by Katy Evans
“Charlotte,” she said, with a sigh.
I straightened up from my crouched position.
She sighed again, then walked to her bedroom, picked up the phone on her nightstand, dialed an extension, and said, “Jessa, can you help Charlotte get dressed?”
My eyes widened and, miraculously, Jessa suddenly swept into my bedroom, smiling gleefully and shaking her head. “Girl! You’d cajole a king out of his crown!”
“I swear I didn’t do anything. Mother simply saw me peeping and must’ve realized this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“All right then, let’s put your hair into a nice long braid,” Jessa said as she started pulling open the drawers of my vanity. “Which dress are you going to wear?”
“I only have one option.” I showed her the only dress that still fit me, and she helped me carefully slip it on.
“You’re growing too fast,” she said fondly as she ushered me to the mirror. She stood behind me and brushed my hair.
I looked at my reflection and admired the dress. I liked how blue the satin fabric was. I imagined standing next to my mother in her red dress and my father in his perfectly tailored suit. Entering my parents’ forbidden, mysterious world was exciting—but nothing was more exciting than meeting the president.
When the president arrived, a group of men trailed in after him, all of them in suits. They were tall and handsome, but I was too busy looking at the young man directly beside the president to notice much.
He was gorgeous. His hair was the color of sable, and although it was combed back, it was unruly at the ends and curled at the collar.
He was an inch taller than the president. His suit seemed crisper, more tailored. He was staring at me, and although his lips weren’t moving and his expression revealed nothing, I could swear that his eyes were laughing at me.
President Hamilton shook my mother’s hand before greeting my father. I pulled my eyes away from the young man next to him and saw the president’s lips curl a little as he looked down at me. When it was my turn, I took his hand.
“My daughter, Charlotte—”
“Charlie,” I corrected.
Mother smiled. “She insisted on not missing the fun.”
“Smart girl.” The president grinned at me, gesturing to his side with obvious pride as he drew the young man beside him forward. “My son, Matthew. He’s going to be president one day,” he said conspiratorially.
The man that I couldn’t stop staring at laughed quietly. It was a low, deep laugh, and it made me blush. Suddenly, I didn’t want to shake his hand. But how could I avoid it?
He took my hand in his—it was warm and dry and strong. Mine was soft and trembling. “Absolutely not,” he said and winked at me.
I smiled at him shyly and realized my parents were watching us carefully. “You don’t look like a president,” I blurted out to President Hamilton.
“What does a president look like?”
“Old.”
President Hamilton laughed. “Give me time.” He pointed at his shiny white hair and slapped Matthew’s back then let my parents lead him into the dining room.
The adults focused on talking politics and bills, while I focused on the delicious food. When my plate was clean, I summoned the waiter and quietly asked about seconds.
“Charlotte,” my father warned.
The waiter looked at my father, wide-eyed, then at me, just as wide-eyed, and I tried to very quietly repeat the question.
The president regarded me with interest.
Feeling worried, I wondered if it was bad manners to ask for more before they all finished.
Matthew had a serious expression on his face, but his eyes seemed to be laughing at me again. His gaze didn’t leave me as he said to the waiter, “I’ll have seconds too.”
I shot him a grateful smile, then started feeling nervous again. His smile was so powerful. I could feel it piercing my heart.
I glanced down at my hands resting on my lap and admired my dress. I hoped Matthew thought I looked pretty. Most of the guys at school did. At least, that’s what they told me.
As my parents talked with the president and Matthew, I fiddled with my braid, placing it on the side of my shoulder, then behind my back. Matthew’s attention returned to me, and when his eyes sparkled with more quiet laughter, the pit in my stomach returned.
The waiter brought us both new plates full of stuffed quail and quinoa. My parents were still looking at me as though it was too bold of me to ask for seconds in front of the president.
Matthew leaned over the table and said, “Never let anyone tell you you’re too young to ask for what you want.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sometimes I don’t ask.”
This earned me a very nice laugh from Matthew. The president frowned at him, then winked at me. As Matthew turned his attention back to the group, I noticed his eyes appeared a shade lighter than black, like chocolate.
I sat there, trying to absorb everything, knowing that that moment, that night, would be the most exciting experience of my life.
But like everything in life … it wouldn’t last forever.
I watched with disappointment as the president rose from his seat and began to thank my parents for dinner.
I got up as well, my eyes fixed on Matthew. The way he stood, the way he walked, the way he looked. I started to wonder what he smelled like, too. I followed the group quietly toward the foyer. The president turned and tapped his presidential cheek. “A kiss, young lady?”
Smiling, I rose up on my toes and kissed his cheek. When I dropped back down, my gaze caught Matthew’s.
As if on automatic, my toes rose again. It seemed only natural that I give him a farewell kiss too. When my lips grazed his jaw, it was hard and it tickled with a little bit of stubble. It was like kissing a movie star. He turned his head and kissed my cheek in return, and I almost gasped out loud from the surprise of feeling his lips on my cheek.
Before I could compose myself, he and the president walked out the door, and all the hustle and bustle of the day turned to dead quiet.
Hurrying upstairs, I watched them leave from my bedroom window. The president was ushered into the back of his shiny black chauffeured car.
Before he got in, the president slapped Matthew on the back and squeezed the back of his neck in a friendly gesture.
The pit in my stomach grew into a ball as they disappeared into the car.
The car started and drove down our quiet neighborhood street, little American flags flapping in the front. A trail of cars followed them, one after the other.
I shut my window, closed my drapes, then took off my dress and hung it carefully. I then slipped into my flannel pajamas and eased into bed as my mother walked in.
“That was a lovely evening,” my mother said. “Did you have fun?”
She smiled as though she was laughing to herself about something. I nodded honestly. “I liked listening to the conversations. I liked everyone.”
She kept smiling. “Matthew is handsome. You noticed, of course. He’s also smart as a whip.”
I nodded in silence.
“Your father and I are writing a letter to the president to thank him for spending his evening with us. Do you want to write him too?”
“No, thank you,” I said primly.
She raised her brows and laughed. “Okay. You sure? If you change your mind, leave it in the foyer tomorrow.”
Mother left my room and I just lay in bed, thinking about the visit, about what the president had said about Matthew.
I decided I’d write Matthew a letter, just because I couldn’t stop feeling awestruck and amazed by the visit. What if I not only ended up meeting one president tonight, but two? That had to take the cake of meetings, for sure.
I used the first page of the stationery my grandmother sent me for my birthday, and in my best handwriting, I wrote, “I want to thank you and the president for coming. If you decide to run for president, you have my vote. I’d eve
n be willing to join your campaign.”
I licked the seal and closed it firmly, and set the letter on my nightstand. Then I flipped off the light switch and got under my covers.
I lay in bed and in the dark. He was everywhere. On the ceiling and in the shadows and on the duvet.
And I wondered if I’d ever see him again and suddenly the thought of him never seeing me grown up felt like an ache in my chest.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I had not realized Alan was studying my profile.
“A crush that’s been crushed, right?” he asks again.
I turn to him, startled to realize we’ve already pulled over in front of my building. I laugh and get out of the cab, peering inside. “Absolutely.” I nod more firmly this time. “I’m focused on my career now.” And I shut the door behind me, waving him off.
3
ANNOUNCEMENT
Matt
I was never the sort of kid tempted to try on my father’s shoes. Too clean, too classic, too big.
But, oddly, his shoes are what I remember most clearly about him—pacing a perfect circle around his desk during a tense phone call. Me, at his feet, building a puzzle.
My father strived for perfection in all things, including his appearance. From his impeccably tailored suit, to his smoothly shaved face and his tightly cropped hair.
While I, young and clueless, dreamed of freedom. Freedom from the privileged life my father’s success gave my mother and me.
A thousand times, my father said I would be president. He told his friends, his friend’s friends, and he often told me. I’d laugh and shake it off.
The seven years I spent growing up in the White House were seven years I spent praying to get out of the White House.
Politics interested me, yes.
But I knew my father rarely slept. Most choices he made were wrong for a certain percentage of the population, even when they were right for the majority. My mother lost her husband the day he entered the White House.
I lost my father the day he decided that being president would be his legacy.
He tried juggling it all, but no human in the world could run the country and still have energy for his wife and teenage son.
I focused on my grades and succeeded in school, but forming friendships was hard. I couldn’t casually invite anyone over to the White House.
My life, as I imagined it after the White House, would be focused on work, perhaps on Wall Street. I’d have the freedom to do all the things I never could under America’s watchful eye.
Father ran for reelection, and won.
Then, three years into his second term, an unhappy citizen put two bullets in him. One in his chest, the other his stomach.
It’s been thousands of days since. Too many years spent living in the past.
Now, as I secure my cufflinks and smooth my tie, I think back to those shoes and realize that I’m about to step into them.
“Ready, sir?”
I nod, and he pulls back the curtain.
The world is watching. They’ve been speculating, hoping, wondering.
Will you, won’t you . . . Please do, please don’t . . .
He’ll win if he runs . . .
He doesn’t stand a chance . . .
I wait for the noise to settle down, lean into the microphone, and say, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce that I’m officially running for President of the United States of America.”
4
THE NEWS
Charlotte
The morning after my birthday, I notice the light on my answering machine is blinking. I press play, half listening as I lie back in bed, trying to shake my grogginess away.
“Charlotte, it’s your mother—call me.”
“Charlotte, answer your cell.”
After a third similar message, I get up, put coffee on, and return my mother’s calls. “You heard the rumor?” she asks in place of a greeting.
“I’ve been asleep for the past … seven hours.” I squint. “What rumor?”
“It’s on national television! And we’ve been invited to his campaign inaugural, Charlie, you must come. Time for you to get your feet wet in politics.”
My first thought is the same I’ve had for years. That I don’t want to be in politics. I’ve seen and heard too many things being the daughter of a senator. I’ve lived through much already.
“It’s time for you to make a difference, take steps in embracing your own personal power …” my mother continues, and while she rambles on, I turn on the television. Matt’s face flashes before me.
His sun-bronzed, slightly-stubbled, perfectly symmetrical, hot-as-hell face.
He stands behind a podium, a place he’s never been photographed before. The paparazzi have caught him unaware on dates, on the beach, everywhere, but never, as far as I know, behind a podium.
A black suit and crimson tie cover a body fit for a GQ cover, his suit so black that the suits of the men surrounding him seem gray in comparison.
He’s been known to be an outdoorsman who loves physicality, who keeps in shape by experiencing every adventure and sport nature has to offer. Swimming, tennis, hiking, horseback riding. His lean, athletic build, clearly defined beneath the fitted suit, is certainly a testament to that. A full, rather seductive mouth curves into a smile as he speaks into the microphone.
Beneath him, a black line scrolling across the screen says:
BREAKING NEWS: MATTHEW HAMILTON HAS CONFIRMED HIS INTENTION TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT
I read the line again. I also vaguely listen to his voice on the TV. He has such a delicious voice, it’s making the little hairs on my arms stand at attention.
“. . . running for President of the United States of America.”
Something inside of me somersaults; I’m hit by a series of emotions—shock, excitement, disbelief. I fall back on the couch and press a hand to my stomach to keep the winged things inside of it from moving. My mother continues telling me how much my father and she would love my company, but I hardly listen.
How can I, when Matthew Hamilton is on TV?
He is so gorgeous I bet every woman watching wants him to father all of her babies, put those lips on nobody but her, and use those eyes to look at nobody else …
This god.
The prince of America.
Has decided to run for president?
He speaks from a place of confidence and strength.
I know firsthand that politics are not for wimps. I know what my father has gone through to reach and keep his seat in the Senate. I know the kind of sacrifice, patience, and discipline that serving the people requires. I know that despite doing his best, criticisms have kept him awake at night more times than he’d care to admit. I know that being president cannot be easier than being senator. And I know that Matt hadn’t really wanted this.
But after his father was murdered, our economy went to shit. We’re all basically at the point of reaching out for lifesavers, and the situation is so dire that there are probably not enough to go around.
So he’s doing it?
Stepping up?
“So there’s really no excuse for you not to come!” my mother continues.
“Okay.”
“Did you just agree, Charlotte?” My mother sounds so shocked that I smile at having managed to surprise her.
Hell, even I’m surprised that I’m not singing my same song. Blame it on my birthday and another year spent waiting for a big neon sign to point me toward my ideal life path that has yet to appear.
Another year spent waiting for that “this is who you are, this is what you are meant to do” moment. When I remember the night the Hamiltons came for supper, I felt like I was touched by something exciting, historical, and meaningful. That moment branded me in so many ways. You cannot express in words the awe, honor, and complete amazement of being faced with the President of the United States. It makes you want to do great things too.
Maybe seeing Matt again will bring
me clarity. Or at the very least, I might actually get to know him and see what he is made of. See if he really is capable of living up to the Hamilton name.
I’m curious.
I’m … intrigued.
Maybe I’m even a little bit in need of convincing myself that my infantile crush has, indeed, been crushed.
Or maybe, like the rest of the world, I’m just excited. That there’s finally a man who can really earn the respect of both parties, cut through the red tape, and get serious work done.
“I’ll go with you,” I agree, much to my mother’s delight. “When is it?”
5
STILL THAT GIRL
Charlotte
I’ve moved into my own flat close to the offices of Women of the World. One bedroom and a sizeable closet. My wardrobe is filled with more power suits than anything, they’re a must for hunting down sponsors and job opportunities for our women ... new opportunities that inspire them to be better.
But there’s a short row of dresses in the crammed closet of my new apartment. I might not have dozens of options to choose from, but the night of the kickoff party, I have more picks than the one dress I had when I was eleven.
Kayla is dying of jealousy, and Alan and Sam have been hinting on being willing to escort me to the event—in case I needed an escort. I’ve declined, since I’m going with my mother. My father, as a current Democrat, is not really up to coming to support an Independent candidate. But my mother has a mind of her own, and when it comes to anything Hamilton, it seems so do I.
I wonder what sort of man Matt Hamilton has become, and if he’s the player he’s made out to be through the years as the fascination of the press with him has continued to grow.
I end up going for the yellow dress with an open back.
I comb my red hair down my back, add a shiny crystal clip to hold it back from my forehead, and head downstairs, where my mother waits in the Lincoln Town Car.