STAAAAARTS... NOW!
AFTER NARROWLY MISSING NOMINATION,
HAZE ENTERS RACE AS INDEPENDENT
By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue
The underdog fights on: with delegate voting and negotiating still in high gear, Rocky Haze took to the podium on the convention’s third night and made the game-time decision to freestyle. According to Haze insiders, the musician bagged a more formal speech that had been crafted by the party aimed at keeping the peace while delegates were still casting votes. Instead, Haze used her time to express gratitude for her supporters while also declaring her break from the party, rebranding herself an independent.
“If you still believe in me, like I do in you, join me as I continue our journey as an independent candidate for president,” she told a stunned hall that quickly erupted into cheers. Wasting no time, Haze welcomed to the stage New Hampshire Governor Frank Fisher, naming him, “my running mate and your next vice president.”
As the audience roared, seemingly thrilled at this hijacking of the convention, music cranked up and Haze announced, “We call this one, ‘Taking the Party With Me.’” She began her newest fight anthem.
“This is getting ugly, the party needs unity,
I’m out for now, don’t pout, this process just ain’t my cuppa tea
Starting something new, hope you’ll come with me too
Been independent since birth
Goin’ it alone, know my self-worth
Gonna hang tight, keep up the fight, do this right
Tonight: still got hopes for this country and dreams, not ready to leave this scene, not saying goodbye, just taking the party with me.”
She might have continued, but the sound system went dead, stage lights turned off and the voice of an announcer overtook the auditorium: “Due to technical difficulties, today’s session will be ending early. We hope to have matters resolved by the start of tomorrow’s events. Thank you.”
As attendees filed out of the convention center, two hashtags took the top trending spots on Twitter: #breaktheconvention and #rockyhazeforpresident...
* * *
Jay took a seat at the far end of the conference room and proceeded to look busy on his phone. Though the rest of the office had settled into that annual end-of-July summer slumber—folks taking vacations and long weekends, deadlines loosened—the Politics Desk churned on. The prickly Helena had called a meeting of the Poli Team now that the conventions had wrapped and the reporters were briefly back from the field. Everyone around the table all appeared so at home, catching up like old friends, laughing, smiling, trading war stories. Yet Jay still didn’t feel quite like he fit in, even though Sky’s stories had been outranking everyone else’s. It would’ve been easier if Sky had been there. He’d almost come home the day after Rocky’s speech, but instead continued on with the Haze crew to her first appearances in New England with Fisher as her running mate. Even Sky hadn’t anticipated her striking out on her own.
Helena whooshed in with a notebook, her various devices and her usual air of importance.
“And the general election staaaaarts...now!” Helena said, kicking off the meeting. “Welcome back to the faces we haven’t seen in a while...” After running through the site numbers and stats, page views, new visitors, all the ways The Queue had benefited from this unusually zany primary season, she started down another road. “Obviously you’ve all done stellar work,” she said. “Round of applause for yourselves.” She let them clap for two-and-a-half seconds, then cut off the celebration: “BUT, as you know, the field has narrowed down considerably from a ridiculous twenty-eight candidates to three. Which means we’ll need to do some restructuring to be sure our resources are being utilized to the fullest potential. We’ll be tripling up on the candidates who are left.” She laid out a rotation schedule with three reporters assigned to each candidate. When she was finished, Jay couldn’t help but notice that Sky had been left off. Entirely.
“So these three subsets, I’ll be meeting with you individually to work out the coverage through November. The rest of you—”
Jay raised his hand, polite and respectful. He was not called upon. Helena just kept talking. Finally he shouted from the opposite side of the room: “HELENA!”
She paused. “Yes, Jay, you’re free to go if you’d like.”
“No, actually, that’s the thing,” he said. His blood began to boil, and he centered himself. He had felt so off-kilter these several months as though he was method acting what it would be like not to have Sky in his life anymore, how he would handle it if Sky left him. But they had been all right. They had made it work, hadn’t they? He didn’t want to live in fear of what might happen anymore, all that mattered at this moment was making sure that Sky got to keep doing the job he loved.
“NO!” Jay stood up, surprising himself. All eyes focused on him. “We’re good, we don’t need the extra help on Haze.”
“It wasn’t really a request, it was more a directive, to stand down on this,” she said, frosty. “We’ve got more seasoned reporters—”
“I’m not going to sit here and let you take this away from Sky, who is killing it. Sky, who delivered this news break to you in the first place, who has had a perfect record of number one Queue stories and whose work has been flawless.” He leaned in her direction, slamming his hand on the table for emphasis.
“Jay, look, you guys were new to the political team, you did a great job,” she said. “But this is just how things work in this department. It’s different from the Culture portal. Here, there are constant reassignments. It’s business, not personal.”
“From a business standpoint, I guarantee you won’t get the access Sky has gotten if you put someone else on Haze,” he said, firm.
“Jay,” she snapped. “That’s enough.”
“No,” he said. “You know what? I’m gonna hijack this meeting until you agree.” A switch flipped. “I’m going to filibuster. I’m going to keep talking about Sky until I have your promise he continues on the beat he has been kicking ass on.” He took out his phone, brought up The Queue app, searched for Sky’s bylines.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave—” Helena started.
“Let’s take a trip down memory lane and read his work, shall we?” Jay said, ignoring her and the snickers from the others. “I’ll start with the first one. There are probably, let’s see, at least one or two a week since the end of January, at least thirty? ‘Life of the Party,’” he began to read, projecting in a grand voice.
They tried to talk around him. They asked him to leave again. They glared. Until finally Helena put her head in her hands. “FINE! Make this stop!” she said. “We’ll keep you guys on, just stop.”
Jay smiled, sat down. Didn’t even say thank you. You don’t thank a thief for giving back something that was yours to begin with, he thought.
He vowed not to tell Sky. Sky finally had the confidence to do this work. Jay wouldn’t let anything erode that.
* * *
The week of the convention marked a painful few days for Cady, emotionally and physically. If she had not completely embarrassed herself at Preamble, she might’ve called over and begged them to deliver some hair of the dog to her office the next day. She had woken up on her couch, still in her clothes from the day before, not sure where she was and unclear about just how much of the past twenty-four hours had been a dream.
Horrifically, she realized, it had all been real.
She considered calling in sick to work but, like a person grieving, she needed to keep busy doing the things she always did. To have some bit of normalcy and stability. Today Madison Goodfellow would be showing the viewing audience how to make a Southwestern salad using one of those kits from the supermarket with the sour cream, tortilla strips, cheese and dressing already portioned out in little Baggies and then placing it in the kind of pricey sterling silver b
owl that resembled the one given to female Wimbledon champions.
Madison gave Cady one of her signature bear hugs when she saw her, and told her to call later if she needed anything. Hank was coming to town, so she had to get back to their condo.
Cady called Reagan as soon as the show ended. She picked up right away:
“Cady, how are you?”
“Uhhhhh,” Cady groaned, head in her hands.
“I was afraid of that,” Reagan said. In the background the twins chanted “MomMY MomMY MomMY more cookie more cookie more cookie!”
“Shh-shh, sweeties, Mommy’s talking to Aunt Cady. Aunt Cady had a bad night.” The twins chanted “baaa nigh baaa nigh.”
Cady loved Reagan but wasn’t sure she could handle these noisy background vocals with such a hangover. She cut to the chase. “So I did something last night after I left you guys and I need you to make me feel like I don’t need to enlist in the Witness Protection Program and disappear.”
“One night stands are not that bad. Who was it?” Reagan said, maternal.
“No! It’s not that bad.”
“Okay. Sorry. Shoot.”
Cady outlined the events, to her best recollection, after leaving Madison’s place. “And so then I may or may not have thrown myself at Parker, still a little hazy on details,” she said.
“What’s the problem? He’s supercute, have some fun, good for the soul,” Reagan said, then paused. “Ohhh, wait, was he catching what you were throwing?”
“Um. Negative,” she whispered, embarrassed.
“Ohhh. Well. I am shocked. I thought he would be all over you. Shit. Maybe I’ve been a mom too long, my instincts are off,” she said. “Well, maybe you thought you were being forward but you were actually being too subtle. I could see that happening with you.”
“Yeah, no, I think I was pretty clear.”
“Ouch,” Reagan said, not quite comforting enough. “Okay, nip this in the bud, get out in front of this—text him and just tell him you’d been drugged. It’s actually true. Which is a bonus.”
“Good thinking,” Cady said.
She hung up and proceeded to do absolutely nothing but hope it hadn’t actually happened.
27
MAYBE RELATIONSHIPS SHOULD HAVE TERM LIMITS?
On Friday afternoon, four long days since the implosion of her personal life, Cady found herself gazing out her office window across the river at Washington’s sun-soaked skyline when she should’ve been reviewing the lineup for next week’s shows. All the adrenaline that had kept her working like a machine all week, and had steadily stoked her fiery anger, was finally running out. It had been a good week at the show at least, and it had been comforting to throw herself into work. She didn’t care what people said; sometimes, a job could love you back, especially when you were feeling like a blowtorch had been taken to your personal life.
The latest ‘Kitchen Hacks with Madison Goodfellow’ had once again been picked up everywhere. Best Day DC continued to be the only show getting any time at all with Madison. Cady had, of course, discovered that was because the Goodfellow campaign’s punched-out press guy had been attempting to keep Madison out of the spotlight. But lucky for Cady, Madison had been determined to sneak away to keep taping her segments. “I like you, Cady, all of you all here,” she’d told her. “I like that you just let me be me.”
Cady knew that Madison had much more going on than anyone in media—or in her husband’s camp—was giving her credit for. She could have played the perfect First Lady Hopeful if she’d wanted to. At some point, Cady would figure out the reason behind her behavior. In the meantime, she would just revel in the attention the show received and in this unexpected friendship.
She tried again to focus on the upcoming Olympics-heavy schedule: pretaped packages with hometown athletes prepping for Rio, tips and recipes for viewing parties. Friday’s show would tape on location at The Grill From Ipanema, that Brazilian place in Adams Morgan, where she and Jackson used to get drunk on caipirinhas when he’d first moved to town and she would visit on weekends. Those early trips had felt like minihoneymoons: they spent their days in bed with no plans, no ambition beyond getting reacquainted, and emerged in their Saturday night finest for dinner and cocktails, sometimes with groups of his friends and colleagues, always at the latest and greatest spots. Thinking back, she had felt more a part of his life then, more woven into his fabric, more a team, than she had since moving in with him in January.
She grabbed her bag, hoping a coffee run would get her through the afternoon, when her phone pinged twice in rapid succession. Jackson: can I come home? And: guess we have stuff to talk about? She sighed and collapsed back down in her chair.
The apologies had stopped coming by Tuesday night and his messages had shifted to this more utilitarian: hello?
are you getting these?
did u change number?
where are U?
U in dc now? She had ignored them all.
Stuff to talk about? She shook her head now and typed back, ya think? saying it out loud as she did, but then quickly deleting it. “Ugh, enough with you,” she said to her phone, chucking it at her desk just as the new, nervous intern materialized with her mail. The girl looked stricken. “Not you, sorry,” Cady said. “It’s just... Never mind. Thanks. You’re doing a great job,” she added hastily. The girl skittered out.
Cady tried to declutter her desk, tossing the couple of magazines, invitations and a poster tube into her inbox, as if doing so could also help clear her mind. She returned to her cell phone. It was just too overwhelming, trying to craft the perfect response. The schizophrenic ups and downs that had been going on in her heart and her head since Monday were too complicated for this form of communication. Yet she also felt sick to her stomach when she considered what it would be like to have to talk to him. And look at him.
Sighing, she tried again and typed, whenever. i haven’t changed the locks. yet. She was kidding but liked that he probably wouldn’t know for sure. She hit Send. Then felt bad and sent: kidding. Then felt like she was being too nice-borderline-doormat and sent for now. Stop, she told herself. No more. She wasn’t good at this. She didn’t have a flair for the dramatic. She had always been the kind of girl guys would break up with, and she’d calmly accept, or actually, more commonly, they would just ghost her. That was even easier.
Why did it feel that in the six months since her move they hadn’t actually had any fun together? What had they been doing? When she stopped to take stock—an exhaustive undertaking she had been doing involuntarily nearly every hour of every day since that train ride home from the convention—it seemed that things had actually been worse since the move. If she were to task the graphics department at work to chart her and Jackson’s joy quotient, it would be a steep and steady decline from the night of that proposal until the rock bottom of Black Monday, as she referred to it. What had changed? It couldn’t all be blamed on his constant travel. They had been long-distance before and managed much better than this. She had questions but, still, her head cautioned her heart that the answers probably weren’t going to make her feel better.
He wrote back thx.
Seriously, he couldn’t even spell the word out? She at least deserved a properly spelled word. Now she was angry, the adrenaline pumping again.
She sent a group text: 911: he’s coming home tonight. advice? xo.
Reagan came first: have your talking points ready, type them up and print them out maybe? be tough, get answers, leave nothing unsaid.
Then Birdie: yes and book emergency appt at drybar gtown and a mani, tons of good places near there—looking grt is best revenge.
Then Jay: set the mood—for an ass-kicking—make a playlist with your fight songs. you are boss!!!!!! xx.
And finally, even Madison: just say what’s in your heart.
Her nerves and anger receded
and in their place, love bloomed. She sent a thank you all so much, spelled out in proper English, and a you’re my heroes. She felt raw from this week and to have this crew swoop in to help, her own personal pep squad, it touched her. They understood her. It meant a lot to her, especially since she still didn’t feel she could talk to any of her old friends about this upheaval. She just felt like they wouldn’t get it, they were too far removed from this world.
With a renewed vigor, she scheduled her appointments, caught up on emails, typed up notes for her Jackson tête-à-tête, organized a playlist on her phone and then caught a cab to Georgetown.
* * *
Cady didn’t mind that the salons couldn’t take her until after eight and that Friday night Georgetown traffic made the trip back to the apartment even longer. She’d secretly hoped he would already be home when she arrived adequately glammed for her showdown. Let him feel what it’s like to not have her at home. Let him notice the empty space in the closet where her dresses had hung. (She had already moved them into a garment bag Wednesday night in a fit of pique, watching Carter speak at the convention. Jackson didn’t deserve to be having the best week of his life when she was having the worst of hers.) Let him see his dishes from the morning he left on his trip still unwashed in the sink (she had cleaned only her own). Let him put the TV on and have it immediately tune to Channel 8, Best Day DC’s station. Let him find the DVR stuffed full of episodes of her favorite shows, his SportsCenter deleted.
She listened to her playlist (consisting almost entirely of Rocky Haze songs) the whole way home, in her own world. When she finally returned to her building, unlocked the door, she found it almost impossible to ignore the jitters: she really should’ve factored in time for a glass of wine somewhere along the way.
The apartment was pitch-black, silent.
“Hello?” she said into the abyss, already knowing she wouldn’t get an answer. She hated him even more now. Why wasn’t he here yet? She went straight to the kitchen, their sparsely populated wine rack. No, she could do better than that. She opened the fridge and found it: the bottle of Veuve Clicquot gifted to them for their engagement. It was really nice, the kind of champagne that deserved to be saved for something important. Like tonight.
Campaign Widows Page 20
