The Unexpected Everything (2 page)

“While the investigation is ongoing, I will be taking a leave of absence. I feel that I cannot serve my district or my state
effectively while this is being investigated. I will be donating my salary to the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund.”

I hadn't heard about the charity—it wasn't in the last draft of the speech Peter read to me, and I tried not to let any surprise pass over my face. But I couldn't help wondering if it had been a last-minute addition, or if this was just something they hadn't thought I needed to know.

“I will be taking this time away from Congress to reflect on any actions that might have brought me here and to spend time with my family.” My father glanced over at me, and I gave him the smile that Peter had made me rehearse that morning. It was supposed to be supportive, encouraging, and kind, but couldn't be too happy. I had no idea if it came off or not, but all I could think as my dad turned back to the press was how strange this all was—this bizarre theater we were performing for the national press on our front porch. “I will not be taking any questions at this time. Thank you very much for your attention.”

He turned away from the podium as the reporters on our lawn started yelling questions. As we'd practiced, I walked toward my dad, and he put his arm around my shoulders as someone pulled the front door open from the inside. I glanced back to see Peter stepping smoothly up to the podium, answering the shouted questions my dad had walked away from.

The second we were inside, my dad dropped his arm and I took a step away. The door was firmly shut behind us by one of the interns who'd arrived with Peter last week. The intern nodded at my dad, then hustled out of the foyer, fast. Most of the interns—I never bothered to learn their names unless they were particularly cute—had been avoiding him since the story
broke, not meeting his eye, clearly not sure how to behave. Usually, they were unshakable, following his every move, trying to prove themselves invaluable, the better to get a job later. But now, it was like my dad was radioactive, and just being around him might damage their future job prospects.

“Thanks,” my dad said after clearing his throat. “I know that can't have been easy for you.”

It was only years of practice and ingrained media training that kept me from rolling my eyes. As though my dad had ever cared about what was easy for me. “It was fine.”

My dad nodded, and silence fell between us. I realized with a start that we were alone—no Peter, no constantly buzzing BlackBerry. I tried for a moment to remember the last time it had been just me and my dad, together in a way that hadn't been staged for the cameras, engineered to appear casual. After a moment I realized it had probably been December, my dad and I driving together to a post-holiday charity event. He'd tried to ask me about my classes, until it became painfully clear to both of us that he had no idea what they were. We'd given up after a few minutes and listened to the news on the radio for the rest of the drive.

I glanced up and saw our reflection in the hall mirror, a little startled to see us standing next to each other. I always wanted to think I looked like my mother, and I had when I was little. But I was looking more and more like my dad every year—the proof was being reflected right in front of me. We had the same freckly skin, same thick auburn hair (more brown than red, except in the light), same thick dark brows that I was constantly having to tweeze into submission, same blue eyes and dark eyelashes. I was even tall like him, and lanky, whereas my mother had been
petite and curvy, with curly blond hair and green eyes. I looked away from the mirror and took a step back, and when I looked up again, it was just my dad reflected back, which felt better—not like the two of us were being forced into a frame together.

“So,” my dad said, reaching into his suit jacket pocket—undoubtedly for his BlackBerry. He stopped after a second, though, and dropped his hand, when he must have remembered it wasn't there. Peter had confiscated it so that it wouldn't go off during the press conference. He'd taken my cell phone too, which even I had to admit was a good idea—my three best friends had a tendency to start epic text threads, and even if my phone had been on silent, its buzzing would have been distracting and probably would have spawned a story of its own—
This press conference is like sooooo boring! Texting daughter can't even pay attention as Walker's career hits the skids.
My dad stuck his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat again. “So. Andie. About this summer. I—uh . . .”

“I won't be here,” I reminded him, and even saying the words, I could feel relief flooding through me. “My program starts the day after tomorrow.” My dad nodded, his brow furrowed, which meant he had no idea what I was talking about but didn't want to tell me that, just wanted to look concerned and engaged. I'd been watching him do it with opponents and voters for years, and tried not to let myself be surprised that he hadn't remembered. “The Young Scholars Program,” I clarified, knowing telling him was the simplest path out of this. “It's at Johns Hopkins.”

“Ah,” my dad said, his brow clearing, and I saw he actually was remembering, not just pretending to remember while waiting for Peter to whisper something in his
ear. “Of course. That's right.”

The program at Johns Hopkins was one of the best in the country, designed for high school students who were planning to be pre-med in college. My friend Toby insisted on calling it pre-pre-med-med, and the fact that I kept telling her not to only seemed to be making the name stick. You stayed on campus in the dorms, took advanced math and science classes, and got to shadow interns and residents on their hospital rotations. I'd known I wanted to be a doctor since I could remember. I had a story I told to reporters about my dad giving me a toy stethoscope for Christmas when I was five that actually wasn't true, but I'd said it enough now that it
felt
true. When I was applying to the program, I was confident I'd get in based on my grades—I did well in all my subjects, but I did great in math and science; I always had. And it didn't hurt that one of my dad's biggest supporters was Dr. Daniel Rizzoli, who was the former provost of Johns Hopkins. When he'd handed me my letter of recommendation, handwritten on heavy, cream-colored paper, I'd known I was in.

I'd been looking forward to it all year, but with everything that had been happening, I was practically counting down the minutes. My dad could stay here and sort things out on his own, and hopefully by the time I came back in August, things would be settled. But either way, in two days this would no longer be my problem. In forty-eight hours I would be gone. I would be in a dorm room in Baltimore, meeting my new roommate, Gina Flores, in person for the first time, and hoping that her tendency to never use exclamation points in any of her texts or e-mails was a weird quirk and not actually indicative of her personality. I would be reading over my syllabus for the millionth time
and getting my books from the campus bookstore. I would hopefully have met someone cute at orientation already, halfway to my summer crush. But I would not be
here
, which was the most important thing.

“Are you all set with everything?” my dad asked, and I wondered if this sounded as strange to him as it did to me, like he was reading badly written lines he hadn't fully memorized. “I mean . . . do you need a ride?”

“I'm fine,” I said quickly. The last thing I needed was to have my dad drive me onto campus trailed by a CNN news truck. “Palmer's driving me. It's all arranged.” Palmer Alden—one of my three best friends—loved any opportunity for a road trip, and when she'd seen me looking into buses and car services, she'd jumped into action and started planning our route, complete with mixes and snack stops. Her boyfriend, Tom, was coming as well, mostly because he insisted, since there was a rumor that
Hairspray
was going to be our school musical next year, and he wanted to do some “method research.”

“Oh, good,” my dad said. Peter must have finished answering a question, because suddenly the shouts of the press outside got louder. I winced slightly and took a step away from the door.

“Well,” I said, tipping my head toward the kitchen. My phone was in there, I was pretty sure. Not that I even really needed to check it, but I wanted this to be over. The whole day had been strange enough, and we didn't need to keep adding to it by trying to have the world's most awkward conversation. “I'm going to . . .”

“Right,” my dad said, his hand reaching toward his suit jacket again, out of habit, before he caught himself halfway and
dropped it. “And I should . . .” The sentence trailed off, and my dad glanced around the entryway, looking lost. I felt a sudden flash of sympathy for him. After all, my dad always had something to do. He was beyond busy, his day scheduled to the minute sometimes, always in the center of a group of staff and handlers and interns and assistants. He ran his team; he was respected and powerful and in control. And now he was standing in our foyer without his BlackBerry, while the press tore him apart just a few feet away.

But even as I felt bad for him, I knew there wasn't anything I could do or say. My dad and I fixed our own problems—we took care of them ourselves, didn't share them with each other, and that was just the way it went. I gave him a quick smile, then started toward the kitchen.

“Andie,” my dad said when I was nearly to the kitchen door. “I . . .” He looked at me for a moment before putting his hands in his pockets and dropping his gaze to the wooden floors, which seemed impervious to scratching, looking as brand-new as the day I'd first seen this house, like nobody actually lived here at all. “Thank you for standing up there with me. I know it was hard. And I promise I won't ask you to do that again.”

A memory flashed before me, fast, just a collection of images and feelings. Another press conference five years earlier, my mother, her hands on my shoulders, squeezing them tight as I tried not to flinch while the flashes went off in my eyes. The way she'd leaned down to whisper to me right before, when we were standing behind the doors of my dad's congressional offices, the synthetic hair of her wig tickling my cheek, so unlike the soft curls I used to wind around my finger whenever
she would let me. “Remember,” she'd said, her voice low and meant only for me, “if things get too dramatic, what are you going to do?”

“Mom,” I'd said, trying not to smile, but fighting it with every millimeter. “I'm
not
.”

“You are,” she said, straightening my dress, then my headband. She tugged on the end of her hair and arched an eyebrow at me. “If things are going badly and we need a distraction, just reach up and yank it off. They'll forget all about what they were asking your dad.”

“Stop,” I said, but I was smiling then; I couldn't help it. She leaned down closer to me, and I felt my smile falter as I could see just how thin she was, her skin yellowing underneath the makeup she'd carefully applied. How I could see the veins in her face, the ones that we must all have—but on the rest of us they were hidden, not exposed where they shouldn't be.

How the press conference had gone on longer than they'd expected, how my mother had left me to go stand with my dad when he started talking about her. It had all been about her, after all—the reason he was pulling his name from consideration for vice president, despite the fact that it was going to be him, everyone knew that. It was
supposed
to be him. How hard I'd fought not to cry, standing alone, knowing even then that if I did, that would be the story, the picture on the front page. And when it was over, how my dad had given me a hug and promised me that was that, and I'd never have to go through another one of those again.

“Really,” I said now, my voice coming out sharper than I'd expected. My dad blinked at me, and I held his gaze for a moment, wondering if he even remembered the last time we'd
done this, or if they all blended together, just another promise he'd made that he couldn't actually keep. “Because I've heard that before.”

I didn't want to see if he understood what I meant. I wasn't sure I could take another fake furrowed brow, not about something like this. So I just gave him a nod and headed into the kitchen, walking twice as fast as usual, ready to put all of this far behind me, and suddenly feeling, for the very first time, that nobody gave rats the credit they deserved for abandoning the sinking ships. They were the smart ones, getting out while they still could. After all, they saw the way things were going, and they were just looking out for themselves. And so was I.

PALMER

Andie!! How are you doing?

BRI

You looked great on CNN.

TOBY

Totally great. Did you do that thing with the curling iron? Remember, the thing you promised months ago to teach me?

BRI

Toby.

TOBY

What? I'm trying to say she looked good. And that I would like to as well.