“How’d you get here? Who let you in?” I ask.
“I took the bus,” he says. “ ‘The nanny’ ”—he pauses to curl his fingers in air quotes—“let me in.”
Normally I am opposed to air quotes just on general principle, but in this instance they’re fully justified. “The nanny” is Stella, the woman my mom hired a while back when she became busy with the campaign. Also because, even though my dad hardly ever goes out on the road with her, for some reason he’s almost never home anymore. I guess that even though he made his big invention years ago and got the big paycheck for it, he’s still out working on stuff. Or maybe he’s taken up golf? Anyway, the nanny is here to keep an eye on the twins when he’s not around. The nanny is also here to keep an eye on me, I suppose.
“Dude,” Sandy says, “what did you do today?”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but there’s an uneasy feeling in my stomach as I ask, “What do you mean?”
Instead of answering he says, “So tell me, was she hot? Because you know what I think about females in suits, that underneath all that buttoned-up properness, they’re all—”
“What do you mean?” I cut him off.
“Dude, it’s all over YouTube and TMZ.” He holds up his iPhone.
Just because I can’t use mine there’s no rule stating I can’t use his, so I grab it from him, look at the screen.
The first thing I see is the picture: it’s of me, my neck being strangled by my own tie. My mouth is yawning wide like that guy in the famous painting, The Scream, and one eye is popping while the other is shut tight. If I didn’t know the guy in the picture, I’d think: what a dork.
I scroll down and see the next picture, a startled-looking me being tugged along by Katie.
And the last picture: Katie shoving me into the limo.
“Look at the headline,” Sandy prompts.
I scroll back up and there I see it, in screaming print:
CELEBRICAL SOULMATES???
“Celebrical?” I blink. “What’s that?”
“A mash-up of celebrity and political. I’m thinking they didn’t go with the reverse because, who’d ever be able to figure out how to pronounce politicity?”
Oh, no. I start to read the accompanying article:
They say that politics makes strange bedfellows. Well, in this instance, those bedfellows are teens . . .
What?! I can’t read this nonsense!
And yet somehow I do: three long paragraphs about me and Katie, one about her, one about me, and the last one about us together—as a couple—detailing how we have the potential to be the hottest couple since that boy-band pop star and one of those chicks who practically grew up on the Disney Channel.
When I’m done I dumbly hand the phone back to Sandy.
“So,” he says again, all eager, “was she hot?”
“It wasn’t like that!”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I realize I’d have been better off playing it cool, laughing it off, because what Sandy comes back at me with is: “Oh my God, you like her!”
“No, I don’t!”
Wait, a part of me wonders. Do I? I mean, I do think she’s cute and all. Not just cute—she’s beautiful.
“But you do. It’s like you’re standing up for her honor or something.”
“No, I’m not! I’m just saying . . .”
“Saying what?”
“Look, all we did was hang out together for the afternoon. She saved me from those girls who were trying to strangle me and then we just hung out.”
“Doing what?”
“We ate Cronuts and then went to the beach.”
Another thing I wish I’d thought about before saying, because . . .
“You ate Cronuts and went to the beach? It’s like a scene out of Grease or something. The next thing you know, you’ll be telling me the two of you sang a song together!”
“We did not sing.”
“I don’t know. And, like, what was with that other stuff?”
“What other stuff?” There’s more?
“On that TV show, before you and Katie ‘fell in love’—that reporter was asking her questions and all of a sudden you’re all, ‘I love public transportation! Did I tell you how much I love public transportation? If not, I’ll do it again!’ Dude, what was up with that?”
I can’t answer that question, because if I answer honestly, I’ll have to say that my impulse was to save Katie. And I can’t give Sandy that kind of ammunition, not when he’s got so much already.
“They’re going to eat you alive at school tomorrow,” Sandy says.
“What do you mean?”
“If they gave you a hard time after Katie called you a wimp, imagine what people will say now that you’re Mr. I Love Public Transportation and Mr. I Need a Chick to Save Me from Other Chicks?”
Just then, Stella comes flying down the stairs, the twins in her wake. Sometimes it’s like living with that kids’ picture book Make Way for Ducklings.
“Mom called for you earlier,” Max says.
“She sounded mad,” Matt says.
“What did she say?” I shout after them.
“She said to tell you,” Stella says, “ ‘Drew, just what do you think you’re doing?’ ”
That can’t be good.
I look again at the pictures on Sandy’s phone and read some of the comments people have left on the article. Eventually I have to force myself to stop reading the comments because it’s just too embarrassingly painful.
I’ve never given much thought to what it must be like to be a celebrity couple—or a “celebrical” couple—although I never even heard that term before today. People talking about you like they know you, speculating about your life and your every move. Who would want that? I’ve never wanted that. I still don’t want it.
“So.” Sandy punches me in the shoulder playfully. “Are you going to see her again?”
Am I?
I look at the pictures again and remember my passionate “Ode to Public Transportation.” All I can think is that Sandy is right:
Tomorrow at school they’re going to totally eat me alive.
KATIE
So this is what it’s like to have a successful public appearance on national television!
It all begins as I’m standing in the plush carpeted hallway at Willfield Academy, studying the announcements board. There’s going to be a mock presidential election in a few weeks—I know my father will win—and a masquerade ball to benefit some sort of charity. Two important events, scheduled so closely together. Not for the first time, I wonder why everything always seems to happen all at once. But then I realize it doesn’t matter, since I won’t be going to the masquerade ball. I never go to any of the school dances. I never have a date and no one asks me to go as just friends. At least I know my father will win the mock election—eye on the prize!
As I turn away from the announcements board, notebooks held tight against my chest, I smack into somebody.
“Oof, I’m sorry,” I say, looking up into the face of Amanda Jamieson, the most popular girl at Willfield Academy. Amanda is incredibly tall, and in her spare time, when she’s not being just another mild-mannered student, she is a cover girl for teen magazines.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Was I in your way?” I’m not sure how I could be, since I’m about a foot shorter than she is, but I start to go around her anyway. That’s when I feel a hand on my arm, stopping me. I look at the owner of the hand, but it’s not Amanda. It’s Deirdre Lowell. That’s when I notice that there’s a whole bunch of other girls haloed around me.
“No,” Amanda speaks. “I just wanted to talk to you?”
I turn around, because I’m sure she can’t be talking to me, but of course the only thing behind me is the announcements board.
I turn back to face her, hooking a thumb at my own chest. “Me?” I ask.
And then it hits me, what this is about.
I may not have a lot of
direct experience talking to or dealing with kids my own age, but I have certainly seen my share of TV programs. So I know that a group of tall popular kids surrounding a shorter unpopular kid can only mean one thing:
They’re going to shake me down for lunch money!
But wait. Willfield Academy doesn’t even have a paid lunch program. I mean, of course people have to pay for it—as my father always says, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch!”—but lunch is included as a line item in the tuition. Still, if shakedown money is what they want . . .
Amanda bends down slightly so her made-up face is just inches from mine. I’m about to tell her that I’ll gladly have Kent go get my checkbook, since I don’t have any funds on me at the moment, but before I can, she speaks again.
“So, tell me, Katie—”
She knows my name?
“—what’s he really like?”
“He?” I’m stumped. This was not what I expected at all. “He who?”
Before Amanda can even answer, though—and this in itself is an unprecedented event, people talking right over Amanda—the others start in so fast and furious with questions and comments that at first I can’t make heads or tails of them.
“Sooooooo cute!”
“So hot!”
“That hair!”
“Those eyes!”
“The way he stood up for you!”
“ ‘I love public transportation!’ ”
Like I say, it takes me a while to catch on, but that last is a dead giveaway.
“Are you talking about Drew?” I ask.
“Of course, silly!” Amanda says. “Who else would we be talking about?” She leans in closer. “So, tell me—what’s he really like?”
I am thankfully saved by the bell.
“Nice?” I respond as I scoot around her, force my way through the throng, and head off to first period.
• • •
By the time I get to first period, I’m almost used to the attention, since Amanda and her group of friends follow me there, peppering me with questions that I don’t have a clue how to answer. I’m not surprised when the girls in my class follow suit until the teacher calls the room to order.
I am surprised, though, when the boy who sits to the left of me, who has never spoken one word to me, passes me a folded note. I open it to see:
Never been kissed before! I can solve that for you.
I look over and the boy is grinning widely and waggling his eyebrows at me . . . suggestively.
How unpleasant.
“No, thank you,” I whisper across the aisle. “I’m good.”
Lunch brings more surprises. Usually, I spend lunchtime at a table by myself, going over my father’s campaign speeches with a red pen in the hopes of finding places where he can improve his message. But today? As soon as I enter the dining hall, there’s a groundswell of murmurs rolling in my direction, and I realize that various people are calling for me to sit with them.
Are these people fighting over me?
Before I can choose which way to go, Amanda pulls me down at her table and orders Deirdre to go get me some lunch.
I must say, when my lunch arrives with a second piece of red velvet cake on the tray, a girl could get used to this sort of attention.
The questions they ask me are pretty much the same things they’ve been asking all day, which basically all boil down to: What is Drew Reilly really like?
The truth is, though, I don’t know what he’s really like, although I wish I did. And the only answer I’ve got to give is: Nice. Of course, I do have some other opinions about him, but as flattering as all this attention is, I do not think this is the place to share them.
“Come on, Katie!” Amanda presses. “You’ve got to give me better than nice!”
“Could you introduce me to him?” one of the others asks.
“I highly doubt it,” I say, a part of me feeling bad that I can’t give them what they want.
“That’s a little selfish.” The girl sniffs. “Don’t you think maybe you could share him a bit?”
Share him?
“It’s just that I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again,” I say.
They look at me like I’m crazy.
“He stood up for me,” I explain, “and I saved him from a gaggle of girls, and then we shared a limo ride. But that’s it. There’s nothing more to say. He seemed . . . nice.”
I feel relieved to get all that out there. As flattering as the attention was in the beginning, it’s already starting to feel oppressive.
“Okay. Gotcha.” Amanda turns to the others. It’s like a switch has been turned off, like instantly I’m no longer there, like they never courted my company in the first place.
“You know what I think?” Amanda asks Deirdre. “I think it’ll be amazing to have a hot guy our own age living in the White House for once. Like, when has that ever happened?”
“Never,” Deirdre says, “at least not in our lifetimes.”
“It will be so cool,” Amanda says. “Drew is just so hot.”
Wait. I stare at my second piece of red velvet cake. They all think Drew’s mother is going to win? I go into an internal panic but almost immediately I’m able to push the panic aside. These girls just want to see Drew Reilly living in the White House. They’re, I don’t know, hoping for big photo spreads of him in supermarket magazines, lounging around the Rose Garden in skateboard shorts and nothing else. (I must admit, just picturing that in my own mind, Drew with no shirt on, is making this school uniform feel a little too warm.) So that’s what this is really about—no one actually expects her to win!
DREW
Here’s the thing.
I’ve never been the kind of guy bothered overmuch by the opinions of others.
Still, there are times that stuff happens and you think: I may not care what other people think, but I don’t want them to think I’m a dork.
Like, take the time I was eight. Sandy and I decided to be Martians for Halloween, which was fine until the green dye we’d put in our hair did not wash out immediately like the tube had promised. My mom, growing frustrated after the third washing, eventually had my dad just buzz all my hair off. But when I looked in the mirror, I started to cry. There are people—Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson and that guy from that old Breaking Bad show among them—who can totally rock the bald look. But turns out that, underneath all this hair, I have a very strangely shaped head. Did I want to go to school and hear everybody ridicule me? Absolutely not. Did I want to cover up all the mirrors in our tiny apartment and hide under the bed until my hair grew entirely back? I most certainly did.
But my mom wouldn’t let me. She said, and I quote, “Just wear it proudly, Drew. If you go in there scared, of course people will eat you alive.” (There’s that phrase again.) “But if you stand tall, if you own it, if you act like ‘I totally meant to do this,’ you’ll be fine. And if anyone gives you the side-eye, you tell them you had this done in New York City, that it’s the latest thing.”
I actually started laughing at that last part. Like, what did she think? That people would believe that a shaved head was some kind of sophisticated fashion trend requiring a top-notch salon? Still, her advice served me well. I just behaved all casual, like, hey, I meant to do that, and things at school were totally okay. That was the thing about my mom back then. Before the money and the race, when she and my dad were still around a lot of the time: she actually had some good stuff to say. I don’t know, she was just there.
But she’s not there on Friday morning, the day after my disastrous That Morning Show appearance. Is she in Iowa? Delaware? Maybe Kentucky? Who cares where she is, she’s not here. There’s no one here to give me a pep talk before school, no one to remind me to just stand tall. And I could sure use a boost right now. Because in my head, all I keep seeing is those pictures of me looking like a half-strangled moron and that new GIF Sandy showed me that’s making the rounds. The one with me saying, “I just love public transportatio
n!” into, like, infinity. So the only person I have to tell me to stand tall as I walk into school is me. Yet, rather than encouraging words, all I can hear is Sandy saying: “They’re going to eat you alive.”
Except, it’s not like that at all.
And in case I need to spell this out, let me just say for the record: no one eats me alive.
Or at least not in the way I imagined.
Sure, some of the guys razz me. But the girls?
“Drew, I loved the way you stood up for Katie!”
“Drew, you’re such a good guy!”
“Drew, you’re so chivalrous!”
The worst of the bunch?
Millicent.
“Drew, what you did was so romantic—it’s like something out of Romeo and Juliet!”
Barf. What is wrong with these people?
They trail me around all day, all moony-eyed.
I think I liked it better when people were calling me a wimp.
“Dude,” Sandy says, “you could like have any girl in this place with just a flick of your wrist.”
“I don’t want that!”
“What are you, crazy?”
I don’t know. Am I? Is it crazy not to want people paying attention to you for all the wrong reasons?
And I mean, what’s so special about what I did? That TV lady totally ambushed Katie. Wouldn’t anyone in my position do the same thing? The look on Katie’s face. Wouldn’t anyone do whatever it took to protect her, to make that sad look go away?
I think I liked Millicent better when she was being rude to me.
What I really liked better was when no one was paying attention to me at all. Because whatever these people think I am, the way they’re acting toward me . . . none of it is real.
More than that, I don’t know another person who knows what it’s like to be in this exact fishbowl . . . except Katie. Which, strangely, makes me want to call her. Of course I know I can’t call her. I mean, I really, really can’t call her. Because that would be crazy, right? But the memory of her at the beach, the wind blowing through her hair . . . The memory of what she looks like when she laughs . . .
Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .) Page 10