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

by Baratz-Logsted, Lauren

  “Well,” Drew says, “hopefully here no one dies in the end.”

  We both laugh. And we laugh even more as further comments come in. Despite my thick sweater, the wind is strong and I shiver. Almost instantly, I feel Drew’s arm go around my shoulders. And without thinking about it first, I rub his bare arm with my free hand.

  These actions—his and mine—startle both of us, I think. I can’t know what’s going on in his head but I certainly know what’s going on in mine.

  What are we doing here?

  I don’t know what that commenter who compared us to Romeo and Juliet was thinking. We are nothing like them.

  And it has nothing to do with no one dying in the end.

  Romeo and Juliet were in love.

  We’ve each hurt each other too much for that.

  In wordless agreement, we disengage, put our phones away, head back to the limo.

  We drive back in silence to Drew’s hotel. He only speaks to me when he gets out, right before he shuts the door:

  “See you in Philly.”

  DREW

  The original plan was for me to fly home to Connecticut for most of the week, so I can continue with school until the next debate. But since Katie is spending the entire next three weeks on the campaign trail with her dad, the decision is made that I should do the same with my mom.

  “There’s no point in letting the opposition get an advantage on us,” my mom says. “Plus, sometimes we can learn something from them.”

  So while my dad flies home every few days to spend some time with the twins, I’m with my mom every step of the way. In the week following the St. Louis debate, we crisscross the country, stopping in a different key state each day.

  Wisconsin. South Carolina. Ohio. Michigan. Nevada.

  You get the message. There are a lot of states out there.

  In the beginning, it’s exciting: all that travel on planes, all those states I’ve never been to before.

  It is something of a revelation, being at my mom’s side as she gives her speeches, seeing how the people respond to her.

  And the questions people—not reporters or TV interviewers, but actual citizens—have for her are an even further revelation. They ask them seriously, clearly concerned about issues I don’t normally pay a great deal of attention to, then wait intently to hear what she’ll say in return.

  What will she do about unemployment?

  What kind of plan does she have for improving education?

  If Russia does X or North Korea does Y, how will she, as president, respond?

  It hits me at some point that it’s just a tip of the national iceberg. If we see thousands, even tens upon tens of thousands of people in that first week, they are just a small percentage of the people out there—nameless and faceless people who will never get a chance to ask their questions. There are three hundred million people in the country and it occurs to me that each one of them has questions and concerns. Each one of them has things they’d like to see become better in this country and they’re hopeful one of the candidates can make the improvements they seek come to pass.

  My mom clearly hopes that person will be her.

  Sometimes in conversation I find it tough to maintain one hundred percent focus. When I was still with Katie, I could do that. But you know how it is. Lots of times, people are talking to you and what you’re mostly focusing on isn’t what they’re saying, so that you can respond to it fully, but rather on what you want to say next. Or you’re thinking of what you’re going to do next or even: Hey, what’s for lunch? But my mom, no matter how many times she’s heard a question before or how rambling the questioner’s delivery, maintains a constant laser-like focus that is nothing short of impressive.

  She is even more impressive when faced with the same rude question at each campaign stop.

  No matter how people might try to dress it up, no matter how they might try to make it sound like a new question, it always boils down to this: “Is it true that your husband is cheating on you?”

  The first time I heard someone ask her that to her face—which is so different, so much ruder than seeing the words in print—I wanted to leap into the crowd and punch the person in the nose. And from the brief tightening in my mom’s jaw—so brief, if you blinked you would miss it—I got the distinct impression that she would have liked to do some punching too. But what did she do?

  She smiled.

  And then she said: “Yes, I’ve read those unconfirmed reports in the press too. And I suppose I’d be troubled by them, as you so clearly are, if they were anything more than unconfirmed. But the truth is, they’re not. What is confirmed is that people like you—and everyone here today, everyone across the country—have legitimate concerns about the current state and future of this great country of ours. So what do you say we forget about gossip and instead focus on working together to make these United States the best they can be?”

  She gets a roar of approval each time she says this, and each time I feel a surge of pride.

  She is, quite simply, that good.

  But there’s no getting around the fact that the story does persist in the media, which just won’t let it go.

  “But Dad said it wasn’t true,” I object.

  “I know, and I believe him,” my mom says. “Just ignore it.”

  “It isn’t fair, though!”

  “You can’t worry about ‘fair’ in politics. Once a story has made front-page news it’s almost impossible to get a retraction. And even if you do get one, it’s likely to be buried so far back that no one sees it. Or if they do, years later, all people remember is the accusation, not the result.”

  “So what can we do?”

  “About the rumor?”

  I nod.

  “Nothing.” She shrugs. “All we can do is what we’ve been doing all along: answer people’s questions, address their concerns, keep fine-tuning our plan to make tomorrow a better day.”

  It’s late Monday night when we have this talk. Early tomorrow morning, we’re supposed to fly into Philadelphia for the second of the three debates. There’s now just fifteen days left until Election Day, just a third of the way through this imposed stint of me being on the road.

  I know I said it was exciting flying from state to state. And it was. At first. But just one week in, I’m already feeling the fatigue. And if I’m feeling this way after such a relatively short period of time, what must my mom be feeling? After all, she’s been living this life on the road for over a year now, first campaigning for the party nomination and now for the national one.

  Not to mention, it’s kind of lonely on the road. Sure, it’s cool seeing my mom in action and it’s even sort of interesting to hear her strategy sessions late at night with Ann and other people. And when my dad is with us, I can see that there’s still a lot of good between them. But it’s still lonely. I never thought I’d say this about that huge house we live in now, but I miss my home. I miss Sandy. I even miss the twins. Mostly, I just miss normal.

  I can’t believe I’m saying this either, but a part of me is actually looking forward to Philly tomorrow and seeing Katie again. At least she’s someone I know, someone who isn’t Ann or one of the legion of adults surrounding my mom. She’s someone I could laugh with. Someone I do laugh with.

  Of course I push that thought away, almost as immediately as it entered my mind. What am I thinking? The girl’s a traitor.

  “You okay, bud?” my mom says, covering my hand with hers.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “You sure?”

  I can’t tell her what I’ve just been thinking so I resort to the truthful things: “Sometimes I just miss home a bit, and Sandy, but it’s all fine.”

  Late at night like this, with the crowds behind us for the time being and her makeup off, I can see how tired she is as she sympathetically pats my hand.

  “You really want this thing,” I say, “don’t you?”

  Without me having to define it, she knows exactly
what “this thing” is.

  “Yes,” she says. “After your dad and you kids, it’s the thing I’ve wanted most in my life.”

  “I hope you get it, then,” I say, meaning it. “I think you’d be great.”

  KATIE

  Life on the campaign trail after all these years still fits me like a glove. Flying into a new state each day really helps if you already have your own private jet. Breakfast with one group of voters, speech, speech, lunch in a local spot, speech, speech, dinner with major investors, speech, check the poll numbers, panic, adjust the speeches for the next day accordingly, and then grab a few hours’ sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. And through it all?

  Smile, smile, smile!

  “Do I look okay, baby?” my father asks.

  We’re backstage in Philly and he’s waiting to go on.

  “You look fine,” I say, adjusting his tie. “You’re going to do great. Just remember: No looking at your watch, no sighing, and no matter how infuriating you might find the other candidates’ comments or the host’s questions, no talking over other people’s words. Polls show that voters really frown on all those things.”

  “You’ve always got my back, don’t you?”

  “As long as I’m breathing.”

  Despite my father’s concerns, the Philly debate goes as well as the St. Louis debate did. If I’m being honest, Drew’s mother does well too. Really, it’s just Bix Treadwell who comes across as being from some completely other planet.

  The only awkward moment in the evening comes when the candidates’ families go onstage to do the whole congratulations/handshake/kiss/smile thing, and Drew and I meet in the middle to join hands.

  Progress has been made. This time, there’s no “traitor” or “jerk.”

  But you know, it’s still in the air.

  “You know what I was thinking, baby?” my father asks.

  We’re back at the hotel and he’s loosened his tie.

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe more is more.”

  “I’m not following. I thought less was supposed to be more.”

  “Usually, that’s true. But this past week we’ve been doing just a bit better in the polls. And while I’d like to attribute that solely to my own charms, perhaps part of the reason is due to you and Drew?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “What exactly are you saying?”

  “If people went gaga, and they did, over those photos of you and Drew last week—and that was just a few measly pics snapped at the Gateway Arch—just think of how much more excited they’d be to have even more.”

  Which is how I wind up with a directive to spend not just a little time before jetting off to the next stop, but a whole half day tomorrow.

  With Drew.

  I plan the itinerary carefully in advance to maximize the time, so voters can see pics of us in popular settings, the kinds of places two fun-loving teens might visit together if they were really in love.

  We make a brief visit to Longwood Gardens. So romantic. Could anything be more amazing than the Silver Garden? Maybe there are more romantic places to get married than the White House. After taking a handful of selfies of us standing with our arms around each other in the Orchid House, which we post to Instagram—Kew! Kew! Kew!—we head to Citizens Bank Park, home of the Philadelphia Phillies. All the while, despite Kent’s encouragements from up front, there’s not a whole lot of talking involved outside of Where do you think we should stand? and Do you think it looks more authentic if I hug you like this or like this?

  At Citizens Bank Park we’re allowed out on the field because, hey, VIP treatment!

  Someone from the stadium gives us some bats and some balls, and for the first time, Drew looks excited.

  “You want me to, um, throw some to you so you can hit them?” I offer.

  Drew picks up a bat, but it turns out that, after repeated effort, I can’t get the ball over the plate. So Drew just throws some balls in the air for himself, and hits them as they drop down in his field of vision.

  That sound of the bat striking the ball—crack—is very satisfying.

  “That looks like fun,” I finally say. “You’re pretty good at that.”

  “Here.” He holds the bat out to me. “Do you want to try?”

  I hesitate.

  “Come on,” Drew says. “I’ll pitch them to you slow and easy.”

  I decide to go for it. I mean, really, when else am I going to get an opportunity to bat in a deserted major-league stadium, with no one there to laugh at me when I fail?

  But of course, as soon as I take a position beside the plate, bat resting on my shoulder, Drew starts to laugh at me from halfway to the mound.

  “What’s so funny?” I call out.

  “That’s not how you hold a bat.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No, it’s definitely not.”

  “But that’s how you did it.”

  More laughter. “I can assure you, Katie, that whatever I was doing, it wasn’t that thing you’re doing right there.”

  Hey, now.

  “You need to choke up on the bat more,” he directs me, putting one fist on top of the other.

  I squint back at him. “I need to what?”

  “Here.” Drew walks in my direction. “Let me show you.”

  Before I know what’s happening, he walks over and positions himself behind me, hands over mine, moving them up the bat until they’re in the position he thinks they should be. I feel the warmth of his hands and feel his chest against my back. The softness of his breath on my neck from behind makes me shiver.

  “Hey,” I say, laughing nervously. “Don’t get any ideas back there.”

  “No ideas.” One hand leaves mine—I ache for it to return as soon as it’s gone—and a moment later there’s an iPhone staring me in the face. Drew’s snapped our picture.

  “There,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure it would look right—you know, for the audience. We wouldn’t want people to start thinking these pictures were all staged, that they’re not authentic or something.”

  Yeah. Too bad I loved every second of it.

  And then, already, it’s time for the last stop of the half-day’s itinerary: lunch.

  “I was thinking,” I say in the limo, after reviewing my notes, “Pat’s King of Steaks for Philly cheese steak sandwiches? The steak sandwich was invented at Pat’s in 1930. Some people say it was Geno’s Steaks that added the cheese in 1966. But I’m thinking we go with Pat’s. Or better yet, go to both places, so that voters can’t accuse us of having favorites and we will have covered all our cheese-steak bases?”

  Drew just laughs.

  “What?” I say, looking up.

  “You sure do a lot of research on this stuff.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, if you’d done any research back in St. Louis, you wouldn’t have wound up freezing in that T-shirt at the Gateway Arch.”

  “You know,” I can’t help but inform Drew as we enter Pat’s King of Steaks, “this place is open seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Imagine that? Well, good thing we’re not going to be here that long. Maybe we should just order and get this over with?”

  How rude.

  Still, as we wait in line, once again, I can’t stop myself. I lean into Drew, whisper, “I read that they prefer for you to order as quickly as possible. So, like, say, if you want one cheese steak with cheese and fried onions? You say ‘one whiz with.’ ”

  He just stares back at me.

  “The ‘whiz,’ ” I explain in a further whisper, “stands for Cheez Whiz.”

  More staring.

  “Or, you know, you could have it with another kind of cheese, only then you wouldn’t say ‘whiz.’ Instead, you’d say provolone or whatever cheese you do want.”

  More staring.

  “But really, the most authentic way is to have it with whiz. Of course you can also say ‘one whiz without,’ if you don’t like fried onions, but really, the most authent
ic thing is—”

  He puts both hands out and makes a simmer-down motion. “Thank you, Ms. Travel Brochure, I think I’ve got it now.”

  And ouch again.

  Still, it’s somewhat gratifying to hear him order “Two whiz with” when it’s our turn in line. “You wanted one too, right?” he says, turning to me. It’s even more gratifying, once we have our grinders and drinks, to sit down in a booth and open my mouth wide and take a big chunk out of the soft roll, thin steak, fried onions, and gooey processed cheese.

  “Oh my gosh,” I say, not even caring that I haven’t entirely swallowed everything in my mouth yet, “this is just so good.”

  The nice thing about food is that, if you’re hungry enough and what’s in front of you is yummy, you don’t have to worry about making conversation. You can just put aside the awkwardness you feel when you’re with the other person who’s across the table from you and give in to the mouth-feel joy of the moment.

  But that moment passes all too quickly.

  I wad up my napkin, toss it on the table.

  “You know,” I say, “I could go for another of these.”

  “Are you serious?” Drew stares at me.

  “Well,” I admit, “I was only half kidding before when I suggested going to Geno’s too so we could be sure to court one hundred percent of the cheese-steak-eating voters. But now? I could definitely eat another.” I point at his empty plate and challenge, “Couldn’t you?”

  Before you know it, we’re laughing our way across the street, laughing our way through ordering another round of “Two whiz with!”

  Sitting down with our fresh sandwiches, we each take healthy bites.

  “So,” Drew says, “which do you think is better?”

  “I’m not saying.”

  “Because you’re scared of offending half the voters?”

  “No, because they’re both so good, I simply don’t care.” I laugh and take another huge bite, realizing there is a string of cheese still outside my mouth. I try to wipe it away, miss, and decide I don’t care.

  “I love that about you,” Drew says, laughing too.

  Only now I’m not laughing too. “What did you just say?”