Sometimes, like with the 2000 and 2004 elections, there’s a long period of suspense in which observers wonder: How will this all play out?
But no sooner do I access the Internet than I see the screaming headlines on page one:
PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL NOT WOMAN ENOUGH FOR FIRST HUSBAND WANNABE?
The piece that follows is filled with speculation and innuendo, and none of it looks good, all coming from the old (un)reliable “unconfirmed source.”
I ask myself again how Drew can possibly think I was behind this. I know what he said—that I was the only person he told etcetera—but doesn’t he know me better by now? Shouldn’t he believe me? Shouldn’t he believe in me?
I’m sad, I’m mad, I’m so many different emotions swirling all at once that I can’t even name them all.
I look at the pictures accompanying the piece—of Drew’s mother; of his parents together, in happier times; of the whole Reilly family—and it occurs to me that there’s something missing. Where in all of this is there a picture of the supposed “other woman”? Shouldn’t there be something more here than innuendo and speculation and an “unconfirmed source”?
Apparently though, people don’t need any more than that to believe the worst because as I scan through the reader comments and see what a few months ago I would have given all the money in my trust fund to see—the electorate dumping on my father’s opponent—I wince at the harsh unfairness and sheer meanness in people’s responses.
Most are some version of “I prefer my sex scandals after the election, thank you very much,” with the absolute worst being “If Samantha Reilly’s own husband doesn’t want her then why should we?”
I’m still wincing as I close out the piece when the home page revolves to the second-biggest article of the day and that’s when I see it:
REILLY ELDEST SON IN THE LION’S DEN?
Beneath this headline, there is a picture, several of them:
The first is of a Tin Man, pushing back Toto’s hood, and the others are all of the Tin Man kissing Toto once the hood has been removed. It’s obvious, with my hair free, that Toto is me. And even though Drew’s identity is less obvious, what with the silver all over his face, there’s no mistaking the fact that we’re standing in front of the Reilly home.
I suppose I should be thankful for that “Reilly Eldest Son” part—at least no one is trying to say that I’m the other woman in his father’s affair, which would be totally gross—but a part of my mind objects: “Lion? Can’t they see I’m a dog? I’m supposed to be Toto!”
Apparently though, plenty of people do think I’m a dog, appearance-wise and politically—people on the Internet can be so cruel—because that’s pretty much the substance of the first page of comments. I X out the screen. I simply cannot stand to look at it anymore.
Who would do such a thing? And where on earth did someone get those pictures?
Then I remember the night before.
Drew kissing me. Me thinking I heard sounds coming from the bushes.
Rustle.
Snick.
Snick.
Someone took pictures of us then? But who? Why?
I remember asking Drew and him saying that he didn’t hear anything.
And then it hits me.
What if he was lying? What if he already knew about the story breaking about his father and blamed me for it? Maybe he planted a photographer there? Maybe he just went through with the evening so he could set me up for a big embarrassment in order to get back at me?
Because looking again at that first page of comments, I am nothing if not embarrassed.
I don’t know what to think anymore.
I’m starting to move more firmly from sad into angry when I feel a soft brush of fur against my ankles and see Dog down there.
I pick him up and bury my face in his fur.
“How, Dog?” I ask. “How did something that felt so good turn into something that feels so bad?”
DREW
It seems like weeks since I’ve seen my mom, but this morning she flies home from the campaign trail.
“Family meeting” are the first words out of her mouth when she comes through the door.
“Us too?” Max and Matt ask.
“Just Drew and Dad,” she says. She gives them quick hugs before sweeping toward her office, my dad and me in tow.
“Is it true?” she asks my dad as soon as the door is closed.
The last thing I want is to be witness to the breakup of my parents’ marriage. Why am I even here?
“No,” my dad says. His answer is so instant and direct, for the first time, I don’t doubt him. “We may be having our share of problems—a presidential campaign isn’t really the best thing for quality time—but I would never do something like this to you, Sam. You have to know that. I would never want to do something like this.”
It’s obvious from my mom’s expression that she believes him too. But:
“This couldn’t come at a worse time,” she says. “Treadwell was gaining in the polls as it was—but now? With this?”
“But if it’s not true,” I say, going on to use political language I didn’t even know I possessed, “how can they make it stick?”
My mom snorts. “You try proving a negative. Once the media get an idea into the electorate’s collective brain, it doesn’t matter much anymore what’s true or not. What I’d love to know is . . . where did they even get the idea in the first place?”
I really don’t want to do this but: “From me?” I wince out the answer.
“What?” My parents may not have been unified in much these past few months but they are most certainly unified in this.
Barely even able to get the words out, I explain. I tell them about Kat— Scratch that. I tell them about how Katie and I became friendlier after our joint appearance on That Morning Show, her giving me a lift home, me inviting her to come work on the Corvair, and all the rest. And I admit that I was the one who told her about my dad maybe having an affair.
“Why would you say such a thing?” my dad demands.
“Because I thought it was true!” I practically scream back.
“Based on what?”
“You guys have been fighting a lot, you haven’t been going on the campaign trail with her as often as you did before, and sometimes if I come in the room and you’re talking on the phone, you quickly wrap up the call . . .”
“Drew,” my dad says, “I do that because I want to pay attention to you when you’re home.”
“Which you almost never are,” I point out.
“I’m an adult. I am allowed to leave the house. And you’re always in that garage!”
He has a point there, maybe more than one.
But I persist. “Then why did you hire the nanny, Stella, if you wanted to pay more attention to us?”
“Because there are three of you and only one of me, and I also wanted to be available to your mom if she needed me.”
“But you’ve been campaigning with her less.”
“You already said that. And if you’d given me a chance to explain—or, better yet, asked me when these things first started bothering you—I would have told you that your mother and I agreed, with Max and Matt still so young, one of us should be here to provide a stabilizing influence.”
“But you’re not here much,” I object.
“Hey, regardless of my work, I sleep under the same roof! If the twins need me at night, they know where to find me!” I see him visibly struggle to rein in his temper before continuing. “As for the fighting, well, married people do that sometimes—it comes with the territory—but it doesn’t mean they stop loving each other over every disagreement; perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to know that some day. None of this adds up to me having an affair.”
Oh. Oh.
My mom does a surprising thing then: she laughs.
Has she lost her mind? What can possibly be funny in any of this?
“At least,” she says, gaining control
of herself, “that solves one mystery.”
“What?” I say. “That I’m the idiot who told Katie, who in turn told the press? I thought we already established that.”
“Well, that too.” She pulls out her iPhone, touches some buttons, and then holds out the front of the screen toward me, and that’s when I see it:
The picture of me dressed as the Tin Man kissing Katie dressed as Toto outside this very house.
“I was wondering what you were doing,” she says, “kissing the enemy.”
I am so beyond mortified.
“I didn’t know she was like that,” I defend myself. “I swear, if I had, I never would have become friends with her in the first place. And I certainly never would have . . .” I wave disgustedly at the phone. “But I’ve broken up with her. In fact, I’m never going to speak to her again.”
“Oh, yes you are.”
“What?”
“Not only are you going to speak to her, you’re going to continue to date her.”
“What?”
Has all the election stress finally gotten to her? Has my mom completely taken leave of her senses?
“You owe me this, Drew,” she says, a steel in her voice that reminds me how she’s gotten as far as she has in the first place. “If it weren’t for your girlfriend, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. You owe me this.”
Okay. All right already. I owe her.
But what?
What do I owe her?
KATIE
Early in the afternoon, I hear a commotion coming from the foyer. I go to the top of the stairs and see my father standing there with Marvin. Without thinking, I fly down the stairs and throw myself into my father’s arms.
“Hey,” he says, “that’s some greeting! What’s the occasion?”
“I’m just happy to see you,” I say, and I am. After everything I’ve been through, it just feels so good to see a friendly face; to see someone who, no matter what, is always in my corner.
“What are you doing home?” I say. “I thought today you were supposed to be in”—I try to remember which stop was scheduled—“Arkansas?”
“Kansas,” he corrects, “but I can see where you’d make that mistake. I get them confused all the time too. Giving two states such similar names—what were the Founding Fathers thinking of?” He’s briefly perplexed, obviously giving this some deep consideration, but then shrugs it off. “I thought I’d take a break and come see my favorite girl. Is there something wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all,” I say, putting my arm around his waist for a second hug, this one more of a half hug.
“And,” he adds, “I wanted to discuss something with you.”
“Oh?”
My dad puts one arm around my shoulders and says, “Marvin?” And Marvin trails behind as my father leads us toward his office.
As bad as today has been, I start to feel excited. Perhaps my father wants me to assume a bigger role in the campaign? Something larger than myself to help me take my mind off my problems is just what I need.
Once we’re in the office, I disengage myself from my father’s arm, suddenly eager to begin.
“What did you want to discuss?” I say. “Did you want me to do your stump speech for you in Arkansas? Or Kansas? Maybe both?”
“I want,” he says, smiling, “for you to continue your unholy alliance—that is to say, your relationship—with Drew Reilly.”
“What?”
“I must admit, when I first learned of it—when Marvin first showed me that picture of you and . . . that boy . . . wearing those costumes and . . . kissing— I was rather taken aback. And when Marvin further pointed out that, based on the evidence of the costumes, it was unlikely that this was a spur-of-the-moment thing and might be the end product of a longer relationship, I was seriously put out. My baby, consorting with the enemy? But then I thought, well, I did ask you to be friendlier in order to get intel . . .”
“It wasn’t like—”
“And now I think: What could be better for the campaign than this?”
“What?”
“Well, to be fair, it was Samantha Reilly’s idea.”
“Samantha Rei—” My head is spinning. “Dad, what are you talking about?”
“Did you not hear me? Samantha Reilly. She called me earlier today.”
“What? Why?”
“She said that, in light of recent events—falling overnight poll numbers for both of us; her because of the recent scandal concerning her husband, me because the press is claiming I run a dirty campaign; the two of us jointly because Bix Treadwell is doing a bang-up job of persuading voters that combined we’re just a couple of mudslinging amoral vipers . . . Where was I?”
“What Samantha Reilly said,” Marvin prompts, “in light of recent events.”
“Thank you, Marvin. Yes, in light of . . . all those things I just said, Samantha Reilly says that the best thing for both of our campaigns would be for you and Drew to keep on seeing each other . . . publicly.”
“That’s crazy!”
“Not really. In fact, between this idea and the idea she had to take away you kids’ technological devices, I’m beginning to think that that Reilly woman has got a lot more on the ball than I previously thought.”
“But even if she’s right, that this would be good for both campaigns—which she’s not—that’s just impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because Drew and I broke up.” If we were ever really even together, which I doubt now, since how could he turn on me so easily.
“Yes,” my father muses, “she did say something to that effect. She said the boy told her. But she failed to mention why. Would you care to elaborate?”
“Because Drew thinks I leaked the story to the press about his father having an affair.” I still can’t believe Drew thinks that.
“Even better,” my father says, “brilliant!”
“What?”
“You lulled him into a false sense of security, then you acquired the intel, which you in turn fed to the press—like I believe I said already, brilliant!”
“But I didn’t do that!” I’m not sure which horrifies me more right now: that Drew believes this of me or that my father believes it . . . and thinks it’s wonderful. “I wouldn’t do that!”
“No?” My father shrugs. “Well, I suppose that’s neither here nor there. Marvin, tell her the plan and why it’s so important.”
“It’s pretty simple, Katie. You and Drew continue seeing each other, but you do so publicly. We make sure there are lots of pictures. When the public sees you together, they’ll think: how cute. More important, they’ll think: hey, if the two main candidates’ kids can get along this well, then whatever noise this third-party candidate is making about them being so awful must be a load of malarkey. We cut Bix out of the picture and the race is back on between your father and Samantha Reilly, and we all know how that story ends.”
Sometimes I wonder why my father pays Marvin so much money. Is this seriously the best he can come up with?
“Even if that was a sound plan,” I say, “and I’m not agreeing it is, Drew would never agree to it.”
“Ah, but he already has,” my father says.
I don’t believe this. But: “Fine,” I say. “Even if that’s true, though, it’s still a lousy plan.”
“Why?”
“Because people won’t go for it. They’ll hate the idea of Drew and me as a couple.”
“How can you say that? Where do you get your crazy ideas from?”
I confess about going online and seeing the picture of Drew and me with all the rude comments underneath. I’m reluctant to use the word “dog” about myself out loud but I have no problem stating, “People were downright nasty about the picture. Believe me, no one wants to see any more pictures of us together.”
“Did you get past the first page of comments?” my father says. “First commenters are notoriously harsh.” He snaps his fingers at Marvin. “Show h
er on your i-thing.”
Marvin complies and at first there are the same awful comments I saw before. But with a flick, Marvin scrolls down and I see page after page of praise along the lines of “SOOOO cute” and “If only Congress got along so well” and “Kew for President.” It takes me a while to figure out that last but I make the effort because it has the most likes by far and that’s when it hits me:
KEW—they’ve shipped our names together! (I know all about shipping names because of Cook’s obsession with General Hospital. She gets these special soap opera magazines, and fans do that with characters all the time.)
I suppose I should be grateful that at least they didn’t ship us into DRAT.
“See?” my father says. “People love you together! Why, you could be bigger than that Bieber boy and that Cyrus girl—are they dating?”
“You’re really serious about this,” I say.
“As a heart attack!” my father says. “You’re always saying you’re willing to do what it takes to help the campaign.”
I am, but I never thought it would entail being coerced into dating a boy I’m no longer dating, having to pretend in public to want to be with him—how painful and awkward is this going to be?
“When you think about it, it’s not really for that long,” my father says persuasively. “Marvin, how long until the election?”
“Three weeks from Tuesday.”
“See?” My father spreads his arms jovially. “You just need to pull this off for a little over three weeks and then you never have to see or talk to him again.”
I take a deep breath. “So, when is this all supposed to start? Immediately?”
“Nah,” my father says.
“We wouldn’t want it to look staged,” Marvin says.
“You can start on Tuesday,” my father says.
“In St. Louis,” Marvin says, “at the first debate.”
DREW
“Wow,” Sandy says, “I was beginning to think I’d never see this place again.”
Red Girl, Blue Boy: An If Only novel (If Only . . .) Page 16