by Gini Koch
“So, they’ve chosen to bully the kid of a senator? My God, what are they doing to your younger kids?”
“Oh, Mason and Maverick are fine. They’re far enough away from Charmaine’s children that they haven’t been affected. All your younger children should be good.” She glanced to where her stepson was, with Lizzie and the other kids. “Maybe your ward will change things.”
“Like she did at her last school?” This time, my mouth wasn’t writing a check my brain hadn’t wanted to cash. I wanted to see Marcia’s reaction.
She nodded. “Yes, hopefully just like that.”
The music, which had once again been instrumental, changed to “Temptation Waits” by Garbage. Algar wanted my attention, or else he was just really on a Garbage kick, but I didn’t know why. Considering who we had in the room, this clue could relate to anyone and anything.
Looked around, just in case. Jeff was still on the stage with Charmaine and Kramer and a few other people. Had no idea where Louise was, though. Maybe she was off canoodling with someone and Algar didn’t approve? But she was a big girl and an A-C, so it was doubtful any human was going to mess with Louise unless Louise wanted to be messed with.
“Well, I’m not sure how well Clinton’s gotten to know the kids that fall under the category of ‘mine,’ but they’re all together, so maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Maybe.” She sighed. “I just worry about him. He’s a sweet boy. He deserves better than I think he’s getting. Not in terms of academics,” she added quickly. “The school is excellent in that way. And also in terms of opportunities and the wealth of universities who want Sidwell graduates.”
“But socially. Yeah, it’s hard to be the outcast.” Chuckie could write volumes about that. “Then again, if a group of outcasts get together, they can overcome the mean kids.”
“Somewhat, I suppose.” She looked away. Not at anything that I could tell. “We made you an outcast in our class.”
“We never really leave high school, I guess. Besides, I survived.”
“Because of who you are. As a person, not your position.” She turned back to me. “I wasn’t kind, and yet you’ve done nothing but be supportive and gracious.”
Shrugged. “I’m willing to give most people a second chance.”
She cocked her head at me. “Why?”
“Because there’s more to everyone than we see. And not everyone can stand up to bullies. I’m just good at it.”
“You protected Eugene.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me.”
She nodded. “He fooled everyone, in more ways than one.”
“True enough.” The music changed to Fall Out Boy’s “The Kids Aren’t Alright.” Decided it was time to drop by and get down verbally with the young folks. “You know, speaking of the kids, I’m going to go over and see how they’re doing.”
“They don’t like that.”
“Yeah, I know. Which is why I’m going to do it and you’re going to go make sure that Charmaine’s not boring my husband to death.”
She grimaced. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”
“Meet you over there. Remember—this is your event, you’re the one who gets to make the decisions and announcements and so forth. We need to stop letting her give everyone blame while she takes all the credit.” With that, I headed off for the kids.
Was coming up behind them, since they were still clustered around a food table, and a table with beverages that I hadn’t spotted earlier. It had several punch bowls and cups on it with a large sign noting that these punches were all nonalcoholic and therefore what all the underage guests were expected to drink.
One of the waiters came by with an empty tray, filled and loaded a bunch of cups onto it, and headed off into the crowd, toward the stage it looked like, nodding to the other waiters he passed.
Examined him. Was pretty sure it was the same waiter who’d served me and Reader earlier, but the waitstaff were all dressed alike, and this man was average height and build just like the other had been. He was about White’s age, but so were many others on staff, and though he was attractive, there was nothing all that remarkable about him. He didn’t seem interested in what was going on, just doing his job, which was pretty much what waitstaff did when they were working a party like this one.
Looked around. All the waitstaff nodded to each other as they passed. Presumably it was a policy, possibly to be polite, possibly to indicate that someone needed assistance if they didn’t nod. Several waiters had the punch cups on trays, but they weren’t doing a brisk business in getting rid of them. The Cherry 7-Up was definitely moving better in the nonalcoholic department.
Apparently knowing that the President’s religion forbade alcohol meant that they’d gone wild with the punch options, because there were six different choices, all of them in neon-looking colors of red, white, and blue, which made sense, and green, yellow, and pink, which didn’t. Decided not to care.
Found Louise, though. Whether Charmaine had made her leave or rubbed her the wrong way, or Jeff had suggested she try to have some fun, she’d gravitated back to her siblings. She and Clinton were chatting, and he had the look I was familiar with whenever straight males or lesbian chicks were near a Dazzler—wide-eyed interest.
Louise seemed interested back, so either she was faking it for the cause or Clinton was smart, because brains were the Dazzler weakness, and when they made that sapiosexual connection, they tended to not let go.
Wondered if Algar didn’t want them hooking up. Then again, the temptation clue could be about so many other things. I had a room full of options to choose from.
The kids all pretended they didn’t see me, which was fine. All the better to hear what they were saying without them realizing it. A-C hearing was quite good, after all, and, as always, couldn’t remember if the Valentino kids knew I was enhanced or not. But they weren’t talking about anything much. The Cordell twins were sharing how lame they felt school was, the other kids were either agreeing or disagreeing, but nothing seemed out of control.
Was about to say hi and move on when I noted there were trash cans under the punch table. This in and of itself wasn’t a big deal—there were tasteful trash receptacles all over the place. However, these were the rectangular rubber cans you’d find in places where no one was worried about impressing anyone with the beauty of their garbage catchers. And, in this setting, these cans were out of place.
Took a closer look. Not that I was into trash, but something like this could indicate a bomb of some kind. Didn’t see anything that indicated bomb—the cans weren’t that full, so it was easy to see the bottom of all but one of them.
That one wasn’t full so much as someone had draped a napkin over part of it. Did pause for a moment, because I could see tomorrow’s headlines screaming that the FLOTUS had spent her time at the fundraiser digging in the trash cans. But the music changed to “Cigarettes and Alcohol” by Oasis. Maybe the kids were smoking. Sniffed. Didn’t smell smoke. Then again, maybe they’d Febreezed themselves after or something. Lifted up the napkin.
To find something far worse than cigarette ash.
CHAPTER 68
I WASN’T STARING AT A BOMB, so there was that. I was, however, staring at something just as deadly to every A-C here—a large, empty bottle of vodka.
Spun around. “If you’re holding a cup of punch, put it down right now!” All the kids froze. Those with punch cups put them down. Other than the Cordell twins. “Who put that bottle in there?”
The kids stared at me. “What bottle?” Lizzie asked.
Pulled the can over and pointed. “This one. This supersized bottle of cheap vodka. Who put it in here?”
The kids all feigned ignorance, but the Cordell twins still had hold of their cups.
Decided it was time to take the gloves off. “Understand me,” I said in a low voice I ensured was growly, “I will
find out. If you don’t tell me who put this bottle in the trash, right now, I can ensure that the Secret Service follows each and every one of you for the rest of your lives, so that you will never have a moment of fun, a moment of rebellion, or a moment of freedom ever again, and that if you do, you’ll be arrested and pay the maximum penalty for whatever your charge is and then some. Or, you can tell me who put this bottle into this trashcan. Your choice. Choose wisely. I’m more than willing to have the D.C.P.D. dust it for prints and arrest anyone on the charge of underage drinking and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. And I’ll ensure the charge sticks.”
“I didn’t see anyone throw anything in there,” Lizzie said. The rest of the kids echoed her. Other than the Cordell twins.
Looked at them. “Tell me. Right now. Or there’s going to be nothing your mother can do to protect you from my wrath. Not one damn thing.”
The twins tried to stare me down. Hilarious, really. They weren’t Chuckie or Mom, they had no chance. They both stared and I stared at both of them. I won. Quickly, too. Shelby dropped her eyes and heaved a sigh. “It wasn’t any of us. It was some old man. He spiked the punch.” She showed me her cup—she had the red punch. “We just wanted to have some fun.”
“Lizzie, is this true?”
“Well, I totes don’t know, but honestly, we’ve been talking the whole time, no one’s gone to the bathroom or anything, and I’ve had my back to the punch table, so I think Shelby’s telling the truth.”
“I saw an old man throw away something,” Clinton said. “I didn’t see anything else, though, which is why I didn’t speak up.”
“I think we were the only ones paying attention,” Seth said. “He winked at us when he did it. I kind of thought he was being cool.”
“So, some stranger spiked the punch and you, what, think it’s cool to not only drink it but let others, people who you know shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, also have some? Without telling them? You’re with people whose religion forbids drinking alcohol, but you thought it was cool and funny?” I was furious and my voice shared that. “And you were also too damn stupid, selfish, and thoughtless to consider that maybe it’s not vodka but could be something else, like poison?”
The twins put their cups down fast. Seth shook his head. “We didn’t think of that. At all.”
“How dare you?” Wasim asked. He sounded as angry as I was. “How dare you not say something? We,” he indicated himself and all the other A-C kids, “are forbidden. We choose to follow our religions. How dare you risk our faiths on your meaningless quest to ‘party’?”
The Valentino kids had all gone pale. “We drank punch,” Claire whispered.
“What bowls did he spike?” I snarled at Seth.
“The red, white, and blue ones,” he replied quickly. “He ran out before he could do the other three.”
Or else he knew what colors the President would be handed. “Kids? In order, who had what?”
They all quickly sounded off. Only Shelby and Seth had taken any from the spiked bowls, and they’d had a cup each and were on their seconds. The others had chosen the other colors due to flavor preferences. Lizzie was the last one to share. “I totes got a Coke. From a can. The bartender poured it into the glass for me and everything.”
“Good. You now have orders. No one touches this trashcan and no one, and I mean no one, takes any of that punch, not just you guys, but anyone. It’s evidence, and it also could be deadly.” And it certainly would be death to any A-C. “Guard this table, because if you don’t, all the things I said will happen to you will, and then some.”
“We’re not in trouble?” Shelby asked, sounding as if that could not possibly be the case.
“No. You broke down and told the truth. You have a freaking job to do now. Don’t do that? Then you’re in trouble. Kids, pay attention to Shelby and Seth. If it seems like anything is even slightly wrong with them, Lizzie, you call Nurse Carter at the Embassy. Doctor Hernandez is here but Nurse Carter can get them to Dulce fastest and if they’re having any reactions, then it’s poison, not vodka, and time will be of the essence.”
The Cordell twins now blanched. Ignored them—they could freak out with their peers. Had to get to help. For the first time ever I missed my Secret Service detail shadowing me. The one time I needed them, they’d obeyed my wishes. Always the way. The music changed to Steely Dan’s “Hey Nineteen.” Worked for me. “Louise, come with me.”
She scurried over and we took off. “What do we do, Aunt Kitty?”
“We assume that any punch that’s red, white, or blue is poisoned. I have to focus on your Uncle Jeff. You need to use hyperspeed and get to every A-C, Field agents included, and tell them what’s going on. We need to have Dulce standing by—if anyone drinks any of that, they’re going to go into convulsions, if we’re lucky.”
“Uncle Jeff almost died from one shot,” she said, voice filled with dread.
“And he was twenty and under far less stress than he is now. Yeah. Get to your Uncle Christopher as fast as you can. He’s the fastest. Get the Flash going. Now.” Just prayed the Flash hadn’t drunk any punch.
She disappeared and I headed for the stage. I could use hyperspeed, but there were too many witnesses, and I still wasn’t sure who knew I had A-C abilities and who didn’t. Plus, the First Lady appearing out of nowhere onstage when a lot of people were watching was considered to be bad form because it gave far too many people reasons to hate us, and while they loved hyperspeed when they needed it, they weren’t so thrilled with it when we used it otherwise. But, most importantly, I felt far too stressed to ensure I had control. If I’d been enraged, no worries. However, stressed and scared meant that all the skills I’d learned to monitor and utilize to their fullest disappeared. I could overshoot Jeff and crash through the wall if I wasn’t careful, and that wouldn’t make anything better.
Was about halfway there when I saw the waiter I’d spotted earlier bring his tray of punch to the stage. Either no one had taken any while he made his way to the stage, or he’d been told to serve it only to those onstage. One way or the other, he had plenty of choices on that tray, but as I remembered, he’d taken punch from only the red, white, and blue bowls. Didn’t mean he was doing anything other than his job—red, white, and blue were what you’d serve the President.
Only Kramer, Marcia, Charmaine and Jeff were onstage now, but everyone took some punch. Sped up. The waiter left the stage but no one had taken a drink—yet.
They were talking, then it was clear from the way Kramer now held his cup that he was saying a toast, meaning that very shortly Jeff was going to drink vodka and, most likely, die onstage.
Well, the hell with that.
CHAPTER 69
HAD NO IDEA what to do other than scream, and that might not work. Then the music changed to “The Way” by Fastball, and I knew what I had to do.
There was a person next to me who had a plate with a roll on it, since among other things, there were little sandwich stations. The rolls were the round, hard kind that I, personally, hated because I always felt like I was eating a baseball when I tried to ingest one. But a baseball was just what I needed right now.
Grabbed the roll, ignored the complaints of the man whose food I’d taken, used my clutch like a baseball mitt, and went into the windup. I was a jock—sure I’d been a track hound, but we’d played other sports in the off-season, just to keep in shape, and in addition to the most sadistic track coaches in the history of the sport, the other coaches at my high school had made sure we all graduated knowing how to throw a baseball or softball, make a basket, volley a tennis ball, and so forth. And, as with shooting, I’d been good at hitting what I was aiming for naturally.
They were clinking cups, so to speak, and I threw. My fastball wasn’t up to Christopher’s standards, but it made do. The roll hit the cup in Jeff’s hand and sent it flying. So far, so good.
Of course, the roll hit the other cups, too. The one in Jeff’s hand flew all over Charmaine, Marcia’s and Charmaine’s went all over Kramer, and his also hit Charmaine, because my life didn’t work any other way.
Happily, none of the punch had hit Jeff or Marcia, so that was one for the win column. Didn’t get to enjoy the win column long, though, since the Secret Service erupted from where they’d been lurking. Joseph and Rob had Jeff down within a second, the rest of the agents nearby had the others onstage covered right after.
The entire room turned to look at whoever had thrown that killer roll. Didn’t stop to wave for the cameras, just ran to the stage as fast as the dress and my shoes would allow, which wasn’t as fast as I’d have liked.
“The punch is spiked!” I shouted to Jeff as I got closer.
Assumed he’d heard me, because Joseph and Rob let him up. Evalyne and Phoebe caught up to me. “Oh my God, we literally cannot leave you alone for a second,” Evalyne said.
“The punch is spiked. As in, it’s loaded with vodka.”
Once those on our details had passed our tests of trustworthiness, they’d been filled in on what alcohol could do to an A-C. Phoebe cursed. “Who? The kids?”
“No, an old man. My money’s on Doctor Rattoppare, but I’m open to suggestions. You guys need to get all the trash cans searched. The one the kids are guarding has a bottle that will hopefully have fingerprints on it.”
“We’re on our way,” Evalyne said as those two took off, Evalyne barking orders into her wristcom.
Rob came and helped me up onto the stage. “I’d ask for an explanation, but I heard you, and Evalyne’s shouting the same thing in my ear. The President hasn’t had anything but water, which I got for him, before just now, and you stopped him in time.”