The Wrong Side of Right (30 page)

It doesn’t matter. Just go.

I started on my way, slowly, stifling the crunch of my feet against the pavers of the front drive.

The moon was almost full, the oaks along the property line casting black shadows against the blue lawn, the wind sending a whisper through their leaves. I fell into such a sad reverie listening to it that I didn’t notice the footsteps approaching from the darkness.

I gasped.

The figure was large, approaching at a terrifying speed. But as he got close enough for me to pick out his features, my whole body slumped with relief.

It was James. He exhaled hard, his hand relaxing from the gun on his hip.

“What are you doing out here?” He whispered it, thank goodness. He glanced at the house, then back to me with a suspicious squint. “You’re not sneaking out to see the president’s kid, are you?”

“No.” I shouldered my bag. “I’m going home.”

He wavered, confused. “This is your home.”

“No, it’s not.” I inched closer. “My uncle is my legal guardian. I go to school in South Carolina and it started three days ago. I have to get down there.”

“At one oh seven in the morning?” He crossed his arms.

“They won’t let me go. The campaign. They’ll make me stay and I don’t want to. I mean—
legally,
they have to let me go. But I’m not sure that’ll matter to them.”

James let out a slow sigh. I could see his morality meter swishing back and forth.

“Just let me go,” I murmured. “I don’t belong here.”

Holding my breath, I willed my legs to move, one step at a time, past him, toward the gate.

He grabbed my arm. I turned.

“You can’t just walk out of here.”

I lifted my chin, trying for defiance. “Why not?”

He glared at me. “Because there’s a news van parked right outside the driveway waiting for something to happen. You sneaking out? That’s something happening.”

Blood rushed to my face. “Oh.”

“Oh.”

I remembered Nancy suddenly, standing in the study,
mocking me, turning against me. But James wasn’t Nancy. He was watching me with concern, trying his best to hide a kind smile under the usual tough-guy demeanor.

“Well, I won’t go that way then. I’ll . . .”

I glanced at the dark garden running beside the house. The fence was only a little higher than the ones I’d scaled in South Carolina, breaking out of the press siege with Tim the Awful Aide that bleary morning in June.
I did it once, I can do it again.

“You don’t want to climb that,” James muttered, reading my mind. “There’s barbed wire on the other side. And we’ve got two guards on duty who I didn’t train, and therefore can’t vouch for. They see somebody on top of that fence, they’ve got orders to shoot.”

This time we said it together. “Oh.”

James grinned. I spun around.

“News van it is,” I said, and started toward the gate.

Behind me, James groaned. “All right. Where are you going?”

“Greyhound station. There’s a bus at two oh seven, so I really need to get—”

“I’m driving.” He jangled his keys and motioned for me to follow him back down the drive to where the SUV was parked. “Probably gonna get reassigned to a desk job for this.”

“Then don’t!” I whispered, slamming to a halt. “It’s not worth it.”

“You’re right.” He crossed his arms. “So go upstairs and go back to bed.”

I stared him down.

“Didn’t think so. We’re at an impasse.”

As I fastened myself into the passenger seat next to him, James peered ruefully at me over one huge shoulder.

“You know I have to tell them.”

I managed a nod.

He sniffed, started the ignition. “But I’ll wait until I get back. That’ll give you a head start if the bus is on time.”

“Thank you.”

After I bought my ticket, James drove away. I sat on one of the depot’s plastic benches with my duffel bag on my lap and watched the parking lot, waiting for James to come careening back, this time with the senator in the backseat. He’d run out, rip the ticket from my hand, and wrap me in a hug.

He’d apologize, and I’d forgive him.

But the bus was on time. And I got on it.

34

I settled into a window seat in the back and watched the world blur, the streetlamps streaking, lonely comets to light our way. When we hit the freeway, it felt like we were flying, like a cord had been cut between us and the station. Between me and DC. Me and the Coopers. Me and Andy. I was free.

It was my choice all along. Meg was right. And I chose to go. I chose
something
.

All around me were strangers traveling south, some transferring with me when we stopped in Richmond a few hours later, others staying behind to wait for buses yet to come, still others greeting family members, husbands, wives before veering off and away, never to be seen again. The sun was up now, bleary behind a curtain of cloud cover.

We stopped in a town called Dillon around noon, and I had time to buy a truck stop burrito and a prepaid phone before hitting the road again.

Nobody looked twice at me. Why should they? I was wearing jeans, my hair in a ponytail, my face bare. And I was on a Greyhound bus, not the Locomotive. Anyone who saw me might think,
Hey, she looks like that politician’s daughter,
but that would be it. I was just another traveler, on my own like
everybody else, heading to a destination of my choosing.

I began to smile. And on the last long leg into Charleston, I finally allowed myself to sleep, lulled by the now-familiar feeling of the road rolling underneath me and the soft pat of rain against the bus windows.

By the time we pulled into the depot, the sun had come out, bright enough for me to see the parking lot through the misty window. A gleaming black SUV was idling along the loading zone. James stood outside, eyeing the bus with a frown. When we stopped, he ducked his head inside the car to speak to whoever was in the backseat.

I hopped off the bus and waited to pull my bag from the undercarriage, my heart thumping louder and louder.

He’d come. This was his apology, wasn’t it? He didn’t want me to go. He’d be mad, I was sure, but still—he was here to convince me to come home.

And what would I say?

My bag on my shoulder, I rounded the bus and walked over to greet James, too exhausted to do more than wave. But when the door to the backseat opened, I was suddenly alert as I’d ever be, waiting for my father’s reaction.

Meg stepped out, clinging to the car door. Behind her, the backseat was empty.

The last, dingy vestiges of hope blew out of me. I felt curiously weightless, as if I were falling.

Meg’s eyes were red-rimmed, her mouth pulled down at the corners. “Get in.”

I shook my head.

“Just to talk. I promise.”

Inside the car, she grabbed my hands with both of hers, her eyes shining. Maybe it was from lack of sleep, but I had the sense that we were sitting inside a lucid dream. I knew this wasn’t real. And I was ready to wake up.

“He’s a hard person to get to know,” she said, making me think of Lou, how he’d defended the senator that day in HQ, said he was worth it. I wondered if he still felt that way.

Meg winced, knowing it was the wrong thing to say, not the way she’d meant to start.

“I want you to come home. And so do Gabe and Grace.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Gracie too?”

“She won’t stop crying. Practically clawed her way into the car with me.”

That chastened me. “Oh God, I don’t want them to be upset. You guys mean a lot to me. It’s just really hard . . .” I sucked in a dry breath, struggling to finish the thought. “I can’t live with someone who doesn’t want me.”

Meg grabbed my hand.

“You’re wrong about that. This campaign—it’s everything right now. It’s important.”

“To him.”

“To
America
.”

I blinked up at her, surprised by the seriousness in her expression, the lack of cynicism.

She rested one hand on my knee, steadying me, or maybe herself. “I wouldn’t have agreed to any of this—leaving my job, putting the twins out on the road, dragging you into the limelight, if I didn’t think your father was
absolutely
the right person to lead this country.”

Her smile flickered, a glitch in an old movie.

I sighed, my head falling heavy against the hard, cold window. “I’m not sure, Meg. He gives a good speech. And he’s a great listener. Everybody’s right about that. But who is he going to be listening to in the White House? Elliott?”

My finger traced a line against the foggy glass. Meg didn’t say anything.

“If I were voting in this election . . .” I shook my head. Then I turned to her. “And honestly, Meg? If you weren’t married to him, I don’t think you’d vote Cooper either.”

She let out a little laugh. An admission.

And after a moment, she sighed. “He’s a good man. That’s what I know.”

“But
I
don’t know that. I don’t know him. After three months, I don’t know him at all. And . . . I’m not even sure I want to.”

She nodded, her face drawn. My heart pounded from the audacity it took to confess that.

Out the front window, I saw a battered pickup truck pulling into the bus depot, my uncle’s faded logo shining like a golden beacon on its dusty side.

“You always told me it was my choice,” I said. Meg gripped my hand more tightly, but it didn’t sway me. Not this time. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

I hoped she knew I didn’t mean her.

“Okay.” A tear ran down her face, and she swiped it away. She nodded. “Okay. But listen. The press is going to be all over you once they find out where you are. We’ll tell them you’re up at your grandmother’s house in Massachusetts.”

She squinted out the windshield, her mind whirring.

“But then they’ll all descend on
her,
” I said, uneasy.

“She’ll be fine,” Meg replied, and at her grin I remembered Grandma Evelyn’s shotgun and nearly laughed myself.

Meg smoothed my outfit like she was seeing me off for school.

“I’ll call and check on you every day.” At my expression, she dropped her hands. “Every week, then.”

“You’ll be busy,” I said gently. “And I need some time.”

She sunk. It killed me. “Okay.”

My uncle had already taken my bag from James and loaded it into the pickup by the time I climbed in beside him. He gave me an awkward bear hug, and when I pulled back, I saw his eyes fixed on Meg’s car as it glided out of the parking lot, heading back to the freeway.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

35

Monday, September 15

My Delayed First Day of School

WHO CARES H
OW
MANY
DAYS
UNTIL
T
HE
GENERAL
ELECTION

“You don’t know half the trouble you caused . . .”

Tess’s hairdresser friend Hildy was a bit of a gossip. I sat on a chair in the bathtub upstairs as she cut my hair and filled me in on the drama that had hit James Island while I was away.

“It was that principal who leaked your school records to the press. She got canned, but they’ve ‘launched an inquiry,’ whatever that means.” Hildy chuckled. She snipped again. I winced. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it. Made the news and everything.”

So that explained why Palmetto High School was suddenly being so accommodating—allowing me to enroll under an alias and swearing up and down that they’d do their part in keeping the press at bay. I could only hope it would work.

“Done,” Hildy said.

I counted to five before I dared look in the mirror. And then I gasped. I looked like someone else. My hair was bobbed now, grazing my chin. With the afternoon glow streaming through the pink shower curtain, it looked lighter, redder, the color of sunset.

I looked just like Mom.

Clutching the sides of the sink, I steadied myself, fighting the feeling of longing that had just swept over me. When I looked up again, I saw my own face, and found myself pressing my fingers to the glass of the medicine cabinet, as if it would bring her image back.

Mom resemblance aside, this haircut was a smart decision. It wouldn’t fool anybody who’d already met me, of course, but from a distance, no one would think I was the infamous Kate Quinn Cooper.

Mid-September in South Carolina was too hot for jeans. Before I left for school, I rifled through my tiny closet until I found the one sundress in my wardrobe, then nervously checked myself out in the bathroom mirror.

This time, it wasn’t my mother I saw. The girl in the reflection was me. And I liked this me. Not me from a year ago, or from before my mom died, or from the campaign trail. This was who I was today, the first day of my senior year.

And today, I was a girl who wore skirts.

When I parked my Buick in one of the senior spaces in the school lot, I scanned the road for a news van, a camera, a group of people who weren’t wearing backpacks, any sign that the press had figured out I wasn’t living with a cantankerous old lady on an organic farm in rural Massachusetts. But so far, Meg’s ruse seemed to be working. I just hoped that Evelyn hadn’t shot anyone yet.

The school looked unfamiliar to me, like I’d maybe visited it once or twice, but definitely hadn’t taken classes there for nine whole months. Had I somehow managed to sleepwalk through my entire junior year?

In the lobby, I felt heads pivot, heard wisps of conversation attach themselves to me. Adjusting my backpack, I turned to see a clutch of junior girls smiling nervously in my direction. One of them waved and they all looked away, giggling.

So much for the haircut.

“Kate!” Lily Hornsby tapped me on the shoulder. “Oh, whoops.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Should I be saying ‘Katie’?”

So she’d gotten the memo. I hugged her, grinning.

“I think Kate is probably safe.”

“Is it weird to be back?” She held the door for me as I searched my schedule for my locker number. Before I could answer, her giant boyfriend Scott careened around the corner with two other friends and kissed the top of her head. She turned beet red.

“Nice to have you back,
Katie
. . .” Scott joked. “We’re hitting the movies this Friday. You down?”

“Sure.” I smiled. “Sounds good.”

Everyone looked surprised.

• • •

When I got back to Barry’s house, his truck was in the driveway, but the house was eerily quiet. It took me a long beat to realize why. The TV was off.

I found Barry pacing the kitchen, looking for something to do, Tess shooing him away in irritation.

“You’re not watching the news,” I said.

He shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it tonight.”

I raised my eyebrows, unconvinced. He and Tess were trying to protect me, I knew, creating their own version of
Meg’s campaign-free zone. It was probably just what I needed, but as the night wore on, I couldn’t help wondering. And then mulling. And then obsessing.

Where were the Coopers today? On the road or getting ready for school to start? How had they explained my absence? Did they miss me?

When I thought about them, I felt a physical ache deep in my chest, as if leaving them had actually damaged my heart. It was a different sensation than what I felt about Mom, sharper but less draining.

It was sharper than the Andy Lawrence pain too, but oh man, that one lingered. I knew from his silence that Meg was right—that he’d used and discarded me. But that realization wasn’t enough to block him from my mind. He popped up ruthlessly, in dreams sometimes, but in waking life too—passing a barbecue stand, hearing Kudzu Giants on the radio. Even vending machines reminded me of him. And my school had a lot of vending machines.

After a few days back, Lily shyly opened her locker, revealing a brand-new magazine photo of a
Triplecross
actor. I raised my eyebrows.

“No more Andy Lawrence, huh?” I asked, trying to keep the pain out of my voice.

“I don’t like the way he treated you,” she said, her chin raised in indignation. I gave her a grateful nudge, but as we rounded the corner into the hallway, she couldn’t resist leaning over to whisper, “Was he a good kisser?”

I had to admit he was. And then I had to dig my nails into my palm for all of first period just to stop thinking about that
kiss, daydreaming about it as if it were something I wanted to happen in the future, rather than an actual, disastrous, humiliating memory that I was dying to put behind me.

• • •

Then came the phone call.

Three weeks into the school year, Scott organized a study session for our first big calculus test, and when more people signed up than could fit in his house, I offered to host. Tess was thrilled—she baked cookies and fussed around the living room until Barry dragged her away. At first it unnerved me to sit here with my classmates, thinking about the last big gathering in this room, the way every eye had been fixed on the suited man in the armchair. But the more bodies and cheerful voices that were filling the room tonight, the more that memory faded like an Etch A Sketch drawing being shaken away.

Lily was struggling to describe Rolle’s Theorem when my aunt crept in again. This time, she tapped on my shoulder.

“Phone for you.”

Thinking a straggler was calling in the hopes of joining our group, I hurried to the phone to give directions, and kept one eye on the living room in case their conversation got ahead of me.

“Quinn.” The voice on the other end of the line let out a melodramatic groan. “You are one tough person to track down.”

My body went from hot to cold in a blink.

Andy.
He’d found me. He’d called.

A month too late.

I scowled into the flowery wallpaper. “And how did you get this number?”

“I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that my dad is the president?”

Funny.
“Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m finally allowed to.”

My pulse jumping, I kicked the door to the living room quietly shut. “Explain
.
”

He laughed ruefully. “They were pretty pissed off back in Kansas, Quinn. In order to help your friend, I had to tell them that we’d been hanging out. And . . .” He cleared his throat. “That I had these
feelings
for you. My dad didn’t take that so well. But he did help—in his own, special, completely politicized way. Which . . .” I could hear him swallowing, his next breath shaky. “Yeah. Which I’m really sorry about. I—I had no idea it was gonna go that way, and I should have. I’ve been at this long enough to not be a total idiot, but it does happen from time to time.” He let out a nervous laugh. Then went quiet.

My head was spinning. “So this wasn’t . . . some trick?”

“What?” He sounded legitimately confused. “Wait—have you been watching Fox News? Quinn, come on now.”

“Then why didn’t you call me?” My hand gripped the ancient kitchen phone so tight that the plastic started creaking. “It’s been a long time, Andy.”

30 days, 22 hours, to be exact.
Not that I was counting.

“I’ve been grounded. No phone access.
Supervised
Internet time. Yeah, I know, but—it’s the White House. No shortage of supervision. Anyway, school started and they decided my punishment was over. Especially since you’d dropped off the radar. I thought you were locked up like me in the Cooper compound or wherever, but your stepmom told me you’d left . . .”

“Meg?” I stood up straighter. “She gave you this number?”

“Yeah, after I explained the seriousness of the situation, she—well, she hung up on me. But then I called back. I think it was the twelfth call that really won her over. You know how persistent I can be when the situation calls for it.”

“And this situation called for twelve phone calls?” I had to press the heel of my hand against the countertop, bracing against his riptide pull.

“Thirteen. Fourteen, including this one.” He chuckled anxiously. “Ummmm, did you not hear me say I had feelings for you? Do I need to spell them out?”

Yes!
I thought, but before I could say it, he cut me off.

“It’s a neat trick you pulled there, Quinn. Everybody thinks you’re up in Massachusetts being
handled
. But you broke out. I’m jealous.”

“It helps to have an uncle who’s got custody of you.”

“I’m gonna look into that. Or I might just sneak out and turn up at your uncle’s doorstep asking for asylum. Don’t laugh, I’m seriously considering it.”

“Say you’re sorry again.” I slid until I was sitting cross-legged on the linoleum, grinning like the fool I was, knowing already that this battle was lost, over, done.

Andy didn’t miss a beat. “How many times?”

“Just once. For now.”

“I’m really, really sorry—that I trusted my asshole father and that we had the shitty luck to kiss within range of a telephoto lens and that I didn’t manage to sneak out and call you sooner. And I am also encouraged by the fact that you just said ‘for now,’ implying that I will have further
opportunities to apologize. And to say that I miss you. A lot.”

I skipped the rest of the study session. I was right there in the room with my classmates, idly turning pages of the textbook, lost in daydreams of Andy showing up incognito, knocking on my door in his Farnwell uniform with a duffel bag slung across one shoulder. Even though it was a ludicrous thought, an impossible one, it was a fun image to hold on to.

Of course, there was also still a chance he was lying—calling me tonight out of boredom or lingering habit or mischief. There were plenty of reasons not to trust Andy Lawrence. But it occurred to me suddenly that trust wasn’t an object, not something that arrived on your doorstep, solid and absolute. It was a decision, a leap. And if it was up to me, then here was my choice—I believed Andy.

He hadn’t betrayed me. He did have
feelings
. And just because they weren’t likely to lead anywhere didn’t mean that they didn’t matter.

• • •

We picked up where we left off. Except every time Andy called and my aunt or uncle answered, he claimed to be a classmate named Benjamin.

“Anybody who uses the full name Benjamin has got to be an upstanding young gentleman,” Andy told me. “He’s probably an Eagle Scout. He’s in the Junior PGA and tutors third graders on his lunch break.”

Whether it was the name or the voice, Tess was charmed. She kept asking when I was going to invite Benjamin over for dinner, whether we were planning to go to the homecoming dance together. It was a fun game, a reminder of how we
became friends. Still, the further it went, the more petty it felt—especially when Uncle Barry was the one to answer the phone.

“May I ask who’s calling?” His face shifted between enthusiasm and puffed-up protectiveness with every blink. “Well, Benjamin, she’s doing her homework, but I think she’ll be glad to take a break for a few minutes. Kate?”