On the bus ride home, at least, Sandy’s got some words of wisdom for me.
“Just don’t feed the beast,” he says. “So long as you never see that girl again alone, this’ll all die down. Lie low, and something else’ll happen to replace you. Because the American public these days? We’ve got the attention span of gnats.”
When I get home, in an effort to take my mind off things, I whip off the tarp on my ’63 Corvair.
As I work, my mind goes back to the day and how bizarre everyone acted. And from there, my mind goes to Katie. I think about how in some ways, her lack of knowledge about basic things—like having friends—makes her seem like a visitor from another planet. I think that that’s something I’d like to show her: how to have a friend.
Despite her peculiarities, there’s something real about her. The girls at school only care about popularity and the surfaces of things. Sure, right now they’re all acting like I’m the coolest thing since fast food, but if someone had decided that what I did was uncool, they would have all fallen in line with that instead, no matter what they really thought. But Katie’s reactions, even if she’s kind of screwy in her mono-vision, are somehow genuine. And at least she has something she cares about deeply for the thing itself and not because of what anyone else thinks: this stupid election.
Enough. I need to stop thinking about Katie. I mean, it’s crazy, isn’t it? Expending so much mental energy on this strange girl?
But in the end, I can’t stop. I think about Katie through dinner and TV watching and even dream about her. When I wake up in the morning, I realize that I have no other choice:
I have to do something about it.
KATIE
In the midst of my dream, I hear a peculiar ringing. What is that? It’s unlike anything I’ve heard before. Feeling the security of Dog curled up near my feet, I stretch myself awake, only to find that the ringing is still there. Wait. Did I listen to my iPod too loudly last night? Do I have tinnitus? I hope not. A new malady is not in my campaign plans. Plus, it will be very annoying if on Inauguration Day in January, when millions are on the mall cheering for my father, instead of clapping all I can hear is a stupid ringing in my ears.
But then suddenly it stops.
And into the silent void, I hear Cook shout up:
“Miss Katie! Telephone!”
I’m so excited that I leap from the bed, tumbling poor Dog tail over furry head in the process.
“Sorry, Dog!” I shout back at him, racing from the room and down the stairs in bare feet.
The phone for me! It’s probably my father with an update on the campaign!
But as I skid to a stop in front of Cook, I see she’s holding a thick oblong object pointed at me.
“What’s that?” I say.
“The phone.” She waves it at me.
“Uh-uh. That’s not a phone.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s the landline. Your daddy keeps it so that his staff can get ahold of him anytime of the day or night, even at home.”
“Then how come I’ve never heard it ring before?”
“You know everybody’s on the e-mail these days.”
“Everybody’s on the e-mail?” Cook is prone to exaggeration. She also has a tendency to put too much oregano in her red sauce. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes right back at her. “The e-mail”—Cook’s almost as bad as my father with “the YouTube.” Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in this house living in the twenty-first century.
Then I remember . . .
The phone! It’s for me!
“Who is it?” I ask.
“How should I know?” Cook counters. “Whoever it is, he’s probably hung up by now since it’s taking you so long to answer.”
He? There’s a he on the other end of the line?
I snatch the unfamiliar object out of Cook’s hand, and scarcely able to breathe, intone the important word that begins almost every important exchange in life:
“Hello?”
“Um, Katie?”
“Who is speaking?”
“It’s Drew.”
“Drew?”
I did not see that coming!
But wait a second. “How did you get this number?” I ask. “I don’t even know it!”
“Um . . .” He sounds embarrassed. “Turns out, Secret Service agents are good for something. I talked to Clint, the agent assigned to the twins?” He clears his throat. “Anyway, listen. I was wondering . . .”
When nothing follows, I prompt, “I’m listening!” Just in case he doesn’t understand that, of course, I am listening.
“Do you want to come over today?”
“Do I want to . . .”
“Just, you know, to hang out? I’m—”
“YES!”
From the way that Cook takes a little leap backward, it occurs to me that maybe my response was too forceful. I’ve read some books, and if memory serves me correctly, when the heroine is invited out for a social occasion, she never screams her assent. Perhaps, I should have played it more coy? Oh, well. I shrug. Too late for that now. And besides, I’m too excited at the prospect of “hanging out.” If depictions on TV programs are correct, and I see no reason to doubt that they are, hanging out is something that all the normal teens are doing these days.
“Um, great,” he says.
He sure says “um” a lot. I hadn’t noticed that about him before.
“When were you thinking?” I ask.
“Um, today?”
“Right, but when? Lunchtime? After dinner? Perhaps teatime?”
“How about in two hours?”
“Got it. Two hours.”
“But no suits,” he adds quickly.
“No suits?”
“Yeah, it’s Saturday and I’ll be working on my car, so I don’t think you’ll want to wear one of your business suits for that. You should probably wear something more casual.”
“More casual? To work on a car? And we’ll be . . . hanging out?”
“Um, yeah.”
“YES!” And then, taking the phone away from my ear, I scream, “KENT!” because if I only have two hours, there are a lot of things I need to do first. Only I forget to push the button to formally end the call before screaming for my Secret Service agent.
Oh, well.
Drew probably didn’t even notice. Right?
DREW
What did I just get myself into?
KATIE
“Kent,” I say, now that the phone has been safely turned off and my Secret Service agent is before me, “we need to go shopping.”
“Oh, you need some new suits?”
“No. I don’t need any new suits. I think what I need is something more on the order of”—I almost can’t believe this word is about to pop out of my mouth—“jeans.”
Then I realize I am still wearing my pajamas, so I hurry upstairs to brush my teeth and change my clothes.
And what do I put on to go shopping for something more casual?
A suit, of course.
“The mall?” I say to Kent.
“Don’t sound so aghast.”
“I’m not. I’m just . . . surprised, I guess.”
“Well, you did say that your usual tailor probably wouldn’t be the way to go today, so . . .”
Once we are in the disappointingly two-story teenage consumer mecca with its plethora of unfamiliar shops, I am frankly at a loss as to which way to turn.
Really. I’m completely stuck standing in place here.
I mean, I’ve seen kids in casual attire on TV and of course I’ve seen what the others wear on dress-down days at Willfield Academy, but . . . can this possibly be right?
“Kent,” I say. “Help a girl out here?”
“Okay, but where are you going that you need jeans for?”
Prior to answering, I twist the fingers of one hand against the fingers of the other in a physical gesture that one should never attempt on national television, because it is a sure “tell
” of nervousness and not one I’m accustomed to making.
“Drew Reilly’s house?” I whisper as I wince.
“What did you—”
“Drew Reilly’s house!” I say more forcefully, causing passersby to stare.
Okay, I’m going to have to watch that.
“I thought that’s what you said.” Kent shakes his head. “Your father’s not going to like this.”
“And that’s why you’re not going to tell him,” I say, still forcefully, but, you know, more quietly this time.
“I can’t not tell him.”
“Yes, you can. I mean, you can not . . . Oh, you know what I mean.”
“Right. And I can’t do that.”
“Tell me, Kent: Who do you work for?”
“The United States government.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes at him. “But whose safety are you responsible for?”
“Yours.”
“Exactly. And when was the last time I was invited anywhere that wasn’t an event at school that everyone else was expected to attend too?”
“In the short time I’ve known you?”
I nod.
“Never?”
“Exactly again.” I sigh. “Please don’t spoil this for me, Kent.”
“Your father wouldn’t like it.”
“I know,” I say, but the truth is, I don’t know that at all. If my father knew where I was going today and who I’d be with, he’d expect me to give him all the intel afterward. And even though I’ve never had a friend before, at least not one of my own species, I know enough to know that after meeting with your friend you don’t go tell your dad everything that was said so he can find things to use as ammunition in his campaign against your friend’s mother.
As much as I want my father to win, I also want to know what it’s like to have a friend, to be normal, even if just for one day.
And that’s when the truth hits me.
“It’s just one day, Kent. I’ll probably say something stupid or do something stupid and then Drew won’t want to hang out with me a second time. Just let me have this one day.”
Kent eyes me skeptically for so long that I become convinced he’s going to say no, that there’s no other way around it, that he just has to tell my father.
“Wellll . . .” He drags out the word. “All right . . .”
I’m so ecstatic, I hug him.
“But if this gets to be a problem,” Kent says, “if anything happens that your dad truly needs to know . . .”
“Of course,” I promise. “Of course!”
I am positively overwhelmed by the array of jeans in the shop that Kent brings me to, since the last time I owned a pair was back during the first term of Bush II. All I can see is a sea of denim. But as much as I want to just scream, “Kent! Help!,” I’m insecure about my neophyte status in the contemporary fashion hierarchy. So I just wade through the racks and stacks until I emerge with something I think just might be the ticket.
My feeling of success rapidly fades, however, when I hold the lucky pair up to my body only to have Kent snort at me in derision.
“What’s wrong with these?” I ask, wounded.
“Nothing,” he says, “if you want to look like Obama that time he threw out the first pitch at a major league baseball game and all the headlines taunted, ‘Mom Jeans!’ ”
I could be wrong, but I’m getting the impression that even though Mom, apple pie, and Chevrolet are considered to be good and all-American things, Mom Jeans are not.
I go back to my flipping through racks and rifling of stacks, but am at a loss to find another pair as exquisite as the first I picked out. I’m nearly at the end of my tether when Kent asks, “How much time did you say we have?”
I consult my watch. “About forty-five minutes left now.”
Kent shakes his head in what can only be termed a “what a hopeless case” shake.
“You do better, then,” I dare him.
It takes him about two seconds to whip out a pair and hold them out to me.
“Really?” I say, regarding the jeans. They have an impossibly low waist and even more impossibly narrow legs, and the blue is faded enough to be almost white.
“They’re called skinny jeans,” Kent informs me.
“Well, I should think so.” I pause. “And they typically come with the holes already in them?” There are several slashes in the thighs of the jeans and I can only imagine that when a person puts them on, skin actually shows through.
“Trust me,” he says. “Oh, and you’ll need a shirt too. Not much point in getting the jeans if you’re just going to wear your navy wool suit jacket with them.”
Huh. I hadn’t thought about a shirt. Drew never said anything about a shirt. But before I can begin to internally panic at the idea of more flipping and rifling, Kent holds a shirt out to me.
I think it’s what a person might call a T-shirt, based on the neckline, only it has no sleeves.
“Do sleeves cost extra?” I ask. “Because I can afford it.”
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Did the Secret Service agent just roll his eyes at me?
I regard the T-shirt again. It’s white and has the words “Vote for Pedro” emblazoned in red on the front.
“Who is Pedro?” I ask, racking my brains. But as far as I can recall, a Pedro has never run for president.
“Trust me,” Kent says again. “The boy’ll think it’s funny. The boy’ll think it’s cool.”
I’m a little shocked at Kent. When did Drew Reilly become “the boy” to him? Still, I’m more than a little tickled at the idea of wearing something cool and head off to the dressing room to try the items on.
“Well, what do you think?” I ask Kent, after emerging a short time later.
“Hmm . . .” He studies me from head to toe, a critical expression on his face. “Jeans: good. Shirt: funny. Size of shirt? Too long, too big somehow.”
Without explaining what he’s doing, Kent takes the bottom of my T-shirt and twists it into a knot on one side so that, when I look in the closest mirror, I see that the hem now hangs higher and more jauntily on my hips.
A thought occurs to me.
“Kent?” I ask. “Are you a Log Cabin Republican?”
He just laughs. “I thought no one was ever going to ask.”
Then he informs me that my navy blue pumps are going to spoil the whole effect, which causes him to lead me to the shoe department. He picks out a pair of something in light gray that he informs me go by the trade name of Converse High-Tops.
When I express delight at the apt naming of this product, Kent laughs some more. “Miss Katie, sometimes it’s like you’re from another planet. You’re definitely someone who should pay more attention to TV commercials.”
If he weren’t being so helpful, I might be offended.
Also, it seems like sound advice.
So we pay for my purchases, which I wear out of the store. When we get to the limo, Kent pulls a utility knife out of his pocket and removes all the price tags that are still attached to the clothes I’m wearing.
As he snips the last one, I admire his knife with its many gadgets. “Ooh, handy!”
Last tag snipped, Kent’s still not done with me. He reaches up and dislodges my bun of hair from its pins, arranging the strands to his satisfaction.
“No sense in having the right clothes,” he says, “if the hair doesn’t match.”
And when we finally pull onto Drew’s street a short time later, I realize Kent is still not done with me because he parks the limo about fifty yards from the driveway.
“Oh!” I say, surprised. “You think it would be best for me to walk the rest of the way?”
“Just get out, Miss Katie,” Kent instructs.
And I listen because my Secret Service agent hasn’t failed me yet!
Once I join him outside, however, he surprises me by bending down and gathering up some muddy sand from the side of the road.
“Uh, Kent?” I sa
y. “What are you doing?”
I am further perplexed to see Kent take the muddy sand and smear it all around the edges of my new light-gray Converse High-Tops.
“What are you doing?” I ask again.
Kent looks up at me with a smile. “You don’t want the boy to think you bought all this today, do you?”
I think Kent is an invaluable font of information. How did I not know that about him before?
And as we both get back into the limo, and Kent drives me the rest of the way to my destination, I think how right he is.
If this is the only chance I get at having a day like this, I don’t want to mess it up.
DREW
“Hello? Anybody home?”
The first thing I see are her feet.
Well, her sneakers.
That’s because I’m underneath my Corvair, on my back, doing some tinkering. It occurs to me that all anyone looking into the garage can see of me are my own feet, sticking out from beneath the front end of the car. I scoot along on the dolly, sliding out into view.
Whoa! Katie’s got normal clothes on and her hair is down. I know I told her to dress casual, but I have to admit: I didn’t expect this. Especially not the hair. But I don’t know how to tell Katie that she looks incredibly hot right now—how would she take such a thing?—and you can’t compliment a girl on a major change in her appearance, because then it only turns things into some defensive version of, Oh, so you’re saying I always looked like garbage before? So I go for the safe comment instead.
“Nice sneaks. You just get ’em?”
Katie looks down at her feet, her toes turning inward as she frowns at her high-tops. “How can you tell?”
Well, I can’t tell Katie it’s because the tread on the sides look too thick and untouched, like she just put them on for the first time a minute ago and then quickly dragged them through the mud to get a worn-these-forever look, can I? She’ll just analyze it to death. She’ll realize that I realized that she just got this outfit today and then she’ll worry that I think she’s trying too hard, which I do think but which I also think is just incredibly cute, but I can’t tell her that last part because then she’ll know I think she’s cute and—okay, so maybe I’m the one analyzing this to death. So instead I go with:
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