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Tuesday, June 10
The Day the News Broke
147 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION
The moment my horrible yearbook photo first appeared on millions of televisions, sending jaws dropping, phones ringing, and joggers tumbling off their treadmills across America, I was in the middle of my AP US history final.
The test room was silent, apart from the incessant click click click of the overhead clock, until the buzzer sounded and we rushed to hand off our best efforts and flee the building in relief. It was the last scheduled exam of the year, nothing waiting for us outside these halls but summer. Two seniors skipped past me along the linoleum. Even I felt myself smiling, really smiling, not just faking it.
“What did you think?” Lily Hornsby caught up behind me, more dazed than giddy. She’d been my assigned study partner in US history, which was a lucky break—she’d turned out to be one of the friendliest people in my new school.
“Mostly okay.” At her wince, I backtracked. “What was with that Grover Cleveland question? We didn’t go over that stuff at all!”
“I know, right?” She sighed. “At least it’s done. So what are you up to this summer?”
Good question. I’d been so focused on schoolwork all year that I hadn’t thought ahead to the break. I should have been applying for summer jobs, pre-college programs, whatever it was that normal people did between junior and senior year. But until today, I’d been at my mental limit just studying for tests, thinking forward one day and then the next. Any further than that and the haze set in again, heavy and thick with sadness.
“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted.
We swung through the front doors, met by a blinding blue sky and a solid wall of Low Country humidity, plus the now familiar marsh smell that hugged my school on hot days. It was summer, all right. I needed to find a way to fill it.
“Whoa.” Lily pointed at the parking lot. “What’s up with that?”
Some sort of news event had sprung up in front of the school—three vans with satellite dishes on top, parked in a lazy triangle next to what looked like live reports being filmed.
Even in daylight, even on the opposite coast, the scene felt familiar. I wrapped my arms around myself, my skin prickling with dread.
“You all right?” Lily touched my shoulder.
“Yeah.” I forced myself to turn, glad that I’d parked on a side street and wouldn’t have to walk through that mess. “I just hope nobody’s hurt.”
“It’s probably a teachers’ strike.” Lily shrugged, but I felt her glance at me a second later. She knew about my mom, everyone did, which made her careful, sometimes painfully so. I forced a smile, embarrassed that I’d let myself get spooked.
A group of Lily’s friends was waiting for her on the corner. I gave an awkward wave and started to duck away, but Lily stopped me.
“A bunch of us are gonna go celebrate at Mario’s tonight,” she said, nodding in the direction of the James Island pizza place that was a magnet for most of my high school. “Like eight o’clock? You should totally come.”
She grinned and hurried away before I could conjure one of my usual excuses. One of her friends, a tall kid from my physics class, raised his hand in greeting and I called out to the back of Lily’s head, “Okay!”
This is fine, I pep-talked myself, stepping into the shade of ivy-strung trees. I’ll go out. Be normal. Or at least learn to imitate it better.
Just as I got to my old Buick, my cell phone buzzed.
My uncle Barry cut me off mid-greeting.
“Kate, honey, you need to get home right away.”
His voice was fake calm. Panicked. My feet planted themselves into the ground, my hand starting to tremble. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here, but you gotta come straight home, and listen, honey, this is important. Don’t talk to any of the reporters. Okay?”
I glanced behind me, barely able to make out the crowd in the parking lot from here. “Okay. I’m on my way.”
I drove with both clammy hands clutching the wheel. The music on the radio sounded harsh, like the soundtrack to a horror movie, so I shut it off and listened to my short, sharp breaths and thudding heart.
Almost a year ago, I’d gotten a call just like this one. I was coming out of a movie theater with a bunch of friends, turning my phone on, laughing about how bad the movie was. I answered, even though I didn’t recognize the number. It was Marta, my mom’s best friend. Her voice was controlled too, like Barry’s, like she was fighting to keep a scream at bay.
“You need to come home, Kate,” she’d said. “Something’s happened.”