by Ann Craven
“What are you doing on the floor, Ash?” His dad frowned down at him.
“Oh, I dropped my phone under the bed.” Asher stood up, eager to crawl under the covers and forget about the idiocy he’d just committed.
“I thought we’d go for a hike this morning. Get outdoors with nature and smell the fresh air.”
“Outside, huh?” Asher looked through his window at the light dusting of snow over the grounds. “It’s cold out there.”
“Get your boots on and grab a coat. I’ll show you my favorite spot at Camp David.”
“All right, I suppose some exercise won’t kill me.” Asher trudged to his closet to change into his warmest clothes, grateful for the new jeans he had stashed there. At least a hike would get Kenny off his mind.
“Son.” His dad placed his hands on his hips when Asher met him in the front yard of the lodge.
“Father?” Asher quipped back.
“You look like I suggested we trek through the Alaskan tundra.”
Asher shrugged under his many layers of warmth. “I don’t like cold. You know this about me.” He followed his father down to the closest hiking trail, secret service bringing up the rear at a distance.
Halfway up the trail, his dad took an overgrown pathway to the right with a steep incline.
“I discovered this trail the first time I came to Camp David before I was president. Back when I was governor of New York and you were just a little guy.”
“I’m not so sure this is a trail, Dad.” Asher swept some leafless branches aside.
“It’s a deer path.”
“You know, the actual trails here are clean and trimmed back so you can, like, walk without killing yourself.”
“The way I see it, the deer know these woods better than we do, so we should check out the sites they like to visit. We just might see something amazing.”
As much as he liked to complain about being outside, Asher was in good shape and kept up with his athletic father without too much of a struggle. After about a mile of some serious hiking, they came to a clearing.
“Oh wow.” Asher stopped short at the sight of a gurgling creek bed fed by a waterfall just a stone’s throw away. “I didn’t know this was here.”
“I come here a lot,” his dad said, taking a seat on top of a massive boulder near the water’s edge. “Why don’t you have a seat in my office, son.” He patted the rock beside him.
“Oh, no. I know what that means.” Asher climbed up beside his father, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Lecture time.”
“No lecture, I promise.” He draped his arm around his son. “It’s called parenting.”
“Parent away, I’m all ears.” Asher liked to mess with his dad, but he secretly loved their talks.
“You’re eighteen.”
“For three whole days now,” Asher agreed.
“And you’re a senior.”
“Yup, so this is a college talk, huh?”
“Eh, let’s call it a life talk.” His dad drew out a knife and picked up a piece of fallen branch. He liked to whittle when he talked. He was pretty good with a knife, so Asher supposed that was where he got his interest in art. “Granddad is better at this than I am,” he said, as if reading Asher’s thoughts. “That’s where you get your talent from.”
“Granddad can turn nothing into the most amazing woodwork, and he makes it look so easy.” Asher would love to have half his talent.
“You do the same with your digital art, and, I swear, you can draw anything and make it look so damn easy.” He shook his head, a proud smile on his face. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Ash?”
The question was a frequent one his parents liked to discuss. His patented head shake and shrug used to work, but he’d felt the clock ticking on that expiration date for a long time.
“A lawyer, I guess.” Asher focused on the waterfall rather than meet his father’s eyes. He wasn’t sure how to answer the question when he really had no idea what he wanted in most aspects of his life. How was he supposed to have an answer when he’d spent most of his life in a holding pattern, waiting for his parents to finish running the country?
“Why do you say that?” His dad finished scraping all the bark off the chunk of wood.
“Politics is kind of the family business.” He shrugged. “It’s in the blood, and law school is how you get there.”
“True, a degree in law could offer you many options for your future, but you do know your mother and I have never expected you to pursue a career in politics unless that’s what you really want.”
He sort of knew that. They’d hammered that lesson home with Caroline, but in the end, she chose politics anyway. Asher would probably do the same. “It’s kind of all I know. A familiar career path, you know?”
“Sure, I get that. It feels safe to stay in the family bubble, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You know, Caroline has a gift for the law. She’ll make a great lawyer or even a politician one day. And she loves it. It was the right choice for her.” He squinted into the afternoon sky before he went back to shaping the piece of wood in his hands. One end narrowed to a point, like a knife handle. One of his specialties.
“Like I said, it’s in the blood.” Asher watched the form in his father’s hands continue to take shape. He loved watching his dad work, wondering what it would be and if he could guess when it was still an inconsequential lump of wood.
“In her blood, yes. She’s so much like your mom. And you.” He nudged Asher playfully. “You look like your mother but you’re more like me.”
Asher’s mom always told him he got the best of both his parents. His mother’s looks and his father’s temperament.
“Did you know I almost majored in history?” He focused on the form in his hands. It now had two narrow ends with a wide middle. Not a knife handle.
“No, didn’t you always dream of being a Supreme Court judge?”
“The papers like to tell that story. It’s true, but it wasn’t until I was at NYU and took my very first political science class that I decided I wanted a future in the judicial system. Before that, I wanted to be a teacher. And back then, politics wasn’t even on my radar, much less the presidency.”
“So what you’re saying is I don’t have to decide right now?”
“Yes and no. You need to have a plan, Ash.”
“Right. In this family, we have plans.” Asher sighed, deciding the figure in his dad’s hands was going to be a bird with a wide wingspan.
“You’re lucky, son. You have a political legacy that would offer you so many opportunities if you chose a career in politics. And you’re smart too. You have the right disposition. You’re quiet and you think things through before you speak. A valuable asset many of our contemporaries lack. You’d make a fine lawyer or politician. But that’s not why you’re so lucky. Unlike most of us, you have a God-given talent, Asher. One I know you haven’t fully realized yet, but make no mistake, son, you are an artist in every sense of the word. You have so many options. Take some time to explore them, and don’t let anyone tell you what direction to take. Not me, your mother, or sister, and certainly not the media or half the fools in Washington who would try to pressure you to follow in footsteps you might not want to follow.”
Asher took a deep breath, feeling an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. “Thanks, Dad. That means…more than you could know. I’ve thought a lot about a career in art. I just don’t know if it’s a wise decision. There are lots of talented, unemployed artists out there trying to vie for the few creative jobs available. And freelance work is killing their livelihoods. It just feels like a risk.”
“I understand that.” His father carved tiny feathers into the bird’s wings. “You know, in the political arena, you have a lot to say about the issues. You’re well informed, and you also have one thing no one else has.”
“What’s that?”
“You have more experience in the White House than most
people, and you’re only eighteen. By the time your mother’s done with her job, you could have sixteen years on your résumé. That’s a highly unique accolade, son.” He brushed the wood shavings off his lap and set to work on the beak. “You know all the major political players across the globe. You’ve had a front row seat to the shaping of the future of this country. You have so much knowledge up here.” He tapped the bird’s wing against Asher’s head.
“So…you’re saying the political track is probably the better use of my skills and experience.”
“No. Not necessarily.” He held out his left hand holding the bird Asher was pretty sure was going to be an eagle. “On the one hand, you’re a brilliant artist. And on the other”—he held out his other hand holding the knife—“you have more than a decade of political issues, lawmaking, and legislature stored in that head of yours. Now, think about this.” He turned the bird over to scrape some of the excess wood away from the wings. “Put those hands together, and what do you have, Asher?”
He frowned at his dad, not following his reasoning. “Politics and art?” And then it clicked. “A political artist?” He blew out a breath, his cheeks puffing out. “That’s a tall order, Dad. That kind of artist has to be bold and brave enough to say what needs to be heard. They have to be willing to put it all out there and damn the consequences.”
“You did your mother’s campaign posters. That was a step in the right direction.”
“That was just a stunt. A way to show the world the kind of mom she is. That she would use her kid’s art for something so important.”
“I know it’s difficult to believe when people tell you your art is amazing. You’ve had your butt kissed for ten years—and thank God that hasn’t given you a big head. But I promise you, there is no way your mother’s campaign manager would have allowed her to use your artwork if it wasn’t better than good.”
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know if I have that much to say with my art.”
“You’re young. You have years of college ahead of you. You have so many life experiences to have before you’ll really find your voice. And don’t feel special, Ash. Every eighteen-year-old high school senior is petrified of making this choice. You’re in good company. But no matter what career path you choose, I will be proud of you.” He placed the completed eagle in Asher’s hands. “It’s time to soar like an eagle, son.”
9
Kenny
Coach was trying to kill them. At least, that was what Kenny assumed as he finished the bag skate. The rest of his team followed, none quite as fast as their superstar center. But at six in the morning, who could blame them?
Kenny never wanted the attention, but that was what would get him to the NHL. His speed. His hockey sense.
If only those smarts extended over other parts of his life. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Asher’s party. When they were alone at the pool, it had started to feel like it used to, like they were friends.
If he were honest with himself, Kenny had friends. A lot of them. His teammates would give him an epic pummeling if he said he didn’t. If he wanted a girlfriend, all he’d have to do was ask the first girl he saw. But there was a certain shallowness to the word friends. Anyone could claim the connection whether they really cared or not. It didn’t mean anything.
A few years ago, Kenny had someone who was more than a friend. No, not in the romantic sense. Not then. But Asher had been special. Brother wasn’t the right word. He’d just been Kenny’s person. In their political circles, every mistake, every flaw was magnified, even in kids. It was never like that with Asher.
But now…
Be your own man, Ken.
He’d tried. He was trying.
Coach Ryan blew his whistle, signaling the end of practice. Around him, Kenny’s teammates bent over, trying to catch their breath. A few sprawled on the ice.
Kenny’s legs burned, but he ignored the pain as he skated to the tunnel and stepped off the ice. A trainer handed him his blade guards, and he snapped them in place before walking toward the locker room. Inside, he sat in his stall and pushed sweaty hair from his forehead. The rest of the guys trickled in slowly, collapsing onto the benches in front of their stalls to remove their skates.
Kenny took a long drink from his water bottle and bent to untie his laces.
Will sat down heavily beside him. “Don’t you ever get tired?”
He shrugged but didn’t respond.
Will bumped his shoulder. “Come on, man. Tell us the secret to being Kenny Montgomery.”
“Work.” Kenny grunted. Work and secrets, but he wouldn’t say the last part. Though, his problem was that few things were secrets in his world.
Coach strolled in, surveying the room. “All right, gentlemen, listen up.” His eyes fell to his clipboard. “The fall festival in Twin Rivers is in two weeks. Normally, this is an event the academy stays out of because Twin Rivers High puts it on. But they’ve had a number of people drop out and are short on booths. I told them my boys would be more than happy to do their civic duty and create a few.”
A collective groan rang out, but Coach raised a hand. “This is not up for discussion. You boys have yet to play like a team this season. We’ve had problems with fighting and people leaving campus—which is strictly off-limits mid-season.”
Kenny never thought he’d find out about last weekend. His coach was one of the few people who didn’t give him extra privileges because of who his father was. But he wasn’t the only one leaving campus on the weekends, and Coach punished the entire team with early morning skates.
“Maybe if our team leader actually led us…”
Kenny wasn’t sure who said it, but no one argued the words. Last season, Kenny gave impassioned speeches and made sure his team strived to be the best. He didn’t want anything holding him back from the NHL. But since the summer, he’d been distracted.
Having to help with the festival was his fault, and they all knew it.
Coach sighed. “We will not assign blame to anyone. Instead, look at this like an opportunity. Academy kids rarely get the chance to interact with Twin Rivers High kids.”
For good reason. The public school kids didn’t like them. They saw their pressed uniforms and high walls as symbols of some kind of elitism.
Coach continued by rattling off names, assigning pairs to come up with booth ideas in two days’ time. Kenny’s head snapped up when he heard his name.
“You’re with Killian.”
He met the goalie’s eyes. They’d never been close, in part because Killer didn’t talk much and in part because Kenny was pretty sure Killian thought he was an asshole.
“Hit the showers, boys.”
They filed into the shower stalls. Kenny was the first one out. He shoved his sweaty workout clothes into his bag and pulled on a pair of low-slung sweats and a hoodie.
As he yanked on his shoes, his phone dinged. Asher’s name flashed across the screen as Kenny unlocked it. The text message was short.
Ash:
