"Ruthless campaign machinations in a race to the U.S. presidential election set the background for this endearing New Adult romance about the daughter of the vice presidential candidate....Red Blooded is a slow burn, and you can look forward to that escalating, sizzling sexual tension culminating in a hot love scene during the conclusion of the novel." - USA TODAY
"The author’s portrayal of a young girl’s struggle between personal need and social duty will have readers dying to know if her father was her father, if her mother will win the election, and if Dylan and Peyton are meant to be." - Library Journal
"Caitlin Sinead's Red Blooded is a captivating read! An absolute page-turner, I couldn't put it down! ...Sinead's writing is engaging and passionate, and her story is full of emotional depth. Some moments hit me right in the heart and others were very sweet! ...A wonderful read!"
5 Stars - Top Pick -Night Owl Reviews
"This. Book!!! I couldn't put it down, I was laughing and enjoying myself too much while reading it. The connection and banter between Peyton and Dylan is big and so very special. Please pick it up." -Silvana R, Hopeless Bookies
Chapter One
Peyton asked if I was afraid of death. I responded honestly—no. I’m afraid of the transition. As they say, that’s the truly troubling part.
—The Troubling Transition by Richard Arthur
Lisa taps on her clipboard and calls for more makeup. “She needs more blush.” A brush dances across my nose as a makeup artist examines me without seeing me.
“Remember to smile. A lot. After every question,” Lisa says. Dylan, her intern, stands next to her, gliding his fingers over his tablet. She snaps her intense focus to him. “Torres, do you have them?”
Dylan holds the back of the tablet against his chest so it covers the big Yale on his gray T-shirt. There are three images of me on the screen: me accepting my high school diploma from the principal, me speaking at the US Organization for Learning Disorders’ annual meeting, and me exiting a pizza place with Annie and Tristan.
“Now, remember, we’re going for this smile,” Lisa says, pointing at the pizza picture. “You are a natural, welcoming, American girl who’s happy and excited that her mom’s been nominated as the Democratic Party’s Vice Presidential Candidate.”
“I am all those things,” I say.
She nods and emits a cursory mmm-hmm as she looks at her tablet. “Of course you are.”
I roll my fingers over the armrests and stare at the shiny camera lens in front of me as I attempt to mentally prepare for the onslaught of questions about to assail me. Five via-satellite interviews. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Just as I’m going over what it was like to learn my mom would be the vice-presidential pick, Dylan holds his tablet, with the pizza picture, up to my face.
“Pizza smile, I got it,” I say, with more edge than I mean. It’s not the best time to have a conniption, but I can’t help myself, and more words spurt forward. “Sorry, it’s just—it’s not like I’m a stranger to media attention.”
Dylan presses his lips together and takes a step back.
“Sorry, that wasn’t much of an apology.” I shake my head and some girly mushiness tingles in my chest when his eyes crinkle into a smile. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s got dark, Latin features any girl would get mushy over. “I’m just a little nervous, but I didn’t mean to snap—”
“It’s cool.” Dylan shrugs. Right. As long as I’m performing well, what’s it to him.
“We know you’re used to the spotlight.” Lisa tilts her head and purses her lips in the ever-common—at least to me—sorry-your-dad-died expression. Thankfully, she doesn’t hold it for long. “But this is going to be different than…that. Your dad’s book made you a celebrity, but a sympathetic one. Politics can be, well…”
“Mean?” I supply.
She crosses her arms and nods.
“I’ve been on the campaign trail with my mom before, I know—”
“Only in Virginia, where she’s already very popular. Now we want the whole nation to love her. And, given that many people already feel they know you, and even love you, well, we’d like to use—” she swallows and holds a finger up “—we’d like to leverage that appeal and make it an additional asset in this campaign.”
I glance at Dylan. He nods.
“I hope I can be an asset as well,” I say, trying to calm the jitters in my stomach.
“You will be,” Dylan says with a sharp certainty I wish I could catch and stuff in a glass jar for safekeeping.
They back away and in a sliver of a moment the red light on the bulky studio camera bursts on, full force.
I’m streaming through the interviews like a tug boat. Well, a really classy, smooth tug boat. I’m making quality quips, like how I thought if I learned how to play “Hail to the Chief” on my flute it would supply us with good luck, and how I heard there’s a bowling alley in the White House, which makes sense, because prime bowling skills are vital to leading a nation. In fact, I’m downright enjoying myself, until a fun interview ends and Lisa sprints up to me with a strained look.
“So, the next one is with Vulp News Station,” she says.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Who on Vulp?”
“Grace and Gary,” she says. Dylan tenses as though he’s ready to block me if I try to make a run for it, which doesn’t seem like an awful idea.
“Gary is horrible.” My breathing speeds up as my fingernails dig into the plastic armrests. “He hates my mom, he’s—”
“I know,” Lisa says, her voice as calm as I’ve ever heard it. This isn’t reassuring calm; it’s disturbing calm. She’s faking it. “That’s why we need you for this one. Gary would be hostile to Governor Ruiz and to your mom, but how could he be hostile to you?”
I’m sure he can find a way. Just last week he berated the parents of a kidnapping victim for not keeping a better watch on their kids. But I get it. He would be even worse with the Democratic President and Vice President nominees.
“Plus,” she says, serene tone pushing through, “this gives their audience a chance to see the ‘mom’ side of your mom.”
She means the “remember how much the nation loved Richard Arthur’s family after he wrote that bestselling book about dying” side of my mom. She means the “me” side of my mom. The famous grieving mother everyone cried with.
“What if he pushes it?” I ask. “Grace doesn’t always rein him in. What if he tries to ask me a question about policy?”
“Remember what we went over in media training.”
I nod. Dylan and I role-played fake interviews, complete with blowup dolls as audience members. Dylan swears they’re cheaper than mannequins. He was just looking out for campaign funds. Yes, I gave him a ridiculously hard time about that.
“If anyone asks you a question you aren’t comfortable answering, deflect it. Respond in a way that addresses the question, but doesn’t answer it, and then pivot and get back to what you want to talk about.”
“Okay, but what if they ask about education reform? I would feel comfortable talking about that. Can I?”
I know the answer, because I’ve asked the question before.
She frowns and taps her pen against her lips. “No, let’s stay away from that.” She must sense my disappointment, because she holds a hand out. “For now.”
I force a smile. “For now.” Now equals the present time until Election Day. Until then, I’m the vulnerable but lovable daughter securing sweetheart points. Little things like opinions would get in the way of my image.
“Let’s pretend that Gary asks about equal pay for women, which your mom brought up in a speech in Colorado two days ago,” she says. “How would you respond?”
“Okay,” I say, straightening my shoulders and mentally shaking away my bitterness. This isn’t about me, it’s about America. “While I can’t speak specifically to that issue, I trust my mom’s views and knowledge of the extensive policy nuances. She works hard to talk with the public as well as experts to have a thorough understanding of the issues facing our nation and the world.”
“Perfect,” Lisa says. She steps back. It’s go time. The cameraman counts with his fingers, his palm nice and big. His fingers fold in on themselves. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Gary and Grace sit on a couch together with matching perfect TV smiles. “Thanks for being on the show,” Gary says.
“Thank you so much for having me,” I say.
“Peyton,” Grace says. “You’ll be entering your freshman year at Georgetown in a few weeks. Now, this would be an exciting time for anyone. What has it been like, balancing helping your mother on the campaign trail with enjoying your last weeks as a kid?” She leans over her shiny legs and waits for my answer.
Okay. I can do this. We talked about college. We practiced this. It’s just, I’ve given most of my good answers in the other interviews. And you can’t say it twice. Even if it’s the most genuine thing you’ve ever said, the late night comedians will roll you saying it to CNN and MSNBC and CBS News and PBS. Repeating things makes it sound like you’re sticking to a script. It makes you sound like you’re inauthentic, which is the worst thing to be if you’re trying to be a political asset.
This happened on a string of interviews after my dad’s book came out. I revealed several times that we used to have my nimbly-bimbly cat decide where we’d go out to dinner. We’d spread sticky notes with King Street restaurant names on our living room carpet and let him run wild. Most people thought it was cute, but some commentators used the repetition as “proof” that I was just a puppet used to sell a book.
I cried after that, of course.
And now I’ve learned my lesson. Always stay fresh.
So I dig up something new, something I haven’t talked about publicly before, that I know Lisa will kiss me for. I’m ready to talk about my dad again if it will get me through this interview and have at least a few Vulp viewers thinking seriously about backing my mom. Sure, I have to concentrate on not crying—and ignoring the swish of guilt in my belly at dusting off my dead dad to gain a political advantage—but I can do it.
“People grow at different times, Grace. The last day I was a kid was the day my dad got me Ben & Jerry’s near our home in Old Town, Alexandria. As we sat on a bench and looked over the Potomac, he told me he was going to die.”
I make a fatal flaw. I look down. You should never look down. I can’t cry now. Not on Grace and Gary. I breathe in and prepare to face them again. Grace looks like she just swallowed turpentine, but a gleeful twitch jerks at Gary’s cheek.
Why would he be gleeful?
“You know, Peyton,” he says. “We weren’t sure if we should bring up your father, but, as you seem so comfortable talking about him, perhaps we can ask you a question.”
He nods to Grace, who grimaces and folds her hands on her lap. “We were wondering, out of concern of course, how you’re handling the recent rumors about your father. Do you give them any credence?”
I will not bite my lip. The dark lipstick—lipstick you’d only wear on TV, never in real life—would get all over my teeth. But I want to bite my lip, because I don’t have the foggiest idea what she’s talking about.
“I’m sorry, what rumors?”
She purses her lips and looks at Gary. He slaps his knees and displays that horrid sneer again. “They must be keeping you in a pretty tight bubble over there,” he says. “It posted over an hour ago.”
I want to look off camera at Lisa. Is she surprised, or worried, or calm? I want to look off camera to see Dylan.
But if my vision veers off screen, that would look even worse. Plus, they’re ready to go in for the kill—I have to do my best to stop them. Pivot, pivot, pivot.
“Not at all,” I say. “But between getting ready for college, working on the campaign, and keeping up with the issues, I confess I don’t have a lot of time for tittle tattle. For example, I—”
“Tittle tattle,” he scoffs. “You think it’s tittle tattle to find out why your mother has been lying to you? You don’t think it’s important to know who your real dad is? Knowing who your real father is, well, it’s part of knowing who you are.”
“Real father?” I mumble. I can’t help it, I shoot a glance over to Lisa and Dylan. It’s quick, but I take in Lisa’s deer-in-headlights look. Dylan’s jaw is stiff and something simmers behind his eyes. He isn’t looking at me though. He’s looking at the screen.
I refocus. “Okay, who do they say my real father is?” I smile. Smile. Smile. Smile. If they’re insistent on keeping up this line of inquiry my best shot is to play along, make it a joke. Make it my joke.
He straightens on their salmon-colored couch. “They don’t know.”
It’s my turn to sneer. “This sounds like a very newsworthy story, especially as—”
“Don’t you think it’s strange…” Gary leans forward as Grace just lets him run with this. I wait but he’s still, as though he’s wondering if I deserve to hear his profound insight.
Fuck this.
“What’s strange?” I ask.
“Don’t you think it’s strange,” he says, “that you have red hair, when both your parents have, or…had, dark hair? There’s no red hair on either side of your family. Also, no one has your amber eyes.”
I glance at a monitor that displays pictures of my aunt, my grandma, and my dad’s brother. Vulp had these pictures lined up. They had this ambush planned. But, they’re right. Aside from my dad’s mom, who had beautiful dirty blond hair when she was younger, my family’s hair is dark. Not a strand of red. Not like mine, which looks like the part of the fire you use to get the best-toasted marshmallow for a s’more (at least that’s what my dad used to tell me).
And the eyes. My mom’s family has blue eyes, and my dad’s has a mix of green and dark brown. None match mine. It’s hard to think.
Dylan points to a stress ball in his hand. Right, they left me one next to my chair. I squeeze it, off camera, and remember other things Lisa and Dylan taught me, like thinking about a cool, calm lake.
And, of course, I smile. “Genetics can be funny sometimes.”
It was the best I had.
“That’s the thing.” Gary talks with sweeping hand movements, obviously too excited to sit still. “Several leading geneticists have weighed in. They’ve looked at pictures of your family, and they don’t think it’s possible your parents could be your parents.”
“I’ve got my mom’s nose.” I instantly realize this was the wrong thing to say.
Gary smirks. “Yes, there’s an undeniable resemblance between you and the Carmichaels. You have your mom’s nose. You also have your aunt and grandmother’s smile. You’re fair skinned, like them. But look at your father’s family. What did you get from them? What did you get from your father?”
“My spirit,” I say, because that’s what my mom always told me. I have my dad’s creative and adventurous spirit. Sure, I’m more dramatic than he was, but in my best moments I like to think I have the same mischievous ambition.
Lisa flails her hands about as though she’s creating a new dance. She points to a poster that Dylan holds. It has intense, black scrawls in marker: Wrap It Up, Refocus On Election.
“As much as I’d like to continue talking about my looks,” I say, with the most playful grin I can muster, “I have another interview in just a few moments, one where I’ll be discussing the Women’s Care Act, which my mom championed. But, by all means, I hope you’ll continue discussing my hair.” I pat my head in an exaggerated way and then beam as I wait for them to say goodbye. Gary doesn’t. Instead he laughs. Grace’s face is tense and pained.
“Thanks so much for talking with us, Peyton. We wish you luck in finding out who you really are,” she says.
It hits me in the jaw, and I have to think about rainbows and serene lakes so that I don’t scowl, or cry.
The last interview immediately follows the Vulp one, so there’s no time to lose. It’s with another conservative-leaning host, but one with oodles more class than Gary could ever muster. I somehow manage to get through it, smiling and making jokes about how my mom was pretty sure I’d rebel in college by majoring in something like physics, instead of political science. And, the host asks, what has my mom’s best college advice been so far? Avoid guys who don’t know how to do their own laundry, parties where all the girls wear pearls, and professors who lean Republican. The last one gets a good guffaw from the friendly host.
He smiles. “Did you pick Georgetown so you could stay close to your mom?”
“That was a notch in the plus column,” I admit.
“You two are close, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer, but my voice cracks. Not because it isn’t true. I can call my mom about anything. She makes a point to have dinner with me, just me, twice a week, which may not sound like much, but it’s a hell of a lot more attention than some of my friends get from their parents. We also email and text throughout the day. If I debate what color to paint my toes, I ask her opinion. If I think a teacher messed up a point in political history, we have a nerdy bitch session about it. If I’m worried about my friends, like if I think Annie is studying too hard or Tristan isn’t studying hard enough, I tell her.
I trust her.
So why are Gary’s words about my dad stinging me?
As soon as the last interview ends, Dylan and Lisa are on me. “You did great,” Dylan says. “Given the circumstances.”
Lisa’s not quite so positive, but at least she’s not mad at me. “I’m sorry about that. We have people looking into those allegations now, and we’ll figure out a strategy for you and prepared responses in case it comes up again, okay?”
She says it like that’s all there is to it. It’s just the handling of the media, not the swarming in my head about how this nasty rumor about my dad may or may not be true. I held the tears in for too long while trying to be a shining example of an American teenager. They come streaming out now, down my made-up cheeks.
Lisa’s mouth opens. Dylan raises his hand, as though to comfort me, but thinks better of it. “Torres,” Lisa says. “Can you, I don’t… Get something.”
He scurries away.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Peyton,” she says. Soon Dylan’s back with some napkins from the snack table. He holds them out to me as though I’m a wild animal and he’s trying to bravely feed me.
“Thank you,” I say, sniffing and scratching past the tears in my throat. I wipe my face as best I can without smudging my makeup.
Someone calls Lisa over. There isn’t an ounce of hesitation before she runs off.
I look up at Dylan. He’s got these deep lines between his brows and his shoulders are stiff.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
His dark brown eyes widen. “Me?”
“Yeah, you look, I don’t know…upset?”
His right lip curves up and he scratches his head. “I don’t know what to do when people cry.”
“I do. I cry a lot.” The tears still linger in my throat. I hold up the napkins. “This is a good start.”
“Okay, what’s next?”
“Next?”
He leans in a little. “You said this is a good start. Well, what’s next?”
I continue dabbing under my eyes and swallowing tears. “Talking is good, so is water. And well, of course, gummy bears.”
He nods and pretends to type in his tablet. “Gummy bears, got it.”
“Good.” I giggle. He grins. I get that weird feeling when you laugh and cry at the same time. But after our shared laugh fades, something deep within my gut pokes at me. Could the horrendous Gary be onto something?
Chapter Two
I’d like to say that Peyton’s brave, but, actually, she’s curious. Like me.
As a toddler, she’d look under her “big girl” bed before going to sleep. “No monsters tonight,” she’d say.
“Nope,” I’d say as I pulled the cotton sheet up to her chin. This was our routine until one night she grabbed my hand before I left the room. “Tell me the truth, Dad. One day, there will be a monster.” I assured her no, darling, you’re safe. There isn’t a monster under your bed and there never will be. She looked to the ceiling with moist eyes.
“But I have so many questions for him.”
As soon as we get back to the hotel, I slouch into the suite I’m sharing with my mom and slide into the corner. My mom is out and about doing very important things, of course. So I get busy on important things too. I scour Google for information about red hair genes. Huzzah. It is possible for red hair to be latent. Okay, so this rumor is complete shit. Right? What about my amber eyes? Those could also just pop up.
Recessive genes, bitches.
With a deep breath, I dive in. I find the original article on a blog known for stirring up right-wing, cockamamie conspiracies. If Gary had mentioned the source, I wouldn’t have taken it seriously. That’s, of course, why he didn’t.
Still, my curiosity is piqued, and no matter what unreliable source started all this, the squirms in my gut are real. I read the comments. I’m re-reading some for the third time when Dylan knocks and opens the door a sliver.
“Can I…?”
I nod and he walks in.
“Can you believe what people are saying?” I read aloud to him: “‘If there isn’t any truth to these rumors, then Peyton is some sort of squib. She looks nothing like Richard Arthur’.”
He laughs as he looks down at me.
“What’s so funny?”
“Squib.” He grins and shakes his head.
I sigh and scroll back in the comments. “What about this one: ‘It’s obvious that Richard Arthur isn’t Peyton Arthur’s real father. He was a class act, and Peyton cries about being dumb all the time. Don’t believe me? Watch this video of her speaking at a learning resources class. Jen Arthur probably slept with some dumb idiot and produced that bastard.’” I don’t have to watch the video. I know what he’s talking about. I try not to cry, but my lips tremble and the water springs. “I cried because I was so proud of those kids. Four of them are dyslexic and two of them have an auditory processing disorder, like me. I tutored them for two years and they accomplished so much…”
“Shh,” Dylan says softly. He skids down the wall to sit next to me, our bent knees knocking. He takes my phone and shakes it. “This isn’t productive. And it’s okay. We sent a Tweet scolding them for bringing in dirty politics while interviewing a candidate’s daughter. Everyone’s on your side here. Well, except a few crazies who like to post anonymous rants on blogs.”
“You don’t understand,” I say.
“I don’t understand the crazies?” He points to his Yale T-shirt. He wears a lot of Ivy paraphernalia even though he must not have a whole lot of Yale pride. He’s taking a whole year off just to be a campaign intern. “Do you remember how after we announced your mom as the pick, all of Governor Ruiz’s kids and grandkids came on the stage?”
“Yeah.” It had been a crushingly cute moment. Governor Ruiz has five daughters, all older than me and most with absolutely adorable kids of their own. They were jumping and leaping on stage. The youngest ones grabbed my hand and, well, I might have done some frolicking with them too. “That was fun.”
“For you, maybe,” he laughs. “Maria had me watch her kids, George and Paulo, after that celebratory dinner. Someone gave them chocolate.”
He stares at me. I look to the ceiling because that someone just might have been me.
“How could I deny cute six-year-old twins mini-brownies with toothpick American flags? It would have been unpatriotic of me not to indulge them.”
He laughs, but it’s more of a grunt. “If you do it again, I’ll drag you into babysitting duty with me.”
“Fine, deal. But what does that have to do with all this?” I turn to face him and knock his knee again. He jolts and scooches a couple of inches to give me some room.
“It was the first time he had his family all together during the race. After seeing it, a few people—a few anonymous crazies—said that Latinos were like rabbits and soon we’d be taking over the country. The crazies asked if the country really wanted a bunch of Latino kids running around in the Lincoln Room.”
“That’s silly. You know that’s silly, right, Dylan? Don’t let it offend you.”
One side of his mouth curls into a side smile. “I know it’s silly. I don’t let it get to me. You know why?”
“Because it’s not true.”
“Because those people are crazy.” He leans back so his black hair sprays against the wall like a paint brush that’s being pressed too hard. “And it’s not true. I’m living proof. A Latino only child.”
I laugh. “Call Guinness!”
“I know, right?” He turns to me and grins.
“It’s too bad. You’d be a good big brother.” I hold up my waterlogged, makeup-smeared napkins.
His grin disappears and he looks away. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, did I say—”
“Don’t be sorry.”
I stare at him, but he doesn’t turn around. I look at the swirls of carpet and the crazies continue to cast deep shadows inside my brain. Xenophobia is ridiculous. But could the rumors about my dad be true?
“Hey,” he says, knocking his shoulder into mine. “You okay?”
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
He takes a deep breath as he thinks. “That you’re doing well. That you’re cool.”
“I’m not, but I don’t need to talk about it.”
He does this thing where he kind of squints into the distance. I’ve seen him do it before, when Lisa asked him a succinct way to characterize Governor Ruiz’s views on abortion. “Well, do you want to be alone?”
“Not really, but if you need to be somewhere…”
“I don’t need to be anywhere, but I have to draft a press release on a new immigration bill for Lisa. I can write it here if you want?”
“That’d be cool.” He must draft a dozen press releases and statements a day. He’s always typing up something for Lisa. Not a bad gig for a guy still in college, but he is really busy. He must have better things to do than hang out with me. I skid my fingers along the carpet. “Why did you come in here?”
He flips open his tablet and clicks a few things, not looking up. “To check on you.”
“Lisa wanted you to check on me?”
He freezes, hand over the screen. “Something like that.”
He goes back to clicking away on his tablet. I feel weird looming over his shoulder, so I get up and turn on the TV. It flashes to CNN: “Peyton was stunned. She didn’t even know how to—”
Dylan leaps up. His fingers curl around my wrist as he gently pries the remote from my hand and turns the TV off. “I don’t think you should watch that. Just, you know, relax, or something.”
“Right, I should just bury my hand in the sand.”
He gives me an icy, serious look. I sigh. “Fine.” I lean back on the couch and stare at the ceiling. I let my chest rise and fall, but I’ve read the original article and comments so many times that they’re memorized, engrained in my brain.
Have you ever noticed, too, that Peyton has amber eyes? Richard Arthur had brown eyes, and the Carmichaels are known for the piercing blue eyes, so what gives? If it was just the hair, maybe that wouldn’t be enough to give us pause, but those eyes…
I swallow so many times that my throat begs for mercy. Could I be a genetic fluke? A squib, like in Harry Potter? I was born into my family, but my genes got all screwy so it looks like I don’t belong there. Or could it be true? Could my dad not be my dad?
I sit up. “I know some of the commenters are just mean and have too much time on their hands, but what about the original story? Do you think there’s something to it?”
Dylan pauses, thinking. “You know, it’s actually kind of clever,” he finally says, setting his tablet aside and resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward, hands folded, eyes focused. “Think about it. Your mom’s not only a widow, but a widow to a well-known and beloved author. They can’t touch that, right? But politics is all about taking a story that isn’t working for you, grabbing it by the balls, and making it work for you. They twist it. They make your mom the woman who cuckolds the beloved dead man. And bang, the grieving daughter, America’s sweetheart, is now the daughter who was lied to. The weeping widow is now the wicked witch. Genius.”
At some point my mouth had opened. I have to consciously close it as I rub my nails along the fabric of the couch.
“Shit, Peyton, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so blunt and—”
“No,” I say, locking his stare so he knows I mean it. “I needed to hear that. I feel a lot better now, actually.”
He blinks a couple times before nodding and sitting back.
“Anyway, I get it. It’s just dirty politics.” I had meant to say it firmly, but it came out a little bit like a squeak.
“It’s just dirty politics,” he repeats more solemnly.
* * *
I must have fallen asleep. I guess when your mind is swirling around as though every thought is a jimmy in an ice cream sundae and your spoon is twisting and scooping and mixing it all up, then, well, your brain gets a little exhausted and decides, you know what? I could really use a cat nap.
When I wake up, my mom’s pushing some hair behind my ear and I have to wipe a little drool off my face. Shit. A quick survey of the room shows it’s Dylan-less. I close my eyes and breathe out.
My embarrassment fades as I focus on my mom, my insides shifting to hollow. Her face is soft and gooey, except for that one line on her forehead that’s dented. That dent is all her face ever concedes.
“Mom, I…” What am I supposed to say? Um, can you tell me if Dad is really my dad? Did you cheat on him? If you did, and you didn’t tell me till now, would you really tell me now?
There’s an invisible ball in my throat and I can’t get it out. I close my eyes and will the world away except for the sensation of my mom’s fingers smoothing back my hair, over and over.
“You did wonderful in the interviews today,” she says. “I know this is hard. Not everyone plays fair and there will be mudslinging. I’m sorry some mud got on you.” Her voice has that edge to it, that tiny bit of emotion that rattles in her throat when she’s exasperated, or angry. “We need you at this fundraiser tomorrow, but, after that, I asked them to give you a few days off. Grandma and Grandpa will stay with you in Alexandria. You can hang out with your friends and get ready for Georgetown, and just be a kid for a few days before the Ohio town hall and the convention.”
“It’s just dirty politics?” It’s the only question I can muster. “There’s nothing to it?”
The dent in her forehead grows deeper and she drops her hands from me, holds it tense in her lap. “Don’t let them get the best of you, Peyton.” She stands up, reaching her hand out. I take it and she pulls me up. I hug her.
Even though she addressed my question without answering it.
Chapter Three
When Peyton was five, we took her back to America on an eight-hour flight. We prepared ourselves for hell. But she was fine. She slept, she colored on her tray, occasionally actually making marks on the coloring book, and she spent several chunks of the trip looking down at the ocean. How could endless ocean entertain a five-year-old?
I asked her.
She said, “I’m pretending I’m a sea angel.”
The next morning, I’m busy taking in the amber waves of grain rolling thousands of feet below the campaign’s private plane when my mom taps my arm. “Honey, do you mind finding another seat while I talk to Mr. Bain?”
Bain, the campaign manager, grips the headrest in front of my mom so hard his knuckles turn white. But his face holds an incongruous, broad smile. He’s still trying to get on my good side after I had a minor fit when he took my cell phone away. He didn’t think an eighteen-year-old could keep the fact that her mom was the VP pick a secret.
I only would have told Annie and Tristan, and I can trust them.
Cell phone confiscation aside, there’s something awkward about the way Bain’s lips stretch over his pearly whites, like he’s using cheek muscles he doesn’t usually employ.
My mom stands and moves to the aisle. They stare, waiting. I don’t want to move, but I get it. My window seat and the chance to catch up with my mom as I point out weird things on the ground, like how farmlands look like computer hardware, aren’t high priorities right now.
So, I grab my tea and e-reader and scoot past my mom. Once they’re settled, I get a small pang in my stomach as I confront the few remaining empty seats. One is next to a reporter. Um, no. Another is next to Lisa. She’s fine, I guess, but…
Oh, good. There’s one next to Dylan.
I walk over, like I’m in a pink dress and strapless bra in a high school gym about to ask the cute guy for a dance. I stand next to him, thinking he’ll, I don’t know, feel my magnetic presence or something and look up. But his eyes are narrowed on whatever he’s watching. Soft light blinks across his hard features.
I clear my throat, loudly, and he looks up. “Hey, Squib.” His mouth spreads into a smile. Unlike Bain’s, it suits him.
“Can I…” I point at the seat.
He sits up and twists around, looking for someone. His shoulders loosen as he turns back to me. “Yeah. Another intern, Gin, was here, but he didn’t call fives, and I’d rather sit next to you anyway.”
My face tingles with warmth. I smile and sit down, arranging my drink and tablet, and avoiding eye contact. Until I catch a glimpse of what he’s watching--Meet the Press. “How do you get that up here?”
“Technology is a wonderful thing,” he says. I stare at Chuck Todd, wishing I could hear what he was saying. As though I’m emitting thought airwaves, Dylan asks, “Meet the Press junkie?”
“You know it,” I say.
He pulls an earbud from his ear and passes it to me. “Want to listen?”
I reach for the earbud, but he pulls it away and leans in like he’s about to tell me something juicy. “Lisa thinks it would be best if you didn’t watch the campaign coverage.”
Well, that wasn’t salacious at all.
I keep a stone face as I whisper back, “How am I supposed to know how I can help my mom win the election if you keep me wrapped up tight in the dark?”
His dimple emerges and he gives me the earbud. Our heads tip toward each other as we watch the show. Chuck Todd interviews Representative James Roberts, the majority whip and a conservative darling, and asks him if he thinks my mom can bring in Virginia.
“Of course she can bring in Virginia,” I whisper. I like this whispering thing.
Dylan’s eyes stay on the screen, but he responds in a low voice. “Damn right.”
On the screen, Roberts’s legendary scowl shifts. He hates being forced off topic. And for him, the topic is always something involving tax or spending cuts. I’ve heard his admirers call him Snippy Roberts because of his temperament and penchant for using the word cut.
“I hate Roberts,” I say to Dylan. “In the bill he’s working on now he’s cutting education and free lunches and Head Start. It’s draconian.” I shake my head and scratch angrily at the armrest.
“Education is really important to you.”
It’s not a question, but I nod.
On the screen, Roberts responds to the question about my mom bringing in Virginia. “No, we’ll get Virginia back this election. Senator Arthur is popular in her home state, but Virginians are also concerned about the budget. And they know that Ruiz and Arthur aren’t the right people to tame this country’s insatiable spending. For example, in the bill I’m putting forward—”
“Do you think it helps or hurts that she’s a widow?” another pundit presses him.
Roberts sighs. “I think it’s a nonfactor.” A few pundits stretch their heads forward, waiting for him to elaborate. He gives them no such pleasure.
“Roberts seems sort of annoyed that he has to be there,” I say. “He’s also way too young to look that crotchety. But I guess if I was hurting millions of kids’ futures, I’d be sort of crotchety too.”
Dylan doesn’t smile, but his mouth stretches thin. “I’ve heard Governor Ruiz refer to him as the orange Oscar the Grouch.”
I bash my elbow into Dylan’s shoulder. “Don’t knock him for being a ginger. There are plenty of other things you can knock him for.”
A smile slips over his face. “His hair is just fiery, yours is…well, yours is…” He blinks a couple of times. “Anyway. He’s something else.”
“You mean because he’s said that Democrats seem to think leeches are a good health remedy for America, except we take money not blood, and that if immigrants really wanted to be here so badly they should buy Rosetta Stone and learn English already, and that—”
“And that…” Dylan jumps in, “it makes no sense to invest more in public education when it’s basically a failing business. We should all just jump ship.”
I laugh and sigh and rub my eyes. “Yeah, well, he might be a conservative Chatty Cathy on TV, but, actually, in person, he’s pretty quiet. At least the couple of times I’ve met him.”
“You were lucky. I met him once and he was bombastic as hell. When Governor Ruiz was a senator, he tried to work with Roberts on a bill that would reduce prison sentences for non-violent offenders.”
“I remember that. I was surprised Roberts went for it.”
Dylan shrugs. “It costs about as much to send someone to prison as it does to send them to Yale. Roberts wanted to cut the federal prison costs, so we were able to work together. Well, work together meaning we could accomplish something, but he was an ass to deal with. The bill that passed was far from what Ruiz wanted.”
I nod, remembering how frustrated my mom had been with that bill. But that was a few years ago. “How long have you been working for Governor Ruiz?”
“A long time.”
“He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is a great guy.” Dylan’s words drop like stones. Extremely serious stones. Like my use of the word seems was somehow offensive.
Maybe Dylan is moodier than he lets on?
Whatever. I shift back to listening to the pundits. “Frankly, I think the widow thing had to play in,” one of the talking heads says. “It’s going to be really hard for President Monroe to attack her character.”
With all the mentions of widow, my stomach hits a sour spot. Dylan shifts a quick look to me and hovers his thumb over the part of the screen that would close the show.
“Are you really suggesting that because Richard Arthur died, what is it, three, almost four years ago now, you can’t attack Jen Arthur?” a squirmy Republican pundit with a too-fuchsia-for-TV dress says as she leans over the table, blue eyes bulging.
The original pundit nods emphatically. “Yes, look at Roberts.” She points to him. His eyes flash up as though this conversation had been too boring to keep his attention.
“Yes,” he says as slowly as you can say a three letter word.
“Even you haven’t blasted Senator Arthur since her husband’s death. But you used to be one of her worst critics.”
“Well, that’s not…” Roberts fumbles along, but I can no longer hear him because Dylan’s pulled my earbud out.
“What?” I say, getting overly grabby, to the point that our hands mini wrestle until he gives up the earbud. As I stick it back in, he asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking in a breath and moving my hands off my stomach, where I hadn’t even realized they had gone before. I must have looked like I was going to be sick.
“And it’s not just Senator Arthur,” another political guest chimes in. “I think we all remember the picture of Peyton at her father’s burial.”
Some quick-thinking producer swipes the well-known image onto the screen. There I am. Little fourteen-year-old me, in my black dress and black shoes that were just a little too big. My red hair had been tucked up into a severe bun, so all you could see was that bun, and me, eyes closed, looking like I was about to die myself.
It went viral. The two million people who read the book posted it and even more people felt for me. They felt for my mom. The congresswoman who was widowed when Richard Arthur died.
I blink hard to get rid of the tears before Dylan sees. Too late. His worried eyes are cavernous. “We should turn this off.” It’s a mix of statement and question.
“No,” I answer, even as I rub my eyes and endure his concern. “No, I want to hear.”
He frowns, but he doesn’t reach for the button. He looks back to the screen and so do I.
“And now Peyton is old enough she can help with the campaign,” another pundit says enthusiastically.
“No,” Roberts says, shaking his head and looking at his folded hands on the desk.
“Seriously,” the fuchsia pundit says more soberly. “She was practically America’s sweetheart when her father died. I know so many people who loved his books and felt connected to him, and, with his final book, they connected with Peyton. It’s not a question of if they’ll use her, it’s how they’ll use her.”
Roberts wipes his weary face as the conversation continues. It has strayed so far from budget bills and his favorite word: cuts. Instead they’re using words like unforgettable, iconic and teenager.
“She’d bring in young voters, of course,” the first pundit says. “But she can also bring in her father’s fans. Perhaps they don’t relate to all of Senator Arthur’s politics, but they remember Richard Arthur. They remember him as a thought-provoking writer, and they remember him as a dying father. They remember his left-behind daughter, Peyton. In some ways, Peyton’s a stronger connection to him than Senator Arthur.”
On that note, Chuck Todd cuts in to ask us to stay tuned because in the next segment they’ll discuss a new book proposing that we get rid of the Electoral College. Dylan sucks in his cheeks, which defines his jaw and his cheekbones. He runs his fingers through his hair and his arm muscles press against the fabric of his shirt.
“Dylan,” I say.
He swallows and doesn’t look at me. “Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
Dylan turns to me with eyes like lasers. Focused, deep brown lasers. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Well, no,” I say, pointing to the screen. “I’m very upset that someone is against the Electoral College. Adding up the states is half the fun of strategizing.”
He melts back into his chair with a grin. “Oh really, what’s California plus New Hampshire plus Virginia?”
“Seventy-two.”
“Impressive.”
“Oh, come on. I know you can do it too—Utah, Alaska, North Carolina.”
He waves his hand. “That’s easy, twenty-one. What about Texas, Maryland and Colorado?”
I shake my head. “Those three states won’t be in the same column. At least not this election.”
“Probably not, but there’s some hope. The Latino population, which tends to lean Democrat, is growing quickly in Texas.”
“Oh, I know, I know, 88 percent of the new residents in the last census were Latino, black, or Asian, and the cities—Austin, Dallas, Houston and San Antonio—have voted Democratic. But you’re forgetting that the white, non-urban population is getting even more Republican. Plus, Texan Latinos don’t lean toward the Democrats as much as non-Texan Latinos. That state can’t be won. Not for a while, anyway.”
Dylan scratches his cheek as he examines me with this goofy smile.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head and asks me to add up Maryland, Florida and Hawaii.
“Forty-three.”
We dork out, adding electoral votes and talking swing states and even swing counties.
“You know,” he says, “most girls don’t like to talk about this kind of stuff.”
“Most people don’t like to talk about this stuff,” I say. “But, fortunately for you, you happen to be surrounded by campaign nerds.”
He looks around the plane dubiously before whispering, “They’re no fun. They take themselves too seriously.”
“And you don’t?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, no. I do too. But you don’t. That’s why you’re the best person here to talk to.”
I feel warm all over and don’t know what to say.
“Dylan.” Lisa holds the headrest in front of me and looms over us. She shifts her gaze back and forth. “I need you to focus on that car-tax press release, okay?”
“Sure, of course. I’m on it.” He nods more times than he probably needs to while poking away at his tablet.
“Okay, thanks.” She turns, about to walk away, before stopping and looking back at us. “Just, keep your focus. Both of you.”
We both nod.
If I’m distracting campaign staff, I’m not an asset—I’m a detriment. I put my headphones in and listen to some bluegrass as Dylan types away. We don’t talk again until the plane lands.
Chapter Four
Falling in love with Jen meant I’d have to accept that my life was no longer my own. It wasn’t just her family, although being the daughter of the exuberant George Carmichael has its advantages and burdens. It was also her vision of how she could impact the world. She wanted to take a leading role, which meant continuing her dad’s legacy in one of the most reprehensible fields: politics.
No spouse is spared from the polluted process.
Even though it’s August, it’s a pretty chilly night on the New Hampshire estate where the campaign is putting on this immense fundraising shindig under a huge white tent. As I linger in an impromptu backstage area, my goose bumps insist on staying put even as I rub my arms. When Governor Ruiz makes his closing remarks—“And, with Senator Arthur’s help, I look forward to making a better America for all of us”—my blood flows with excitement. The stagehands press our backs and tell us to go, go, go. I relish the harsh light of the stage. The beams warm my skin.
My mom wraps her arms around me and she squeezes. I squeeze back. Maybe our intimate moment is on display for all these funders and supporters, but that doesn’t make it less genuine.
“We’re going to do it, Mom,” I say, as the bubbly, positive atmosphere sinks in my brain.
“We are,” she says, before giving my shoulders one last pinch and turning back to the packed tent of high-level donors.
The top of the tent is high enough to allow the marvelous view to serve as a natural backdrop. It looks out over a shimmering, moonbeam-laced lake and then into a forest that’s generous with both trees and a fresh pine smell. The crowd emanates energy back at me. I smile and wave. Voices wash over me.
“We love you, Peyton!”
“Next Stop: White House!”
There’s cheering. There’s more hugging. There’s the red, white, and blue confetti that’s intent on hitting me in the eye. But none of it lasts long. I kick some balloons with George and Paulo. Maria and her other kids are here, along with Governor Ruiz’s youngest daughter, Sammy.
Finally, it’s time for us to get off the stage and small talk with the plebeians. And by plebeians I mean one percenters who lean Democratic. I walk to the side of the tent first, intent on savoring a non-stage view of the lake, if only for a moment. Campaigning can wait a little bit, right? Insects chirp in chorus and the cool air freshens my skin.
“I’m supposed to escort you around the party,” a familiar voice says.
Dylan steps up beside me. He looks good in a black suit. I mean, everyone looks good in a suit, but the jacket really works against his shoulders. I run my hand down his upper arm. “This is a great jacket. Very fancy. You look nice.”
He smiles. “Well, so do you. That dress is very…” His gaze lingers on the part of the dress that curves around my waist before blinking a couple times and making eye contact with me. “It works well on you.”
I run my hands down the smooth, light blue satin along my hips and his gaze once again wanders. “I didn’t pick it.”
“I know,” he says. “Lisa thought it would make you look grown-up but not too grown-up.”
Lisa. Right. I need to focus. We both need to focus. I stop touching the grown-up-but-not-too-grown-up dress and put my hands behind my back. “So, what exactly is involved with escorting me?”
“There are a few key donors who’ve mentioned wanting to meet you. I’ll make sure that happens.”
I swallow and look back at the moon. “So, what, they’ll give more money if they meet me?”
“Maybe.”
I want to help my mom, but sometimes campaigning can feel, well, frankly, whorish. Especially with an escort.
“I thought you were a media guy?” I say. “Now you do fundraising too?”
“I do what Governor Ruiz needs me to do.” He says it as though Governor Ruiz personally asks him to do stuff, instead of the campaign staff. But, you know, whatever makes him feel special. “And you should do what the campaign needs you to do.”
I raise my eyebrows. “This may come as a surprise, but neither one of us can single-handedly win this election.”
“No, but we can both help win the election.”
“I bet you’d rather be Tweeting or media training than asking for money.”
He shakes his head and adjusts one of his cuffs. “When we listen to them, they often give more money, so it’s more about listening than asking. And they have a lot to say about strategy.”
“Oh?” I say.
He laughs lightly into his chest. “One donor told me she thought we should outlaw eating meat. Sure, it would piss off most people, but all the vegetarians would flip their shit and turn out in droves.”
I rub my arms. “I bet her heart was in the right place.”
“That’s magnanimous. I think she was just batshit.”
I laugh again, but then my name pierces the air. “Peyton,” Governor Ruiz bellows across the throng of donors. “Come on, one with just the Arthurs and Ruizes.”
“I should….” I jut my finger toward Governor Ruiz, who’s already flanked by my mom, his wife, and his offspring.
“Yeah,” Dylan says.
As I jog over, passing the waiters in pristine tuxes holding appetizers that are too perfect to end their existence in my mouth, I catch that warm look in Governor Ruiz’s eyes. He sees my mom and me as family now too. And he wants a new picture for the family album. He beams at me. “Hurry up.”
Right before I collide with a woman in an iridescent full-length gown, I remember I’m supposed to be a lady, and I slow to a quick stride. I stand in front of my mom and next to Sammy. She’s several years older than me, but she’s got that warm, approachable quality her father has.
“This is the most elegant fundraising event I’ve been to,” I say.
“You never get used to these,” she says. “And that’s a good thing.”
I smile until my eyes fall on Bain. I still get that weird feeling when I see him. Before they picked my mom, he had to vet me. He grilled me on everything. But, he started with the most embarrassing question of all. Had I ever had sex?
He squinted at me. “And, to be clear, I’m not using the Clinton definition, Peyton. Have you done anything with a guy, or girl, that could come back to us? Blow jobs, anal sex, anything?”
“Are you allowed to ask me this?” I asked. His aide, who sat next to him, squirmed.
“Peyton, I don’t want to know about your sex life, I need to know about your sex life. Do you understand the distinction?” Bain asked. There was something so cold lodged in his vocal chords. He was telling the truth. He wasn’t getting off on the interview. If anything, he was supremely annoyed he had to even deal with me.
I took a deep breath. “I’ve made out with a few guys. That’s it, except for one time three years ago.” Great, I thought, now even the campaign manager knows I’ve basically been a born-again virgin since losing it sophomore year. Who loses it and then remains celibate for the next thirty months? Oh, that would be me.
“And that one time, was it with Tristan McCoy?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Neither of you paid each other for sex, right?”
The aide’s face twisted in surprise, but mine didn’t. They probably needed to ask. “No, of course not,” I said quietly.
Bain gave me the evil eye. “But you know he’s posted on Tumblr about having guys pay him for sex.”
“It’s his body, he should be able to do what he wants with it.” My voice should have been stronger for my best friend, but it wasn’t.
Bain rolled his lips together and glowered. “How many votes do you think we’d lose if the nation knew that Jen Arthur’s daughter’s best friend is a whore, and that rather than try to reform him, she’s slept with him herself?”
I curled my fists so hard they hurt. “Never call him that again.”
Bain looks at me now, at the fundraiser, like his lips have never known what it feels like to have their corners turn up. That is, before Governor Ruiz calls him over. “Bain, you son of a bitch, get the fuck in here.” As everyone adjusts to the now quite enormous crowd, Governor Ruiz says, “Hold up, where’s Dylan?”
He looks around and I’m expecting some other Dylan, someone who must be a high-up adviser or bundler, but Dylan, my Dylan, intern Dylan, emerges through the crowd, his shoulders looking better than ever.
Governor Ruiz’s smile grows. “Get in here.” Dylan finds a spot at the edge.
After several clicks and satisfactory thumbs-up from the hired photographers, we dismantle.
“It’s nice that he’s so welcoming to the interns,” I say to Sammy as I scan the departing group for other loyal interns but fail to see any.
Sammy scrunches her brow in confusion.
“Dylan,” I explain, nodding to him.
She laughs. “Dylan? He’s basically my dad’s honorary son.”
“What?”
“Dylan’s parents are family friends, so when Dylan wanted to volunteer at my dad’s California office when he was in the senate, my dad welcomed it. Six years later and Dylan’s practically a member of the family.”
“Six years? But he’s only like twenty, right?” Now his comment about meeting Representative Roberts back when Governor Ruiz was still a senator makes more sense.
“Twenty-one. He was fifteen when he started helping out.”
“Fifteen,” I mumble into the crisp air.
Dylan approaches—time for the fundraising chats. “He must be pretty tenacious.”
She laughs. “You have no idea.”
Chapter Five
Peyton’s anger flicks on like a match. I jokingly equate her to the creepy children in horror movies. The ones who look as pure as can be before…roar! Once, Peyton was humming a Disney song while making a bracelet out of dandelions when a boy broke it. There was no escaping her red-faced fury.
Use your words, we told her. Indoor voices.
She responded, “If you aren’t allowed to get angry when you’re outside, when are you allowed to get angry?”
Jen told her anger was a vice, something to be held and subdued. I just nodded, because I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Hold up there, missy.”
If I didn’t recognize the harsh voice, the kind that clinks against your spine, I wouldn’t have known that I was the “missy” in question. But I do.
“Bain,” I say with the warmest inflection I can construct. Maybe he’s a morning person, because he doesn’t look as harried as usual. He’s leaning back in a chair in the hotel lobby eating an apple. He finishes it off with one clean crack before tossing it, hoops style, into a trashcan ten feet from us. Nothing but net. He strides over.
“I get that you need a break,” he says. “Not that you have a job or other responsibilities, but, okay, you need a break.”
I try to remind myself that he’s a douche, but guilt still stretches out in my stomach and finds a home.
“It’s only for three days.” I grip my bag and force myself to meet his eyes. “And I’ll still be at the town hall in Ohio, and I’ll spend time prepping for the convention.”
He shifts his jaw and scratches under his chin with two fingers, like a villain in the Old West. “Three days is plenty of time for you to get in trouble on your own.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to hang out with my grandparents, pack for college and bathe myself in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool as tourists look on.”
“Funny,” he says gruffly as he looks to the elevator.
“Um, okay, I’m gonna…” I point my thumb toward the entrance and walk backward, then sideways.
“Not yet you aren’t.” He’s still looking at the elevator. “I asked Dylan to meet me down here. We’re giving you some talking points and materials to look over.”
“You can’t just email them?”
He turns his head and blinks at me. “No.”
The elevator doors slide open. Dylan emerges with a packet in hand, rubbing his hair like he’s still trying to wake up.
When he sees me, he smiles, but it’s washed away as Bain barks at him. “Hurry up,” he says, circling his pointer finger round and round.
Dylan jogs across the lobby and passes the packet to Bain, who sidles up next to me and points at each page’s title as though I’m in kindergarten and have no idea how to read. I swallow and clench my fists.
“If a reporter tries to question you about that dad situation, ignore them. You don’t have to answer questions.” The edge in his voice makes me shiver as he passes the material to me. I take it and pull it toward me, but he doesn’t give it up. There’s a brief tug-of-war before he finally lets go.
“I got it.” I stuff the new homework into my bag with a huff.
“Good,” he says.
He strides away, only half turning in motion, pointer finger tsking the air, as he says, “Oh, one more thing, Peyton. No seeing Tristan McCoy until after the election.”
What? Not hang out with Tristan when my dad’s long gone and my mom’s so busy she can barely have a five-minute conversation with me?
I need Tristan, and Bain has no right to tell me who I can and can’t hang out with.
But as the blood in my veins races, Bain walks away. I’m so angry my jaw hurts. “You can’t do that.” My loud words ricochet off the sleek hotel floors.
Bain stops. He swivels to face me. “I sure the fuck can. We don’t need America’s sweetheart hanging out with someone like him.”
“He’s a fine person to hang out with,” I say, this time softer, through clenched teeth. Dylan steps forward, hand stretched out, but I shrug away. He’s on Bain’s team. They’re all jerks who think they can demand anything of anyone in the name of the election.
Bain smooths down his tie. “He’s not. And when the media get bored and start rooting around for a new story, this will be low-hanging fruit. Our best chance will be telling them you’re not close anymore.”
Dylan locks eyes with me. “He’s right.”
“What?” My face gets even hotter.
Bain smirks. Dylan steps toward me. I take two steps back. Dylan sighs. “It would take about five minutes for the media to figure out that he’s not just a boy next door. He’s pretty vocal online about how he thinks prostitution should be legal. And, hell, he posted on Tumblr that he’s sold himself for sex three times—”
“He knew each of those guys, okay,” I say. “And he doesn’t even do it for the money, he just…likes it. I mean, it’s his own business, why should it matter?”
“It’s illegal,” Dylan says slowly, like he’s trying to explain something to a child.
“Well, maybe it shouldn’t be. Studies show there are public health—”
“Don’t hide behind some progressive argument,” Bain cuts in. “It’s salacious and stigmatizing, and if reporters find out you’ve gone with him to events benefitting legal prostitution, they’ll salivate over the story.”
Shit, how did Bain find out about that? I rub my forehead and close my eyes. “He was speaking. I was supporting a friend, my best friend. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Association is everything in politics,” Bain says. Dylan nods.
“Tristan’s going to be there for me long after you two have moved on from this election,” I say.
Dylan’s face goes slack and he swallows, probably because he knows I’m right.
“I need him. He’s my best friend, okay?”
“No,” Bain says, finger in the air again. “Annie is your best friend. Unlike Tristan, her friendship is an asset. She’s not a rich brat, she doesn’t have Tristan’s peculiar proclivities, she’s a good student, and she’s mixed race to boot. We can work with that.”
I seethe and my muscles somehow get even tenser. Bain has this way of making me feel like I’m pounding my fists inside a tight box. “Annie’s a person, and a good friend, not some political prop to make me look PC.”
“What he’s trying to say—” Dylan starts, but Bain cuts him off with a flat palm. He walks closer to me and stares down.
“Listen, honey, it’s not my job to make people feel warm and fuzzy inside about their childhood friendships. It’s my job to win elections. Annie’s an asset, Tristan’s a liability, and I expect you to use that information and act in the best interests of this campaign. You do want us to win, right?”
“More than anything,” I say, “But—”
“You have to get going, Peyton,” Bain says as he turns and walks away. He calls over his shoulder, “Or you’re going to miss your flight.”
"The author’s portrayal of a young girl’s struggle between personal need and social duty will have readers dying to know if her father was her father, if her mother will win the election, and if Dylan and Peyton are meant to be." - Library Journal
"Caitlin Sinead's Red Blooded is a captivating read! An absolute page-turner, I couldn't put it down! ...Sinead's writing is engaging and passionate, and her story is full of emotional depth. Some moments hit me right in the heart and others were very sweet! ...A wonderful read!"
5 Stars - Top Pick -Night Owl Reviews
"This. Book!!! I couldn't put it down, I was laughing and enjoying myself too much while reading it. The connection and banter between Peyton and Dylan is big and so very special. Please pick it up." -Silvana R, Hopeless Bookies
Chapter One
Peyton asked if I was afraid of death. I responded honestly—no. I’m afraid of the transition. As they say, that’s the truly troubling part.
—The Troubling Transition by Richard Arthur
Lisa taps on her clipboard and calls for more makeup. “She needs more blush.” A brush dances across my nose as a makeup artist examines me without seeing me.
“Remember to smile. A lot. After every question,” Lisa says. Dylan, her intern, stands next to her, gliding his fingers over his tablet. She snaps her intense focus to him. “Torres, do you have them?”
Dylan holds the back of the tablet against his chest so it covers the big Yale on his gray T-shirt. There are three images of me on the screen: me accepting my high school diploma from the principal, me speaking at the US Organization for Learning Disorders’ annual meeting, and me exiting a pizza place with Annie and Tristan.
“Now, remember, we’re going for this smile,” Lisa says, pointing at the pizza picture. “You are a natural, welcoming, American girl who’s happy and excited that her mom’s been nominated as the Democratic Party’s Vice Presidential Candidate.”
“I am all those things,” I say.
She nods and emits a cursory mmm-hmm as she looks at her tablet. “Of course you are.”
I roll my fingers over the armrests and stare at the shiny camera lens in front of me as I attempt to mentally prepare for the onslaught of questions about to assail me. Five via-satellite interviews. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Just as I’m going over what it was like to learn my mom would be the vice-presidential pick, Dylan holds his tablet, with the pizza picture, up to my face.
“Pizza smile, I got it,” I say, with more edge than I mean. It’s not the best time to have a conniption, but I can’t help myself, and more words spurt forward. “Sorry, it’s just—it’s not like I’m a stranger to media attention.”
Dylan presses his lips together and takes a step back.
“Sorry, that wasn’t much of an apology.” I shake my head and some girly mushiness tingles in my chest when his eyes crinkle into a smile. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s got dark, Latin features any girl would get mushy over. “I’m just a little nervous, but I didn’t mean to snap—”
“It’s cool.” Dylan shrugs. Right. As long as I’m performing well, what’s it to him.
“We know you’re used to the spotlight.” Lisa tilts her head and purses her lips in the ever-common—at least to me—sorry-your-dad-died expression. Thankfully, she doesn’t hold it for long. “But this is going to be different than…that. Your dad’s book made you a celebrity, but a sympathetic one. Politics can be, well…”
“Mean?” I supply.
She crosses her arms and nods.
“I’ve been on the campaign trail with my mom before, I know—”
“Only in Virginia, where she’s already very popular. Now we want the whole nation to love her. And, given that many people already feel they know you, and even love you, well, we’d like to use—” she swallows and holds a finger up “—we’d like to leverage that appeal and make it an additional asset in this campaign.”
I glance at Dylan. He nods.
“I hope I can be an asset as well,” I say, trying to calm the jitters in my stomach.
“You will be,” Dylan says with a sharp certainty I wish I could catch and stuff in a glass jar for safekeeping.
They back away and in a sliver of a moment the red light on the bulky studio camera bursts on, full force.
I’m streaming through the interviews like a tug boat. Well, a really classy, smooth tug boat. I’m making quality quips, like how I thought if I learned how to play “Hail to the Chief” on my flute it would supply us with good luck, and how I heard there’s a bowling alley in the White House, which makes sense, because prime bowling skills are vital to leading a nation. In fact, I’m downright enjoying myself, until a fun interview ends and Lisa sprints up to me with a strained look.
“So, the next one is with Vulp News Station,” she says.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Who on Vulp?”
“Grace and Gary,” she says. Dylan tenses as though he’s ready to block me if I try to make a run for it, which doesn’t seem like an awful idea.
“Gary is horrible.” My breathing speeds up as my fingernails dig into the plastic armrests. “He hates my mom, he’s—”
“I know,” Lisa says, her voice as calm as I’ve ever heard it. This isn’t reassuring calm; it’s disturbing calm. She’s faking it. “That’s why we need you for this one. Gary would be hostile to Governor Ruiz and to your mom, but how could he be hostile to you?”
I’m sure he can find a way. Just last week he berated the parents of a kidnapping victim for not keeping a better watch on their kids. But I get it. He would be even worse with the Democratic President and Vice President nominees.
“Plus,” she says, serene tone pushing through, “this gives their audience a chance to see the ‘mom’ side of your mom.”
She means the “remember how much the nation loved Richard Arthur’s family after he wrote that bestselling book about dying” side of my mom. She means the “me” side of my mom. The famous grieving mother everyone cried with.
“What if he pushes it?” I ask. “Grace doesn’t always rein him in. What if he tries to ask me a question about policy?”
“Remember what we went over in media training.”
I nod. Dylan and I role-played fake interviews, complete with blowup dolls as audience members. Dylan swears they’re cheaper than mannequins. He was just looking out for campaign funds. Yes, I gave him a ridiculously hard time about that.
“If anyone asks you a question you aren’t comfortable answering, deflect it. Respond in a way that addresses the question, but doesn’t answer it, and then pivot and get back to what you want to talk about.”
“Okay, but what if they ask about education reform? I would feel comfortable talking about that. Can I?”
I know the answer, because I’ve asked the question before.
She frowns and taps her pen against her lips. “No, let’s stay away from that.” She must sense my disappointment, because she holds a hand out. “For now.”
I force a smile. “For now.” Now equals the present time until Election Day. Until then, I’m the vulnerable but lovable daughter securing sweetheart points. Little things like opinions would get in the way of my image.
“Let’s pretend that Gary asks about equal pay for women, which your mom brought up in a speech in Colorado two days ago,” she says. “How would you respond?”
“Okay,” I say, straightening my shoulders and mentally shaking away my bitterness. This isn’t about me, it’s about America. “While I can’t speak specifically to that issue, I trust my mom’s views and knowledge of the extensive policy nuances. She works hard to talk with the public as well as experts to have a thorough understanding of the issues facing our nation and the world.”
“Perfect,” Lisa says. She steps back. It’s go time. The cameraman counts with his fingers, his palm nice and big. His fingers fold in on themselves. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Gary and Grace sit on a couch together with matching perfect TV smiles. “Thanks for being on the show,” Gary says.
“Thank you so much for having me,” I say.
“Peyton,” Grace says. “You’ll be entering your freshman year at Georgetown in a few weeks. Now, this would be an exciting time for anyone. What has it been like, balancing helping your mother on the campaign trail with enjoying your last weeks as a kid?” She leans over her shiny legs and waits for my answer.
Okay. I can do this. We talked about college. We practiced this. It’s just, I’ve given most of my good answers in the other interviews. And you can’t say it twice. Even if it’s the most genuine thing you’ve ever said, the late night comedians will roll you saying it to CNN and MSNBC and CBS News and PBS. Repeating things makes it sound like you’re sticking to a script. It makes you sound like you’re inauthentic, which is the worst thing to be if you’re trying to be a political asset.
This happened on a string of interviews after my dad’s book came out. I revealed several times that we used to have my nimbly-bimbly cat decide where we’d go out to dinner. We’d spread sticky notes with King Street restaurant names on our living room carpet and let him run wild. Most people thought it was cute, but some commentators used the repetition as “proof” that I was just a puppet used to sell a book.
I cried after that, of course.
And now I’ve learned my lesson. Always stay fresh.
So I dig up something new, something I haven’t talked about publicly before, that I know Lisa will kiss me for. I’m ready to talk about my dad again if it will get me through this interview and have at least a few Vulp viewers thinking seriously about backing my mom. Sure, I have to concentrate on not crying—and ignoring the swish of guilt in my belly at dusting off my dead dad to gain a political advantage—but I can do it.
“People grow at different times, Grace. The last day I was a kid was the day my dad got me Ben & Jerry’s near our home in Old Town, Alexandria. As we sat on a bench and looked over the Potomac, he told me he was going to die.”
I make a fatal flaw. I look down. You should never look down. I can’t cry now. Not on Grace and Gary. I breathe in and prepare to face them again. Grace looks like she just swallowed turpentine, but a gleeful twitch jerks at Gary’s cheek.
Why would he be gleeful?
“You know, Peyton,” he says. “We weren’t sure if we should bring up your father, but, as you seem so comfortable talking about him, perhaps we can ask you a question.”
He nods to Grace, who grimaces and folds her hands on her lap. “We were wondering, out of concern of course, how you’re handling the recent rumors about your father. Do you give them any credence?”
I will not bite my lip. The dark lipstick—lipstick you’d only wear on TV, never in real life—would get all over my teeth. But I want to bite my lip, because I don’t have the foggiest idea what she’s talking about.
“I’m sorry, what rumors?”
She purses her lips and looks at Gary. He slaps his knees and displays that horrid sneer again. “They must be keeping you in a pretty tight bubble over there,” he says. “It posted over an hour ago.”
I want to look off camera at Lisa. Is she surprised, or worried, or calm? I want to look off camera to see Dylan.
But if my vision veers off screen, that would look even worse. Plus, they’re ready to go in for the kill—I have to do my best to stop them. Pivot, pivot, pivot.
“Not at all,” I say. “But between getting ready for college, working on the campaign, and keeping up with the issues, I confess I don’t have a lot of time for tittle tattle. For example, I—”
“Tittle tattle,” he scoffs. “You think it’s tittle tattle to find out why your mother has been lying to you? You don’t think it’s important to know who your real dad is? Knowing who your real father is, well, it’s part of knowing who you are.”
“Real father?” I mumble. I can’t help it, I shoot a glance over to Lisa and Dylan. It’s quick, but I take in Lisa’s deer-in-headlights look. Dylan’s jaw is stiff and something simmers behind his eyes. He isn’t looking at me though. He’s looking at the screen.
I refocus. “Okay, who do they say my real father is?” I smile. Smile. Smile. Smile. If they’re insistent on keeping up this line of inquiry my best shot is to play along, make it a joke. Make it my joke.
He straightens on their salmon-colored couch. “They don’t know.”
It’s my turn to sneer. “This sounds like a very newsworthy story, especially as—”
“Don’t you think it’s strange…” Gary leans forward as Grace just lets him run with this. I wait but he’s still, as though he’s wondering if I deserve to hear his profound insight.
Fuck this.
“What’s strange?” I ask.
“Don’t you think it’s strange,” he says, “that you have red hair, when both your parents have, or…had, dark hair? There’s no red hair on either side of your family. Also, no one has your amber eyes.”
I glance at a monitor that displays pictures of my aunt, my grandma, and my dad’s brother. Vulp had these pictures lined up. They had this ambush planned. But, they’re right. Aside from my dad’s mom, who had beautiful dirty blond hair when she was younger, my family’s hair is dark. Not a strand of red. Not like mine, which looks like the part of the fire you use to get the best-toasted marshmallow for a s’more (at least that’s what my dad used to tell me).
And the eyes. My mom’s family has blue eyes, and my dad’s has a mix of green and dark brown. None match mine. It’s hard to think.
Dylan points to a stress ball in his hand. Right, they left me one next to my chair. I squeeze it, off camera, and remember other things Lisa and Dylan taught me, like thinking about a cool, calm lake.
And, of course, I smile. “Genetics can be funny sometimes.”
It was the best I had.
“That’s the thing.” Gary talks with sweeping hand movements, obviously too excited to sit still. “Several leading geneticists have weighed in. They’ve looked at pictures of your family, and they don’t think it’s possible your parents could be your parents.”
“I’ve got my mom’s nose.” I instantly realize this was the wrong thing to say.
Gary smirks. “Yes, there’s an undeniable resemblance between you and the Carmichaels. You have your mom’s nose. You also have your aunt and grandmother’s smile. You’re fair skinned, like them. But look at your father’s family. What did you get from them? What did you get from your father?”
“My spirit,” I say, because that’s what my mom always told me. I have my dad’s creative and adventurous spirit. Sure, I’m more dramatic than he was, but in my best moments I like to think I have the same mischievous ambition.
Lisa flails her hands about as though she’s creating a new dance. She points to a poster that Dylan holds. It has intense, black scrawls in marker: Wrap It Up, Refocus On Election.
“As much as I’d like to continue talking about my looks,” I say, with the most playful grin I can muster, “I have another interview in just a few moments, one where I’ll be discussing the Women’s Care Act, which my mom championed. But, by all means, I hope you’ll continue discussing my hair.” I pat my head in an exaggerated way and then beam as I wait for them to say goodbye. Gary doesn’t. Instead he laughs. Grace’s face is tense and pained.
“Thanks so much for talking with us, Peyton. We wish you luck in finding out who you really are,” she says.
It hits me in the jaw, and I have to think about rainbows and serene lakes so that I don’t scowl, or cry.
The last interview immediately follows the Vulp one, so there’s no time to lose. It’s with another conservative-leaning host, but one with oodles more class than Gary could ever muster. I somehow manage to get through it, smiling and making jokes about how my mom was pretty sure I’d rebel in college by majoring in something like physics, instead of political science. And, the host asks, what has my mom’s best college advice been so far? Avoid guys who don’t know how to do their own laundry, parties where all the girls wear pearls, and professors who lean Republican. The last one gets a good guffaw from the friendly host.
He smiles. “Did you pick Georgetown so you could stay close to your mom?”
“That was a notch in the plus column,” I admit.
“You two are close, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer, but my voice cracks. Not because it isn’t true. I can call my mom about anything. She makes a point to have dinner with me, just me, twice a week, which may not sound like much, but it’s a hell of a lot more attention than some of my friends get from their parents. We also email and text throughout the day. If I debate what color to paint my toes, I ask her opinion. If I think a teacher messed up a point in political history, we have a nerdy bitch session about it. If I’m worried about my friends, like if I think Annie is studying too hard or Tristan isn’t studying hard enough, I tell her.
I trust her.
So why are Gary’s words about my dad stinging me?
As soon as the last interview ends, Dylan and Lisa are on me. “You did great,” Dylan says. “Given the circumstances.”
Lisa’s not quite so positive, but at least she’s not mad at me. “I’m sorry about that. We have people looking into those allegations now, and we’ll figure out a strategy for you and prepared responses in case it comes up again, okay?”
She says it like that’s all there is to it. It’s just the handling of the media, not the swarming in my head about how this nasty rumor about my dad may or may not be true. I held the tears in for too long while trying to be a shining example of an American teenager. They come streaming out now, down my made-up cheeks.
Lisa’s mouth opens. Dylan raises his hand, as though to comfort me, but thinks better of it. “Torres,” Lisa says. “Can you, I don’t… Get something.”
He scurries away.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Peyton,” she says. Soon Dylan’s back with some napkins from the snack table. He holds them out to me as though I’m a wild animal and he’s trying to bravely feed me.
“Thank you,” I say, sniffing and scratching past the tears in my throat. I wipe my face as best I can without smudging my makeup.
Someone calls Lisa over. There isn’t an ounce of hesitation before she runs off.
I look up at Dylan. He’s got these deep lines between his brows and his shoulders are stiff.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
His dark brown eyes widen. “Me?”
“Yeah, you look, I don’t know…upset?”
His right lip curves up and he scratches his head. “I don’t know what to do when people cry.”
“I do. I cry a lot.” The tears still linger in my throat. I hold up the napkins. “This is a good start.”
“Okay, what’s next?”
“Next?”
He leans in a little. “You said this is a good start. Well, what’s next?”
I continue dabbing under my eyes and swallowing tears. “Talking is good, so is water. And well, of course, gummy bears.”
He nods and pretends to type in his tablet. “Gummy bears, got it.”
“Good.” I giggle. He grins. I get that weird feeling when you laugh and cry at the same time. But after our shared laugh fades, something deep within my gut pokes at me. Could the horrendous Gary be onto something?
Chapter Two
I’d like to say that Peyton’s brave, but, actually, she’s curious. Like me.
As a toddler, she’d look under her “big girl” bed before going to sleep. “No monsters tonight,” she’d say.
“Nope,” I’d say as I pulled the cotton sheet up to her chin. This was our routine until one night she grabbed my hand before I left the room. “Tell me the truth, Dad. One day, there will be a monster.” I assured her no, darling, you’re safe. There isn’t a monster under your bed and there never will be. She looked to the ceiling with moist eyes.
“But I have so many questions for him.”
As soon as we get back to the hotel, I slouch into the suite I’m sharing with my mom and slide into the corner. My mom is out and about doing very important things, of course. So I get busy on important things too. I scour Google for information about red hair genes. Huzzah. It is possible for red hair to be latent. Okay, so this rumor is complete shit. Right? What about my amber eyes? Those could also just pop up.
Recessive genes, bitches.
With a deep breath, I dive in. I find the original article on a blog known for stirring up right-wing, cockamamie conspiracies. If Gary had mentioned the source, I wouldn’t have taken it seriously. That’s, of course, why he didn’t.
Still, my curiosity is piqued, and no matter what unreliable source started all this, the squirms in my gut are real. I read the comments. I’m re-reading some for the third time when Dylan knocks and opens the door a sliver.
“Can I…?”
I nod and he walks in.
“Can you believe what people are saying?” I read aloud to him: “‘If there isn’t any truth to these rumors, then Peyton is some sort of squib. She looks nothing like Richard Arthur’.”
He laughs as he looks down at me.
“What’s so funny?”
“Squib.” He grins and shakes his head.
I sigh and scroll back in the comments. “What about this one: ‘It’s obvious that Richard Arthur isn’t Peyton Arthur’s real father. He was a class act, and Peyton cries about being dumb all the time. Don’t believe me? Watch this video of her speaking at a learning resources class. Jen Arthur probably slept with some dumb idiot and produced that bastard.’” I don’t have to watch the video. I know what he’s talking about. I try not to cry, but my lips tremble and the water springs. “I cried because I was so proud of those kids. Four of them are dyslexic and two of them have an auditory processing disorder, like me. I tutored them for two years and they accomplished so much…”
“Shh,” Dylan says softly. He skids down the wall to sit next to me, our bent knees knocking. He takes my phone and shakes it. “This isn’t productive. And it’s okay. We sent a Tweet scolding them for bringing in dirty politics while interviewing a candidate’s daughter. Everyone’s on your side here. Well, except a few crazies who like to post anonymous rants on blogs.”
“You don’t understand,” I say.
“I don’t understand the crazies?” He points to his Yale T-shirt. He wears a lot of Ivy paraphernalia even though he must not have a whole lot of Yale pride. He’s taking a whole year off just to be a campaign intern. “Do you remember how after we announced your mom as the pick, all of Governor Ruiz’s kids and grandkids came on the stage?”
“Yeah.” It had been a crushingly cute moment. Governor Ruiz has five daughters, all older than me and most with absolutely adorable kids of their own. They were jumping and leaping on stage. The youngest ones grabbed my hand and, well, I might have done some frolicking with them too. “That was fun.”
“For you, maybe,” he laughs. “Maria had me watch her kids, George and Paulo, after that celebratory dinner. Someone gave them chocolate.”
He stares at me. I look to the ceiling because that someone just might have been me.
“How could I deny cute six-year-old twins mini-brownies with toothpick American flags? It would have been unpatriotic of me not to indulge them.”
He laughs, but it’s more of a grunt. “If you do it again, I’ll drag you into babysitting duty with me.”
“Fine, deal. But what does that have to do with all this?” I turn to face him and knock his knee again. He jolts and scooches a couple of inches to give me some room.
“It was the first time he had his family all together during the race. After seeing it, a few people—a few anonymous crazies—said that Latinos were like rabbits and soon we’d be taking over the country. The crazies asked if the country really wanted a bunch of Latino kids running around in the Lincoln Room.”
“That’s silly. You know that’s silly, right, Dylan? Don’t let it offend you.”
One side of his mouth curls into a side smile. “I know it’s silly. I don’t let it get to me. You know why?”
“Because it’s not true.”
“Because those people are crazy.” He leans back so his black hair sprays against the wall like a paint brush that’s being pressed too hard. “And it’s not true. I’m living proof. A Latino only child.”
I laugh. “Call Guinness!”
“I know, right?” He turns to me and grins.
“It’s too bad. You’d be a good big brother.” I hold up my waterlogged, makeup-smeared napkins.
His grin disappears and he looks away. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, did I say—”
“Don’t be sorry.”
I stare at him, but he doesn’t turn around. I look at the swirls of carpet and the crazies continue to cast deep shadows inside my brain. Xenophobia is ridiculous. But could the rumors about my dad be true?
“Hey,” he says, knocking his shoulder into mine. “You okay?”
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
He takes a deep breath as he thinks. “That you’re doing well. That you’re cool.”
“I’m not, but I don’t need to talk about it.”
He does this thing where he kind of squints into the distance. I’ve seen him do it before, when Lisa asked him a succinct way to characterize Governor Ruiz’s views on abortion. “Well, do you want to be alone?”
“Not really, but if you need to be somewhere…”
“I don’t need to be anywhere, but I have to draft a press release on a new immigration bill for Lisa. I can write it here if you want?”
“That’d be cool.” He must draft a dozen press releases and statements a day. He’s always typing up something for Lisa. Not a bad gig for a guy still in college, but he is really busy. He must have better things to do than hang out with me. I skid my fingers along the carpet. “Why did you come in here?”
He flips open his tablet and clicks a few things, not looking up. “To check on you.”
“Lisa wanted you to check on me?”
He freezes, hand over the screen. “Something like that.”
He goes back to clicking away on his tablet. I feel weird looming over his shoulder, so I get up and turn on the TV. It flashes to CNN: “Peyton was stunned. She didn’t even know how to—”
Dylan leaps up. His fingers curl around my wrist as he gently pries the remote from my hand and turns the TV off. “I don’t think you should watch that. Just, you know, relax, or something.”
“Right, I should just bury my hand in the sand.”
He gives me an icy, serious look. I sigh. “Fine.” I lean back on the couch and stare at the ceiling. I let my chest rise and fall, but I’ve read the original article and comments so many times that they’re memorized, engrained in my brain.
Have you ever noticed, too, that Peyton has amber eyes? Richard Arthur had brown eyes, and the Carmichaels are known for the piercing blue eyes, so what gives? If it was just the hair, maybe that wouldn’t be enough to give us pause, but those eyes…
I swallow so many times that my throat begs for mercy. Could I be a genetic fluke? A squib, like in Harry Potter? I was born into my family, but my genes got all screwy so it looks like I don’t belong there. Or could it be true? Could my dad not be my dad?
I sit up. “I know some of the commenters are just mean and have too much time on their hands, but what about the original story? Do you think there’s something to it?”
Dylan pauses, thinking. “You know, it’s actually kind of clever,” he finally says, setting his tablet aside and resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward, hands folded, eyes focused. “Think about it. Your mom’s not only a widow, but a widow to a well-known and beloved author. They can’t touch that, right? But politics is all about taking a story that isn’t working for you, grabbing it by the balls, and making it work for you. They twist it. They make your mom the woman who cuckolds the beloved dead man. And bang, the grieving daughter, America’s sweetheart, is now the daughter who was lied to. The weeping widow is now the wicked witch. Genius.”
At some point my mouth had opened. I have to consciously close it as I rub my nails along the fabric of the couch.
“Shit, Peyton, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so blunt and—”
“No,” I say, locking his stare so he knows I mean it. “I needed to hear that. I feel a lot better now, actually.”
He blinks a couple times before nodding and sitting back.
“Anyway, I get it. It’s just dirty politics.” I had meant to say it firmly, but it came out a little bit like a squeak.
“It’s just dirty politics,” he repeats more solemnly.
* * *
I must have fallen asleep. I guess when your mind is swirling around as though every thought is a jimmy in an ice cream sundae and your spoon is twisting and scooping and mixing it all up, then, well, your brain gets a little exhausted and decides, you know what? I could really use a cat nap.
When I wake up, my mom’s pushing some hair behind my ear and I have to wipe a little drool off my face. Shit. A quick survey of the room shows it’s Dylan-less. I close my eyes and breathe out.
My embarrassment fades as I focus on my mom, my insides shifting to hollow. Her face is soft and gooey, except for that one line on her forehead that’s dented. That dent is all her face ever concedes.
“Mom, I…” What am I supposed to say? Um, can you tell me if Dad is really my dad? Did you cheat on him? If you did, and you didn’t tell me till now, would you really tell me now?
There’s an invisible ball in my throat and I can’t get it out. I close my eyes and will the world away except for the sensation of my mom’s fingers smoothing back my hair, over and over.
“You did wonderful in the interviews today,” she says. “I know this is hard. Not everyone plays fair and there will be mudslinging. I’m sorry some mud got on you.” Her voice has that edge to it, that tiny bit of emotion that rattles in her throat when she’s exasperated, or angry. “We need you at this fundraiser tomorrow, but, after that, I asked them to give you a few days off. Grandma and Grandpa will stay with you in Alexandria. You can hang out with your friends and get ready for Georgetown, and just be a kid for a few days before the Ohio town hall and the convention.”
“It’s just dirty politics?” It’s the only question I can muster. “There’s nothing to it?”
The dent in her forehead grows deeper and she drops her hands from me, holds it tense in her lap. “Don’t let them get the best of you, Peyton.” She stands up, reaching her hand out. I take it and she pulls me up. I hug her.
Even though she addressed my question without answering it.
Chapter Three
When Peyton was five, we took her back to America on an eight-hour flight. We prepared ourselves for hell. But she was fine. She slept, she colored on her tray, occasionally actually making marks on the coloring book, and she spent several chunks of the trip looking down at the ocean. How could endless ocean entertain a five-year-old?
I asked her.
She said, “I’m pretending I’m a sea angel.”
The next morning, I’m busy taking in the amber waves of grain rolling thousands of feet below the campaign’s private plane when my mom taps my arm. “Honey, do you mind finding another seat while I talk to Mr. Bain?”
Bain, the campaign manager, grips the headrest in front of my mom so hard his knuckles turn white. But his face holds an incongruous, broad smile. He’s still trying to get on my good side after I had a minor fit when he took my cell phone away. He didn’t think an eighteen-year-old could keep the fact that her mom was the VP pick a secret.
I only would have told Annie and Tristan, and I can trust them.
Cell phone confiscation aside, there’s something awkward about the way Bain’s lips stretch over his pearly whites, like he’s using cheek muscles he doesn’t usually employ.
My mom stands and moves to the aisle. They stare, waiting. I don’t want to move, but I get it. My window seat and the chance to catch up with my mom as I point out weird things on the ground, like how farmlands look like computer hardware, aren’t high priorities right now.
So, I grab my tea and e-reader and scoot past my mom. Once they’re settled, I get a small pang in my stomach as I confront the few remaining empty seats. One is next to a reporter. Um, no. Another is next to Lisa. She’s fine, I guess, but…
Oh, good. There’s one next to Dylan.
I walk over, like I’m in a pink dress and strapless bra in a high school gym about to ask the cute guy for a dance. I stand next to him, thinking he’ll, I don’t know, feel my magnetic presence or something and look up. But his eyes are narrowed on whatever he’s watching. Soft light blinks across his hard features.
I clear my throat, loudly, and he looks up. “Hey, Squib.” His mouth spreads into a smile. Unlike Bain’s, it suits him.
“Can I…” I point at the seat.
He sits up and twists around, looking for someone. His shoulders loosen as he turns back to me. “Yeah. Another intern, Gin, was here, but he didn’t call fives, and I’d rather sit next to you anyway.”
My face tingles with warmth. I smile and sit down, arranging my drink and tablet, and avoiding eye contact. Until I catch a glimpse of what he’s watching--Meet the Press. “How do you get that up here?”
“Technology is a wonderful thing,” he says. I stare at Chuck Todd, wishing I could hear what he was saying. As though I’m emitting thought airwaves, Dylan asks, “Meet the Press junkie?”
“You know it,” I say.
He pulls an earbud from his ear and passes it to me. “Want to listen?”
I reach for the earbud, but he pulls it away and leans in like he’s about to tell me something juicy. “Lisa thinks it would be best if you didn’t watch the campaign coverage.”
Well, that wasn’t salacious at all.
I keep a stone face as I whisper back, “How am I supposed to know how I can help my mom win the election if you keep me wrapped up tight in the dark?”
His dimple emerges and he gives me the earbud. Our heads tip toward each other as we watch the show. Chuck Todd interviews Representative James Roberts, the majority whip and a conservative darling, and asks him if he thinks my mom can bring in Virginia.
“Of course she can bring in Virginia,” I whisper. I like this whispering thing.
Dylan’s eyes stay on the screen, but he responds in a low voice. “Damn right.”
On the screen, Roberts’s legendary scowl shifts. He hates being forced off topic. And for him, the topic is always something involving tax or spending cuts. I’ve heard his admirers call him Snippy Roberts because of his temperament and penchant for using the word cut.
“I hate Roberts,” I say to Dylan. “In the bill he’s working on now he’s cutting education and free lunches and Head Start. It’s draconian.” I shake my head and scratch angrily at the armrest.
“Education is really important to you.”
It’s not a question, but I nod.
On the screen, Roberts responds to the question about my mom bringing in Virginia. “No, we’ll get Virginia back this election. Senator Arthur is popular in her home state, but Virginians are also concerned about the budget. And they know that Ruiz and Arthur aren’t the right people to tame this country’s insatiable spending. For example, in the bill I’m putting forward—”
“Do you think it helps or hurts that she’s a widow?” another pundit presses him.
Roberts sighs. “I think it’s a nonfactor.” A few pundits stretch their heads forward, waiting for him to elaborate. He gives them no such pleasure.
“Roberts seems sort of annoyed that he has to be there,” I say. “He’s also way too young to look that crotchety. But I guess if I was hurting millions of kids’ futures, I’d be sort of crotchety too.”
Dylan doesn’t smile, but his mouth stretches thin. “I’ve heard Governor Ruiz refer to him as the orange Oscar the Grouch.”
I bash my elbow into Dylan’s shoulder. “Don’t knock him for being a ginger. There are plenty of other things you can knock him for.”
A smile slips over his face. “His hair is just fiery, yours is…well, yours is…” He blinks a couple of times. “Anyway. He’s something else.”
“You mean because he’s said that Democrats seem to think leeches are a good health remedy for America, except we take money not blood, and that if immigrants really wanted to be here so badly they should buy Rosetta Stone and learn English already, and that—”
“And that…” Dylan jumps in, “it makes no sense to invest more in public education when it’s basically a failing business. We should all just jump ship.”
I laugh and sigh and rub my eyes. “Yeah, well, he might be a conservative Chatty Cathy on TV, but, actually, in person, he’s pretty quiet. At least the couple of times I’ve met him.”
“You were lucky. I met him once and he was bombastic as hell. When Governor Ruiz was a senator, he tried to work with Roberts on a bill that would reduce prison sentences for non-violent offenders.”
“I remember that. I was surprised Roberts went for it.”
Dylan shrugs. “It costs about as much to send someone to prison as it does to send them to Yale. Roberts wanted to cut the federal prison costs, so we were able to work together. Well, work together meaning we could accomplish something, but he was an ass to deal with. The bill that passed was far from what Ruiz wanted.”
I nod, remembering how frustrated my mom had been with that bill. But that was a few years ago. “How long have you been working for Governor Ruiz?”
“A long time.”
“He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is a great guy.” Dylan’s words drop like stones. Extremely serious stones. Like my use of the word seems was somehow offensive.
Maybe Dylan is moodier than he lets on?
Whatever. I shift back to listening to the pundits. “Frankly, I think the widow thing had to play in,” one of the talking heads says. “It’s going to be really hard for President Monroe to attack her character.”
With all the mentions of widow, my stomach hits a sour spot. Dylan shifts a quick look to me and hovers his thumb over the part of the screen that would close the show.
“Are you really suggesting that because Richard Arthur died, what is it, three, almost four years ago now, you can’t attack Jen Arthur?” a squirmy Republican pundit with a too-fuchsia-for-TV dress says as she leans over the table, blue eyes bulging.
The original pundit nods emphatically. “Yes, look at Roberts.” She points to him. His eyes flash up as though this conversation had been too boring to keep his attention.
“Yes,” he says as slowly as you can say a three letter word.
“Even you haven’t blasted Senator Arthur since her husband’s death. But you used to be one of her worst critics.”
“Well, that’s not…” Roberts fumbles along, but I can no longer hear him because Dylan’s pulled my earbud out.
“What?” I say, getting overly grabby, to the point that our hands mini wrestle until he gives up the earbud. As I stick it back in, he asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking in a breath and moving my hands off my stomach, where I hadn’t even realized they had gone before. I must have looked like I was going to be sick.
“And it’s not just Senator Arthur,” another political guest chimes in. “I think we all remember the picture of Peyton at her father’s burial.”
Some quick-thinking producer swipes the well-known image onto the screen. There I am. Little fourteen-year-old me, in my black dress and black shoes that were just a little too big. My red hair had been tucked up into a severe bun, so all you could see was that bun, and me, eyes closed, looking like I was about to die myself.
It went viral. The two million people who read the book posted it and even more people felt for me. They felt for my mom. The congresswoman who was widowed when Richard Arthur died.
I blink hard to get rid of the tears before Dylan sees. Too late. His worried eyes are cavernous. “We should turn this off.” It’s a mix of statement and question.
“No,” I answer, even as I rub my eyes and endure his concern. “No, I want to hear.”
He frowns, but he doesn’t reach for the button. He looks back to the screen and so do I.
“And now Peyton is old enough she can help with the campaign,” another pundit says enthusiastically.
“No,” Roberts says, shaking his head and looking at his folded hands on the desk.
“Seriously,” the fuchsia pundit says more soberly. “She was practically America’s sweetheart when her father died. I know so many people who loved his books and felt connected to him, and, with his final book, they connected with Peyton. It’s not a question of if they’ll use her, it’s how they’ll use her.”
Roberts wipes his weary face as the conversation continues. It has strayed so far from budget bills and his favorite word: cuts. Instead they’re using words like unforgettable, iconic and teenager.
“She’d bring in young voters, of course,” the first pundit says. “But she can also bring in her father’s fans. Perhaps they don’t relate to all of Senator Arthur’s politics, but they remember Richard Arthur. They remember him as a thought-provoking writer, and they remember him as a dying father. They remember his left-behind daughter, Peyton. In some ways, Peyton’s a stronger connection to him than Senator Arthur.”
On that note, Chuck Todd cuts in to ask us to stay tuned because in the next segment they’ll discuss a new book proposing that we get rid of the Electoral College. Dylan sucks in his cheeks, which defines his jaw and his cheekbones. He runs his fingers through his hair and his arm muscles press against the fabric of his shirt.
“Dylan,” I say.
He swallows and doesn’t look at me. “Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
Dylan turns to me with eyes like lasers. Focused, deep brown lasers. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Well, no,” I say, pointing to the screen. “I’m very upset that someone is against the Electoral College. Adding up the states is half the fun of strategizing.”
He melts back into his chair with a grin. “Oh really, what’s California plus New Hampshire plus Virginia?”
“Seventy-two.”
“Impressive.”
“Oh, come on. I know you can do it too—Utah, Alaska, North Carolina.”
He waves his hand. “That’s easy, twenty-one. What about Texas, Maryland and Colorado?”
I shake my head. “Those three states won’t be in the same column. At least not this election.”
“Probably not, but there’s some hope. The Latino population, which tends to lean Democrat, is growing quickly in Texas.”
“Oh, I know, I know, 88 percent of the new residents in the last census were Latino, black, or Asian, and the cities—Austin, Dallas, Houston and San Antonio—have voted Democratic. But you’re forgetting that the white, non-urban population is getting even more Republican. Plus, Texan Latinos don’t lean toward the Democrats as much as non-Texan Latinos. That state can’t be won. Not for a while, anyway.”
Dylan scratches his cheek as he examines me with this goofy smile.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head and asks me to add up Maryland, Florida and Hawaii.
“Forty-three.”
We dork out, adding electoral votes and talking swing states and even swing counties.
“You know,” he says, “most girls don’t like to talk about this kind of stuff.”
“Most people don’t like to talk about this stuff,” I say. “But, fortunately for you, you happen to be surrounded by campaign nerds.”
He looks around the plane dubiously before whispering, “They’re no fun. They take themselves too seriously.”
“And you don’t?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, no. I do too. But you don’t. That’s why you’re the best person here to talk to.”
I feel warm all over and don’t know what to say.
“Dylan.” Lisa holds the headrest in front of me and looms over us. She shifts her gaze back and forth. “I need you to focus on that car-tax press release, okay?”
“Sure, of course. I’m on it.” He nods more times than he probably needs to while poking away at his tablet.
“Okay, thanks.” She turns, about to walk away, before stopping and looking back at us. “Just, keep your focus. Both of you.”
We both nod.
If I’m distracting campaign staff, I’m not an asset—I’m a detriment. I put my headphones in and listen to some bluegrass as Dylan types away. We don’t talk again until the plane lands.
Chapter Four
Falling in love with Jen meant I’d have to accept that my life was no longer my own. It wasn’t just her family, although being the daughter of the exuberant George Carmichael has its advantages and burdens. It was also her vision of how she could impact the world. She wanted to take a leading role, which meant continuing her dad’s legacy in one of the most reprehensible fields: politics.
No spouse is spared from the polluted process.
Even though it’s August, it’s a pretty chilly night on the New Hampshire estate where the campaign is putting on this immense fundraising shindig under a huge white tent. As I linger in an impromptu backstage area, my goose bumps insist on staying put even as I rub my arms. When Governor Ruiz makes his closing remarks—“And, with Senator Arthur’s help, I look forward to making a better America for all of us”—my blood flows with excitement. The stagehands press our backs and tell us to go, go, go. I relish the harsh light of the stage. The beams warm my skin.
My mom wraps her arms around me and she squeezes. I squeeze back. Maybe our intimate moment is on display for all these funders and supporters, but that doesn’t make it less genuine.
“We’re going to do it, Mom,” I say, as the bubbly, positive atmosphere sinks in my brain.
“We are,” she says, before giving my shoulders one last pinch and turning back to the packed tent of high-level donors.
The top of the tent is high enough to allow the marvelous view to serve as a natural backdrop. It looks out over a shimmering, moonbeam-laced lake and then into a forest that’s generous with both trees and a fresh pine smell. The crowd emanates energy back at me. I smile and wave. Voices wash over me.
“We love you, Peyton!”
“Next Stop: White House!”
There’s cheering. There’s more hugging. There’s the red, white, and blue confetti that’s intent on hitting me in the eye. But none of it lasts long. I kick some balloons with George and Paulo. Maria and her other kids are here, along with Governor Ruiz’s youngest daughter, Sammy.
Finally, it’s time for us to get off the stage and small talk with the plebeians. And by plebeians I mean one percenters who lean Democratic. I walk to the side of the tent first, intent on savoring a non-stage view of the lake, if only for a moment. Campaigning can wait a little bit, right? Insects chirp in chorus and the cool air freshens my skin.
“I’m supposed to escort you around the party,” a familiar voice says.
Dylan steps up beside me. He looks good in a black suit. I mean, everyone looks good in a suit, but the jacket really works against his shoulders. I run my hand down his upper arm. “This is a great jacket. Very fancy. You look nice.”
He smiles. “Well, so do you. That dress is very…” His gaze lingers on the part of the dress that curves around my waist before blinking a couple times and making eye contact with me. “It works well on you.”
I run my hands down the smooth, light blue satin along my hips and his gaze once again wanders. “I didn’t pick it.”
“I know,” he says. “Lisa thought it would make you look grown-up but not too grown-up.”
Lisa. Right. I need to focus. We both need to focus. I stop touching the grown-up-but-not-too-grown-up dress and put my hands behind my back. “So, what exactly is involved with escorting me?”
“There are a few key donors who’ve mentioned wanting to meet you. I’ll make sure that happens.”
I swallow and look back at the moon. “So, what, they’ll give more money if they meet me?”
“Maybe.”
I want to help my mom, but sometimes campaigning can feel, well, frankly, whorish. Especially with an escort.
“I thought you were a media guy?” I say. “Now you do fundraising too?”
“I do what Governor Ruiz needs me to do.” He says it as though Governor Ruiz personally asks him to do stuff, instead of the campaign staff. But, you know, whatever makes him feel special. “And you should do what the campaign needs you to do.”
I raise my eyebrows. “This may come as a surprise, but neither one of us can single-handedly win this election.”
“No, but we can both help win the election.”
“I bet you’d rather be Tweeting or media training than asking for money.”
He shakes his head and adjusts one of his cuffs. “When we listen to them, they often give more money, so it’s more about listening than asking. And they have a lot to say about strategy.”
“Oh?” I say.
He laughs lightly into his chest. “One donor told me she thought we should outlaw eating meat. Sure, it would piss off most people, but all the vegetarians would flip their shit and turn out in droves.”
I rub my arms. “I bet her heart was in the right place.”
“That’s magnanimous. I think she was just batshit.”
I laugh again, but then my name pierces the air. “Peyton,” Governor Ruiz bellows across the throng of donors. “Come on, one with just the Arthurs and Ruizes.”
“I should….” I jut my finger toward Governor Ruiz, who’s already flanked by my mom, his wife, and his offspring.
“Yeah,” Dylan says.
As I jog over, passing the waiters in pristine tuxes holding appetizers that are too perfect to end their existence in my mouth, I catch that warm look in Governor Ruiz’s eyes. He sees my mom and me as family now too. And he wants a new picture for the family album. He beams at me. “Hurry up.”
Right before I collide with a woman in an iridescent full-length gown, I remember I’m supposed to be a lady, and I slow to a quick stride. I stand in front of my mom and next to Sammy. She’s several years older than me, but she’s got that warm, approachable quality her father has.
“This is the most elegant fundraising event I’ve been to,” I say.
“You never get used to these,” she says. “And that’s a good thing.”
I smile until my eyes fall on Bain. I still get that weird feeling when I see him. Before they picked my mom, he had to vet me. He grilled me on everything. But, he started with the most embarrassing question of all. Had I ever had sex?
He squinted at me. “And, to be clear, I’m not using the Clinton definition, Peyton. Have you done anything with a guy, or girl, that could come back to us? Blow jobs, anal sex, anything?”
“Are you allowed to ask me this?” I asked. His aide, who sat next to him, squirmed.
“Peyton, I don’t want to know about your sex life, I need to know about your sex life. Do you understand the distinction?” Bain asked. There was something so cold lodged in his vocal chords. He was telling the truth. He wasn’t getting off on the interview. If anything, he was supremely annoyed he had to even deal with me.
I took a deep breath. “I’ve made out with a few guys. That’s it, except for one time three years ago.” Great, I thought, now even the campaign manager knows I’ve basically been a born-again virgin since losing it sophomore year. Who loses it and then remains celibate for the next thirty months? Oh, that would be me.
“And that one time, was it with Tristan McCoy?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Neither of you paid each other for sex, right?”
The aide’s face twisted in surprise, but mine didn’t. They probably needed to ask. “No, of course not,” I said quietly.
Bain gave me the evil eye. “But you know he’s posted on Tumblr about having guys pay him for sex.”
“It’s his body, he should be able to do what he wants with it.” My voice should have been stronger for my best friend, but it wasn’t.
Bain rolled his lips together and glowered. “How many votes do you think we’d lose if the nation knew that Jen Arthur’s daughter’s best friend is a whore, and that rather than try to reform him, she’s slept with him herself?”
I curled my fists so hard they hurt. “Never call him that again.”
Bain looks at me now, at the fundraiser, like his lips have never known what it feels like to have their corners turn up. That is, before Governor Ruiz calls him over. “Bain, you son of a bitch, get the fuck in here.” As everyone adjusts to the now quite enormous crowd, Governor Ruiz says, “Hold up, where’s Dylan?”
He looks around and I’m expecting some other Dylan, someone who must be a high-up adviser or bundler, but Dylan, my Dylan, intern Dylan, emerges through the crowd, his shoulders looking better than ever.
Governor Ruiz’s smile grows. “Get in here.” Dylan finds a spot at the edge.
After several clicks and satisfactory thumbs-up from the hired photographers, we dismantle.
“It’s nice that he’s so welcoming to the interns,” I say to Sammy as I scan the departing group for other loyal interns but fail to see any.
Sammy scrunches her brow in confusion.
“Dylan,” I explain, nodding to him.
She laughs. “Dylan? He’s basically my dad’s honorary son.”
“What?”
“Dylan’s parents are family friends, so when Dylan wanted to volunteer at my dad’s California office when he was in the senate, my dad welcomed it. Six years later and Dylan’s practically a member of the family.”
“Six years? But he’s only like twenty, right?” Now his comment about meeting Representative Roberts back when Governor Ruiz was still a senator makes more sense.
“Twenty-one. He was fifteen when he started helping out.”
“Fifteen,” I mumble into the crisp air.
Dylan approaches—time for the fundraising chats. “He must be pretty tenacious.”
She laughs. “You have no idea.”
Chapter Five
Peyton’s anger flicks on like a match. I jokingly equate her to the creepy children in horror movies. The ones who look as pure as can be before…roar! Once, Peyton was humming a Disney song while making a bracelet out of dandelions when a boy broke it. There was no escaping her red-faced fury.
Use your words, we told her. Indoor voices.
She responded, “If you aren’t allowed to get angry when you’re outside, when are you allowed to get angry?”
Jen told her anger was a vice, something to be held and subdued. I just nodded, because I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Hold up there, missy.”
If I didn’t recognize the harsh voice, the kind that clinks against your spine, I wouldn’t have known that I was the “missy” in question. But I do.
“Bain,” I say with the warmest inflection I can construct. Maybe he’s a morning person, because he doesn’t look as harried as usual. He’s leaning back in a chair in the hotel lobby eating an apple. He finishes it off with one clean crack before tossing it, hoops style, into a trashcan ten feet from us. Nothing but net. He strides over.
“I get that you need a break,” he says. “Not that you have a job or other responsibilities, but, okay, you need a break.”
I try to remind myself that he’s a douche, but guilt still stretches out in my stomach and finds a home.
“It’s only for three days.” I grip my bag and force myself to meet his eyes. “And I’ll still be at the town hall in Ohio, and I’ll spend time prepping for the convention.”
He shifts his jaw and scratches under his chin with two fingers, like a villain in the Old West. “Three days is plenty of time for you to get in trouble on your own.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to hang out with my grandparents, pack for college and bathe myself in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool as tourists look on.”
“Funny,” he says gruffly as he looks to the elevator.
“Um, okay, I’m gonna…” I point my thumb toward the entrance and walk backward, then sideways.
“Not yet you aren’t.” He’s still looking at the elevator. “I asked Dylan to meet me down here. We’re giving you some talking points and materials to look over.”
“You can’t just email them?”
He turns his head and blinks at me. “No.”
The elevator doors slide open. Dylan emerges with a packet in hand, rubbing his hair like he’s still trying to wake up.
When he sees me, he smiles, but it’s washed away as Bain barks at him. “Hurry up,” he says, circling his pointer finger round and round.
Dylan jogs across the lobby and passes the packet to Bain, who sidles up next to me and points at each page’s title as though I’m in kindergarten and have no idea how to read. I swallow and clench my fists.
“If a reporter tries to question you about that dad situation, ignore them. You don’t have to answer questions.” The edge in his voice makes me shiver as he passes the material to me. I take it and pull it toward me, but he doesn’t give it up. There’s a brief tug-of-war before he finally lets go.
“I got it.” I stuff the new homework into my bag with a huff.
“Good,” he says.
He strides away, only half turning in motion, pointer finger tsking the air, as he says, “Oh, one more thing, Peyton. No seeing Tristan McCoy until after the election.”
What? Not hang out with Tristan when my dad’s long gone and my mom’s so busy she can barely have a five-minute conversation with me?
I need Tristan, and Bain has no right to tell me who I can and can’t hang out with.
But as the blood in my veins races, Bain walks away. I’m so angry my jaw hurts. “You can’t do that.” My loud words ricochet off the sleek hotel floors.
Bain stops. He swivels to face me. “I sure the fuck can. We don’t need America’s sweetheart hanging out with someone like him.”
“He’s a fine person to hang out with,” I say, this time softer, through clenched teeth. Dylan steps forward, hand stretched out, but I shrug away. He’s on Bain’s team. They’re all jerks who think they can demand anything of anyone in the name of the election.
Bain smooths down his tie. “He’s not. And when the media get bored and start rooting around for a new story, this will be low-hanging fruit. Our best chance will be telling them you’re not close anymore.”
Dylan locks eyes with me. “He’s right.”
“What?” My face gets even hotter.
Bain smirks. Dylan steps toward me. I take two steps back. Dylan sighs. “It would take about five minutes for the media to figure out that he’s not just a boy next door. He’s pretty vocal online about how he thinks prostitution should be legal. And, hell, he posted on Tumblr that he’s sold himself for sex three times—”
“He knew each of those guys, okay,” I say. “And he doesn’t even do it for the money, he just…likes it. I mean, it’s his own business, why should it matter?”
“It’s illegal,” Dylan says slowly, like he’s trying to explain something to a child.
“Well, maybe it shouldn’t be. Studies show there are public health—”
“Don’t hide behind some progressive argument,” Bain cuts in. “It’s salacious and stigmatizing, and if reporters find out you’ve gone with him to events benefitting legal prostitution, they’ll salivate over the story.”
Shit, how did Bain find out about that? I rub my forehead and close my eyes. “He was speaking. I was supporting a friend, my best friend. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Association is everything in politics,” Bain says. Dylan nods.
“Tristan’s going to be there for me long after you two have moved on from this election,” I say.
Dylan’s face goes slack and he swallows, probably because he knows I’m right.
“I need him. He’s my best friend, okay?”
“No,” Bain says, finger in the air again. “Annie is your best friend. Unlike Tristan, her friendship is an asset. She’s not a rich brat, she doesn’t have Tristan’s peculiar proclivities, she’s a good student, and she’s mixed race to boot. We can work with that.”
I seethe and my muscles somehow get even tenser. Bain has this way of making me feel like I’m pounding my fists inside a tight box. “Annie’s a person, and a good friend, not some political prop to make me look PC.”
“What he’s trying to say—” Dylan starts, but Bain cuts him off with a flat palm. He walks closer to me and stares down.
“Listen, honey, it’s not my job to make people feel warm and fuzzy inside about their childhood friendships. It’s my job to win elections. Annie’s an asset, Tristan’s a liability, and I expect you to use that information and act in the best interests of this campaign. You do want us to win, right?”
“More than anything,” I say, “But—”
“You have to get going, Peyton,” Bain says as he turns and walks away. He calls over his shoulder, “Or you’re going to miss your flight.”
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