Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .)

by Baratz-Logsted, Lauren

  I look down at my red shoes, humiliated. “They say he’s already picking out the wallpaper and the drapes.” Then I look up defiantly, meet his eyes dead on. “But I didn’t pick out any drapes.”

  “For the last time, Katie, not really the point here!” Another sigh. “The last thing, the very last thing we want to ever do here is hand deliver ammunition to the other side. Do we want them saying, ‘Look at Edward Willfield! He’s already picking out the china!?’ ”

  “But it wasn’t you, it was m—”

  “Katie,” he warns.

  More looking at my shoes. “No, sir. Not the point.”

  “All right, then.”

  I look up in time to see him also looking at my shoes and then he gestures at my whole outfit, adding, “And it didn’t help matters any that you’re wearing . . . that.”

  “What’s wrong with my outfit?” I liked this suit so much when I first picked it out. Am I about to hear another Christmas crack again?

  “Nancy Reagan was known for wearing little red suits, just like that.”

  Dawning realization. “Oh.” Then: “But we’re Republicans. It’s like our team color.”

  “Still, between that and the china pattern pictures on your blog . . .”

  “Do you really think lots of people looked at the blog today?” I ask.

  My father snorts. “It’d probably be easier to count how many Americans didn’t look at it!”

  Oh, how I’d love to get my itchy finger on that StatCounter!

  “The press is going to have a field day,” my father says.

  “What do we do?” I really want to help now. “Do you want me to make a public apology? Because I’d be happy to grovel, throw myself on my sword, tell everyone how it was all just me—so silly!—and how you never knew anything about this at all.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be enough, Katie.”

  “Then what will?” Wait, is he planning to exile me, like Napoleon on Elba? Maybe I’m overreacting but political history is not kind to those in power who make mistakes.

  “You need to take down The Kat and Dog Blog.”

  Wait. What?

  “What?”

  “Make it like it never existed,” my father continues, oblivious to my outrage. “Obviously, people will have taken screenshots and what have you, so the current damage from this can’t be changed. However, we can minimize any additional damage going forward.”

  “But,” I object, embarrassed at the smallness of my own voice as I look down at Dog, still tucked under my arm, “what will Dog and I do for fun without The Kat and Dog Blog?”

  “I don’t know, but you’ll have to think of something. What I do know is that, clearly, you can’t be trusted online. Which reminds me.” He holds out his palm. “I’ll need your iPhone.”

  “What? Why?”

  “After the trouble that candidate Reilly’s son got into texting his friend rude comments from the Democratic National Convention, I read a story about his mother taking away his iPhone. Samantha Reilly may be my opponent but I have to say she can be a smart woman, and in this, she was one step ahead of me.” He snaps the fingers of his waiting hand. “Phone please, Katie?”

  Grudgingly, I reach into the pocket of my suit and surrender the requested item.

  Great. Now how will I stay connected to my father’s campaign? Check poll numbers, opinion pieces, or what political pundits are saying?

  “Great,” my father says.

  At least one of us is happy.

  “We’ll get through this,” my father says, smiling for the first time since I walked in here, a real politician’s smile. “We always do. But we can’t afford to give them any more ammunition. We need to stay one step ahead of them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I turn with Dog, preparing to exit.

  “We can’t afford to make any more mistakes!” he calls after me.

  Dog and I trudge up the long winding staircase to our pink fortress of solitude. I flop down on the bed, Dog beside me. We look each other in the eye.

  “Great,” I tell Dog glumly. “Now what do we do?”

  But I am nothing if not resilient. Sadness turns to anger as it occurs to me: this is all that stupid Drew boy’s fault!

  Okay, maybe not the whole thing with the china pattern—I did that to myself.

  But me losing my iPhone? That is totally his fault. If he hadn’t gotten in trouble first, and if his mom hadn’t thought to take away his iPhone, my father would never have come up with the idea to take away mine, not on his own.

  Come to think of it, the whole problem with the china? That’s that Drew boy’s fault too! If he’d shown up for the interview—like he was supposed to—George Gibson would have had two of us to interview. Why, the interview segment would have filled up so quickly, George would never have had time to bring up china patterns.

  So this is all definitely his fault.

  I’ve never been so mad at anyone in my life.

  And I’ve never even talked to the boy!

  I knew that Drew person was trouble from the first time I saw him slouching on the front page of the New York Times.

  I can’t believe I let myself get so obsessed with him on That Morning Show.

  Stupid boy. Stupid show.

  I may be mad at He Who Shall Not Currently Be Named, but I’m not mad at my father—he’s only doing whatever he needs to do to get us where we want to be: the White House (small yippee!). Still, I know when it’s best to lie low, avoid the line of fire, fly under the radar—and a whole bunch of other military metaphors.

  I don’t go down for dinner. I have Cook send my meal up and I stay in my room quietly studying, only going on the Internet when I absolutely have to for homework.

  I’ve been up since three in the morning to prep before my trip into the city, so by nine p.m. I’m ready for bed.

  I’m already tucked in, wearing my pink satin Oriental pajamas, when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Katie?” My father pokes his head around the corner. “Can I come in?”

  I reach to turn the bedside light back on and sit up in bed.

  “So, listen,” he starts, looking a bit nervous.

  And, as he proceeds to talk, I think: Wait a second—he’s here to give me my phone back! That must be it. He’s going to apologize for being so harsh with me earlier and then he’s going to return my phone. Yippee! Then I think: Poor Dad. All these years of trying to be both dad and mom to me. It hasn’t been easy on him. He’s certainly made his share of mistakes but he sure has tried. Finally I think: Hey, am I going to get my blog back too?

  The problem with all this thinking is that I totally miss everything my father says, right up until I’m yanked back to reality by the following words penetrating my brain:

  “—so obviously I need you to go on That Morning Show again.”

  “Wait. What? After telling me you want me to stay away from my iPhone, the Internet, and the media, you want me to go back there again? But why?”

  “Katie.” My father sighs. “Do we need to get you tested for ADD again?”

  “Just explain again. I was preoccupied before.”

  “Short version this time: Samantha Reilly’s people called our people. Apparently her son has decided that he would like to go on That Morning Show after all . . . and he wants to go on with you.”

  Small-print me thinks: The boy wants to go on the show now . . . with me?

  “And you’re okay with this?” I say.

  My father shrugs. “What choice do we have? If we refuse, we look like the wimps this time and like we’ve got something to hide.”

  Even though I can’t see myself in a mirror right now, I know my eyes are gleaming as I clench my fist and say, “Yes! I know I can take that kid.”

  “This isn’t about ‘taking’ anybody, Katie,” my father cautions.

  “It’s not?”

  “Of course not. As a matter of fact, I think it would be a good idea for you to apologize
for the rude things you said about him.”

  Not so much gleam anymore. “Do I have to?”

  “I’m afraid you do.”

  Rats.

  “I expect you to take the high road. I expect you to be polite to him at all times.”

  Double rats.

  I have to apologize to my mortal enemy . . . and be polite?

  “Still, if the opportunity presents itself,” my father continues, “I know you’ll show your superior political savvy and fitness to be in the White House in every way.”

  Yes! And back to pumping the fist.

  In fact, I’m so encouraged by his last words, I dare to dream out loud:

  “If I’m going back on TV, does this mean that I get my phone back? And my blog?”

  “Of course not!” My father roars with laughter. “Don’t be absurd!” But he adds, “Maybe after we win the White House.” And then he’s gone.

  Briefly, I think: Who’s really putting up the drapes and picking out the china pattern here? Which one of us is really putting the political cart before the horse?

  But all of that is swept from my mind as I remember everything I’ve lost today and all because of one person, one person I’m now going to have to apologize to and be nice to on national television.

  I can’t stand that Drew boy.

  Really, I can’t.

  DREW

  So, like, you know how sometimes you get these . . . preconceptions about people? You’ve seen the person around, you’ve heard stuff about them, maybe you’ve even heard them talk a bit, and you think, Wow! What a jerk! But then you actually get to finally meet the person, face-to-face, and you realize that everything you thought about the person before was just so wrong, and you think, Hey! You’re not so bad after all!

  Well, let me be the one to . . . disabuse you of that notion as I say to you:

  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

  No.

  Just, no.

  • • •

  I ride Metro-North into the city, listening to my iPod and playing with my younger brothers’ Game Boy because they’re the only devices I’m allowed to use now when I’m out of the house.

  When my mom’s “people” set up this joint interview through Edward Willfield’s “people,” she said she wanted me to take a car and driver for protection but I told her that was whack.

  “No one’s going to bother me, Mom,” I said. “You’re the famous one. Me? I’m like the most . . . nondescript teenager in the world.”

  And it’s true. As I ride the train in, attired in jeans, a plaid flannel work shirt over a T-shirt, and a skateboarding beanie—Ann tried to get me to wear a suit but I resisted, although I do have a wool tie in my pocket that I promised to put on before going on camera—no one bothers me at all. No one even looks at me. Of course, that may be because everyone else on Metro-North this insanely early in the morning is some kind of suit-wearing executive, with a nose pressed to the financial sections of the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times, but still. No one knows me, no one recognizes me, and I like this just fine.

  As we pull into Grand Central Station, I think: let’s just get this puppy over with.

  I make my way through Grand Central Station, with its zodiac constellations soaring overhead, stopping just long enough to grab a fat turkey sandwich at Junior’s and a large coffee at Starbucks to consume on my walk to the TV studio. I ate breakfast just a few hours ago—bacon, eggs, toast, pancakes, more bacon—but that’s worn off already. Hey, a guy’s got to eat.

  As I near the studio, I see a huge crowd milling around outside the building. I’ve got a few minutes before I absolutely have to check in, so I stand on the fringes of the crowd, chewing on my sandwich, waiting to see what all the fuss is about. I notice that the crowd is a mixture of all ages, including people my own age. I find this surprising since, like, shouldn’t they be getting ready for school? Has something happened? Are people waiting for someone famous? A rock star? An actress? I try to see but, ah, I got nothing.

  I tap the shoulder of the guy standing closest to me, who looks to be in his twenties.

  “Dude,” I say when he turns, “what’s with the crowd? Like, what’s everyone waiting for?”

  “Dude,” he says back, with I might add, an unhealthy level of sarcasm, “we’re here because of That Morning Show?”

  “That’s cool, because I’m supposed to be on—” But I never get to finish what I was going to say, because the guy just continues with, like, an attitude.

  “You have heard of That Morning Show, haven’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “Every weekday morning, a crowd stands around—locals, tourists, people from all over the world—waiting for one of the stars to come out, hoping to get on camera.”

  I look around me and for the first time I notice that many of the people are holding homemade placards that say things like “Kalamazoo loves you, Joe!” and the ever-popular “Hi, Mom!”

  Can you say “lame”?

  Suddenly, a roar goes up from the crowd. The guy I’ve been talking to goes up on his toes, craning his neck to try to see over the heads of the people in front of us, and I do the same. I manage to see a microphone flash and glimpse about a quarter, maybe from the eyebrows up, of some guy’s head. I hear a jovial laugh coming from the general direction of the microphone and now the crowd is really going, with shouts coming from all over the place, including from my new friend, each some version of, “Hey, Joe! Over here!”

  I tap the guy on the shoulder one more time and he turns.

  “Yes?” he asks impatiently.

  “Who’s Joe?” I say, popping the last bite of Junior’s turkey into my mouth.

  “Are you kidding me?” He looks at me like I’m insane. “Joe Schwartz? Like, only the most famous weatherman in the country, maybe the world?”

  Wait. These people are all standing here at this insane hour, they do this every day, hoping for a glimpse of—or better yet—some kind of deep personal exchange . . . with a weatherman?

  My companion waves a dismissive hand at me, before firmly turning his back on me. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I have the sneaking feeling this conversation is over with.

  What am I even doing here?

  Indeed.

  My instructions say that rather than going through the front entrance, there should be a side door for guests. When I locate it, I find a second crowd outside of that and I have to kind of force my way through to get to the front. A burly man with a walkie-talkie stops me as I try to enter, but after I give him the song and dance about who I am and why I’m there, he calls upstairs and lets me right on through.

  I hear some muttered variations on “Who’s that?” as the door opens for me, but I ignore them. I put the earbuds of my iPod back in, switching on my Game Boy as I stroll toward the elevator.

  For about the millionth time since I woke up this morning, I curse the name of Katie Willfield.

  If it weren’t for that screwy girl, I wouldn’t have to go through all of this.

  Another guy with a walkie-talkie meets me at the elevator and escorts me up. When I step off, there’s a woman with yet another walkie-talkie who leads me to a door.

  “Here’s the green room,” she says. “You’ll wait here until your segment is called.”

  The green room is decidedly not green. It’s also empty of other people. So I take a seat on the couch, and focus on my Game Boy, hoping to just kill some time until I can get this thing over with. I’m just sitting there minding my own business, listening to some tunes, when one of my earbuds is rudely yanked from my ear. I look up and there she is:

  Katie Willfield.

  The cause of so much trouble in my life. She’s everything I can’t stand about just, well, everything. But up close like this, I see that she’s just a girl. And, surprisingly pretty. The suits she wears may make her look stuck-up, but at least the one she has on today is green, which matches her eyes. At least she’s not wearing the red one, or w
orse still, the pink one. Suddenly, confusingly, I feel the anger flush out of my body.

  “Hey,” I say mildly, “how’s it going?”

  I don’t know what I’m expecting. Maybe “Nice to finally meet you”? Or your basic, “Fine, how’s it going with you?” What I don’t expect is for the most innocent question in the history of the universe to be met with:

  “How’s it going?” she says in the most withering voice imaginable. And then, just barely shy of a shout, she repeats, “How’s it going?”

  Wait. She’s mad at me?

  “You have the nerve to ask me that,” she goes on, “after what you’ve done?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No.”

  Apparently, she has trouble grasping the concept of the rhetorical question.

  “It’s all your fault,” she says.

  “My fault?”

  What is she even talking about?

  “Dude,” I say, “what are you talking about?”

  “If it weren’t for you and your stupid texting problem, and your stupid mother curbing your Internet access because of your stupid texting problems, my father never would have gotten the idea to do the same thing to me.” Pause. “And don’t call me dude.”

  “You’re mad at me?” I don’t believe this girl! “You know, if your dad”—I search for the phrase she used so I can invest it with scorn—“ ‘curbed your Internet access,’ I’m sure it’s because of some idiotic thing you did, so you only have yourself to blame.”

  “Me?”

  “If the shoe fits . . .”

  Her lips press together so tightly, I briefly worry that her head might explode, with clouds of steam pouring out of her ears like some cartoon character.

  She opens her mouth to speak but then closes it. She opens it a second time and I wait for her next explosion of infuriating anger, but instead, what comes out through gritted teeth is:

  “Sorry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said I’m sorry. Don’t expect me to say it again.”

  I think, there’s your abrupt about-face, but then wonder, what’s she sorry for? But then I realize she must be sorry for how rude she was earlier.