Their questions make me realize that they must have watched the interview on the jumbo TV the studio keeps outside for the crowds that gather every morning. All I can do is stride proudly through the gaggle, hold my head up high, and keep the burn out of my face and a smile plastered on. Their taunting questions follow me to the limo, where Kent immediately opens the door. It’s all I can do to keep reminding myself of my mantra: eye on the prize!
But after I slide into the back of the limo, and Kent gently shuts the door, I allow my face to fall into my hands. I know I’m protected from prying eyes by the tinted glass. Oh, the embarrassment. Oh, the humiliation.
“Are you okay, Miss Katie?” Kent asks, settling into the front seat.
I don’t answer right away. I don’t answer because I don’t think I can, not without crying. With the amount of time we’ve spent together over the past few weeks, Kent is starting to feel as close of a friend as Dog. His being worried about me only makes the impulse to cry worse. Originally, I’d planned on going straight from the studio to Willfield Academy, just like I did for my triumphant return after my interview last week. I smile ruefully as I remember that that wasn’t exactly triumphant either. But after this? I can’t show my face there today. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to again.
“Miss Katie?” Kent tries again.
I’m about to instruct him to just drive, to just take me home so I can hide away forever—or at least until it’s time to move into the White House—when I hear something.
Even though the morning is brisk, Kent has opened the very tops of the windows to get some fresh air. That sound I’m hearing now? It’s the gaggle, growing louder. I look up and out the window. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Maybe for the gaggle to attack me and demand I answer their questions as though I’m a dictator in a banana republic? (Not the store.) What I see instead is Drew Reilly.
He’s being absolutely mobbed by the young female members of the gaggle. Not only are they yelling questions at him, they’re actually touching him.
What’s the matter with him? Doesn’t he know to just stride right on through as quickly as possible? And now they’re chanting his name, like he’s one of those rock stars. Oh, great. I get scorn. And what does he get? Adulation.
Disgusted, now I’m really ready to tell Kent to just drive on—nothing to see here!—only I see two teenage girls, each holding on to the ends of Drew’s tie. When did he find time to put that on? Did I miss something? And just look at that knot. He really needs someone to teach him how to properly tie a full Windsor. As the two girls each pull a different end of the tie and a third girl yanks the beanie off Drew’s head and races off down the street, it occurs to me that they’re trying for souvenirs! The only problem is, the two fighting over the tie are neglecting the small fact that Drew’s neck is still in the middle.
Watching him claw at the tightening tie with his fingers, I climb back out of the limo. “Amateurs,” I grumble to myself, thinking that Drew would never be in this current mess if he knew what he was doing. I stride up to Drew and his hangers-on. “Let him go,” I command one teenage girl. “Unhand him,” I snap at the other. Am I being too formal here? Perhaps. But in my experience, an imperious tone can do wonders. Sure enough, startled, they obey. Before they get a chance to realize that it’s two against one and lurch for the tie again, I grab Drew by the shirt and tug him quickly toward the open back door of the limo. Once there, I let go of his shirt and shove him inside, hearing the clicks of cameras going off all the while. Oh, no, I groan inwardly as I climb in after him, no doubt this’ll be all over TMZ by the time we hit Connecticut. Because while the mainstream media may stick to the Clinton precedent of laying off the minor children of presidential candidates, there’s no similar understanding from the lesser mainstream media or any jerk with a cell phone. And while I would love media attention, I don’t want or need any more that’s related to Drew Reilly.
Oh, well. I’ll just do damage control later. I’m good at that.
“Drive, Kent,” I say firmly.
Like the professional Kent is, he zooms away from the curb, no questions asked.
“You know,” I point out to Drew, “that back there wouldn’t have happened to you if you brought a Secret Service agent like Kent with you, Mr. I Took the Train in Today.”
Beside me, Drew is out of breath. I’ve never been physically mobbed by a gaggle of girls before, but I’m guessing that’ll do that to a guy. When Drew does finally speak, he sounds angry. And, I soon realize, he’s angry at me.
“You know,” he says, “you didn’t have to do anything. I could have totally handled the situation all by myself.”
“Seriously?” I’ve never actually said that like it’s a sarcastic interrogative before—but I’ve certainly seen enough kids do it on TV, and, I must say, it feels good. “Yeah, well,” I add, “thank you works too.”
Drew just glares at me.
I glare right back.
And then we both burst out laughing.
We laugh hysterically, like nothing funnier has ever happened in the world. I’ve never laughed like this with someone my age before. It feels so good. We laugh until there’s nothing left in us and we trail off, almost forgetting what set us off in the first place.
“Gosh, I’m hungry,” I say.
Drew snorts. “You should have had something back at the green room.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “That’s for amateurs.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I explain the perils of getting food on your face or stuck between your teeth, finishing with, “Like you did, with the jelly from that doughnut. And—” I start to add but then stop myself.
But that Drew, he’s a quick one.
“And?” he prompts.
“Nothing.”
“And?” he prompts more forcefully, leaving me no choice.
“I have a confession to make.”
“Still waiting here.”
“You didn’t just get jelly between your teeth.”
“No?”
“You also got white powdered sugar all over your face.”
“All over it?”
“Well, just one side.”
“And you let me go on camera like that, on national TV?”
“Like I said, it’s just one side.”
“You should’ve said something.”
“And I almost did!” I say in my own defense. “But I’d already told you about the jelly and I figured, no need to get carried away.”
He looks at me, his eyes stormy—I never noticed how brown his eyes were before, how gentle and warm—and I think: Oh, no. Here it comes. We had one good moment together and now he’s mad and I’ve just gone and spoiled everything.
But instead of yelling at me like I expect him to, Drew bursts out laughing again.
“You’re not mad?” I say incredulously.
“Maybe for a second,” he says. “But you know, you got me—so, good one! I mean, powdered sugar—how mad can I be?” He laughs again. Then: “But wait, how foolish did I look out there?”
I hold my forefinger and thumb about an eighth of an inch apart.
“Is it still there?” He rubs his palm against his jaw.
“Yes,” I say, “but higher.” I raise my hand to his face, like I did what now seems like a lifetime ago, only this time I make contact. His skin is warm beneath my touch, rougher than my own, masculine. Hand trembling slightly, I gently brush the remaining powdered sugar away. “All gone now,” I say, slightly sorry for not having an excuse to leave my fingers there. “Like it never happened.”
When he doesn’t say anything back, I fill the silence with, “I suppose you need to get back to school.”
“Nah, I’m taking the rest of the day off. You?”
“Day off.” Pause. “I’m still hungry.” Pause. “You?”
Drew shrugs. “I could eat.”
DREW
The last time anyone wiped sugar from my face it was
my mom, when I was little. That act and the accompanying touch made me feel taken care of, secure. But when Katie touched me, it made me feel the opposite of secure. Truth? It was more like that moment at the top of a roller coaster, right before the drop, when your stomach clenches and you’re simultaneously terrified yet aching to tip over the edge.
And, of course, I didn’t want the moment to end.
Incredibly flaky layers of pastry with cream in between. Pink glaze. Purple sugar crystals on top. I’ve never been a big pink-and-purple foods kind of guy, but man.
“So this is what a Cronut’s like,” I say appreciatively as I take another large bite.
“So this is what playing hooky is like,” Katie says, as she takes another bite of her own Cronut.
“Wait.” I swallow. “You’ve never played hooky before?”
“You have?”
“Well, sure.”
“And you don’t get in trouble for it?”
“I do, but I kind of figure I’m doing my teachers a favor.”
“How so?”
I shrug. “How can people miss me if I never go away?”
Katie looks at me for a moment, dead serious, and then she busts out laughing.
Before today, with what little I’d seen of her on TV and in the newspapers, I never would have pictured that she could laugh like this. But when she does, it’s like all the buttoned-up . . . Katieness in her falls away, and what’s left is . . .
I’m not sure I have words for it. But it’s like, for the first time, she seems like a real person, maybe even a person I’d want to get to know better.
Well, I shouldn’t get carried away.
Still . . .
“You think this is hooky?” I indicate the safety of the limo around us with my Cronut-holding hand.
“You mean it’s not?”
“Well, no. For this to be any good, we’d need to go somewhere or do something.”
“Like where? Or what? When you play hooky—you know, to do your teachers a favor—where do you like to go?”
I tell her.
“Kent!” Katie calls up front to her Secret Service agent. She tells him where we want to go.
“Are you sure about this?” I say.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, like, don’t you have to get home or something?”
“My father’s in Kansas, campaigning. He’ll be on the road mostly for the next seven weeks, campaigning straight through until Election Day. You?”
“My mom left right after breakfast this morning for South Carolina. Or was it Virginia?”
“She does need to worry about the South,” Katie muses.
I keep forgetting that she knows a lot more about this stuff than I do.
“Kent, did you hear me?” she calls.
“I don’t know about this, Miss Katie,” Kent says.
“Kent?”
“What would your father—”
“Kent.”
“Yes, Miss Katie.”
I’m not sure I entirely approve of the way she takes charge of the assigned help, but I must admit, the girl does know how to get things done.
For the remainder of the ride, we mostly talk about the one thing we know we share in common, the one thing we both like.
“I can’t believe how good these Cronuts are,” I say, taking a second from the box between us.
“I can’t believe you never had one before today,” she says, taking another one for herself.
But a few minutes later, when she reaches for a third, I pass.
“I thought you were on a diet,” I say.
“Do I look like I’m on a diet?” She takes a healthy bite. “Why would you say that?”
“Back in the green room, you practically shrieked at me when I took that doughnut.”
“I did not practically shriek. And anyway, I thought you understood by now that only amateurs eat in the green room.”
“Right.” I feel myself tightening up. For a moment there, I had forgotten who I’m dealing with. “Amateurs.”
“Well, it’s true.” She shrugs. “But once the show is over . . .” She happily takes another bite.
I have to admit, I’ve never seen a girl eat like this before. And, no sooner do I think this than I blurt it out.
“I’ve never seen a girl eat like you before.”
“Why? Am I messy?” She puts a hand to her cheek and rubs. There is some frosting on her face but it’s on the other side and I don’t say anything about it.
“It’s not that. It’s just all the girls at school . . .”
“What about them?”
“They’re always on diets.”
“All of them?”
“Pretty much. I mean, at least, that’s what I think they want everyone to think.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
“Take lunch, for example. No matter their individual size, they all eat salads and diet soda. Sometimes I think they think that if no one actually sees them eating real food, then people will think—well, I’m not even sure what they’re hoping people will think. Maybe that they always eat like that, even when no one’s looking? That they can’t really be whatever size they are because clearly they don’t eat enough?”
“Salads are real food,” she counters.
“Not like Cronuts,” I counter right back.
“True,” she concedes, closing her eyes in bliss as she takes another bite.
“Do you eat like this all the time?” I ask.
“I thought you said I was too skinny.”
Back at the green room, I did say that. And now, I don’t even know why. Because the truth is, she’s not too anything, at least not when it comes to size. She just looks . . . healthy.
“You don’t have one of those eating disorders, do you? Like, you eat all this stuff and then get rid of it somehow?”
She laughs. “I don’t have time for anything like that.”
“Then how is it that you’re not fat?”
“I guess I’m always just so busy running around doing stuff. Plus, I just eat when I’m hungry.” She shrugs, stares at the remainder of her third Cronut, and clearly considers eating it before tossing the last bite back into the box and closing the lid. “And I stop eating before I’m full.”
Wow, what a concept.
• • •
“Wow! So, this is where you go to play hooky!” Katie says, tripping her way through the sand, Kent following at a discreet distance. “Where is everybody, though?”
“School’s in session,” I point out, “plus, it’s a weekday. You might see joggers first thing in the morning, or the occasional person walking a dog. But other than that? Not many people come out.”
As if to prove my point, one lone person jogs past us toward the water with a dog on a leash.
“Wow!” she says again, taking in the sand all around us, the sky overhead, the water straight in front. “So, this is the beach!”
We’re at the one I’ve been going to since I was little, the closest one to the old neighborhood.
“Come on.” I laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to the beach!”
“Of course I have,” she says stiffly. Then: “Well, when I was young, and we’d take vacations, sometimes we’d go.”
“Never since then? But you live in Connecticut. There are lots of beaches.”
“We have a pool.”
“You live in Willfield, for crying out loud, which is supposed to have the best beach in the state!”
“You know where I live?”
If she was Sandy, I’d chuck something at her for saying something so stupid. “Come on, Alien from Another Planet, let me introduce you to the beach. Kat, this is the beach.” I wave my arm out. “Beach, meet Kat.”
She blushes and I’m not sure what at. Am I embarrassing her somehow?
But as she stumbles along at my side, I can’t help but point out, “You know, it’d be easier to walk in the sand if you take your shoes off.”<
br />
“You still have yours on.”
“They’re boots,” I say, “and they’re not high heels.”
She bends over to remove her green high heels, but teeters on the uneven surface, overbalancing herself. Without thinking about it, I reach out a hand and grab her firmly by the elbow to steady her so she doesn’t fall. It’s funny. I instinctively do it, out of politeness. But no sooner does my hand grasp her elbow than I feel a peculiar rightness, not to mention a physical charge that’s kind of unsettling.
She flinches at my touch. I don’t understand. Is she worried I’m going to hurt her?
“Sorry.” She blushes again, dropping her gaze. “I’m not accustomed to people I know touching me.”
Not acc—
What does she mean? No high fives from people in her classes, ever? No hugs from her girlfriends at school? (I know girls do this because I’ve seen them, many times. And all too often, these hugs are accompanied by high-pitched squeals that I’ve often thought were designed to puncture human eardrums.)
What kind of strange life has this girl lived?
“That’s better,” she says, her feet finally free. She squishes her toes in the sand, clearly enjoying the sensation on her skin. “So,” she says more brightly, “what is it that you do when you’re playing hooky at the beach?”
I gesture with my chin toward the lifeguard tower. “I sit up there.”
“Okay, then!” she says in this overly gung-ho voice, like she’s game to do whatever the natives do.
When we’re at the base of the tower, I figure she might need my help getting up, and I hold out my hand. After all, with that green suit on with its pencil skirt snug around her upper thighs, I figure it might be too constricting for her to climb up without assistance. But she ignores my hand, shimmying right past me like a suited nanny goat, and all I can do is shimmy up next to her. When I get to the top, she’s already sitting but moves over so I can plop down beside her on the wide wooden bench seat.
She swings her legs for a few minutes, staring out at the view. Then: “Well, this is nice!”
Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .) Page 8