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

by Baratz-Logsted, Lauren

  A few minutes more of silent leg swinging passes, followed by: “So what else do you do when you come here?”

  “Look at the view.” I shrug. “Think about stuff. Solve the problems of the world.”

  “Oh.” Then: “Okay, then!”

  The problem is that it’s impossible to think about the things I normally do with her here. Particularly when her suit skirt is once again riding up and showing off her legs. If anyone had asked me before today if I was a woman’s-suit guy, I’d have said no way! That was always Sandy’s peculiar thing. I would have said I preferred short shorts and bikinis, in no particular order. But this buttoned-up exterior coupled with a flash of leg—and oh, those legs!—now, I can definitely see the appeal.

  Focus, Drew. Resist the optical allure of those legs. I think about the questions that awful Mimi Blake person asked her back at the TV station. Has Katie really never had a romance? Never been on a date? Never been kissed?

  I mean, I’m no Casanova, but we’re both sixteen—well, just barely. I’ve had my fair share of experiences. Haven’t most kids had at least . . . something by now?

  I have a powerful urge to ask about Mimi Blake’s questions but of course I don’t because, one, it would be too awkward, and two, it hits me that Katie’s reaction is my answer. She wasn’t just blindsided by questions she hadn’t been told were coming. She was embarrassed at the truth. Still, maybe I’m wrong.

  So, I try to beat around the bush with:

  “You must have a lot of friends—you know, at your school?”

  “Oh, no!” She laughs. “I don’t have time for all that!”

  “What do you mean? How can you not have time to have friends?”

  “I’m always too busy helping my father campaign!” she says as though the answer must be obvious. Then: “Oh, that’s right. You’re relatively new to all this. Well, you’ll learn.”

  No, I won’t, I think. I don’t want to learn how to not have a life.

  “But what do you do when you’re not busy campaigning?”

  “Do?” She looks mildly perplexed. “I blog.” And now she looks peeved. “Well, I used to, before you lost your tech privileges for doing something stupid and then my father heard about it and then, after I made one teeny-tiny blog post about china patterns, decided that your mother’s no-tech policy was the way to—”

  “Yeah, I think we adequately covered that one already. I’m good, thanks.”

  “And I hang out with Dog.”

  “Dog?”

  “My cat.”

  “Of course.”

  A cat named Dog? This girl is just so kooky. But adorable too. And funny. I wonder if she realizes how funny she is.

  “Well, how about you?” she asks defiantly. “What do you do for fun and excitement?”

  She says those last three words with what I think must be the most derision with which they’ve ever been said. Still, pushing aside my initial annoyance, I find myself telling her about Sandy.

  As I speak about our friendship, now stretching back well over a decade, a look comes over her face, like I’m telling her about some strange state or country she’s heard about, but never traveled to herself. Like Idaho or Uruguay.

  Well, she’s probably been to Idaho. You know, on the campaign trail.

  For someone so self-absorbed, she’s a surprisingly good listener. So I find myself discussing the other thing I do with my free time, restoring the vintage Corvair I bought.

  “And what will you do with it once it’s fully restored?” she asks.

  “By then I should have my license. I’ll drive it, of course.”

  She laughs.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You think you’ll ever get to actually drive that car?”

  And now she’s laughing harder than she has since we shared that first big laugh back in the limo.

  “Why wouldn’t I? I’m sixteen and two months. Connecticut state law dictates that a person can get a restricted license at sixteen and four months. Did I mention it’s the law? Look it up.”

  “Yes, I know,” she says. “I also read an article in the Times recently that said kids are getting their licenses later and later these days. They spend so much time texting each other, they feel as though they’re doing social things together even though they really don’t go out. So they don’t feel as much need to get a license to drive places like previous generations did.”

  “Well, that’s not me.”

  “Anyway, that wasn’t what I was laughing at.”

  “What, then?”

  “I was laughing because if your mother wins the election, your life won’t be your own!”

  “It won’t?”

  “Of course not! You’ll have Secret Service people trailing you twenty-four seven!”

  “I don’t want that!”

  “Well, you won’t be able to do anything about that. Come to think of it, why don’t you have an agent assigned to you?”

  “Because I declined. When someone’s still just a nominee, or a member of the family of a nominee, you can decline. So while the rest of my family got them, I declined. Have some guy in a suit and dark glasses, trailing me everywhere I go? In gym class? No, thank you.”

  “Really? Because I wish Kent would go to gym class with me.”

  “And that’s where we differ.” One of the million ways, I think.

  “But like I said, if your mom is elected . . .” She pauses. “I can’t believe you thought if your mom was elected that somehow your life could go on the same as always.”

  Because I’m in denial? Heavy-duty, head-in-the-sand denial? Or maybe because I’ve secretly thought that my mom could never win, so I’d never really have to face that day?

  But I can’t say that to her. I still have trouble just saying all that to myself.

  “Of course,” she says, “that will never happen. Your having to deal with the Secret Service.”

  “It won’t?” Maybe there’s a loophole?

  “Of course not. Your mom will never beat my father.”

  The funny thing is that I don’t even want my mom to win the election—especially not now that Katie has forced me to admit to myself what my life will be like if she does. Obviously a part of me has never really believed that my mom can win the election. But Katie saying that? So scornfully? Suddenly, a small part of me wants my mom to win.

  No matter how much I’ve enjoyed spending time with Katie today, in the end, she’s still the enemy.

  “Ah,” I say, “I think that’s just about enough hooky for one day.”

  The limo pulls up in front of my house, neither of us speaking the whole ride back.

  “Wow,” Katie says, looking out the window, “you live pretty nicely for a Democrat.”

  What do you even say to something like that?

  “Thank you for the ride, Kent,” I say, climbing out.

  I’m about to just slam the door when I hear Katie’s voice.

  “Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Drew,” she says, hand thrust straight out for a shake. “It was fun finally learning how to play hooky.”

  There’s the thing about Katie: She can be so maddeningly infuriating—with her self-absorption and her insensitivity and all her “We are so going to beat you!”—and in the next second she’ll do something that will show me just how small her life has been, just how vulnerable she is. Somehow, it moves me.

  I bypass her outstretched hand and touch my fingers to her cheek. She only flinches for a second and then relaxes against my hand. It feels so, so soft, and her eyes look so, so green.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  Something I’ve wanted to do for hours, I think. But what I say is, “You had some Cronut on your cheek.” She blushes.

  “Good luck with your car and your life and the election.” She pauses. “Well, maybe not the last part.”

  “Yeah, same to you.”

  And then I’m gone.

  KATIE

  Well, that was ni
ce.

  Wait. Did that qualify as a date?

  Hmm . . . probably not.

  Still, once inside the house I lean my back against the closed door and sigh, remembering the feel of his fingers lingering against my cheek. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any Cronut there. Maybe, I think hopefully, Drew just wanted to touch me? Is that even possible?

  And was it in my head, or did I occasionally catch him trying to steal glances at me? It probably was in my head and yet now that I’m alone, I’m forced to admit: I was definitely stealing glances at him. Up close, he was so shockingly cute; startlingly handsome, even.

  I sigh again and then head straight for the kitchen, hoping for a snack, only to find Cook there.

  Cook, for the record, does have a real name and I even know what it is. But Cook is also a huge fan of General Hospital and apparently the Quartermaines—the wealthy family on that soap opera—always refer to their chef like that. Cook, in turn, insists we do the same. She says that somehow it makes her feel more elegant. I’m not sure I entirely get this, but it makes her happy.

  “How are the poll numbers today, Cook?” I ask now.

  Cook has always been very protective of Daddy’s numbers.

  “About the same. The senator is leading that woman by three percentage points but there is still seven percent for ‘Don’t Know.’ Those Don’t Knows always bother me. What is wrong with people in this country? Are they just not paying attention? With only seven weeks to go, how can they still not know?”

  “Don’t worry, Cook. If we just get three-sevenths of the Don’t Know seven percent, we still win.” I reach for the handle on the fridge.

  “Don’t touch that door!” Cook warns. “I’m making chicken-fried steak and biscuits with gravy for your dinner tonight in the hopes of working some magic with the senator’s numbers in the South. I don’t want you to spoil your appetite.”

  Almost nothing ever spoils my appetite. Still.

  “Okay,” I say, stepping away from the fridge, since twelve years of her cooking for us has taught me that there’s no arguing with Cook.

  “The big problem,” Cook says, rolling out some dough for the biscuits, “is that man down in Georgia.”

  I know who she’s talking about. If Drew’s mom is always “that woman” to Cook, then “that man down in Georgia” can only be Bix Treadwell, billionaire, the third-party Independent candidate.

  “What’s Bix done now?” I ask.

  “Rising in the polls, that’s what he’s done!”

  “How is that possible? You just said my father and Drew’s—” I catch myself and continue—“and that woman are still neck and neck, with Daddy ahead by three percent.”

  “And they are! But they’ve each dropped by two percent!”

  “Bix Treadwell has gained four percent since the last poll? How’d he manage to do that?”

  “Only three percent. Don’t Know increased by one percent. And he’s probably managed to do it by making people all kinds of crazy promises you know he can’t keep. Free cable TV and a chicken in every pot, my foot.”

  “Aw, don’t worry about it, Cook.” I put my arm around her and give her shoulders a big squeeze. “Third-party candidates never go anywhere.”

  “Well, they could. Just because a thing has never happened doesn’t mean it won’t.”

  “True. And it might still happen someday, but not until after we’re all long gone.” I give her another squeeze. I’m not really the hugging type, but it’s my experience that when Cook gets too worked up about one of Daddy’s campaigns, the cooking tends to suffer.

  “I just hope you’re right,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, I almost forgot—your dad called for you!”

  “He did?” I’m about to add, Why didn’t you tell me right away? and How could you forget that? but I know it’s easier for Cook to forget things these days. She’s getting old.

  “Yes, about at least a dozen times. He said to call him as soon as you get in. Since you’re not allowed to use your cell phone anymore, here.”

  She hands me her iPhone. On the list of galling things in my life, it ranks high that Cook has 24/7 access to state-of-the-art technology while I do not.

  “Thanks,” I say, already hitting my father’s number. What could he possibly need so badly that he called a dozen times?

  Wait. Could this mean he’s finally firing droopy-mustached Marvin and hiring me full-time as his campaign manager?

  My heart’s so busy pounding with anticipation that as I wait for my father to pick up—pick up, Pick Up, PICK UP!—I barely register Dog, up from his nap, snaking around my ankles in hopes of a treat.

  “Pumpkin!”

  “Daddy, what’s wrong? Is everything okay on the campaign trail?”

  “Everything’s fine. Fine! Of course, by the third diner stop, I did start feeling full, but you know you can’t do those appearances without eating—people think you’re snobby if you don’t accept their culinary hospitality and then you lose their votes. And, sadly, I’m pretty sure that last baby I kissed had a cold.”

  “Be sure to take extra vitamin C, Daddy, and you’ll be fine. The campaign trail is no place for a runny nose.”

  “Right. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last spring.” He laughs.

  “It’s no laughing matter! Remember, just because you had the flu, your Republican opponents in the primary started those rumors about you being a cokehead? We definitely do not want to go through all that again. A drippy nose is your worst enemy.”

  “That’s my girl, always looking out for my best interests.”

  The way he says that, the pride in his voice . . .

  Is this my big moment, finally? I’m ready to scream, Good-bye, Willfield Academy! And hello, bad diner food and kissing sniveling babies! But I don’t want to be too obvious. There’s no point in putting the cart before the horse unless you’re prepared to . . .

  Ah, I don’t even know how to end that. I just know I shouldn’t overplay my hand.

  “I’m sure you didn’t call a dozen times,” I say, “just to talk over old cokehead accusations.”

  “Of course not.”

  Inside, I’m squealing: SQUEE! Here it comes—here it comes!

  “I called to talk to you about your performance on That Morning Show.”

  What? I stare at the phone. What?

  After recovering from my shock as well as I can, I put the phone back to my head and hear:

  “—that I said to be nice—”

  “Hold on a second, Daddy. Could you back this train up and start again?”

  “What’s wrong with you today, pumpkin? You don’t seem yourself. I said I know I told you to be nice to that Reilly boy, but don’t you think you took things a bit too far?”

  There’s a pit in my stomach. “What do you mean?”

  “You protected him from that mob of girls after the show!”

  Oh, no. “How did you know about that? I thought you were eating in diners and kissing sick babies all day.”

  “Know about it? Everybody knows about it—it’s all over the YouTube!”

  How did I forget about the lesser mainstream media and the people outside of the studios? Darn camera phones. I think I know why I forgot briefly: because I was actually enjoying being with Drew. I was so caught up in the moment, I took my eye off the prize.

  The pit in my stomach grows, but I can’t help myself from correcting, “It’s not the YouTube, Daddy, it’s just YouTube. And while we’re at it, it’s not the Facebook either. Or the Twitter or—”

  “I don’t need a social-media coach at the moment, thank you very much, sweetie pie.”

  All these “pumpkins” and “sweetie pies”—I think my father has definitely been spending too much time campaigning in the South. At the rate he’s going, by the time we’re in the White House, he’ll be calling me his “baby grits” or something.

  Before I can respond, he continues, “And then Kent informs me that you gave that
boy Cronuts and you took him to the beach?”

  Darn that Kent. What a rat fink.

  “What were you thinking, Katie?”

  At least this time he didn’t call me dumpling or something.

  What was I thinking of? I was thinking that I felt bad for Drew. The poor guy was about to get his head decapitated by those two girls using his scarf like a wishbone at Thanksgiving dinner. Then, later? I thought it would be fun to play hooky like a normal kid. And at the beach, I thought how nice it felt to actually spend time with a kid my own age—a boy even!—for a change. Of course I knew it wasn’t a date—not like I almost went on with Jayson. Okay, I know that wasn’t anything—but it was at least something. Someday, I might even have a real friend.

  But I can’t tell any of that to Daddy right now—he’d never understand me feeling anything positive having to do with the enemy. Thankfully it looks like I don’t have to, because Daddy suddenly crows: “I know why you did it!”

  “You do?”

  “Of course! And I must say, apple pie, you are brilliant—brilliant!”

  “I am? I mean, I am.”

  “Of course! Why, you’re just lulling the opposition into a false sense of security, making the boy think you’re friends. Then, when he lets his guard down, you’ll absorb whatever intel you can get out of him and bring it back to me. I must say, it’s a touch Machiavellian, even for you—but I have to admit, even Marvin couldn’t come up with a better plan.”

  “Yeah,” I say, stunned dumb, “that’s me, a real Machiavellian.”

  I’m so stunned by this dark view of what I thought of as such a light, fun, nice afternoon, I barely register the stuff he says next, the apologies about Mimi Blake blindsiding me with personal questions along with a vow to “send the network a sternly worded letter!”

  And when my father says to “keep up the good work,” it’s all I can do to ignore the now gaping hole in my stomach as I quietly reply, “I’ll try, Daddy.”

  DREW

  As I turn the key in the lock, I can’t help but think about the sensation of Katie’s face against my fingers—how is it possible for someone who exudes such a tough exterior to feel so soft? And on top of that: Why is it I can’t stop thinking about her? I walk through the door, only to find Sandy sitting halfway up the sweeping staircase in the central entry hall.