My stomach flips. Suddenly, it’s rather hot in here. I take off my cardigan and put it on the floor next to us.
“What’s this?” He runs his fingers along the strands of cloth pinned to the inside of my cardigan.
I unpin it carefully and hold it up to him. Three tiny pieces of cloth weave together in an infinity symbol. “This white cloth is from my mother’s wedding dress. The pink cloth is from my baby blanket. This black cloth is from the suit my dad wore when they got married.”
He squints at it. “That’s...nice.”
“My mom gave it to me after he died. She said if I kept it with me, it would be like our family was always together, even when we’re not. So I pin it inside my clothes or have it in my pocket.”
His eyes get wide and excited as he reaches for his phone. “That’s a great story, really humanizes your mom. We can use that. Maybe in a TV spot or speech or—”
I frantically grab his phone. “No, this is mine.”
“What?”
I sigh. “You know my dad wrote a book about dying, right? He wrote about me and all the things we did while I was growing up.”
“Yeah, of course I know that,” Dylan says.
“I don’t blame my dad for writing the book. We talked about it. I gave him permission. He needed to do it. But, as a result, hardly anything we have together is private, or sacred. This—” I hold up the pin, just a small silver safety pin with a few strings of cloth, “—is one of the few important memories I have of my parents that everyone doesn’t know. Do you get it? No one knows about this. Not even Tristan or Annie. I like it that way, okay?”
“Then why did you tell me about it?”
I look away and run my thumb along my lower lip. Why the fuck did I tell him?
“Well, you asked,” I say, feebly. It’s harder to breathe than it should be. “But, keep it between us, okay?”
He passes the cardigan and pin back to me. “Between us.”
Chapter Seventeen
Peyton was only ten when Jen first ran for the senate.
She got why Jen wasn’t around as much, and she held it with surprising grace, given her age. To balance things, I stopped taking writing assignments outside of my existing contracts so I could have more time with Peyton. While Jen met union leaders and attended fundraisers, I made every soccer game and band concert. While Jen traveled to remote Virginia counties, I listened to Peyton practice the flute and made her pancakes for dinner.
“You okay with Mom being gone this much?” I asked Peyton as we sat by the fire pit in our backyard listening to the summer crickets chirp.
She rested her chin in her hands. “I miss her, but I understand.”
“She loves you very much.”
Peyton looked up. “And she loves you too, Dad.”
* * *
I thought college classes would be fun. But no.
In Anthropology, 200 students steal glances at me. I find it hard to comprehend that I’m more interesting than widows climbing onto burning pyres and men who fit bones in their noses, but somehow, I am. I’m more exotic than a man donned in red paint, or the woman who can carry gallons of water on her head. Look, no hands!
In Calculus, the teacher throws out questions, three landing on me, even though many students didn’t receive a question at all.
But Intro to Public Policy is the worst, of course. The professor sniffs and laughs and snorts about the election. He rocks on his feet, hands behind his back, as he says some people think it’s a sport—the electorate is the audience, Romans surrounding a bloody stage, thumbs up and thumbs down, boos or yays. It’s all for their enjoyment. The election is for our entertainment, as are the players.
“But the election isn’t a game, it’s not a sport,” he says, rubbing his palms as he paces in the front of the room with springy, excited steps. He stops and nails his gaze on me. “Isn’t that right, Miss Arthur?”
I open my mouth. It feels like cotton balls have been living among my saliva. I cough. “Of course, it’s not a game. Many important issues are at stake.”
Dylan is unperturbed by all these events. He sits next to me, gliding along with his tablet.
Yes, my babysitter has to come with me to class. Bain had someone call each of my professors and explain the situation. I wonder how that went. “We’re afraid Peyton is going to throw the election by answering a question in your class, so we need her handler to be there.”
I know what I did to earn such mistrust, but I still resent it. And all this attention and unease makes me tired. And hungry.
So at Leo’s, the dining hall, I’m ready to experience Georgetown’s fine food and finally see friendly faces. I slop the serving spoon around in the soup before taking a big, drippy portion and plunking it into my bowl.
“Tomato basil?” Annie asks, tray in hand. “Remember when your dad used to make that for us on rainy days?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking about.” I plop one more ladleful for good measure, pick up my tray and stare at the soup. Annie knew my dad, of course. Would she know something that could help me? I trust her, I do. But she trusts other people too. She told Lindsey Shaffer that I slept with Tristan. And Lindsey proceeded to let it slip at a party when she swallowed too many Jell-O shots. I get it. Lindsey is Annie’s best friend from high school, and not a malicious kind of girl. But it would be too risky to talk to Annie about my dad.
“Tristan’s over there.” She nudges at a table. Tristan waves. I look over my shoulder at Dylan, but he’s busy getting some green beans. Oh well, he’ll find us.
We walk over and plunk our trays down. “So, how was last night?” Tristan asks with wiggling eyebrows.
“You did something last night?” Annie asks.
“I told you, even with a babysitter, the campaign thought it was too risky. There were too many reporters covering the ‘Peyton becomes a college student’ story. It won’t be a story in a few days, and then I’ll be able to emerge, so to speak.” I push some soup into my mouth so I don’t have to explain any more.
“That sucks.” Annie shrugs. “But I guess it makes sense.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Tristan says, leaning over his salad.
I hold the spoon in midair. “What?”
“Dylan is hot. And he has to be by your side all the time. Why aren’t you making the most of things?”
My skin heats up as Dylan comes over and slides into the seat next to me.
“It wouldn’t be a good idea,” I say softly to Tristan.
“Seems like a great idea to me,” Tristan says, his grin slipping across his face.
Dylan puts his napkin in his lap and dives into his mashed potatoes.
I shake my head and stuff more pureed tomato into my mouth.
Tristan takes a different approach. “So, Dylan, any girl or guy back home who’s missing you?”
Dylan stares at him like Tristan had just asked him if he preferred vacationing in the Dead Marshes or the Fire Swamp.
“I haven’t been back to San Jose since Governor Ruiz started his campaign.” Dylan puts his left forearm on the table and props his right elbow as he eats. “He needs me on the trail.”
“This is the trail?” Tristan asks.
Dylan’s jaw stiffens and he stares past Tristan. “So maybe this wasn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing, especially given how hard I’ve worked...” He closes his eyes and says it with finality: “I do what they need me to do to help us win.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, running my thumb along my spoon.
At the same time Tristan says, “What are you sorry for?” Dylan overlaps with, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
They glare at each other.
“Anyway,” Tristan points a fork at Dylan. “What about Y
ale? Is there a girl or guy there?”
Dylan continues munching. In no rush to rejoin the conversation, he looks at me. Whoops, I’ve been staring. I examine the swirls of tomatoes in my soup.
“No girl. No guy.” Dylan takes another bite. Matter over.
“Well then, you should come to my party this Saturday.” Tristan says. “I mean, with Peyton, of course. Well, not with Peyton. Or...maybe it will be with Peyton.”
Oh. My. God.
I kick Tristan under the table.
Tristan kicks me back, and I groan. Annie giggles, but I can’t blame her. This is all a bit of a shit show.
Dylan scratches his chin and shifts in his seat. “We’ll have to see what the press situation is like on Saturday.” He goes back to his mashed potatoes.
“Okay, but keep in mind that this is my party, so it’s a private party. You know what, I won’t even let anyone in unless I personally know that they aren’t douches. Unlike that skank, Cheryl, who just let whoever the hell walk in her door.”
“She’s not a skank,” I say, because Cheryl isn’t. “She’s just too nice to say no to anyone, including Jim.”
“Skank, no backbone, same thing,” Tristan says.
Annie laughs. “I’m not sure you’re allowed to call someone else a skank.”
Tristan and I laugh too, but Dylan doesn’t join in.
Chapter Eighteen
They think you’ll miss the big things. Like the anniversaries and birthdays, the Christmases and Halloweens. But you savor those already. When you face the cliff, you realize all the little stuff you’re about to wave goodbye to.
Like today, when Jen asked Peyton if she had any Chapstick.
“Why would I have a chopstick?” Peyton asked, in a true Peytonism. Sometimes words get jumbled somewhere past her eardrum. And it’s more than just Chapstick becoming chopstick. In the right, or rather, wrong, situation, with too much background noise, a tired, inattentive Peyton and a mumbling speaker, craze becomes crepes, outfits becomes alphets, poinsettias become pointsetters, kiosk becomes kissing, and on and on.
“Why would I ask you for a chopstick?” Jen laughed.
Peyton sighed and pointed a finger up in an “aha.” “You probably said Chapstick, not chopstick.”
“That I did,” Jen said, smiling.
“Okay, okay,” Peyton said, clicking around in her bag. “I have Altoids and blush.”
“Oh, I don’t think I want to rub those on chapped lips.” Jen held her fingers to her mouth and gave me a look as we laughed.
Peyton gave a light, fake huff. “Well no, but in the interests of being helpful, I wanted to give you an inventory of what I could offer.”
That’s the little stuff. The good stuff.
* * *
Adjusting to college while also adjusting to the realization that you’re the product of some deep, dark family secret isn’t easy. I need some kind of resolution. Finally, two weeks in, I get an idea.
Dylan follows me down the brick path leading up to the glassy building. “This is the Reiss Science Building. You don’t have any classes here.” He pulls his phone out, presumably to check my schedule.
“Well, it’s not too early to think about what to take next semester, and a professor here teaches this really great class on genetic diseases that sounds fascinating. Did you know that they aren’t all hereditary? Random mutations cause some. So really, it’s not so easy to just say you’re half your mom and half your dad. There’s a dash of chance and fate thrown in too.”
Thank God Dylan doesn’t know me well enough to know that I ramble when I’m hiding something.
He stops and stares at me.
Shit. Or does he?
“You’re not thinking about your mom and dad, are you?”
“No.” I dig my toe into a hole in the path caused by a broken brick. “I mean, I don’t have a genetic disorder. I just think it’s really interesting, that’s all.”
He steps toward me, closing off my personal space. “I’m serious, Peyton. You’re not going to talk to her about your parents, are you?”
“Do you think I’d be that dumb?” I ask with my hand on my hip.
His eyes get real small, but then he wipes his face and mumbles a “fine” as he keeps walking. I press my tongue against the insides of my cheeks as I look straight ahead. We open the heavy, we’re-serious-academics doors and pad along the somber hallway that smells like old, leather-bound books. When we get to the professor’s office, I knock tentatively on the door. A muffled “Come in” streams through. Dylan’s warm body is close behind mine as I open the door. When I turn around, my wrist hits his side, sharp.
“I, um, this is probably going to be boring for you.”
He cocks his head. “Really? I think it could be quite interesting.”
And there’s his damn grin again.
“Well, I’ll tell you all about it afterwards.” I touch his shoulder and feel the muscles there relax. I whisper, “Please, I feel so ridiculous having you as a shadow.”
His phone buzzes. He looks at it and sighs, then points at me. “Don’t say anything that could hurt us.”
I nod as he mercifully turns to answer his phone. I close the door. Professor Javadhi looks up with wide eyes. Perhaps she heard me click the lock.
“Um, hi, I’m Peyton Arthur,” I say, rubbing my wrists. “I emailed you and said I wanted to talk to you.”
“Yes, it’s good to see you.”
“Well, the truth is...can I talk to you candidly?”
She comes around from behind her desk and leans back on the wood, her arms crossed. “Of course.”
“Well, I know you’ve probably heard about the...” I can’t say it, so I just lift up my rather red hair and look aside.
“Your father having dark hair doesn’t mean you can’t have red. It’s rare, but the gene can be recessive for generations.” She jumps right in. Like she knows this is why I’m really here. But I’m trying to get at something specific.
“What about my eyes?”
“As I said, Peyton, recessive genes can hide for generations.” She frowns.
Okay, I’m going to have to be blunt.
“Let’s just say that we didn’t know who my dad was. If you take my mom plus x equals me, well, can you, as a geneticist, solve for x?”
“So you think there’s something to it?” she asks, her brow intense.
“No, I’m not saying that.” I sigh. Damn, this is not going well.
We’re quiet for a long time.
I need to get what I came for. I can’t risk this for nothing. I already knew everything she has said about how, yeah, it was possible. But I also know what my mom said. My dad isn’t my dad.
I bite my lip and force myself to continue. “Let’s just say that my dad isn’t my biological dad, just, you know, hypothetically. What do you think my biological dad would look like?”
She scrunches her face. “Well, he could look like a lot of—”
“What, statistically, would be most likely?”
“Obviously, someone with red hair, amber eyes, and pale skin, but I want to stress that that doesn’t mean your dad has to look that way.”
“What about other traits that aren’t physical? Like, if someone can get angry easily, but neither of their parents do? What does that mean?”
“Genes mix in different ways. And you can’t neglect environmental factors, of course.” She has a sharp wrinkle in between her eyebrows, not unlike the wrinkle my mom gets. “I’m not sure I can help you find what you’re looking for.”
My chest feels heavy, like something’s weighing on my lungs. “Okay,” I say. “Thank you so much for talking with me.”
“Of course,” she says.
I open the door and re
-emerge into the hallway where Dylan is absorbed on the phone. Seems like Governor Ruiz accidentally said his budget plan wouldn’t touch social security when that’s not quite true. Dylan’s in damage-control mode as we walk back to my dorm.
But I’m not paying attention. I’m thinking about how that whole thing got me absolutely shit. Perhaps it was a long shot to begin with, but I thought I’d come away with some speck of an idea.
Luckily, that isn’t the only part of “Operation: Find Biological Dad.”
I have another strategy.
I have Tristan.
Chapter Nineteen
Weddings are happy little sad affairs. Half ending, half beginning. They’re more fun with kids, though. When Peyton was twelve, we went to a wedding with the McCoys. We finished off the cake that didn’t go that well with my Amstel Light while we avoided the Electric Slide. Then, a song I’d never heard before blasted on.
Tristan’s face lit up and Peyton beamed. They ran out to the dance floor and started shimmying. Not in a group. With each other. Peyton was dancing with a boy. She was only twelve.
Jen leaned over. “Richard, if you hold that napkin any tighter, you’ll kill it.”
* * *
Tristan is too good for a lot of things: the concessions at movie theaters, Lipton tea and, most recently, a dorm room. Last year, his parents somehow skirted around Georgetown’s requirement that freshmen live in the dorms and bought him a condo, complete with a spacious balcony, near campus, reasoning that the investment would pay off more than room and board fees. That’s how the McCoys think about everything—investments.
Sometimes I think the McCoys are really open-minded when it comes to Tristan and his support of legalizing prostitution. After all, there are a lot of sound studies and arguments that show it improves public health and decreases violence. But, other times, I wonder if the McCoys just think everything should be commoditized. And, perhaps, in that respect, Tristan didn’t fall far from the money tree. He’s happy though, and for me, that’s the bottom line.
As Dylan and I walk toward the building, we can see the party on the third-floor balcony. College students cling to the railing, drinks, and other students’ body parts.
Red Blooded Page 10