The Daughters Join the Party

by Joanna Philbin

  “So what should I wear to this? And is there going to be a kids’ table? Please tell me there isn’t.”

  “Wear the black Betsey Johnson. Not the tight one,” she added. She zipped up the clothing bag. “And I don’t know yet about the kids’ table. I’m not going to know much about the seating until we get down there on Friday. Believe me, I’m just getting through this day by day.” Her mom noticed the pile of articles on standardized tests next to the laptop on her bed. “Honey, why don’t you work at your desk? Do you have any light to read by?”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” she said. “I think I’ll make it.”

  “Okay.” Her mom pulled the bag off her bed. “Thanks for your input.” She leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And thanks for the advice.”

  From the office, Emma could hear the shrill ring of the cordless phone, which sent her mom scurrying out the door.

  The next day she kept her eye on the clock, waiting for four o’clock and speech team practice. The idea of getting up in front of that table again was terrifying, but she also couldn’t wait to do it. Her speech on why standardized tests were the best yardstick of a student’s academic success clocked in at exactly two minutes, and it had three distinct points. No matter what, she was sure it was going to kill.

  When she got to the library a few people were already around the table, including Walker. Ava Elting was already seated, marking an article with a pink highlighter. Emma picked the chair farthest from her.

  “Okay, let’s get started!” Mrs. Bateman called out in her usual irritated tone, as she sauntered in. She dragged the blackboard over to the corner and said, “Miss Conway, let’s start with you! You’re delivering a speech on standardized tests, right?”

  “Correct,” Emma said, clearing her throat. She saw Walker smile at her across the table as she got up and walked to the front of the room. Her speech was rolled up in her hands, but by now she knew it so well that she didn’t even have to look at it.

  She cleared her throat and started talking. “The SAT is the four-hour exam that all juniors and seniors must take to get into college,” she began, speaking extra slowly. “And the score one receives on this exam is what college application officers use to determine who may enter their universities.”

  Everyone at the table was looking at her as if they were truly interested. Even Mrs. Bateman seemed to be on board.

  “It is a three-part exam made up of a writing sample and multiple-choice questions. Students are tested not only on their verbal and mathematical abilities, but on their time-management skills. These abilities and skills are supposed to predict future academic success in the college environment. Recently, controversy over whether or not these exams are accurate predictors have—”

  “Okay, stop,” Mrs. Bateman called out. “Why do you sound like a robot?”

  Emma blinked. “A robot?”

  “Yes, you sound like somebody programmed you,” she said. “Students are tested not only on their verbal and mathematical abilities but on their time-management skills,” she said. “It’s flat and robotic. It’s not a speech. It’s like you’re reciting a script.”

  Emma looked past Mrs. Bateman to see Ava laughing into her palm. Her brother kept his head down, staring at his notebook. Walker was looking at her with visible pity.

  “You are not a robot,” Mrs. Bateman said. “You are someone who is trying to persuade me of your argument, as dry and as toothless as it may be.” She rocked on her feet. “That is one of the cardinal sins of speech-giving: Being boring. And you, my dear, just committed it in the third degree.”

  Emma felt her face get hot. “But last time you told me to make it less personal.”

  “I didn’t say to turn it into a monotone,” Mrs. Bateman said, checking her watch. “Now, let’s start from the top.” She walked closer, her orthopedic shoes making a slight squeaking sound.

  “But… this isn’t fair,” Emma said. “You told me I had to make it drier. You told me I had to make it less personal. Now I have. It’s not fair.”

  “If you can’t take criticism, Miss Conway,” Mrs. Bateman said, “then you’re never going to get better. So start again.”

  “No,” Emma said. She crumpled the speech into a ball in her fist. “Forget it.” She walked over to her bag. The tears in her eyes were making it hard to see, but she was aware of faces watching her closely. Breathing fast, she pulled her bag onto her arm.

  “So you’re leaving us?” Mrs. Bateman asked.

  “What do you think?” she blurted out, much louder than she’d expected to. On the way to the library door she listened for footsteps—her brother, maybe Walker, running after her trying to convince her to stay, to tell her that Mrs. Bateman was mean and not to take it seriously, that she had talent and was good. But there were no steps running after her. Nobody was following her.

  She ran down the steps, through the lobby, past Dori answering phones behind her desk, and out onto the street. Seconds later she was on Fifth Avenue, walking quickly toward the Guggenheim in the late afternoon breeze.

  Of course this had been a mistake. Of course she wasn’t good enough to do this. It had been a joke to think that she would change, she thought, tears burning her eyes. Nobody ever did.

  chapter 15

  The Acela Express had a funny smell sometimes, and it was even more intense on Friday afternoons, when the train was packed with business travelers headed back to D.C. from New York for the weekend. Emma slouched in her seat, listening to PJ Harvey on her iPod, and tried to figure out the smell. Sweat, stale chips, and aftershave, she thought. Or a hundred different kinds of aftershave, all mixed together. Whatever it was, it was almost comforting. It felt good to be out of New York. Going to Mrs. Bateman’s class every day that week had been unbearable. She’d spent most of every period studying the faint pink lines on her loose-leaf paper and avoiding eye contact. And every time she saw Walker in the hall she gave him a vague smile, looked past him, and kept walking. He never tried to speak to her or get her attention. She knew she’d lost his respect.

  But her brother, to his credit, had somehow restrained himself from delivering one of his “I told you so” lectures. He sat in front of her, next to her mom. As usual, Emma had opted for the seat by herself.

  Suddenly a bag of Famous Amos chocolate-chip cookies came over the top of the seat in front of her and hovered in front of her face. She grabbed the bag and tipped a few cookies into her hands.

  “Hey, don’t take the whole thing,” her brother said, getting up and coming around to where she sat.

  “I didn’t,” she said. “Here.” She held the package out to him, but instead he moved the massive carry-on from the seat beside her and sat down. Emma noticed a woman across the aisle gawking at him. Sometimes she forgot how good-looking her brother was.

  “So are we going to talk about what happened last week?” he asked. “Or are we just going to forget about it?”

  “Guess there’s no such thing as a free cookie,” she said, chewing.

  “I admit that Mrs. B went a little overboard,” he said, popping one of the cookies in his mouth, “but was it worth quitting over?”

  “It was to me,” she said.

  “You have talent, Em. Maybe I wasn’t all in your face about it, but that’s what I think.”

  “Well, you could have let me know at the time,” she muttered.

  “What? So it’s my fault that you walked out?”

  Emma sighed. “No,” she said. “It’s over. I tried it and it didn’t work.”

  They sat in silence for a moment as the train swayed left and right on the track. Emma felt the usual golf ball of shame beginning to form in her throat, and she pushed it down. “So… you’re going to Georgetown tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I have my interview at eleven. And then I’m going to a football game. Chris is gonna be there. His cousin is a sophomore.”

  “Chris Flagg? You mean that Neanderthal you’re friends with?
”

  Remington frowned. “He’s not a Neanderthal. He got a twenty-three hundred on his SATs.”

  Emma snorted. “Wow. Did he cheat?”

  Remington gave her a look.

  “So why aren’t you friends with Walker anymore?”

  Her brother crumpled the empty bag of cookies. “We’re friends,” he said with the slightest hint of irritation. “Why do you think we’re not?”

  “I just never see you guys in the hall together.”

  “That’s because this whole semester he’s been a shut-in with all of his work. I guess he really wants to get into Stanford.” He stood up. “I gotta go to the bathroom. I must have had three bottles of water.” As he strode up the aisle, Emma knew that her brother wasn’t telling the truth—at least, not all of it. But she had a feeling that this was as much information as she was going to get.

  They pulled into Union Station just after sunset. After walking through the station they stepped out onto the curb into thick, humid air. Emma peeled off her jacket. A white SUV drove up and behind the wheel Emma recognized the blond crew cut and thick neck of Randall, one of her dad’s aides. They piled into the car.

  “Hello, Mrs. Conway,” Randall said.

  “Randall, how are you? How’s your wife?”

  “She’s wonderful,” he answered. “Due any day now. Hi, Remington, Emma.”

  “Hey,” Remington said. “So he’s in Orlando tonight, right? I think that’s what the schedule said.”

  “Wait. Dad’s not even in town?” Emma asked.

  “He’s coming back tonight,” her mom said, annoyed.

  “Actually, he’s coming back tomorrow,” said Randall. “After Orlando he’s flying to Birmingham.”

  They were quiet for a moment as they drove. Even her mom seemed disappointed to hear this news.

  They glided down First Street, and Emma saw the Supreme Court, its pillars lit from behind, and the Capitol, its majestic dome glowing ivory white against the sky.

  “I love how it looks at night,” her brother said. “It never gets old, you know?”

  Emma thought of the first time she ever saw the Capitol, on a trip to D.C. right after her dad became a senator. It was after Thanksgiving and the wind was bitterly cold, but her dad’s hand was warm as he led her around the grounds. For some reason it had been just the two of them, and she’d been thrilled to have his undivided attention, especially after months of sharing him with seemingly every citizen of New York State. Finally they went into the rotunda that connected the House and the Senate.

  “See that, Em?” he’d said, pointing to the fresco painting at the very top, as the voices of tourists echoed against the walls. “It’s called The Apotheosis of Washington. A man who painted the Vatican also painted that. You know what the Vatican is, don’t you? It’s where the Pope lives.”

  She looked up at the painting. It was impossible to see clearly, because it was a circle, and because it was so high. She circled around and around, trying to take it in, until she got so dizzy she couldn’t walk anymore. Her dad grabbed her hand and steadied her.

  “Slow down there, tiger,” he said. “You always go so fast. Just like I used to. You’re just like your dad, you know that?”

  Thinking of that now, she felt a pang in her chest. She couldn’t imagine her dad saying that to her anymore.

  Randall pulled into the driveway of their hotel, a corporate-looking glass structure just down the street from the Capitol. “I’ve already checked you in,” he said, handing Carolyn the key cards in their envelopes. “You and the senator are in the presidential suite, while Emma and Remington are next door to each other on the fourth floor.”

  “Thank you, Randall,” said her mom.

  “I’ll make sure the senator calls you as soon as he’s off the stage tonight.”

  “Thank you,” her mom said. “Any idea what time he will arrive tomorrow?”

  “Not yet,” Randall said, “but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  As they walked to the elevator, Emma heard her phone chime inside her bag. It was a text from Lizzie:

  How is it so far?

  Awkward and lonely, Emma wrote back.

  Have fun! Lizzie wrote.

  Miss u guys, she texted. And don’t worry. I won’t.

  “I still don’t get why we’re at a hotel,” she said, as they walked into the elevator. “Dad’s apartment’s big enough for all of us.”

  “It’s his fiftieth birthday,” her mom said. “Let’s live a little.”

  But judging from the tension in the elevator, Emma didn’t feel like any of this was going to be a good time. They’d come all this way, and her dad wasn’t even here. It gave her a pit in her stomach.

  Emma and Remington got off at the fourth floor and walked to their adjacent rooms.

  “This feels really weird,” Emma said, trying to fit her keycard into the door lock. “Do you know what I mean? Like Dad’s just going to swoop into town for his own birthday party, and then leave again.”

  “This is the reality of it, Em,” Remington said. “It’s not Dad’s fault.” He slipped his card into the door and turned the knob. “I think I’m gonna do room service tonight,” he said. “Tell Mom I’ll see her tomorrow.” He closed the door.

  The next morning the three of them ate breakfast together in the café in the lobby. “So Dad should be back around four,” her mom said, digging into a grapefruit.

  “Four?” Emma asked.

  Under the table, she felt her brother’s foot come down hard on her toes.

  “So, who wants to spend the day with me?” she asked. “I hear there’s a fantastic show at the Smithsonian.”

  “I have my interview,” her brother said, tearing into a scone.

  “Emma?” Her mom dug her spoon into a grapefruit. “What about you?”

  “Sure,” Emma said, knowing she had no choice. “I’d love to.”

  “Rem, tonight we’re meeting in the lobby at six,” she said. “Six sharp. Randall’s going to be taking us to the dinner in his car.”

  “No prob’m,” he said.

  “You have your speech ready, right?” she asked.

  “Yup,” he said, eating the rest of the scone.

  “And it’s about what we talked about, right?”

  “Mom, I sort of have this Georgetown interview on my mind, okay?” He stood up so quickly that he almost collided with a waiter behind him. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Sure, sweetie,” Carolyn said, trying to sound nice. “Good luck. You know where to grab a cab, right?”

  As Remington nodded and walked away, Carolyn raised her eyebrows. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

  “He’s probably just nervous.” Emma ate a slice of bacon and looked over her shoulder at Remington leaving the room. He definitely didn’t seem like himself.

  After their trip to the Smithsonian, an interminable walk around the Mall, and a last-minute trip to Saks to help her mom look for shoes for the party, Emma staggered back to her room. She watched only a few minutes of Keeping Up with the Kardashians before her eyes closed. After what felt like five minutes, she snapped awake. The digital clock near her bed read five-forty-two. She’d been asleep for two hours. She raced to the shower.

  Dripping wet, with a towel wrapped around her, she reached for the dinky hair dryer attached to the wall and turned it on. Nothing happened. She made sure it was plugged in and tried again. Nothing.

  She threw on one of the hotel bathrobes and stepped out into the hall. “Rem!” she called, rapping on his door. “My hair dryer’s broken! Can I use yours?”

  The door stayed shut. She wrapped the belt of the bathrobe tighter around herself.

  “Rem!” she yelled. “Come on, help me!”

  Just then the door opened a crack. Her brother looked terrible. His eyes were puffy and his face had a weird greenish tint, and a strange, sickly smell hit her nostrils. “Jeez, Rem,” she said. “What happened to you?”

  “I do
n’t feel that well,” he said in a raspy voice. “I think it’s something I ate. Can you just tell Mom and Dad that I can’t go tonight?”

  “What? You’re not going? What about the speech?”

  “Just tell them I can’t do it,” he said. “Tell them I’m sorry.”

  “But… do you need a doctor? Do you think it’s food poisoning?”

  The door shut in her face.

  “Rem? Rem? You all right?” She put her ear to the door and heard the faint sound of Remington getting sick. Yikes, she thought. Her brother definitely hadn’t been kidding. She didn’t want to have to be Housekeeping tomorrow.

  This still left the dilemma of the hair dryer, though. She went back to her room, dug out the non-offensive Betsey Johnson dress from the duffel bag she’d brought but hadn’t unpacked, and slipped it on with her heels. She quickly put on some eyeliner and lipstick. Then she rode up to the penthouse and marched down the hall to the presidential suite.

  Her mom answered the door wearing the fire-engine red dress that Emma thought they’d both vetoed. “Honey?” her mom asked. “Why do you have a wet head?”

  “A couple of things,” Emma said, walking into her parents’ room. “Can I use your hair dryer? And Remington can’t come tonight. He’s really sick.”

  Her mother frowned. “He’s sick?”

  “I knocked on the door and he was in the middle of throwing up. All over the place. Wait,” she said, looking past her mom into the suite. “What’s going on in here?”

  The living room of her parents’ suite held a grand sitting area with two couches, a twelve-seat dining table, a baby grand piano, and another sitting area with a giant flat-screen television. And crammed into every nook and cranny were people she’d never seen before. Most of them looked like aides—they were young, clean-cut, and dressed in jeans and ties or classic twinsets and skirts. They slumped in chairs and huddled together on the couches, talking on their cell phones, typing on laptops propped on their thighs. Stacks of memos were piled high on every surface. And not one of them had noticed that she’d come in.