“News 4 did a snap poll this morning,” Teddy announces in the car. “We’ve got a seventy-three percent approval rating—the highest since you were
elected
.”
“Imagine how high it will be once the storm hits,” the governor says flatly with a wry glance toward me.
“Exactly!” Teddy exclaims. “Calliope’s on schedule to make landfall at noon tomorrow. That’s less than twenty hours, and the prognosis is still Category 3 with severe wind and flood damage to low-lying coastal areas, Cawdor being right at the center of that, so your numbers are bound to…” Governor Watson turns to Teddy and gives him a scathing look. “Oh. You were being sarcastic.”
“I knew you’d get there eventually,” the governor mutters.
Teddy sort of huffs through his nose and flips through his phone log looking for the next number to call. The governor sips on a bottle of water while I tap my fingers on my knees like a nervous kid who’s been called to the principal’s office. We’re driving to the various volunteer stations for more photo ops like the one we just got with Morgan’s sister, Rani, and Emily Kim. For some reason, I was selected to ride in the car with Teddy and the governor while the others ride in the follow-car. I assume it’s because this whole contest thing was (sort of) my idea, but I haven’t been asked to do anything specific. No one sat me down and said, “This is your job, this is what’s expected of you, this is your first project, these are the deadlines you need to hit.” I’m in uncharted waters. And I feel like the job interview is still happening. Like maybe the next few days are my tryout.
Sitting across from the governor and his chief of staff in a stretch town car, I attempt to act cool and give the appearance of relaxed casual: the personification of broken-in jeans. But inside my stomach is churning and my heart is racing like I just ran a 5K.
Since the photo with Rani and Emily, the governor has hit the bottled water station, found a few kids boarding up windows, and made a long stop at the pet rescue area. (Teddy was positive the governor and a puppy would make the front page tomorrow.) But no matter where we stop, it’s all basically the same: We get out, talk to a few key people, shake hands with some teenage volunteers, the governor smiles for some photos while holding a shovel or a hammer or a puppy, and then we hop back in the car and drive off to the next station. In the back seat, Teddy and the governor are rolling phone calls. While the governor talks on one phone, Teddy makes a call on the other. From what I can piece together, the calls are from various news organizations looking for sound bites and FEMA reps assuring the governor they have a plan in place and are ready to move once the storm rolls through. The second Governor Watson finishes one call, Teddy hands him the other phone, whispering the caller’s name. It’s all very calculated and political. And obviously working the way Teddy intended, because he seems even more giddy than usual.
The governor, however, seems increasingly grumpy. And it’s starting to irk Teddy, who, during a brief lull between rolling calls, mutters, “I don’t see what’s so wrong with capitalizing on the cards you’re dealt.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the governor jumps in. “Why can’t we just
be
sincere? Do something because it’s the
right thing to do
. Does it always have to have some sort of
upside
politically?”
The governor waves him off and looks out at the passing scenery. Teddy shakes his head, gives me a “don’t worry, he’s fine” look, and then buries himself in his BlackBerry. I turn to gaze out the same window as the governor and see for the first time how beautiful it is here, even in the middle of August, with temperatures climbing into the 90s and humidity at nearly a hundred percent. The character on the residents’ faces. The weathered houses that look like a Norman Rockwell painting.
It seems like he wants someone to respond, but Teddy either didn’t hear, is too engrossed in his email, or is choosing to ignore him. After a moment, I offer a timid, “Oh, yeah?”
“Mm,” Governor Watson affirms, eyes still on the passing trees and houses. “This whole area. New London County. Porter Sound. My great-uncle lived here. His entire life before he died three years ago. Worked on a lobster boat, so he always smelled like fish.” He grins at the memory. “No matter how much he bathed or washed in lemon juice. It’s like it was… in his blood.”
“Right,” I say with a soft smile.
“He busted his ass, over fifty years. Never complained. Loved his job, his life, his family. But most of all… he loved this place. Connecticut. His home state. His hometown. The friends and neighbors he met here. And loved here.” He points out the window at some people helping a family load their belongings into a pickup. “I want to help them, Alexis. The people that live here. I want to make sure they’re safe and have clean water and their homes are protected and the levees stay strong and that we prevent as much damage as possible before the storm, and then clean up and fix whatever we can’t control.
That’s
what I want to do. That’s
all
I want to do.”
Wow. That’s the Governor Watson I remember voting for. His passion and desire to help are so real and sincere. No wonder he’s the next great hope for the Democratic Party. I look across at Teddy, whose eyes are watering like he’s about to cry. He turns to the governor. “Jesus, Chuck. I wish you’d said this sooner.”
“I know,” Governor Watson sighs. “But it’s not too late to change what we’re—”
“Yes!” Teddy replies, digging into his various bags. “All of them. And they were brilliant. It’s
exactly
what you need to say at the 4 o’clock press conference.”
The Governor sighs at me and then lifts his head slightly to call out to the driver. “Can you stop the car, please?”
“What…” Teddy lifts his face up out of his bag. “Oh, come on, Chucky…”
“Hank. Can you pull over?”
“Now, sir?” Hank asks.
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
“Hey, what’re you doin’?” Teddy pleads. “Don’t be like this.”
“Anywhere along here is fine,” Governor Watson tells Hank, who eases onto the shoulder. The governor hops out before the car comes to a full stop. Doesn’t even close the door behind him, either, just starts walking back toward our last stop. The follow-car pulls over in front of us, stopping about forty yards north. Teddy looks at me, momentarily hopeless.
“When’s he gonna learn having a conscience in this line of work is counterproductive?”
He scoots out after the governor. I stay put, keeping the door open so I can hear, and turn to the driver. “Does this happen a lot?”
“Couple times a week,” Hank says, already bored, reading a newspaper. “Gov thinks he’s selling out. Hutch talks him off the ledge. He’ll be fine after he gets some food in him.” Hank flips the page and starts looking at a Sudoku puzzle, which is already half-penciled in. I turn toward the back windshield to watch the ledge-talking.
“This is normal, Chucky,” I hear Teddy say. The two men are standing in the unmowed grass along the side of the road. “Totally normal.”
“You’re just stressed.” The governor turns away as if he doesn’t want to hear anymore. “You know what you need to do,” Teddy continues. “Need to blow off some
steam
.”
The governor shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Come on. You know
any
kind of change freaks people out. Up until now, you’ve been coasting on charm and broad appeal—”
“And that works fine,” Teddy presses on, “at the local level, even the state level. But this is a big honkin’ country, Chuck. And in case you haven’t noticed, it’s pretty divided. Lot of red out there that hates anyone or anything from the Northeast.”
“So I’m just supposed to pander, is that it?” The governor walks back to the town car and slides his butt up on the trunk to sit down, his back to me now.
And for some reason, I take that as a cue to add my two cents.
“Excuse me, Governor,” I say, stepping out of the car and standing by the trunk, “but if I may… I think you should forget about big picture national election stuff right now. Focusing on how to help the residents of Connecticut during a natural disaster
is
the right thing to do. You’ve mobilized over a
thousand
people in this part of the state, more than a hundred of them eighteen years old and younger. What they’re doing is amazing!”
But Governor Watson won’t even look at me. Just casts his eyes to the tree line across the road. Teddy seems stymied as well, but I ignore them and continue to make my pitch.
A lone eighteen-wheeler roars by, momentarily blowing the men’s ties and my hair into our faces. Then the road is quiet again. The governor looks at Teddy and sighs. I may be imagining things, but I could swear Governor Watson gives the slightest signal with his hand and eyes. Teddy gives a subtle nod and then steps toward me, a gentle yet condescending arm around my shoulder.
“A.J. Why don’t you, uh… sit tight a few more minutes. We’ll be with you shortly.”
I glance at the governor as Teddy escorts me back to the car. Again, he refuses to look at me.
I take my spot in the back seat, the one facing the trunk, as Teddy leans in the open door. “Don’t sweat it, A.J. Takes a while to earn his trust—‘specially when he’s in a
mood.
” Teddy double checks to make sure the governor can’t hear us, and then says quietly, “He likes to act like he’s ‘above the fray,’ But he’s not.
Believe
me, he’s not.”
I watch Teddy carefully, trying to understand what he means. “Is there something about the governor you think I should know?”
“Hmm?” Teddy looks at me and then glances away. “Oh, no, no. Chuck’s a good man. Father of two kids in college, loving husband of twenty-five years. He’s the
ideal
candidate. He just likes to, you know…
remind
us that he’s the one in charge. That he’s ‘the decider.’ It’s why he won’t really listen to anyone else’s opinion. Nothing personal, ya know. It’s partly for himself and partly for show. So I let him have his outbursts. But he needs to understand: We’re here to help him get reelected.”
Teddy’s eyes are shifty and he seems self-conscious for the first time since I’ve met him. He coughs and clears his throat. “All right then. Give me a couple minutes with him, ‘kay?”
I nod and he shuts the door. I can’t hear them, but I can see them talking and gesticulating.
I mean… no one can be the perfect candidate. Can they?
RANI
“I’ll have a double burger, medium well, no cheese, no mayo, no onions and hold the bun. Sweet potato fries instead of regular fries and a side of steamed kale.”
The heavyset waitress, her nametag that reads “HEY, I’M PEARL” slowly rising and falling with each breath, just blinks at Emily.
“We don’t have sweet potato fries
or
… what was that other thing you said?”
“Kale?” Emily asks incredulously.
“I don’t know what that is, but we don’t got it.”
“What kind of greens do you have as a side?”
Pearl thinks for a moment and then suggests enthusiastically, “I could put extra
lettuce
on your burger?”
Emily sighs and hands the menu back. “That’ll be fine. And a Diet Coke with lemon.”
Pearl the waitress scribbles on her pad and then looks at me.
“Oh. Uh. Grilled cheese on wheat toast, please, and the tomato soup.”
She seems relieved by my order, takes my menu quickly, and waddles off to the kitchen before I can change my mind.
Emily and I are the only two people in this small diner, which is a few blocks from the town center. She insisted we ditch the last hour of volunteer work to “get some
real
food.” If we’d stuck around the levees till sunset at 7:45, we’d have been forced to go with the group for bad pizza or eat more of the lame offerings from lunch, which consisted mostly of PB&J’s on white bread.
“Thanks for coming here,” Emily says, fiddling with the sweetener packets. “My stomach just can’t digest bleached flour anymore.”
I nod and gaze out the window. The sun is going down over the treetops and it looks almost peaceful outside. Other than the blisters on my hands and the throbbing ache in my shoulders from lifting sandbags all day, it feels almost like I’m back home, hanging out with Emily at a crappy diner instead of our usual Pinkberry. I sort of wish we
were
back home, but I don’t confess that to Emily.
We’re ostensibly here not only to eat but to talk about our
Empty Rooms, Full Hearts
plan—iron out the details for the presentations tomorrow morning.
“You realize our acronym is ERFH,” Emily says. “Sounds like a cartoon character getting hit in the nuts.
Erfh!
”
“Okay,” I say smiling. “So we add some letters. Like Soho or Tribeca. Make it… EMROFUHS.”
Emily laughs. “That’s too close to MOFOS.”
I laugh too and tell her not to stress about the acronym. “We can’t choose our own nickname. The public chooses it for us. And maybe they’ll just shorten it to, like, ‘Empty Rooms’ or something.”
Emily ponders this for a moment. “Hm. That doesn’t completely suck…” She puts down the sweetener packets and says, all business, “Okay. I’ve got my cousin in San Francisco. He’s a computer genius at a Mac store out there? He’s working on a web design for us. Not an actual working website yet, just like templates for the landing pages that we can present in a slide show tomorrow.”
“Cool,” I say, absently sliding the ketchup bottle back and forth between my hands.
“And I got a woman in my dad’s office—her brother is an agent at William Morris. She’s tracking down the contact info for those celebs we mentioned. Chloe Sevigny and John Mayer? I think they’d totally do, like, a PSA for us or give us a blurb for the banner. Drive traffic to the site.”
“Nice.”
“I really think we have a shot at winning this, Ran. That photo thing with the governor was no accident. I’m sure they’re only doing that with potential winners, dontcha think?”
“Mos def,” I deadpan.
Emily pauses and sizes me up. I look back at her but quickly avert my eyes.
“Don’t you want to win?” she asks.
“Of course. Ten grand each would be pretty sweet, right?”
“It’s not just the money,” she says. “We’ll have won a state-sponsored scholarship. The only one of its kind. We can write our own ticket after that!”
“Groovy.”
“Okay,” she says, banging her hands on the tabletop, making the silverware clatter. “
What
is your deal?”
“Nothing. I have no deal.”
“If you wanna go home, go. I can do this by myself.”
I don’t respond. Just stare at the napkin I’m ripping to shreds for no reason. I feel like I’m being chastised by my dad.
“This could be really big for us, Rani. We could be
known
for something. Like the way Stanford-E.K. is ‘the girl with Brad Pitt on Facebook.’ We could be ‘the Calliope girls.’ A picture of us and the governor right before we rescued the town of Cawdor. We can do something no other high school kid could
ever
do!”
“But so what?” I say, still looking at my napkin art.
“So
what
?”
“Yeah. I mean… that girl after the photo today? Talking about Morgan and how awesome and driven she is? Yeah, it got me fired up to win. Like, show up my sister or prove something to myself. But the more I think about, the more
pointless
it all seems.”
“Whatever,” Emily says, playing with her phone. “You’re just ‘hangry.’”
“No. This is exactly what happened to Morgan: busted her ass at Fairwich, then Princeton, and now she’s on her stupid Fulbright in Cape Town studying the British Raj or Taj or whatever. And you know what? Aside from Morgan and the pervy academics who are hot for anything Asian or exotic, no one cares!”
“Where is that stupid waitress with our food?” Emily turns toward the kitchen, but I grab her arm and look her in the eye.
“Hey—I’m serious. What’s the endgame? Let’s say we win the contest.
You
get into Harvard. I go… wherever. Then we’re in college with a bunch of other overachievers who won National Spelling Bees and science grants from Exxon and invented a gluten-free kind of paste so dumb kids that eat paste won’t
also
have an allergic attack. And it’s like—okay, now we’re back to square one. Trying to beat
those
guys out for a summer internship and then a job and then a contract and then a spouse and then a spot on the PTA, a spot on the board, and finally we get a building or a road named after us and then we die and all that’s left is a stupid street sign that says ‘Rani Caldwell Way’ but no one cares because it’s really West 52nd street and that’s what it will always be and what’s the stupid point of
any
of this?!”
Pearl is suddenly standing by our table with my soup and Emily’s Diet Coke.
“I can come back,” she mumbles.
“No, it’s fine,” Emily says, eyes fixed on me. We stare at each other in silence as Pearl lays out our stuff and scoots back to the kitchen.
“Sounds like you’re having an existential crisis,” Emily says. “Or a nervous breakdown.”
“I’m sorry, I just… I’ve been getting it non-stop from everyone about college. Morgan texts me from South Africa like every week:
Hey sis. Would love to B able to go to Princeton reunions with U! Hint hint!
Then that stupid girl today with the governor, talking about how awesome Morgan is! And my dumb parents are just as relentless. ‘
Where are you going, what are your top choices,
Morgan knew her top choice since freshman year!
’” I’m doing a bad impression that sounds less like my mom and more like Cartman from
South Park.
“I knew when I was ten,” Emily adds.
“I know! So they expect me to be exactly like you and my sister, but when I try to tell them I’m
not
, they don’t listen. It’s like—they don’t want me to get into a good school because it’s what’s best for
me
. It’s so they can
brag
to their friends that their kid got into an Ivy. Like last weekend. I was at Equinox and this super ripped MILF on the bike next to me knew, like, everyone in the gym. And anyone that walked by, instead of saying ‘hello’ to them, she just said ‘Yale’—like a flat declaration. And the other person would immediately get it and high-five the woman. And not a cool ‘good-for-you’ high five, a really douche-y aggro high five.”
“What the hell for?” Emily asks, sipping her Diet Coke.
I stir the not-very-appetizing-looking soup, trying to cool it off. “Apparently her daughter just got in—off the friggin’
waitlist
by the way—and this über-mom was holding court like she just won the Super Bowl. So then her squeaky little daughter, her face all pinched and annoying, came in and tells the story to everyone
again
—how she was bummed to miss so many Pilates classes this summer because she couldn’t
sleep
until she heard from Yale.”
“Barf,” Emily says.
“Exactly!” And I immediately breathe easier. Because Emily gets it. She knows that kind of crap isn’t cool. This is why she’s my best friend. “It’s like—is that really what it’s all about?” I say, slightly calmer. “Get into Yale so your mom can high-five some loser at the gym?”
I sip the soup. It tastes like warm watery ketchup. I immediately put down my spoon.
“Well. She was proud of her daughter—nothing wrong with
that
.”
“Of course not. But she was
advertising
it. Flaunting it. It wasn’t pride; it was ego. Self-satisfied, disgusting, smug ego.”
Emily laughs, and I start to finally ease up and see the humor in it, too.
“I wanted to take my little sweat-drenched towel and shove it in her face!” I blurt out and Emily laughs harder, almost choking on her drink. Once she regains her composure, I look at her sincerely and say, “Look, if anyone’s doing it for the right reasons, it’s you. You’ve known what you wanted since you were
six
. That’s awesome. But… I don’t
know
what I want. Why can’t my parents be
happy
that I’m giving it so much thought? Why can’t they just respect that maybe I don’t want to decide the rest of my life over one summer when I’m seventeen?”
“Parents think they know what’s best for us. That’s all.”
“No. They just want to high-five their crappy friends like that stupid mom. It’s all parents want. To humble-brag about their kids and feel superior. Sorry if I don’t want to be a part of that equation.”
Just as Pearl brings my grilled cheese and Emily’s burger, Emily’s phones buzzes on the table top. Pearl looks at Emily’s phone like it’s magic.
Emily reads for a moment and then says, “It’s a group text from the volunteer center. The governor wants to talk to everyone at 8 o’clock in Duffy Square again.”
“Tonight?” I ask.
“Looks like it.”
Pearl, seemingly impressed that we “know” the governor, says with large toothy smile, “Can I… get you ladies anything else?”
Emily looks at her burger for the first time, then at my greasy sandwich. “Nope. We’re good.”
Pearl smiles and trudges off.
“Let’s get outta here,” Emily declares.
“Yeah,” I say. “This food kind of blows.”
Emily pulls out a $20, slides it under her Diet Coke, and heads for the door. I hesitate then pull out a $5 for a tip (just in case) and slide it under her $20.
Stepping into the humid evening air, walking the five blocks back to town, Emily tells me not to worry so much about my parents. “It’s their job to pressure you. The more they annoy you, the more they love you.”
“Yeah?” I say. “Then they must love me a
lot
.”
ROBERT
“And we can put solar paneling here, as well as on the roof.”
I’m showing Mac my green housing design. We just finished our volunteer assignments—utilizing every ounce of daylight we could—and are hanging with some of the other teenage Samaritans in Duffy Square where the governor and Richard Gains spoke exactly twelve hours ago (and, according to the group text we got, are due to make another announcement any minute). A long day, for sure. Tiring yet invigorating. In fact, the whole experience has been a contradiction of sorts, filled with genuine acts of human kindness and the most selfish, competitive, vindictive behavior I’ve ever seen. Imagine Mother Teresa competing on
Big Brother 14
, and you’ll have a pretty good picture of the atmosphere around here.
But Mac and I are a good team—we keep our heads down, do solid work, don’t make waves. After several hours boarding up windows and getting houses in the red zone hurricane-ready (the red zone is what they’re calling the area most likely to be impacted by the storm), we moved on to ‘Pets Are People Too.’ We met dozens of families (mostly old ladies) needing assistance evacuating their cats and dogs and one prickly cockatoo that did not want to budge. But it was totally fun and sweet and exactly what I was hoping for from this experience. To help people in need… and feel better about myself in the process. I think my personal statement will be a total slam-dunk over the goal line. (FYI, I don’t care about sports.)
“And this section right here,” I show Mac, “will be made entirely from recycled wood and metals recovered from the devastated neighborhoods.”
“Nice,” Mac says grabbing my sketch to get a closer look. He leans to his right to catch the light from the streetlamp as the last moments of twilight finally fade away. The renderings are crude, since I only have a pencil and loose-leaf paper, but the raw ingredients are there. And Mac seems impressed. “These are awesome, man.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound too excited.
“My only question is… I know from my dad’s construction company what this stuff will cost, and even if some of it’s built with recycled materials it’s still gonna be expensive as hell. I’m not sure the governor will go for it.”
“But it’s not just about
initial
cost,” I insist. “It’s about longevity. Over time the houses will pay for themselves by not needing as many repairs, plus the cost of heating and cooling them will go down, and—”
“That saves the home
owner
money. But not the home
builder
—which in this case is the state. I think Governor Watson’s looking for plans that help get people back on their feet but are also economically sound.”
“When did you get so smart?” I ask, sort of flirting.
“You must be rubbing off on me,” he says. And I swear he’s flirting back. Again! Oh my God, what do I do, what do I say next?
“Excuse me, please! Coming through?
Gah!
” It’s Rory from the Grateful Ten, perfectly breaking the mood. I barely have time to nod at him before he shoves his way by, sulking about something.
“What’s his problem?” I ask Josh, the guy Rory chastised earlier.
Josh strokes his wispy blond beard that can’t seem to fully commit and gives a classic stoner grin. “Ah, just Rory being Rory. It was a tough day out there, getting clean water delivered. And in the afternoon, most of us got stuck with traffic detail on Route 1. It was hot as balls out there, bra. Plus, we just got word that Phish is passing on Relief Jam, so…”
“Whoa,” Mac says. “You guys were trying to get Phish? I thought they broke up.”
“They did in ’04. But they started touring again in ‘09. Just here and there. Very selective venues. But we thought since Vermont isn’t super far from here—and it’s a good cause and all—we might convince them to headline. But. They say they’re committed on the West Coast. Rory thinks they’re afraid to get caught in the storm, even though he repeatedly told their manager the concert would be
after
the hurricane passed, but… What are you gonna do?”
I sort of nod, assuming the question is rhetorical.
“So with Phish a bust,” Josh continues, “it’s looking pretty grim. So far we’ve just got Widespread and SCI—each committing with a ‘soft maybe.’”
“CSI?” I ask ignorantly. “Is that a band?”
“Nah, bra,” Josh says, giving me a silly shove. “SCI. The String Cheese Incident? They’re freakin’ jammin’, man. After Phish and Widespread Panic, they’re like the best live band out there. If we can get those guys, I think the Guv will totally dig our plan. How ‘bout you two, how’s it going?”
“Oh, it’s great,” Mac says enthusiastically. “We’ve got this sweet plan for green housing—”
“But it’s not really feasible,” I interrupt. “Not as ideal or complete as Relief Jam anyway.”
I give Mac a raised eyebrow that I hope sufficiently conveys my subtext (
don’t tell anyone about our plan!
), though I don’t know why I’m being covert in front of Josh. He only seems to catch about thirty percent of what’s going on around him. Mac shrugs at me, confused by my eyebrow communication, so I sort of nod at Josh, indicating that’s the end of the conversation.
“So, maybe we’ll catch you later?” I reach out to shake Josh’s hand to really put an end to this exchange. Josh undercuts it, forcing me into a ‘bro shake’—the underhanded clasp plus half-hug with the other arm. (I hate how everyone assumes that just because I’m black, I prefer the ‘bro shake’ to the traditional handshake. Because I don’t!) When Josh pulls me into the hug phase, my other arm gets caught between us. It’s super awkward and weird. Mac turns around to avoid giggling in my face. Once Josh is out of earshot, Mac busts out laughing.
“Dude, that was hilarious! You looked like a robot hugging an alien. I wish I’d snapped a pic on Instagram.”
“Hey, uh… don’t tell people about our idea, okay.”
“I didn’t,” Mac says, still smiling.
“You
almost
did. Before I cut you off and saved the day.”
“Hey, take it easy.”
“I think you’re taking this
too
easy.”
“Whoa. Chillax, man.”
“Ew. What? No. Don’t tell me to ‘chillax.’ Is my name
Brody
? Is this a teen dramedy on the CW?”
“Okay—my bad.”
“And I’m serious, Mac. You gotta keep it close to the vest. Didn’t you ever see
The Godfather
? ‘Never let anyone outside the family know what you’re thinking.’”
“…So I’m family now?”
“What? Oh—I don’t know. Sort of. Yeah. Why not?”
“…Cool.” He nods and slaps me on the shoulder. “Point taken. Lips sealed.”
“…Thank you.”
My heart is beating a million miles an hour. I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline rush after getting upset at Mac or because he seems to be flirting with me—again! I can’t get a read on his signals at all. Ugh! Straight boys are maddening.
“Hello, hello? Can everyone hear me?” I look up and see someone standing on the library steps, holding a bullhorn microphone. It’s Governor Watson, presumably ready to address the troops one last time. A light flaps on, illuminating the governor and now I see a few TV cameras filming the proceedings. Mac and I sort of smile/nod at each other, then turn to watch the speech.
“Okay,” the governor says happily. “I wanted to thank everyone for their courageous and selfless efforts today. I’m told the levee has been expertly reinforced, adding three feet of additional height on both sides for over half a mile. And it looks like more than ninety percent of the residents in the direct line of the storm have been safely evacuated—so give yourselves a round of applause.”
While applauding, I see Emily Kim standing a few feet away. She sees me too, and we nod like gladiators about to square off. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of two kids who look seriously out of place. Totally Rumspringa or
Big Love.
The girl’s blonde hair practically reflects the surrounding light. And the boy looks like Jesus without the beard: serene and wise and full of hope.
There’s something different about them. A quiet confidence. As if they
know
they’re going to win because they’re guided by some higher power. I get a sudden chill along my arms and a shiver inches up my spine. But I shake it off and turn toward the governor again. No way could those weirdoes win.
“And now, Richard Gains has a special announcement. Richard.”
Richard Gains steps up and takes the bullhorn. “Thanks, Chuck. Good evening, my fellow Nutmeggers!” The crowd sort of apes back a ‘hello.’ “I’ve had the great fortune to get to know many of you today, filling sandbags side by side or hammering plywood over windows. And to thank you for pitching in with such enthusiasm, I want to invite you all back to The Tao of Peace, my little B&B up on Porter Road. Nothing fancy. Some pizzas, burgers and dogs. Maybe some local lobster and clams. And for those of you over twenty-one… some adult beverages! And, uh, if the governor’s not looking—maybe for those of you
under
twenty-one, too, ‘cause we all know you’re already drinking, right?”
The crowd cheers wildly. The governor steps in, pushes the bullhorn down, and whispers intensely at Richard, who gives a shit-eating grin and protests lightly. Governor Watson takes the bullhorn microphone and says, “Uh, all kidding aside… there will be
no
underage drinking. Sorry, folks.”
The crowd ‘awws’ and ‘boos.’ The governor smiles good-naturedly but shakes his head ‘no’ as he hands the bullhorn back to Richard Gains.
“Boo. Come on, Chucky, don’t be a party pooper,” Richard Gains goads the governor, who shrugs but will not budge.
“Well,” Richard Gains continues, “
I
think you all deserve a cold beer on a hot summer night—especially after the great job you did today. But if the governor says no… I guess we should respect that.”
Governor Watson shouts “thank you” and waves to the crowd apologetically as he gives a worried look to the TV cameras.
“But it’ll still be lots of fun,” Richard Gains says into the mic. “So even if you aren’t staying at the B&B tonight, please come on by. The backyard is spacious and the pool is spectacular. And we’ll have sodas and juice and stuff for you young’uns. See you all soon!”
Everyone applauds again, but less enthusiastically this time. While Richard Gains and the governor laugh and shake hands and the TV crews’ lights snap off, I see a younger woman (in her 20s, I’d guess) looking very serious among the entourage of staffers. She keeps trying to get the governor’s attention but he keeps ignoring her. Finally she grabs the governor’s chief of staff and speaks very intensely to him. The chief of staff nods and then whispers in Governor Watson’s ear. The governor shakes his head ‘no’ and walks off while his staff scrambles to keep up. The chief of staff sort of shrugs apologetically at the girl and makes the ‘we’ll call you’ gesture. The girl stands for a moment, an actress alone on stage after the curtain call. I feel an instant kinship and have the urge to go talk to her. But before I can do anything, she steels herself with a breath and heads off (notably, not going the same direction as the governor and his staff).
“Now what?” Mac asks.
“No idea.” I turn behind me to see what the other kids are doing. Among the teenagers dispersing, I see boys and girls jockeying for position, trying to stake early claims on their hook-up of choice. But mostly I see teams sizing up the competition, whispering about their plans and spreading rumors about others. And then it hits me: the insanity of it all. My dad has been harping on me for years about getting into Yale, bragging about how he and Grandfather were accepted so easily. “And those were the days
before
affirmative action,” he always reminds me.
But I think it’s infinitely harder to get into college now. I mean, they never had to deal with
this
. There are over a hundred high school kids here and every last one of them, myself included, is
after
something. Not one is in Cawdor out of the goodness of his or her heart. These are highly motivated, successful students (like Emily Kim) with perfect SAT scores and 5s on their AP exams—exams in esoteric subjects like Mandarin, Macroeconomics, and Comparative Government & Politics. These kids are the leads in their school plays, speak three languages, play nine instruments and still,
still,
they come here looking for a leg up—that extra edge that will guarantee a top-tier acceptance letter in the spring. When did it get to be so crazy?
Just then, that 15-year-old hipster, Duncan Rodriguez, saunters by and says, “Gonna be a lot more heartbreak than triumph after all is said and done.”
“What?” I ask.
“Well,” Duncan says, pulling off his Goggle glasses and polishing the lenses with his skinny black tie, “not only are most of these sex-starved teens gonna go home with nothing more to hook up with than their hand, they all think being here is like some golden Wonka Bar ticket, like it’s gonna seal the deal with their top choice school. But there’s no way you can
all
get in to your top choices.”
“Why not?” asks Mac innocently.
“Cuz,” Duncan says, putting on his glasses again. “Numbers don’t add up. Harvard had an acceptance rate last year of 5.9 percent—the lowest rate in the history of the school. That means out of the 34K and change applications, just north of
two
thousand were accepted. There’s like a hundred or so rising seniors here, yeah? And I bet thirty or forty of them have Harvard as their top choice, right?”
“I know Emily does,” I blurt out without meaning to.
“There ya go. So that means of the, let’s say… thirty-five that are applying to Harvard, only two will get in.
Two!
That’s thirty-three disappointed sets of parents back home. And still, all of these posers are positively salivating at the prospect of another Katrina or Sandy hitting their home state and the opportunities they think will come with that—chance to pad the resume, give weight to their personal statements, add gravitas to their entrance interview. ‘
Oh you were there when Hurricane Calliope hit… what was that like for you?
’ It’s the new blood sport, gentlemen. Competitive volunteering.”