Red Blooded (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

I
hate public readings.
Sure
,
it’s nice to meet fans of my writing
,
but reading your thoughts aloud to strangers is not an enjoyable activity.
Especially if Jen isn’t there.
With her encouraging blue eyes on me
,
I
can skid through.
Without her
,
I’m a sweating
,
stuttering mess.

Whereas she speaks eloquently in public all the time.
She’s able to talk with poise and commonality at a car factory and then a roadside diner and then a fundraising event
,
often all in a single day.
It’s beautiful to behold.

* * *

Town Halls are one thing. Conventions are quite another. And two days later, Dylan has softened only slightly. He still grunts a lot more than I remember him doing before our current setup.

Like now, as he taps the window. We’re in a high-up luxury room looking down at the convention floor. There are people from all over the country who traveled to Pittsburgh for the Democratic National Convention. Everyone seems so...intense. It’s a whirl of buzz and palpitations.

“This is intimidating,” I say.

“They’re excited,” Dylan says, and I can tell by the way his fingers continue to tap he’s not just talking about the people below.

“It’s nice that they support us, of course, but it’s a lot to live up to.”

“You’ll do great.” His fingers freeze, steady, as he looks at me.

There’s a loud thump and some profanity on the other side of the door. Bain doesn’t wait for me to say “come in.” He barrels through with a couple of staffers bobbing along behind him. If the crowd below is intense, these staffers are downright ferocious.

“Peyton,” Bain says with a clap, as though I’m his best friend. “How’s the speech coming?”

I smile and straighten my shoulders and try to respond, but I can’t help seeing the way Gin, one of the staffers, snidely asks Dylan how “work” is going. Yeah, he uses air quotes. Dylan cocks his head and—

“Peyton!” Bain snaps everyone’s attention back to him.

“Yeah, the speech,” I say. “It’s good, I feel good about it.”

Bain sticks his legal pad under his armpit. “All right, let’s hear it.”

“Right now?” I swallow and rub my fingers against my palms.

“Right now.” Bain stares at me. Dylan scrolls in his tablet and hands it to me, my speech all lined up. This isn’t necessary though. I’ve memorized it.

I memorized it because that’s something I can control. There are too many other things I can’t control. Like my mouth, which is now so dry, it’s hard to open.

“Honey,” Bain says, and his inflection makes an otherwise endearing address sound caustic. “If you can’t do it in front of me, how do you expect to do it in front of America?”

“I got it, okay.” I stare him down. Or, at least, I try to.

I start off in a low voice and only shake, oh, about the level of a 4.2 earthquake when Bain snaps, “Louder and look up.”

I look up, but my words trip and fall over each other. All I can think about is how Bain should retire to one of those little islands where the drinks have umbrellas. He’d like that, right? Yeah, he should retire and leave me the fuck alone.

“Stop, stop,” Bain says. “Gin, make yourself useful and get her a fucking cup of water.”

Gin dashes to the bathroom.

“Peyton, I know I’m not your favorite person. But you need to look up when you talk. Speak loudly and clearly.” As if in demonstration, he locks my eyes and continues in a slow, precise voice. “If you stumble, we’ll know it’s because you’re nervous or distracted. But America will think it’s because you don’t believe what you’re saying.”

Gin dashes back with my water so fast he trips. The cup goes flying, drenching my right side.

Cold shocks my skin, but Gin looks worse. He’s red and still on his knees. I reach down to help him up. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Bain looks to the ceiling, a vein in his neck threatening to pop out. “Peyton has to meet with fucking funders in twenty minutes.”

He says it as though Gin wouldn’t have accidentally spilled water on me if only he’d known that fact.

“It’s okay,” I say, flipping my dress away from my leg and dabbing it with some paper towels that Dylan hands me. “If we can find a blow dryer or something it won’t take long at all to—”

Bain snaps his fingers and juts his thumb in Gin’s direction.

Gin scrambles out of the room.

Bain sighs. “Dylan, get over here.”

Dylan strides to Bain, and Bain puts his hands on Dylan’s shoulders, turning him to face me. “Okay, you don’t need to say your speech looking at me, but you need to be looking at someone. So, can you keep your eyes on him while you talk?”

“Yes,” I say, but too softly for Bain’s liking.

He puts his hand behind his ear and leans toward me. “I’m sorry, did you say—”

“Yes!” I yell. I breathe in. Before Bain can mock me again, I start my speech. “I didn’t have any siblings...”

I focus on Dylan’s brown eyes. When he smiles, I get lost somewhere between the memorized words and muddy comfort. When I start talking about my dad, Dylan’s eyes crease, his chin dips forward further. He coaxes the words out. He coaxes the memories.

“...Please help us welcome the next Vice President of the United States of America,” I conclude, but don’t look away from Dylan.

He grins and pulls something out of his pocket. A neatly folded tissue.

I barely hear Bain’s booming voice as he exits the room, off to complete another task on his long to-do list. “Fucking fantastic, Peyton, just like that.”

I take the tissue and glide it under my eye.

Gin scrambles in with a hair dryer and holds it out to me. “It’s fine, really,” I say. He looks around and, realizing Bain’s gone, he shrugs and leaves.

I go to the corner and plug the hair dryer in. At first I turn it on my leg, but that’s of course too hot. I try to hold my dress out myself, but really, it would be best if...

“Why don’t I hold the hair dryer and you hold your dress,” Dylan says, taking the tool out of my hand.

I hold it out for him as he delicately sprays warm air toward some of my more sensitive parts. He’s got to get close to do it correctly, so when he looks up and asks me if it’s too hot, his breath is only a couple of inches from my mouth. He’s got me cornered.

My face warms.

He clicks off the hair dryer. “This is kind of ridiculous.”

“I’ll take my dress off.”

His mouth parts.

“In the bathroom,” I say, pointing.

He laughs, but it’s this weird laugh that’s more of a grunt. I guess we’re back to the frustrated grunts. He steps aside and I brush by him.

I stand alone in my underwear in the bathroom, blowing the bottom of my dress dry. Just another day on the campaign trail.

Chapter Twelve

In kindergarten
,
Peyton drew a picture of our family.
She drew Jen with pearls and a blue dress and her raven hair pulled tight in a bun.
But for my hair she took out the gray crayon
,
along with the black and brown crayons.

“
What is this gray?
”
I
said in mock anger as I shook the picture.
“
My hair’s not gray!
”

Peyton twisted her head and bit her lip.
She ran from the room.
I
sighed
,
thinking I’d upset her.
But she came trampling back
,
her bare feet pounding along the linoleum in the kitchen.
A
bit out of breath
,
she held the retrieved object up to me as she encouraged me to look.

It was a mirror.

* * *

The convention is filled with handshakes and hugs. It’s not so bad, though. I meet a few parents of kids with learning disorders and we talk about how precious great teachers are. I also met a woman who lost her father recently, and I teared up as I told her you never get over it, you just keep living, and that’s okay.

After the blur of fundraising events and meet-and-greets, it’s time for me to take center stage, if only briefly. Hoping to be distracted, I watch the people bustling about in the staging area. Maybe if I focus really hard on the journalist flirting with the makeup artist I’ll forget that I’m about to speak in front of millions of people, and that if I make a small flub, it will reverberate across the cable news channels.

And a big flub? I can’t even think about that.

Dylan comes up from behind me, a bag over his shoulder. “You want to practice again?”

“No, I know what to do. I’m just afraid that when I’m up there, seeing all those people, realizing the moment, I’m going to cry.” Even scanning the bit about losing my dad, which is about two-thirds of the introduction, gives me that feeling in the back of my throat and that pressure around my forehead where your body says it’s time to let the tears loose.

Dylan shakes his head at me. “It would actually be great if you cried. We’re trying to humanize your mom, and seeing her daughter crying because she’s talking about her dad will help that.”

“But I’m always the emotional one in my family. I’m the one who needs the tissues and the water. I’m the one who gets all red in the face when I’m angry or embarrassed. And, oh, by the way, I get angry or embarrassed. My mom doesn’t. My grandpa doesn’t.”

“Well, you’re a squib,” Dylan says, a grin emerging.

I shove his shoulder and turn away from him.

“Whoa,” Dylan says, laughing. “Seriously, Peyton, is this really getting to you?”

“No,” I say to the wall. He doesn’t know that my dad isn’t my dad, of course. I need to keep it together. But he’s quiet for too long. I turn to him and he’s staring at me, no humor left. “Come here.”

He walks toward one of the makeup mirrors in the corner. I’m not sure what he’s getting at, but I follow. He puts his bag on the makeup counter and steps behind me. His hands curve over my shoulders and I close my eyes. When I realize what I’ve done, I pop them back open. My face blooms a hot red. “No Carmichaels get red faces like this. Always cool under pressure, see?” I say.

He smiles, more to himself than to me.

“Why are you smiling?” My red embarrassment turns to red anger.

His smile grows into something with teeth, perfectly nice, white teeth. “Why are you blushing?”

He squeezes my shoulders but then mercifully lets them go. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms.

“Look at the mirror. Forget your red hair. Look at your chin, your mouth. It’s a Carmichael chin and mouth to a tee.”

“But...”

“And it’s not just your looks. I’ve been following you around for almost a week now.”

“Has it really been that long? Feels like a year.”

He laughs and tightens his crossed arms. “I just mean I’ve gotten to know you. And I know you’re a Carmichael and an Arthur.” He can’t quite make eye contact with me when he says it.

“How do you know that?” I ask, heart thumping, some kind of hot, fusing liquid coursing through my veins. The thumping knowledge that I’m not an Arthur, not really, hurts my brain. Does he know it?

He still doesn’t look up. His chin is almost touching his shirt.

“What do you know about me?” I stare at him, ready for him to be brave enough to stare back.

“I know that you’re compassionate in the practical sense, like a Carmichael, but also in the personal sense, like your dad.” He waits, as though it’s a question.

“Yeah,” I say, stepping toward him.

He leans ever so slightly to me. “Unlike Carmichaels, but like your dad, you’re quick to apologize and you’re forgiving.”

“My mom can apologize.”

“Quickly?” he asks. “I’m a big supporter of your mom. But she’s a politician. There’s always some strategy before an apology.”

I wave my hand. “Okay, yeah, yeah, but what about that compassionate thing? My mom is compassionate.”

“But she’s not tender,” he says.

“Tender?” I ask, feeling the heat leave my face as he looks at me and continues.

“I just mean, your mom has empathy for people and that’s great. She’s the kind of person you want making health care laws, but she’s not the kind of person you want sitting next to you in bed when you’re sick.”

“And I am?” My organs beat against my ribs. Is he saying he wants me to take care of him when he’s sick? Do I want to be the one who takes care of Dylan when he’s sick?

“Well, yeah,” he says. “We all know you’re good at taking care of someone who’s sick.”

Oh. He means my dad.

“So, you see, you’ve got the best of both. You’re a Carmichael and an Arthur.”

“I’m a Carmichael and an Arthur,” I say.

He taps the side of my shoulder. “And you also cry, which makes for great television.”

I push him against the counter and he raises his hands in faux defeat.

“It’s all well and good that you think it’s fine I cry, but there are logistical concerns.”

He opens his bag. There’s half a dozen of those plastic tissue things, a couple of water bottles, a cosmetic case, and perhaps, most important, some gummy bears.

“I could kiss you.” I smile, but he doesn’t return it. Instead, his mouth parts and his forehead furrows. Maybe he’s trying to figure out if I meant it. “I didn’t actually mean we should...not that I wouldn’t want to...I mean, I just...” Why can’t I shut up? “We need to focus.”

Dylan’s eyes crease. “Yeah, we need to focus.”

Chapter Thirteen

Jen’s sister
,
Victoria
,
is the kind of woman who will ask to borrow a Q-tip and then
,
the next time you see her
,
she’ll hand you a fresh pack of Q-tips.
She doesn’t like being in debt to anyone.
But even the proudest amongst us have loads we can’t carry.

* * *

Dylan and I walk back to the staging area in silence. My aunt Victoria waits, at the ready. “Peyton,” she breathes as she takes me in for a hug, her manicured hands careful not to crumple my navy blue dress.

“I’m nervous,” I say.

“We’re going to do great.” She stands back, squeezing my arms as I smell her familiar perfume. Like summer berries.

I turn to Dylan. “Will you be somewhere I can see you?” I don’t care about sounding desperate or needy and piling on the awkward. I’ll deliver a stronger speech if I can see him. That’s what matters, and he knows it too.

“Yeah, just look for a fluorescent orange poster about a third up on the left, okay?”

I nod. He knocks my shoulder and gives me a smile.

My body warms in a relaxed, excited way as I watch him leave.

Even though we wait for it, even though the schedule is running like clockwork, when the big voice booms, introducing my aunt and me, a weird tingle freezes my throat.

We walk onto the stage.

My aunt starts. “Growing up with Jen, I always knew she was destined to lead. When she was sixteen, and I was just a shy little six-year-old, she’d take me to the park. She’d spend equal time teaching me how to braid grass strands together and telling me why our dad’s job was so important. ‘He helps make the rules that everyone follows.’”

I keep my smile toward the crowd, but it’s hard not to look at my aunt occasionally. Be natural, that’s what Dylan would say. So, I’m natural. I let my gaze shift to my aunt now and then as I keep my hands folded in front of me.

“I remember being rather amazed at that,” she continues. “‘Our dad gets to boss everyone else around! What power.’”

I let out a small laugh along with the audience.

“But, Jen
tsked tsked
me.” She shakes her pointer finger. “She said it’s not about power, it’s about responsibility. And I know that’s what she relishes about her job. Not the power to change lives, but the responsibility to change lives.”

I’m impressed that my normally timid aunt crescendos the last bit of her speech, bringing the simmering crowd to a boil. The audience cheers and hollers as she presses her hand into my arm, holding tight.

It’s my turn.

My aunt releases her grip as I take over the podium.

“I didn’t have any siblings, but I didn’t think I needed them, because I was lucky enough to be close to both of my parents.” I pause, just like Dylan and I practiced. The tears teeter on my eyelids.

I wait for the somber murmurs to drift up the seats of the convention. Attention refocuses on me. “My dad was a great man,” I say, and a few “Amens” and a “He sure was” bellow from the crowd. “But I realize that my mom was part of what made him great. She was always there to give him an apple when he, well, you know, spent too much time in one particular room of our house.” The laughter swells around me, giving me energy to go on. “She made sure he never left the house with a navy blue tie and black suit or cursed out critics who gave his books bad reviews, no matter how much he wanted to.”

I breathe in and stare at the tiny microphone in front of me. Its puffy little absorber and long metal neck. Such a small piece of machinery that can give voice to someone like me. I look at the crowd and catch a sign that says

Who is Peyton’s Father?

Richard Arthur

A Boogeyman Invented by the Right Wing

Tough call...

I swallow hard. The sign is meant to be encouraging, but it’s wrong. My father is the boogeyman. There’s shuffling in the audience. I’ve been quiet for too long. I force myself to steam ahead as best as I can. “And, when he had to confront the fact that he wouldn’t be with us much longer, she made sure his last days were great days.” My voice shakes. I rub my fingers along the edge of the podium and look for Dylan.

As promised, he’s two-thirds up, holding an orange poster:
You can do it
,
Squib.

My lips spread into a smile even as the salty tears slip over them. Boogeyman. Squib. Whatever. I will figure this out. Later. Right now I have to focus.

“My mom is the kind of person you want in good times, she’s the kind of person you want in bad times, and she’s the kind of person you need in the worst times. I’m honored to introduce her tonight. Please help us welcome the next Vice President of the United States of America, Jen Arthur.”