Authors: Caitlin Sinead
Chapter Nine
Peyton hated when I went on research trips for my books.
But I’d become known for covering regional subcultures
,
and it’s hard to research regional subcultures without actually going to those regions.
Still
,
whenever I left
,
she cried and wrapped her hands around my leg
,
holding on a lot tighter than you’d think a three-year-old could.
I
walked and groaned and lamented.
“
Why am I having trouble walking?
Usually I walk fine
,
but today...
”
I’d say
,
picking my child-wrapped leg up with no little amount of effort.
“
It feels like something’s holding me back.
”
She’d laugh into my knee
,
mixing giggles and tears on my cotton pants.
* * *
As soon as we get to headquarters, they tell us to wait in the boardroom. I’m too jumpy and itchy to wait, but Dylan sits quietly, so I try. I sit down, touching the glass on the table. I make smudge marks. I put my hands in my lap and ignore them.
Lisa flaps the door open, bursting into the boardroom. She sighs at the sight of me.
“Lisa, I’m so sorry, I had no idea they were recording me. I mean, a hidden camera? I didn’t realize I was in a spy movie.” I tweak my lips up into a can-we-see-the-humor-in-this-yet? smile.
There’s no humor to be had. She crosses her arms and stares at me. Death rays are coming from her eyes. “Seriously, you didn’t realize that people have phones with recording devices?”
Dylan frowns at the glass, and I swallow back any other jokes I was going to make along with anything that was left of my pride.
“Peyton, you wait here. Bain is going to handle you,” Lisa says. I’m starting to hate the word
handle
. “Dylan, I need to speak with you.” She turns to leave.
He pauses, watching me.
“Now, Dylan,” Lisa calls from the hallway. He pivots and follows her.
I don’t want to cause any more trouble, but twenty minutes swim by and I really have to pee. So I get up and walk down the hall. It’s like a maze in here, but, finally, at last, I find the bathroom. Relief.
As I walk back, I hear my mom’s voice coming from around the corner. It’s soft. She’s whispering. I edge closer, toe to heel on the soft carpet, gingerly rolling my feet to keep as quiet as possible.
“I’ll tell her the truth at some point, but she’s dealing with so much right now, between the election and—”
A man cuts her off. “Look, I won’t fucking tell you how to handle fucking family secrets.” Even if I didn’t recognize the voice, which I do, the liberal sprinkling of the word
fuck
gives Bain away. Oh, and
handle
. He likes that word. Maybe that’s why I hate it.
But what was he saying about family secrets? I lean close to the wall, trying desperately to hear around the corner.
“However,” Bain continues, “if she knew the truth, then she’d at least know enough to fucking play along, right? Her fucking curiosity would stop running wild.”
“No,” my mom responds with sharp whispers. “She’s too genuine. She wouldn’t know how to keep that in. If she finds out Richard wasn’t her biological father, it will break her.”
What? My lungs decide they can’t work anymore, and running my sweaty palms against my face does nothing to calm me down. I bend over, calming my trembling hands on my quaking knees and forcing the air in and out, like I just got hit in the stomach with a soccer ball. And that’s how I feel. Knocked out.
“I can’t tell her that now,” my mom continues. “She’s not a good enough actress.”
Bain sighs. “You’re probably right. But I don’t want her looking up information about genetics and telling people she thinks there’s something to this. That’s got to fucking stop.”
But there
is
something to it. He just said so. My mom just said so. My dad isn’t my biological dad. My mom has been lying to me for my entire life. Was she lying to my dad too?
And now my lungs work overtime. My body feels like one of those squirmy, slowly wiggling bridges you see in earthquake videos.
“And it will stop,” my mom promises. No, she pleads.
“Yeah, it will. I’m making sure of that. She isn’t going to like our plan, but tough fucking cookies.”
The world gets a smidge spiny, so it takes me a second to realize the “tough fucking cookies” sounded different. Bain moved. He’s walking toward the corner. The increasingly loud clicking of my mom’s shoes are a clearer signal: they’re headed my way.
I swirl around and dash. The voices come fast. Bain’s continued liberal sprinklings of
fuck
nip at my heels. There’s a clunk, like a pen dropping hard on the floor. The footsteps stop. Mine keep going, racing down the hall as quietly as I can. Thank god I wore ballet flats, not heels, and my section of the hallway has carpet.
I make it down the hallway and run into the boardroom. I stand behind the table, trying to calm my breaths from my massive sprint. It takes me several seconds to get the world to focus right.
My dad isn’t my dad.
My dad isn’t my dad.
It churns in my mind.
Bain bursts in. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
It comes out of me the way sparks burst and flurry when you throw another log on the fire: “You can’t fucking talk to me like that.”
As my blood boils, my mom walks in behind Bain with her hands out, palms to the floor. “Why don’t we all try to refrain from cursing and discuss this like adults?”
I swallow. I want to talk about my dad, but what am I supposed to say? And what if my mom keeps lying to me? Could I handle it?
Bain throws down his legendary legal pad and runs his hands over his short, clipped hair. “I thought I told you not to hang out with that f—...that Tristan kid.”
“You can’t keep me from—”
“Wait, Peyton,” my mom says, before staring at Bain with hard eyes. “You said what?”
Bain tilts his head. “What are you talking about? I didn’t say
fuck
.”
My mom sighs and folds her arms. “You told Peyton to stop hanging out with Tristan?”
I want to jump in, but it’s better to let it unravel naturally. I cross my arms too.
“Look, I’m not judging you for letting her hang out with someone like that. Fine, whatever. But the more she hangs out with him, the more likely some reporter looking for a fresh story is going to dig into Peyton’s and his past. And it won’t take them long to find out he’s a whor—” Bain pauses and looks at me. “That he’s up for doing whatever to almost anyone. And sometimes he gets paid for it. America isn’t going to understand.”
“Peyton supports Tristan because he’s her friend. And there are reasonable arguments for legalizing prostitution. It’s not as radical as it once was. We could certainly defend my daughter being friends with someone who has those beliefs.” Her fingers curl neatly over the back of a chair, her focus never wavering. Bain huffs and looks to the ceiling. “Sure, we
could
. But why, when we don’t have to? It would be fucking distracting, and no matter how much you may want to get on your proud, progressive pedestal, it’s going to sully Peyton, and it’s going to sully you. If she just stays the fuck away from him, we won’t need to waste resources on it.”
Bain doesn’t exactly back down in front of my mom, but I can tell by the way he flips his pen in his hands he doesn’t love fighting her on this.
“Tristan has been a good friend to Peyton, and she needs good friends now more than ever. I won’t have you telling her she has to cut off an important support system.”
I want to jump over the boardroom table and hug my mom—but then I remember that she’s lying to me about my dad.
One problem at a time. My heart and blood and the cells spinning in my brain can only handle one problem at a time.
Bain’s lower jaw shifts around and finally he twists a little, like he’s kicking the dirt, except it’s not dirt. It’s corporate carpet. “Fine, but I’ll have someone put together some statements so we’re prepared if it does get out. And, if it does,” he points at me like he’s aiming for me. “You need to behave, okay? We’ve taken enough of a hit when you dropped the F-bomb.” He says it like he never, ever, in a zillion years would dare to drop the F-bomb. “If this Tristan shit gets out, you were just supporting a friend and you’re trying to get him to stop. That’s how we’ll spin it. Because America’s sweetheart does not support prostitution.”
“I’m not America’s sw—”
“Honey, in my fucking media world you are.” Bain puts both palms on the glass table as he stares me down. “It works for us. Don’t fight it. Especially seeing how right now you aren’t exactly an asset to this campaign.”
Yeah, I’m not. My stomach hurts and I swallow. “I’m really sorry about last night.” I say it more to the table than to Bain. My smudge marks are still there.
“Yeah, well, the good news is, it isn’t going to happen again.”
“No, it won’t. I promise.” I also curl my fingers over the back of a chair, but somehow the move lacks the elegance my mom graces it with.
“Yeah, it won’t,” Bain says. “Because Dylan’s going to be with you round the clock till after the election.”
“What?” I look at my mom, whose lips are thin, prim.
“It’s a good idea.” Her eyes are steady with mine, but I can tell she isn’t really looking at me. “He’s young, so it shouldn’t feel too weird having him around. You seem to already get along with him. And Ruiz trusts Dylan with this task, so I trust Dylan with this task.”
Bain nods along at each point. Especially the part about trusting Dylan with this task. I’m just a task to be handled. “I don’t need someone following me around. I won’t make the same mistake again.” I lay my hands flat on the table. If I can’t be as elegant as my mom, maybe I can be as angry as Bain.
“What made you think this was up for debate?” Bain says, gripping his pen.
My mom cuts her hand through the air. It’s her way of telling him to back off. “Peyton, sometimes the media aren’t going to care that you’re in a geology class or at a restaurant or even that you’re at a college party. Sometimes the people around you will be fine. They won’t record you, they won’t Tweet what you just said. There won’t be anything to worry about. But other times, there will be a problem. It would be best if someone had your back. You need someone who can assess situations with you and help you through them.”
I coil some hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry I let you down, but—”
“Peyton,” she cuts me off. My mom rarely cuts me off. She may have faults, but she always listens. “I’m not mad, but I want to look out for you. And...” She closes her eyes and her chest rises. “I know how you feel about private security.”
My skin burns thinking about how awful it was when my mom hired a couple bodyguards for me when I was fourteen, right after my dad died and his book got really big. They were everywhere. I felt like I had invisible tethers, and I had to fight the urge to run barefoot down the street just to get away from them. I was only away from them at home, which made my home feel like a prison.
“I don’t want guards. There aren’t any serious threats, and I’m eighteen and even the government doesn’t think I need it.” I stumble through my reasoning, finishing with the fact that even the Secret Service only protects the candidates and their spouses.
“I know, Peyton. I don’t love having the Secret Service around me now either.”
Bain snorts. “Pain in the ass.”
My mom gives him a tight but knowing smile, and Bain grins. Like, an actual, natural grin. This is how my mom can affect people. She can even get a guy like Bain to grin...oh, and to wait calmly and listen as she has a heart-to-heart with her daughter.
“I assure you, Peyton,” my mom continues. “We won’t get security for you unless something warrants it, but it would put my mind at ease to know you have someone with you whenever you’re in public.”
My mind swirls with what it will be like to have Dylan around all the time. What kind of college experience will that be?
Oh my god, I am so selfish. This doesn’t just suck for me, this is horrible for Dylan. Everything he’s worked for is just gone. He’s been demoted to permanent babysitter. He’s going to hate me.
Fantastic. Fucking fantastic.
My mom gets up and comes around to my side of the table. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “It won’t be as bad as you think.”
I want to keep fighting this, but honestly, I’m tired.
And it’s hard to keep any kind of focus when I’m still thinking about my dad not being my dad.
Campaign: 1.
Peyton: 0.
Chapter Ten
You don’t want to say your kids have faults
,
but they’re human too.
Peyton’s weakness:
crying.
God knows I’ve tried to curb this.
When she cried the first time she scored a goal in soccer—because she hated seeing the wiped-out face and slagging shoulders of the defeated goalie—I told her to buck up.
When she cried during those commercials showing abused pets and blaring sappy music
,
I
told her there are a lot of sad things in the world.
Our job is to do something about them.
For example
,
we can donate money to a local shelter.
She emptied out the plastic Hannah Montana wallet in her room
,
where we let her keep some allowance
,
and I helped her put it in an envelope and address it.
But she didn’t stop crying.
When we sat on the grass in front of the Potomac with sticky fingers from Ben
&
Jerry’s and I told her my diagnosis
,
she cried.
She asked how long.
I
said a few months.
Oceans erupted from her eyes.
“
Don’t cry
,”
I
said as I stared at the gray water of the river.
“
Please don’t cry.
”
She rubbed her face and stared at the river too.
“
I
can’t help it.
”
* * *
After my mom gets back to being The Vice Presidential Candidate, Bain says one of his aides will take me back to a hotel room. I’m to stay there, ensconced, until we fly out tomorrow.
“But I can help prep for the town hall. I don’t mind just making copies or getting people coffee or whatever. Since I’m already here, let me be useful,” I say.
And let me keep busy or I’ll drown in my own thoughts.
He puts his hands behind his back and leans forward with a harsh squint. “You want to be useful?”
“Yes,” I say, not stepping back to expand my personal bubble, even though I want to.
“Then stay out of our way,” Bain says. “And keep your fucking mouth shut unless we’ve told you what’s supposed to come out of it.”
Something thuds in my chest and twinges in my tense cheeks. I cross my arms and stiffen my chin, but it doesn’t ruffle Bain. An aide flies up to him, asking if we should use the word
liberate
or
release
in a press release. Bain is so entrenched in this semantic conversation that he doesn’t notice me stealing his hotel room key, which he left next to his coffee.
Feeling the outline of his card in my purse makes the trip with the aide to my solitary room a lot more fun. I think of all the mischievous things I could do to his room, like find a spider to put on his pillow or move every item by an infuriating inch. It’s not until I get to my own room that I realize I don’t know his room number. Well, if he doesn’t have a spare key, maybe he’ll get all the way to his room before fumbling for the lost key. Then he’ll have to go all the way back down to the lobby to get another one.
What a horrible, minor inconvenience!
Booohahahaha.
That semi-victory achieved, I spend a significant portion of the afternoon throwing peanut M&M’s from the minibar into the air and catching them in my mouth as I push about in the hotel room’s rolly office chair. Yes, I’m a vital asset to the campaign.
The isolation also gives me plenty of excruciating time to chew on new information. The man who gave me gummy bears when I cried, fixed flip-flops with paperclips, and knew how soon a thunderclap would follow its streak of lightning wasn’t my dad?
My dad isn’t the guy who let me have Band-Aids even when I didn’t have a booboo.
He’s not the guy who would make jokes about grammar and laugh to himself as my mom and I gave him weird looks.
I’ve lost him all over again.
* * *
The next morning, I get to sit next to my mom on the flight to Ohio for a Town Hall. As some say, there are seven key swing states, and Ohio is three of them.
We are close physically, but eons from each other mentally. I’m hollow and shaky knowing that a hug from her won’t help me. I want to talk about my dad, but someone might hear. Can I write it on my cocktail napkin? There’s a little circle on it from the condensation of my Diet Coke. Perhaps I could ink it in over the dampness: Who is my dad?
And she’d pass me the answer, furtively, as though we were seventh grade giggling girls.
But something tells me that’s not the way to ask about my accurate lineage and family secrets that go back almost two decades, or more.
So I stare at the headrest and she stares at some paper in front of her. But she’s not reading it. She hasn’t turned the page in ten minutes.
“Mom, you okay?” I ask.
She blinks and sits up straighter. “Yes, Peyton. I’m just worried about this Town Hall. Citizens can sometimes get pretty...”
“Irksome?” I offer.
“Yes,” she smiles. “Irksome. I want to be prepared. I want to understand everything I can about what they might be thinking.”
The small, worried dent between her eyes deepens. “Are you okay?”
I pull my hair behind my ears. “Sure, yeah, I’m fine.”
“I know you don’t like this new plan. But it’s only for a couple months. Not too long at all if you think about it.” Her eyes crease too much when she smiles.
“Yeah, only a couple months.” I mirror her forced smile.
She smooths back a single, stray hair on my head. “I’m so happy to have your support in this, Peyton. It’s tough, but we’ll get through it.”
I nod. “We will.”
Like she says, it is only a couple months. But it’s the most important couple months in the election. And Dylan will need to be with me instead of on the trail. How can I face him?
* * *
At the Town Hall, I wait backstage, taking in the bustling and talks and last minute preparations.
“Hey.”
I jolt when I see Dylan. Then I try to pretend I didn’t jolt. But I’m not good at playing it cool.
“Hey,” I say. “So, I guess they’ve told you.”
“Yeah, they did,” he says.
I look off at the rest of the commotion. A woman I don’t know rushes up to Dylan. “Torres, you need to get those questions in order now.”
He scratches his arm and looks past both of us. “No, Gin’s working on that now. I’ve been...um, reassigned.”
“To what?” the woman asks, hands on her hips.
Dylan looks at me and then back at her. “I’m assisting Peyton with her relationship with the media.”
The woman narrows her eyes as I flush.
“I thought you wanted to do the questions?” she asks. “You said that was one of your favorite parts of a campaign.”
I’m not really liking this lady too much.
“Things changed, okay?” he says.
She frowns, but she can’t just stand about looking disdainful all day. We’ve got a Town Hall to put on. Soon some other tasks tug her away.
“I’m so sorry. I know this isn’t what you wanted to do for the campaign,” I say.
“No, it wasn’t,” Dylan says as he finally looks at me. Everything, from his jaw to his shoulders to his hands, are stiff.
Yep, not only do I have a handler, I have a handler who completely resents me for having to be my handler.
Great.
“I really am sorry,” I whisper.
Dylan gives a half-hearted shrug. “Lisa says I’ll still help her with some media relations tasks, like press releases. I just won’t get to be on the trail.”
He makes it sound like he’s just missing out on the icing on the cake. But I know the truth—for him, being on the trail
is
the cake. I’ve taken away his cake! I want to hold him and run my fingers through his hair. I don’t. Instead, I cross my arms and roll on my feet, not sure what else to say. “Should we just go sit down?”
He nods. We walk out into the bustling auditorium and take our reserved seats. A few townspeople call to me and I smile and wave. A middle-aged woman yells, “Peyton, your father was your father even if he wasn’t!”
She means it as encouragement, I guess, by the way she’s smiling and waving, but it makes my insides scuttle. I nod to her. Dylan pushes against my back to make me turn around. His touch is relaxing and igniting. How does he do that?
“Sit down,” he says, his other hand finding my shoulder and gently pushing down. “We’ll get through this.”