by A. C. Fuller
It's seven points, but I don't correct him.
"Anyway," he continues, "Colton is basically a liberal Democrat, right? Pro-immigrant, pro-choice, pro-labor, all the good stuff. So he wins those voters away from the Democrats. He's gonna win the Pacific Northwest and might even steal California."
It's not the first time I've heard Colton described as a "liberal Democrat," but it's no less confusing than the last few times I heard it. His positions are all over the place, and he's a master at telling people what they want to hear, but…
The driver swerves around a food truck blocking the street, then pulls into a roundabout. "C'mon man, I seen some messed-up elections, but this year is gonna be crazy. Three-way race in a system only built for two."
"You're probably right."
"I tell you this. If I'm the Dems, I pick a center-right Democrat from the south or northeast as VP."
"Who do you think you'll vote for?"
"Colton, easy. He and I are like this." He holds up his crossed fingers in the rearview mirror. "Everything I think, he thinks. I'm enrolled in business school working nights. Gonna make it in business like he did. American dream. Up from nothing."
I'm about to tell him that Colton attended the top boarding school in California for high school and dropped out of Stanford when he was nineteen after receiving a $500,000 loan from his father to start his first company, but Steph's concerned look grabs my attention.
She listens intently to someone on the other end of her call. Her frowns, nods, and curt questions tell me something is wrong.
"Any chance of rescheduling?" she asks, and my heart sinks as I realize what it means. AC360 canceled on us.
After another minute of back and forth, she hangs up.
"What reason did they give?" I ask.
"Damnit! That was gonna…damnit."
"What reason did they give?"
"The rumor about Cynthia Bell. They're doing a whole panel about her potential effect on the electoral map. She hasn't even been officially announced and—"
"Can't blame them. The political world has been on edge about the Dem VP for weeks."
"Maybe, but damnit. That interview could have brought tens of thousands more viewers to our debate. Networks will drop everything to debate the wisdom of a VP announcement that's only a damn rumor."
Steph worked every local station in D.C., and all the cable news channels, before landing me a fifteen-minute interview on AC360. I've been on the show before, but a spot right before the Democratic and Republican conventions was a big deal. The interview was a big piece of our strategy to promote the debate, and I understand why Steph is upset at losing it.
"At least the debate is sold out," I offer, trying to cheer her up. "We still have the email announcement, the print ads, the social media assault, and the networks might pick us up live."
Steph nods, but I can tell she isn't listening. I try to get a look at her phone. "What is it?"
"Hold on." She taps the screen.
After a moment, her phone dings and she slides it into her purse. "We have another interview."
"That's great. Fox? MSNBC?"
"GWUSTV."
I look at her side-eyed. It's not that I'm a media snob, but… "What's GWUSTV?"
"George Washington University Student Television. It's a student-run show with a conservative bent."
I raise an eyebrow.
"It's the best we can do on no notice," she adds. "Plus, it'll give us something to share on social media before the debate."
Two hours later, we've checked into our hotel and caught a cab to the campus of George Washington University.
On Steph's recommendation, I changed into a cream-colored pantsuit to ward off the heat. She wears a similar suit in light green, along with black sunglasses. Together we look like quite the pair of powerhouse political operatives.
Luckily, the air conditioning blasts from a ceiling vent as we stop at the greeting desk in front of the small TV studio. There's no one there to meet us, but a man emerges immediately from a door behind the desk. Not exactly a man; he looks to be about seventeen years old in his skinny jeans and navy blue George Washington University sweatshirt.
He brushes his long black hair off his forehead. "I'm Alan Takigawa."
"Mia Rhodes." I extend my hand but he's looking at the floor.
"And I'm Stephanie Blackmon. We texted earlier."
"Umm, yeah…thanks for agreeing to the interview."
"Agreeing?" I ask Steph. "I thought we requested the interview."
"They'd been requesting an interview ever since we booked the debate auditorium with them. Until today—"
"You had better options," Alan interjects.
He says it with a note of bitterness that surprises me, especially since he's backed away and still hasn't looked directly at us. I'm not sure what his deal is, but he's both super-awkward and mildly confrontational.
Steph points at a small, glass-enclosed studio. "Is the interview going to be back there?"
Two women of no more than twenty are in the studio, one behind a camera, one sitting at a soundboard wearing large headphones.
Alan nods. "My crew is setting up."
"Okay," I say reluctantly.
It's not that I have anything against college journalists, but when you expect Anderson Cooper and you get three people who can't buy beer legally, it's a letdown.
The look on Steph's face tells me she's even more skeptical than I am. "Are you sure you're up for this?" she asks Alan, backing toward the door. "I mean, it was short notice and all."
"Ready!" one of the women in the back calls out.
Alan looks up from the floor at last and stares right at me. His eyes are black and his face much more serious than I expect. "I'm sure. Are you sure you can handle an interview with me?"
I look at Steph, who looks at me like she's trying to suppress a laugh.
"I hope so," I say, following him into the studio.
11
I sit behind a small folding table draped with a GWUSTV banner. Alan joins me after replacing his sweatshirt with a black blazer that immediately makes him look five years older. Bright lights come on above us and, for a moment, I get nervous.
A tall young woman steps out from behind the camera and shakes my hand without offering her name. "I know you've done these before, but a couple tips. Don't look straight into the camera or at the lights. Look at Alan. These go best when you keep things conversational. Any questions?"
"When will it air?"
"Tonight on the student station."
Steph stands in the doorway of the studio. "And we get a digital copy when?"
"We can give you a copy of the raw footage right after the interview," Alan replies. "Or an edited version via Dropbox in an hour or two."
The camerawoman closes the door, leaving Steph on the other side, looking through the glass.
Stepping back behind the camera, she makes brief eye contact with me, then with Alan. "In three…two…one."
She points at Alan, who glances at a teleprompter. I follow his eyes, impressed by his shift from awkward teenager to believable TV anchor.
A stronger, more professional voice emerges from his small mouth. "Welcome to GWUSTV. My name is Alan Takigawa and this is The Foggy Bottom Political Hour. Today I'm joined by Mia Rhodes, creator of Ameritocracy2020.org, the controversial political website that has transformed the presidential race. Mia, welcome to the show."
I flash my made-for-TV smile. "Thank you."
For the next fifteen minutes, he asks a series of softball questions about the origins of the site, the donation from Peter, and the rapid growth we experienced since. All questions I've answered numerous times.
I'm beginning to think this will be a nice infomercial for the final debate when he shifts gears. "Things took a troubling turn in February…talk about that."
"Troubling turn? I…you mean the shooting?"
"I mean the entry of your benefactor, Peter Colton. Though
technically not against any of your stated rules, it's certainly a conflict of interest."
"Not at all, Alan. If anything, Peter's entry proves our concept. That anyone should be able to run for president. Mr. Colton has received no special treatment—and hasn't asked for any."
"But he's currently ranked number one. The final vote is soon and, by most projections, he will win. Political betting markets have him as a two-to-one favorite."
I try to pivot away from the topic with a joke. "I'm not a betting woman, Alan, but I'd say the race is still wide open."
"You really expect us to believe that?"
He's on his elbows now, leaning toward me like Larry King. Despite my best attempts to stay cool, I'm intimidated.
"Of course I do." My reply is weak.
"So it's a coincidence that the man who donated five million dollars is going to win? Recent polls show him only five or six points behind Herrera and Westbrook among registered voters, and nine points up among independents."
"I think that—"
"Ms. Rhodes, can you honestly tell us that your competition is on the level?"
His voice has a bite to it.
I glance into the camera, then through the window of the studio. Steph presses her face against the glass and gestures toward Alan as if to say Answer the question!
She can tell I'm flailing.
I swallow a lump in my throat and looking back at Alan. "I can."
"Don't get me wrong," Alan says, gaining confidence. "We here at The Foggy Bottom Political Hour are on the record in support of Mr. Colton. Given that both the Democrats and Republicans chose candidates who already sold out to the special interests in their states, it will be good to have a genuine free-market conservative in the race. Personally, I doubt he can win, but maybe it will push Westbrook and the Republicans to the right."
I stare at him silently, surprised by his aggressive questioning, but completely stunned by the fact that he called Peter a "genuine free-market conservative."
He rests his hand on his chin, again like Larry King. "Would you care to comment, Ms. Rhodes?"
"All I can say is that the competition is on the level. Our voting is secure and triple-checked, and we've always been straightforward about what we're doing and why. If we were promoting Peter Colton's candidacy, it would be obvious. But we're not. What we are doing is running the fairest, most transparent political primary in American history. That same transparency means that if we had our thumb on the scale, you'd be able to see it."
I finish with my paragraph of canned one-liners about change and possibility. If American politics is going to be a reality show…
It's my stump speech, so I'm not listening to myself anymore.
What I've seen of Peter's positions since he entered puts him somewhere near the pragmatic center politically. In the last three hours, I've personally seen him described as a "pro-labor liberal Democrat" and a "traditional free-market conservative."
For the last couple months I've lived with the knowledge that Peter is using our own echo chambers against us. Say as little as possible and count on our own filtration systems to lead us to the best possible version of him.
Now I wonder whether Alan Takigawa might be onto something. Maybe Peter's candidacy isn't on the level after all.
On the ride back to the hotel, I share my concerns with Steph. "Is it really possible for my Uber driver and my interviewer to believe that Peter Colton stands for opposite positions?"
"Mia, you're acting like it's unusual for a politician to be two-faced. America has a proud tradition of politicians lying out their asses. Peter excels at it."
"I know, but it's not only that he's lying or obfuscating. The driver and the interviewer think he stands for opposite things. And neither match what I've read about him. It's like he exists everywhere differently."
"I don't know, to me his positions always seem pretty liberal."
"That's what I'm saying. Everyone thinks something different about him."
"Again, that's politics. Are you sure this isn't just because of the whole scorned lover thing?"
"I'm not positive," I say as we pull up to our hotel. "But don't you think it's odd that different people think he's a liberal Democrat and a free market conservative? That's not talking out of the side of your mouth to fudge a position. That's two different candidates."
I follow Steph out of the car and we stand on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. "I just think people hear what they want to hear," she says. "Like you did when you first met Peter."
That stings, but I'm not sure why. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing."
I feel like I'm about to hear something I don't want to hear. But something I need to hear. "Tell me."
"I'm guessing that when Peter offered you the money, you wanted to believe in him. That's what got us into this mess in the first place."
"Mess?"
"We created the perfect vehicle for an evil bastard like Colton to take over the country." She pauses as we step to the side to let an elderly couple exit the hotel. "He's going to win Ameritocracy, Mia. Rich bastards like him always find a way. In the general, I don't know. I'd bet on Herrera, myself, though the VP nomination may affect that. Peter could win the general. But he's going to win Ameritocracy." I can see her almost swallow the next sentence, but her momentum carries through, and she says the one thing I don't want to hear. "I feel like we've done more harm than good."
I don't know what to say. And I don't have time to say anything because Steph walks into the hotel without me.
I follow her in, trying desperately not to break down. I reach her at the elevator. "You're the one who said we shouldn't cancel the competition. I brought that up two friggin' months ago."
"I was right then and I'm right now. We can't call it off, but I think you and I need to face the fact that we screwed this up. Maybe it was doomed from the start. I don't know. But one way or another, we got beat. We tried to do something good, and a rich guy co-opted it for his own profit. Same old song."
The elevator dings and I step in.
Steph doesn't move.
I block the door from closing. "Are you coming? We still gotta go to the Tanner Futch barbecue thing tonight. The first of seven top-notch political events hosted by our leading candidates!" I do a little raise-the-roof gesture, a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood.
"I'll take the stairs. You go to the Futch thing. I need the night off, Mia."
Steph looks five years older than she did six months ago, and as the elevator door slides shut, I know that's entirely my fault.
In my room, I fall into an oversized plush chair and text Malcolm, who's in Europe, where it's either super late or super early.
Me: You up?
Time was, Steph was the person I talked to about my day. Now we see each other all day every day, so we sometimes need a break. Malcolm is my new go-to text buddy.
After a minute, my phone chirps.
Malcolm: Just got off stage. What's up?
Me: Where are you?
Malcolm: Germany. Turns out Dolly is HUGE here.
Me: And I bet you're about to be. Your YouTube views are going bananas.
I check his stats every day, like I can track his growing fame in real time.
Malcolm: :)
Me: I got in a fight with Steph. Not a fight...a disagreement.
Malcolm: :( Sorry to hear that.
Me: Thanks. She thinks this whole thing was a mistake.
Malcolm: Because of Peter?
Me: Yeah.
Malcolm: I doubt she really thinks that. She gets hot and pops off sometimes. Don't judge her by what she says one moment. Judge her by what she's done for the last year.
Me: I know. Thanks. Just sucks to have this happen when we're supposed to be taking our victory lap. D.C. was gonna be a celebration of all we accomplished. Now...I don't know.
Malcolm: Do YOU think it was a mistake?
Me: If Peter wins, then maybe.
Malcolm: Then don't let him win.
Me: I can't just kick him out.
Malcolm: I know, but…wait...hold on a sec.
I stare at my phone, waiting for him to complete the thought. I'm embarrassed to be waiting on a brilliant idea from Malcolm. I should be having one myself.
Malcolm: Sorry, I'm back. Had to sign some autographs.
Me: Living the dream, huh?
Malcolm: I guess. Looking forward to being back in the U.S. To seeing you.
Me: I know. Looking forward to seeing you too, but what were you gonna say?
Malcolm: You can't kick him out unless he broke a rule, right? If he was willing to deceive you about everything else, what makes you think he's not breaking any rules?
I do a lap around the hotel room, thinking about this.
Me: If he is, I haven't been able to catch him.
Malcolm: Then that's how you can turn D.C. back into a victory lap.
Me: How?
Malcolm: Catch him.
12
July 2, 2020
I shoot up in bed, fists clenched, forehead sweaty. Another nightmare about Peter.
In this one he wasn't president. It was 2029 and Peter was in his first week as Chosen Commander of the United States, a permanent position bestowed on him by a unanimous online vote after his two terms as president ended.
In the dream, Peter called me to the White House for a job interview. Then he brought me to the press briefing room and forced me to sit in the center while he and the White House press corps walked around the perimeter, staring at me. For what seemed like hours, they marched in slow loops around the room, staring at me with unblinking eyes like I was the centerpiece of some odd ritual. Like they were preparing to sacrifice me to the Gods.
The pink-gray sky through the window tells me it's morning. I roll out of bed reluctantly and start a pot of coffee. Caffeine won't erase the eerie dream, but it can't hurt.
I haven't spoken with Steph since our argument, and when I made it to Tanner Futch's campaign event after texting with Malcolm, it was a disaster. A BYOB barbecue at a park near the Federal Reserve Building, he billed it as "Real American Barbecue for Real American Patriots."
