The Chosen One

by T. B. Markinson

  “Doesn’t matter. That’s how it’s been framed. Maybe Susie, if she was even involved, is trying to freak you out more than normal. Did you recognize the person?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “No. She looked like a drugged-out homeless person.” I shrugged.

  “Cambridge isn’t short on those types. But why?”

  “Why what?”

  Fee straightened in her chair. “Bottlenose has always been after you, but what’s triggering the full court press? Paying someone to give you a random quote, which is ambiguous at best, what’s the reasoning for that?”

  “Good God, I don’t even want to contemplate that. Besides, trying to figure out Susie’s motives is useless. She changes direction every time a new scandal erupts.”

  “That could be the meaning. She’ll out-navigate you.” Fiona reread the quote, shook her head, and shoved the paper to the corner of the table. Fee hoisted a shoulder, giving up on figuring out the vindictive motive. “Honestly, I don’t think the two are connected. You”‌—‌she extended a finger, aiming at my chest‌—‌“have watched too many episodes of Scandal.”

  “Me? You’re the one who got me into the show. And House of Cards‌—‌even the British version.”

  “How was I supposed to know watching those shows would turn you into a paranoid loon who craved even more attention?”

  “Craving attention! I try to stay under the radar.”

  While I aspired to be president, Fiona wanted to be a presidential scholar along the lines of Doris Kearns Goodwin, the historian who won the Pulitzer for No Ordinary Time: Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt. Fiona already dressed like a professor. Her purple blazer and white scoop-necked shirt were accented with a floral silk scarf. She added a twist by wearing jeans with a tear, not that she bought them that way; no Carmichael would buy torn jeans. Fee had ripped hers during our attempt to break into Susie Q’s house, after I learned Cassidy had recorded me. I still couldn’t think of that day without experiencing mind-numbing vertigo. That clip had destroyed my hopes of ever finding love. We failed to locate any trace of the video, and Fee had fallen out of a tree, breaking her wrist and tearing her jeans.

  I patted Fee’s hand. Time to change the subject. “How’s Hahvard?” I drawled.

  “Smashing. Just smashing,” Fiona answered.

  I burst into giggles, relieved to shove the Susie weirdness out of my mind momentarily.

  My cousin bent forward conspiratorially. “Did you meet any gorgeous women today?”

  I couldn’t control myself. I glanced toward Maya and nearly toppled out of my chair when she approached the counter, wearing an apron. She worked here? That made my poor first impression earlier a hundred times worse. Oh, and what would she think of Fiona and her airs?

  I wanted to die.

  “Uh,” was all I could say.

  Fiona eyed Maya and smiled surreptitiously‌—‌not because she knew my secret but because that was how she always smiled. Gray Eyes glanced at me and then at Fiona, her expression frozen, and then took up her station behind the register, going out of her way to keep me out of her direct line of sight.

  “You have to jump back on the horse, Ains. Don’t let the Cassidy incident keep you out of the game. That’s not how Carmichaels do it.”

  “Puh-lease. Carmichaels are doing it too much. I’m not going to fall victim to unnecessary scandal. I have one goal in life.” I stabbed the air with a finger.

  Fee sighed dramatically. “Here it comes.”

  “Here what comes?” I stiffened in my seat.

  “How you are Grandmother’s ‘Chosen One’ to become the first Carmichael to win the White House.” She rolled her eyes and made air quotes.

  “Whatever.” I laughed. “You’re just jealous I’m the Chosen One.” I stuck my tongue out.

  “That’ll be the day. I plan on having as many lovers as possible. Besides, being Grandmother’s little Mini-Me is creepy.”

  “I’m not her Mini-Me!”

  “No? You receive daily debriefing e-mails from her political goons, and you both use the same makeup artists, hair peeps, and personal shoppers‌—‌even if I’m certain you picked out today’s outfit.” She eyed my pink dress with a smirk and continued listing our similarities, ending with the coup de grace, “She even gave you her name, Ains.” Fiona slurped the rest of her coffee. “I’m famished. Let’s scram.” She pointed to the coffee I’d barely touched. “Clearly you aren’t impressed with this joint. Too bad. I’d love to come back for the praline and Cointreau crepe I’ve heard about.”

  Luckily, I had turned back around in my chair and couldn’t see Gray Eyes. I didn’t have the guts to rubberneck over my shoulder to assess the damage either. Of course, Maya would have had to be deaf to have missed my earlier insult, and Fiona was anything but a quiet talker, so she probably also caught the tail end of our conversation. Considering my luck so far, her ears had eaten up everything, word for word, and a simple web search would unearth the dreaded video on Susie Q’s blog as soon as I was out of sight.

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday morning arrived much sooner than I wanted. After the La Creperie fiasco, I dreaded seeing Maya. I stood outside the classroom, digging deep to find the motivation to move, but my legs refused to budge. It was like I was trapped in the same nightmare I’d had since I was eight. An axe murderer was running toward me, but I couldn’t move. It was as if my legs were encased in wet cement that hardened faster than the charging lunatic, who looked a lot like Rush Limbaugh. Right as he raised his axe, I screamed, waking myself up.

  Someone tapped my shoulder, and I jumped.

  A female laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I turned ever so slowly to see Maya the Gray.

  Her poker face was firmly in place, but softness resided in her eyes, and the corners of her lips twisted up a smidgeon.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, like a bumbling fool who had never spoken to a beautiful girl before. Not in real life, at least.

  “Class starts in a couple of minutes. You better hurry.” Without another word, she strutted into the room and sat in the same seat she had occupied on Monday.

  I took the seat next to her, racking my brain for a witty comment to salvage a morsel of my dignity. I swiveled in the metal chair, and my thigh rubbed against it, emitting the loudest farting sound in history. Why had I worn a skirt today?

  Dr. Gingas walked in right as the entire class broke into a fit of childish giggles. Susie Q flipped around and gawked, open-mouthed. If she hadn’t previously realized it was me, the steam gushing out of my every pore immediately ratted me out. She snapped a photo with her cell.

  “I wasn’t expecting this kind of welcome after Monday.” Dr. Gingas nodded in my direction, indicating she understood the source of the amusement.

  To say I wanted to die was an understatement. I wanted to go back in time and erase my entire existence. Stop my parents from marrying. No wait, I wanted to go way back, change the outcome of the Battle of Dunbar, and completely obliterate the American Carmichael branch.

  Luckily, Dr. Gingas skipped the pre-lecture formalities and got right to work. When only ten minutes remained, she mentioned the group project and gave us the remaining time to find a partner.

  Everyone rushed about to hookup with a friend or with someone they thought looked nerdy enough to do all the work for them. No one approached me, and I was still too mortified by Fart-Gate to ask anyone. Most people my age loved social media; I fucking hated it. Our family had always lived under a microscope, but the technological changes of the previous five years made being famous even more unbearable.

  Maya didn’t move from her seat. She continued to jot down notes until some dude who looked like he spent hours in front of a mirror turned in his chair and said, “What d’you say? Shall we join forces?” His leer implied he wanted to join in several different ways and positions.

  Maya didn’t bother to look at him. Instead, she jabbed a thumb in my direction.
“Thanks, but I’m hooking up with her.”

  The guy squinted at me, smiled in a not-so-friendly manner, and then tapped the shoulder of the girl in front of him, asking her to join the dark side. The foolish girl accepted, and he immediately started to give her a suggestive shoulder rub.

  I leaned over, carefully this time so as not to make the obnoxious sound again, and whispered, “Thank you.”

  “I’d be a fool to deny the Chosen One.” Her voice was barely audible, but her grin was loud and clear. She thought I was cute‌—‌an ass probably too, given the conversation she’d overheard, but I still sensed she was drawn to me.

  “I’m so sorry about the other night,” I babbled.

  Maya set her pen down and studied me. “According to the syllabus, we have to give a presentation on a person or event that was a major influence at the time. Can you control your nerves, or should we do a recording? We don’t want you going off script,” she teased.

  I placed a hand on her arm. “Oh, I’m very good when it comes to that.”

  Maya’s gray eyes traveled from my hand on her arm to my eyes. “You’re very good at what?”

  I steadied my nerves. “Giving speeches, for one thing.”

  “What else?” Maya leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms.

  “Time’s up!” shouted Dr. Gingas.

  Maya laughed. “Safe, for now.” She picked up her pen again. “If you can stomach another horrible cup of coffee,” she said, winking, “meet me at the coffee shop tonight. I’d like to get a jumpstart on the project.”

  I wanted to jump her bones. No, Ainsley. Never going to happen. Remember Cassidy.

  I nodded. “What time?”

  “Eight-ish?”

  I nodded again. Knowing she wouldn’t stop writing to shoot the shit, I bolted out of the room to text Fiona.

  After several texts explaining what had happened, Fiona agreed to meet me for dinner before my study date with Maya. Not date‌—‌appointment. Must keep a clear head.

  By the time I walked into the Mexican restaurant, I had managed to tamp down my embarrassment level some, but by the way random people stopped to whisper as I walked by, I figured Susie’s Tattler had already blown Fart-Gate completely out of the water. I had to control the urge to tell everyone I was innocent. It was the chair.

  The imaginary newscaster in my head, one hand gripping a microphone, blared, “Well, Phil, Ainsley Carmichael has been taken to the psychiatric unit at Mass General after telling every stranger she passed of her complete innocence. That it was the chair. One witness said she was babbling, ‘The chair, the chair, the chair’ as attendants in white coats whisked her into the ambulance.”

  I imagined this newscaster a lot, giving the play-by-play of my stupidity in life. The first time it occurred, I was in the second grade. I ran out of the room, crying after I flubbed a presentation on how to pot a geranium for show and tell. Not only did I drop the clay pot on my foot, but I also dumped the entire bag of soil all over the carpet.

  I scanned the crowd in the restaurant, easily locating Fee’s towering frame.

  “Ainsley, darling. How was your day?” Fiona’s lips curled up into a shit-eating grin. “Oh, that’s right. You had a rip-roaring good time.”

  “Fee-own-a! This is not the time to be you. I need a friend.”

  “Of course it is. It’s always the time to be myself. I would never curb your personality. Sounds like you don’t either. You just let things go.”

  I blew out a rush of angry air. She laughed at my expense and looped her arm through mine, pulling me to the bar to wait for a table to clear. “I need a drink. What’ll ya have?”

  She didn’t wait for my response but ordered a Diet Coke for me and a white wine for herself. She’d recently turned twenty-one, but no one had ever carded her before. Her professorial stature aided and abetted her underage drinking, and had done so since age sixteen. Before our drinks arrived, a table cleared, and my cousin shoved me over to stake our claim. This place had the best enchiladas in town, but the seating policy was democratic‌—‌or in the immortal words of Abraham Lincoln, “of the people, by the people, and for the people.”

  Fiona hoisted our drinks above her strawberry blonde head and pirouetted over to the table without spilling a drop.

  “I ordered our food at the bar.” She nodded toward the bartender, who flashed a thumbs-up and then turned to a coworker and made a farting gesture with his armpit. He pointed to me, grinning like a five-year-old boy.

  I pretended not to notice.

  We always selected the enchilada special, which included cheese, chicken, and beef with black beans and rice.

  “So, how bad was it?” Fiona sipped her wine, trying hard not to laugh at my expense.

  “Horrendous. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear it.” Heat rose to my cheeks.

  “I did hear something, but I thought it was a plane breaking the sound barrier. It was quite the crack!” She hooted.

  “Oh, so funny.” I plunged my straw into the glass and stirred the ice cubes, enjoying the soda’s fizzy coolness in contrast with my burning face.

  My cousin placed a hand on my arm. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

  “Trust me, it was. People have been gawking all day.”

  “Do you mean…?” Fiona reached for her phone. “Oh, Ainsley!” She slapped her thigh. “That Susie sure has your number.”

  “I don’t want to know the headline. Please shut it off.” I snapped my eyelids together just in case Fiona didn’t heed my command.

  An epic sound that brought to mind an elephant farting was proof positive Fiona was watching the Tattler on YouTube.

  “Seriously, Fee. Put it away or I’m leaving.”

  “Fine. I’ll watch it later. I wonder if I can use the fart sound for your ringtone?”

  I made a face.

  My phone vibrated. A text flashed across the screen: Revenge is profitable; gratitude is expensive.

  “Speak of the devil.” I spun the phone around for Fee to read.

  “What the?” Her face twisted up. “Who sent this?”

  “Unknown number, but come on… This is the work of one person: Susie Q.”

  Fee stared at the screen. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about the other quote since Monday. Seems too intellectual for her. What does this mean, really?”

  “Who knows? Maybe she wants money to back off.”

  “She wants you to act thankful for her ridicule? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Please. Sense and Susie are never in the same hemisphere.”

  “If it is her, she’s getting weirder. Be careful. Have you thought about mentioning this to Grandmother?”

  “What? No?” I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms behind me and accidentally bumping into someone’s chair. I glanced over my shoulder half-expecting to see Susie or Cassidy. “Sorry,” I mumbled to a professor type in his fifties.

  “It’s bad enough Susie is tormenting me,” I said, turning back to Fiona. “I don’t need Grandmother coming to my rescue. She already controls ninety percent of my life. Do I want to hand over the remaining ten percent?”

  Fee studied my face with understanding eyes. “Just be careful. If you keep getting,” she paused to mull over her words, “unconventional quotes, I really think you should loop in the big guns.”

  “I promise,” I lied. Susie was a pain, but I could handle her. Besides, I was convinced the best method was to ignore people like Susie. Attention only gave her the power she desired.

  Fiona brushed it off and launched into a story about one of her classmates who’d confused Teddy and Franklin Roosevelt. She tossed both arms in the air. “I mean, seriously. Who does that?”

  I had to laugh that Fiona considered this faux pas worse than my alleged fart.

  “It’s a wonder she ever got into Harvard,” she said.

  “I know!” I agreed, relieved the punch line wasn’t at my expense.

  Our meals arrive
d. Without skipping a beat, Fiona dug her fork in. Around bites, she continued telling me about her day. “During our discussion of a letter by John Adams to his wife, this guy who hasn’t said a peep in the three classes we’ve taken together over the past two years raised his hand and asked, ‘What does saucy mean?’” Fiona let forth a gale of laughter.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek to obliterate all thoughts of saucy positions with Maya.

  Fiona grew serious, set her fork down, and said, “You know, Ainsley, as your future presidential biographer, I’m going to have to tell the truth.” She pinned me with shimmering emerald eyes and continued. “The whole truth. Including your flatulence.”

  “Fee!”

  She put a palm up. “I’m serious, inquiring minds want to know.” Merriment danced across her face, forcing all the seriousness to the side. “It will be painful to write about this incident, but I have a feeling this moment will shape your future. I’m positive.” She winked and motioned for me to get up. “Let’s go to that coffee shop. We have time to squeeze in a cup before your study date. I’m dying for one of their lattes. When I woke up this morning, my first thought was I want one.”

  Odd, my first thought was I wanted to kiss Maya. Not that I’d ever tell anyone. I could just picture Grandmother’s minions polling focus groups about their thoughts on interracial lesbian relationships.

  ***

  Maya manned the cash register. I hadn’t contemplated she’d be working tonight, even though she had suggested the shop. I did my best to push aside any trace of guilt from my expression. I’d been volunteering since I was fourteen, but I hadn’t ever worked for a paycheck, mainly because I didn’t need to earn money. Not ever. That’s what the trust fund was for.

  We arrived at twenty minutes to eight, and Maya glanced at her watch.

  “Sorry, I’m early‌—‌”

  “But I’ve been dying for a latte all day,” Fiona interrupted.

  Maya motioned for us to order.

  Fiona barked her order in the clipped Carmichael tone.

  I smiled, completely unsure what I should try. “Uh, coffee.”