It was an easy question. Emma looked around the room. People doodled on their notebooks or secretly texted on their cell phones, hidden inside their book bags. She caught a dark-haired guy in the corner staring at her. She managed to smile at him before he looked away.
“Miss Conway.”
Emma turned around.
Mrs. Bateman fixed her unblinking eyes on her. “Can you enlighten us, please?”
Emma felt her heart start to pound. “Uh, what’s the question again?” she asked.
“What is the difference between the Senate and the House of Representatives?” Mrs. Bateman replied.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Emma said. “Size. The Senate is made up of only two senators per state. The House has a different number of representatives, based on the population of each state.”
Mrs. Bateman rocked on her orthopedic shoes. “What else?” she asked, her beady eyes darting around the room to take in other people’s reactions.
“Well, they’re in charge of different stuff,” said Emma. “The House has control over certain things that the Senate doesn’t, like spending,” Emma said. “But the House always needs the Senate to pass its bills.”
“And?” Mrs. Bateman asked, her eyes on the back of the room.
“Senators are elected every six years, and representatives every two.”
“And what does the word bicameral mean?” Mrs. Bateman asked, pointing to the word on the blackboard that Emma hadn’t been able to decipher.
Emma knew exactly what bicameral meant, but she’d given enough right answers for one morning. It was time to get out of the spotlight. “I think it means the kind of glasses my grandmother wears?” she asked.
Laughter broke out through the room.
Mrs. Bateman scowled. “No, Miss Conway, it doesn’t mean that.” She gave Emma a disgusted look, then turned to the board. “It means two houses, which is exactly how our Congress is structured,” she said, drawing a long line down the board. “A House of Representatives and a Senate. Which Miss Conway so deftly delineated for us a few moments ago.”
The laughter was still audible, and when Emma glanced behind her she saw the dark-haired boy again. He was still laughing, and this time he looked right at her with a big grin. She smiled at him again. Whew, she thought. She’d cut out just in time. One more right answer and people would have gotten the wrong idea about her. They would have thought she was like Remington. And that was the worst thing that could happen. Because then she would have certainly disappointed them.
chapter 7
“I’m home!” Emma let her heavy book bag slide down her arm and land on the floor with a satisfying thud. “Anyone?”
There wasn’t a sound. From the foyer she could see the door to her dad’s office standing open, revealing a dark, empty room. The dining room table, through the glass doors, was bare, swept clean of papers and laptops. Emma knew that her mom was at work. Her brother had swim practice. Her dad had apparently left to go somewhere with Tom Beckett and Shanks and his army of aides. For the first time since her return from Rutherford, she had the apartment to herself.
She kicked off her shoes, leaving them next to her bag on the foyer floor, and headed to the kitchen. For the past two hours she’d been thinking about the Fig Newtons she knew her mom had hidden in one of the high cabinets. She pulled them off the shelf and shook some onto a plate, then poured herself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the fridge. Right now all she wanted to do was veg out in front of the big flat-screen in her dad’s office.
She padded into the room. Framed photos of her dad with Bill Clinton, George Bush, and Barack Obama, plus a slew of senators, foreign leaders, and the occasional movie star, hung on the walls. Another frame held a mounted newspaper clipping of the New York Times bestseller list, with his book occupying the number one slot. Emma settled herself onto the couch, placed the plate of cookies on the coffee table, and clicked the remote and saw that 100 Craziest Celebrity Feuds was just coming back from commercial. Sometimes these shows could be incredibly lame, but right now it felt good to just zone out for a few minutes.
She was just getting comfortable when she heard the front door open. “Emma?” her father called. “Are you home?”
“In here!” she yelled.
Her dad came to the door. “Can you come out here, please?” he asked. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“But I just started watching this,” she said.
Her father looked sideways at the TV. “What on earth is this?” he asked, looking at a clip of two starlets punching each other.
“Nothing, I’m coming,” she said as she got up from the couch and walked into the foyer.
Tom Beckett stood next to a woman in her thirties with round blue eyes and perfect, glowing skin. But her boxy red suit and nude stockings screamed Washington, D.C., as did her frosted blond hair, which had been hair-sprayed into a helmet around her face.
“This is Vanessa Dreesen,” her dad said, gesturing to her. “Vanessa works with families who are going to be campaigning.”
“Hello, Emma,” said the woman. She had the confident but slightly abrasive voice of a newscaster. “It’s very good to meet you.”
Emma just stared at the woman’s outstretched hand. Her nails were French manicured. “Hi,” she said.
“Vanessa would like to talk to you for a few minutes,” said her dad.
“Just me? About what?”
“About whatever you’d like to talk about,” Vanessa said with a merry smile.
“She just wants to talk to you,” Tom said. “She’s very good.”
“At what?” Emma asked.
“Use my office,” Adam said, pointing to his study. “We’ll wait out here.”
“Great,” Vanessa said. She let Emma walk into the room first and then she closed the door. Emma got a strong whiff of Chanel No. 5. It wasn’t Emma’s least favorite scent, but this woman wore a lot of it. Vanessa dropped down onto the couch and held her large white leather shoulder bag in her lap. “So,” she said. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Emma said warily.
Vanessa paused. “Is something wrong?”
Emma leaned against her dad’s desk.
“I’m just here to talk to you,” Vanessa said.
“Are you a shrink?” Emma asked. “Because my parents don’t really believe in them.”
“No,” Vanessa said, smiling. “I’m an image consultant.”
“A what?”
Vanessa cleared her throat. “I prepare families—the candidates, their spouses, their children—for campaigns,” she said. “It can be quite a stressful adjustment, as you can imagine.” She flashed her toothy smile again. “And some people just aren’t ready for it.”
“So you’re here because I’m not ready for it,” Emma supplied.
“Very few people are.” Vanessa tapped her nails on her bag. “But in this case, your parents are worried you’re unhappy. And your father wants to know that he can count on you.”
“To do what?” Emma challenged.
“Well, for one thing, to behave in a more appropriate manner when you’re out in public.” Vanessa crossed her legs and pulled a small pad of paper from her purse. “They tell me that you were caught drinking alcohol at an event a few weeks ago.”
“For, like, two minutes,” Emma said.
“And that you deliberately dyed your hair before the event,” she added. “And that you have a history of being unpredictable when you’re out with them. Would you say that any of that is true?”
Emma felt her chest get tight. “Sounds like you’re pretty sure of your story.”
“I can help you, Emma,” said Vanessa. “I’ve done it for a lot of other people. And if you let me, I can do it for you.”
“No thanks,” she said. “And I think it’s pretty lame that you’re here at all. I had no idea my parents were so terrified of what people think.”
“What people think has a lot of power, Emma,” Vanessa
said calmly. “Especially in politics.” She pulled an ivory business card from her wallet and handed it to Emma. “Just in case you change your mind…”
“Thanks, but I won’t,” Emma said, ignoring the business card. She walked to the door and threw it open. Thankfully the hall was deserted. She picked up her book bag, stomped to her room, and closed the door.
She needed to talk to someone. Anyone. She reached into her book bag and grabbed her cell. Carina and Hudson had both given her their numbers earlier at school, and she already had Lizzie’s.
But she barely knew those girls. And what if they sided with this Vanessa character? What if they thought that she was weird or out of control? Lizzie had seen what had happened at the Boathouse. And plus, she couldn’t tell them about her dad’s plans, anyway.
“Emma,” her dad said through the door. “Can I come in?”
She opened the door. He stood in front of her, looking guilty. Apparently Vanessa had given him the play-by-play.
“I can’t believe you did that to me,” she said.
He walked into her room and shut the door. “We just want to help you, Emma. We’re all going to need some help once this starts—”
“But me most of all, huh?” she interrupted.
“I’m just trying to make this easier on you,” he said, sitting down on the edge of her bed.
“No, Dad, you’re trying to make this easier on you,” she said. “That’s what this is all about. She basically told me.”
Her father patiently glanced up at the ceiling, as if he just needed to wait out another tantrum. “Emma, please—”
“Do you have to do this right now?” she asked. “I’m fifteen. Can’t you just wait a couple years? Would that really be the end of the world?”
“When you’re older, maybe you’ll understand why now is the right time,” he said. “But trust me that it is.”
“But why do you need to be president? Why can’t you just be a senator? What’s wrong with that?”
Adam folded his arms and sighed, as if he were almost at a loss for words. “The fact that I’ve decided to do this doesn’t mean I don’t love you or care about you,” he said carefully. “Your mother and I talked about this at length. We know what the risks are. And we’re trying to minimize them.”
“Yeah, by getting some Barbie doll to give me a makeover,” she said, turning over onto her side.
She heard her father sigh and stand up. “I think we’re having dinner early tonight, so get some homework done,” he said.
A moment later she heard the door close behind him. Emma stayed on her side for a while, watching a flock of pigeons roost on the windowsill of the opposite building. Had she really thought that she’d be able to change his mind? Of course she couldn’t. And like any good politician, he’d totally dodged her last question. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you or care about you. We’re trying to minimize the risks. Blah, blah, blah.
She sat up and went over to Archie’s tank, then lifted him out gently. She watched him twist and turn for a while on her bedspread. He was so lucky, she thought. Nobody would ever try to change him. Nobody expected a snake to be any different than what it was.
chapter 8
“So… what’d you think of the first week?” Lizzie asked as she and Emma walked out of the Astor Place subway station and up into the hot September afternoon.
Emma blinked as her eyes adjusted to the brightness. There were so many people on the street that it was hard to even see what street they were on. She forgot how crowded it could get downtown on a Saturday.
“I’d say that the first week was pretty good,” she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a pair of sunglasses. “Of course I have you to thank for that.”
“Come on. Didn’t we have to sit at the same table for, like, three Thanksgivings in a row? It was the least I could do,” Lizzie said as she swiped on some ChapStick. “So, we can go down St. Marks Place,” she said, pointing across the street. “Or we can go west and check out Joyce Leslie.”
Emma felt the sun beat down on her shoulders, exposed by the halter top of her red and blue chevron-printed sundress. When Lizzie had texted her that morning asking her if she wanted to go shopping in the Village, she’d jumped at the chance. This would technically be the first Saturday she was allowed out of the house. Miraculously Carolyn had agreed to let her go, even though she’d made her promise to be home by five.
Emma looked south down the long stretch of Lafayette, past the marquee for something called Buel Man Group. Blue Man Group, she corrected herself. “Let’s go down St. Marks,” she said, stepping off the curb.
“But the light’s about to change,” Lizzie said.
“So?” Emma grabbed Lizzie’s wrist and pulled her into the street. “We can make it!” They ran across just as the light changed and cars began to stream toward them up Lafayette Street.
“We’re gonna get hit!” Lizzie yelled.
“Nope!” she yelled, pulling Lizzie up onto the curb just as a taxi raced by. “We just made it!”
“Whoa,” Lizzie said, as they walked down the next block. “You should be on the track team or something.”
Emma laughed as she caught her breath. “I guess I’m a little impatient,” she said as they crossed Third Avenue.
“Uh, yeah,” Lizzie said.
“Wait,” Emma said, stopping in front of a deli on the corner. “Look at this. Have you ever seen so much of this stuff in your life?”
The racks were hung with more tourist trinkets than Emma had ever seen in one place: I LOVE NY baseball hats, I LOVE NY T-shirts, fanny packs printed with the Empire State Building and the New York skyline, even tube socks printed with the Statue of Liberty.
“It’s like a tourist’s paradise,” Lizzie said.
“I have an idea,” Emma said. “Let’s buy a bunch of stuff and wear it. Like, all of it.”
Lizzie burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah!” Emma said. “Why not?”
“Because we’ll look like idiots,” Lizzie said.
Emma grabbed an I LOVE NY hat in a blinding shade of white and put it on. “That’s the point!”
Ten minutes later both of them were swathed in some of the brightest, whitest, and most emphatic New York tourist regalia on the market. Emma paid for the gear and then adjusted her I LOVE NY hat and her Chrysler Building–shaped sunglasses. “Ready?” she asked just before they walked through the door.
Lizzie twisted her fanny pack to face front and rolled up the sleeves of her Statue of Liberty T-shirt. “Ready.”
Emma pushed open the door. A woman walking by with a cell phone to her ear took one look at them and laughed.
“People are looking at us,” Lizzie murmured.
“Just go with it,” Emma said. “Oh, hold on.” She walked straight up to a twentyish guy with a pierced ear and a shaved head. “Excuse me,” she said to him. “Would you take our picture, please?”
The bald hipster took a moment to check out her clothes. “O-kaaay,” he said.
Emma gave him her iPhone. “We’d just like to remember being here,” she said, moving to stand next to Lizzie.
He held up the phone to position the lens. “Uh, where are you guys from?” he asked.
“Uptown,” Emma chirped.
Lizzie burst out laughing.
The hipster seemed a little confused, but he took several shots of them anyway.
After they’d walked around like that for a couple hours, drawing incredulous stares from most of the people they passed, they peeled off their hats and glasses and went to sit in Tompkins Square Park.
“Okay, that was hilarious,” Lizzie said, sitting down on a green iron bench. “I haven’t laughed like that in a long, loooong time. You’re really funny.”
“I try,” Emma said, looking down at the shots they’d taken on her iPhone. “These sunglasses are classic. Maybe I’ll wear them to school.”
“So you like it at Chadwick? Or do you miss
Rutherford?” Lizzie asked, twisting her hair into a knot and securing it with an elastic.
“No, I like Chadwick, I think,” Emma said. She closed her eyes and heard the sound of an ice-cream truck inching its way up Seventh Street. “The hard part is being at home. I don’t really fit in with the family. In case that wasn’t obvious.”
“I’m sure they don’t think that,” said Lizzie.
“Yeah, they do,” Emma said. “It’s like the three of them raided a Banana Republic outlet and I’m the freak in the Doc Martens. They even got this image consultant to speak to me.”
As soon as she said it, Emma knew she’d made a mistake.
“An image consultant?” Lizzie asked, turning to face her. “Because of your clothes?”
Emma pulled on a strand of hair and began to twist it with her finger. “Can I tell you something? And will you promise to not tell anyone? Even Carina and Hudson?”
“Okay,” Lizzie said. From her serious expression Emma could tell that she meant it.
“My dad is going to run for president next year.”
Lizzie just looked at her. “What?”
“Yeah. President.”
“When is he going to announce it?”
“January, February, something like that.”
“Wow,” Lizzie said, looking off into the park. Emma noticed that her right leg bopped up and down. “He’s not even my dad and I’m in shock.”
“I’m trying not to think about it.”
“But I still don’t get it. Why did they bring in an image consultant?” Lizzie asked.
“Because my dad’s evil chief strategist thinks I’m an embarrassment. He wouldn’t even let me get my picture taken with them that night at the Boathouse. Like I’m someone who needs to be hidden. And then you might have seen me getting marched out of there for drinking champagne…”
“But an image consultant,” Lizzie said. “All because of that night?”
“Well, there’s been some other stuff,” she admitted. “Like this one time, when I gave a photographer the finger.”
“You did not,” Lizzie said, her hazel eyes widening.