The Wrong Side of Right(7)

“I’m on that,” Nancy said. “We’ve got a couple of family shots leaking to the press right now.”

“Did Mark approve them?”

“Are you joking?”

I followed their conversation like a Ping-Pong match. There was a strange energy between them, like if one wrong word was said, somebody might start chucking ninja stars.

Nancy smiled, eyes narrowed. “I’m keeping him above the fray.”

“And where is he now?”

Louis the Leprechaun blinked, startled, as both of his colleagues turned to him. “Talking to Meg! He’ll be here soon.”

Meg. His wife.

My skin prickling, I turned away from their conversation. On TV, thankfully, my photo had vanished, replaced by footage of President Mitchell Lawrence and his family at an event for his reelection campaign. The president’s blond son was waving from the center of the screen. He was probably about my age, with a lopsided smile and a funny look in his eye, like he was searching the crowd for an escape route.

Good-looking, if you were into that golden boy sort of thing. Lily Hornsby had a photo of him in her locker.

I felt a chill, and sure enough, Elliott was staring at me.

“We need to decide what to advise,” he said.

“I’ve decided.” Nancy laughed mirthlessly. “I’m just waiting for you to agree with me. As usual.”

“Can’t hear myself think . . .” Elliott grabbed the remote and muted the TV. I glanced over to see my photo back up, and now stats scrolling on the screen: my age, my mom’s name, my . . . GPA?

I collapsed onto the sofa. “How do they know so much about me?”

Louis shrugged affably. “Most of it was in the New York Times article.”

I stood up again. “There was a New York TIMES article?”

“That’s what started all this.” Nancy sighed. “We got an early tip-off, but they rushed to publication. We beat the press here by less than twenty minutes.”

“So . . .” I held on to the sofa. “Is that how he found out? The article?”

Louis patted my back. “If you’re asking whether your dad knew about you before the article, the answer is no. He had no clue, kiddo. I can promise you that.”

Your dad, he said. Just like that. So it must be true.

“And he was dying to meet you!”

The two men stared at Nancy until her grin dropped away.

Elliott cleared his throat and motioned to the sofa. “Have a seat, Kate. I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

He sat opposite me in Uncle Barry’s La-Z-Boy. I felt suddenly defensive of this room, glad that Barry and Tess weren’t in here to see Elliott perched on the edge of the recliner like he didn’t want his suit to touch it.

“Do you follow politics?”

I hesitated. Did I know about the Electoral College, the executive branch, the names, political parties, and dates of office for every US president? Yep.

Did I know the first thing about anyone running for office right now? Um . . .

“Not much,” I admitted. Elliott’s face seemed to brighten.

“What do you think of the president? You a fan?”

“Elliott,” Nancy groaned. He shushed her and she stomped away.

“I . . .” I wasn’t sure what he was looking for. “I don’t really know enough to form an opinion.”

To my shock, he smiled. “Are you pro-choice? Pro-life?”

“Elliott!” Both Nancy and Louis cried out this time. I most certainly did have an opinion about this one, but by now I’d caught on to what he wanted. I gave him my blankest expression.

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

Elliott nodded and rose from the chair. “Okay, Nancy. But this is your play. I want to make that crystal clear. If she gets out of line, you rein her in. If she crashes and burns—”

“I’ve got it,” Nancy snapped.

Me. Crashing and burning?

Outside, there was a roar of voices.

The TV switched to live footage. A mob of reporters, an overcast sky, a house with white siding, the big bodyguard from yesterday, and right behind him, the senator, making his way to my front door.

• • •

The sky had become heavy, threatening to unload at any moment. I warily scanned the senator’s suit, hoping it wasn’t some kind of rare material that would disintegrate at a drop of rain.

He looked stiffly around the backyard, opting finally to lean-sit on the plastic slide of the jungle gym. I stood gripping the swing chain, bracing myself.

I had a working theory, developed during the maddening eons that the senator and his advisors had just spent speaking privately behind the closed doors of the TV room.

He’s going to tell you to deny it. He’s going to explain that he can’t possibly ever see you again. This is an election year. I could ruin his life. I really don’t blame him.