He rubs his arms. “Let’s just take the pictures and go.”
So that’s what we do.
We stand in front of one side of the Gateway Arch, each with one arm around the other, each holding an iPhone out with our other hand, smiling for the unseen public and taking selfies. Then we post them to our various social media handles and send them to a few media sites.
Drew starts to walk away, back toward the limo, but I stay where I am.
He turns back. “What are you doing?”
“I’m waiting,” I say.
“For what?”
“For the first comments, to see what people will say.”
Even though he must be freezing by now, he comes back and looks at my iPhone with me. I’m feeling nervous because what if they’re as mean as those first-page comments were about the masquerade ball pictures?
But they’re not.
“Wow,” I say in wonder, “they really like us.”
No, really, they do. Almost instantly, the first picture has a hundred likes and growing fast.
Drew reads the first few comments out loud. “Kew!” “Kew!” “Kew!”
I laugh. “The first time I heard that out loud, at the debate, all I could think of was Tina Fey’s old imitation of Sarah Palin.”
I look at Drew, expecting him to find it funny too, but he’s just staring at me.
“You know?” I say. I hold my forefingers up like tiny pretend pistols and go, “Pew! Pew! Pew!”
“Never seen it,” Drew says, smiling. Only it’s a mixed smile, equal parts amusement and appreciation and something else. Sad, maybe.
“Oh, well.”
I look back at the screen.
“Oh my goodness,” I say. “Did you see this one? ‘Just like Romeo and Juliet!’ Right. If Romeo and Juliet’s families’ main bones of contention were how big the defense budget should be and how to improve the tax code.”
Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .) Page 17
