Say You'll Remember Me

  “No.”

  “US Congressman Michael Jacobson.”

  “No.”

  “Party Chairman Michael Jacobson.”

  “It’s not Michael Jacobson. It’s like you aren’t even trying anymore.”

  Sad part? I am trying.

  “Who is this, Elle? He’s going to be at the fund-raiser tomorrow, and if you’re going to attend more of these things, you need to be able to make proper conversation.”

  It’s sort of scary because for the first time in my life, there is complete and utter silence in my brain. Not even a backup thought to maybe breathe in air. This is brain dead.

  “Dwight Stevenson,” Mom says with exasperation, and my forehead hits the table with a loud thud. I knew that...about an hour ago.

  “He has been one of your father’s biggest donors this year, and he has expressed an interest in meeting you.”

  Mom’s said that for easily fifty of the people we’ve gone over tonight. I turn my head so that my cheek is pressed against the wood of the table. “Why do these people want to meet me?”

  “Because you have a gift, Elle.” Dad walks into the dining room, and in his hands are several binders, but it’s a magazine that he drops onto the table. “There’s something about you that makes people feel at ease. You make them feel included.”

  Because people like things that are pretty.

  The magazine on the table is one of those gossip ones everyone reads the cover of as they stand in the grocery store line. I lift my head, flip the magazine around, and spot a small picture of me in the right-hand corner. It’s a close-up, me in the purple sundress and wearing one of those smiles that means I’m on display.

  “Sean stopped by to bring us these,” Dad says.

  These. Meaning more than one magazine, yet Dad only chose to bring this one along. I sigh at the title underneath: Bluegrass Beauty. How original. “They compared me to grass?”

  Mom snatches the magazine and goes to the page marked by a sticky note. There’s a long and awkward silence that makes me wish I had something to do as she reads.

  “It’s a page article on you, but they do mention your dad a few times. There’s a great picture of you and your father, and they do talk about your keen fashion choices.”

  “Did they actually use the word keen or was that your one million dollar addition?”

  Mom raises an eyebrow, but then her lips twitch when I wink at her. She continues to silently read, and the many worry lines she’s collected over the years become more pronounced.

  The article must contain more than just my “keen” fashion choices, and my heart clogs my throat. I’m wagering that it mentions how the Bluegrass Beauty had to be saved. Stinking fantastic. “Does the article at least mention Dad’s program?”

  Mom’s sad eyes meet mine. She understands why this bothers me. “Yes. They credit Hendrix’s actions to his being reformed in your father’s program.”

  I try to breathe the embarrassment away. “That’s what’s important, right?”

  Dad and Mom share their patented long look. I gather my hair to the side, start to braid it and pretend they aren’t having a private, silent conversation about and without me.

  Mom rolls up the magazine and places it in her lap. Done in such a way that it’s like she’s hoping I’ll forget the magazine and the millions of other copies in the world exist. There’s something in there she doesn’t want me to see. Something, I’m sure, I won’t want to see either.

  Dad reclaims his seat next to Mom. From the opposite side of the table, they become the solid front that is their marriage. Their fingers automatically link together on the table.

  “From the initial reaction,” Dad says, “we think the media is going to grab on to you and it’s only going to get bigger. More pictures, more articles—”

  “More public appearances on behalf of your father,” Mom interjects. “My phone has been ringing off the hook.”

  “Elle,” Dad says, and I force a smile on my face when I glance up at him. “Are you sure you’re okay with all this? Taking on more fund-raisers? Becoming more active on the campaign trail? Because we can keep you at the same commitment level you had before.”

  I do like being involved, but I don’t like the idea of changing my appearance, nor do I like being fodder for gossip. But I’m sick of being a failure. Sick of not being taken seriously. Maybe if I do this, my parents will be proud.

  “My job as a politician is to serve,” Dad continues. “My job is to listen to my constituents. The form of government is best in which every man, whoever he is, can act best and live happily.”

  “Aristotle,” I say, because my father has taught me well. He nods with pride, and I finally find the energy to sit taller.

  “I’m under intense scrutiny. It comes with the territory, but you don’t have to live under the microscope. You can choose to stay out of this. Your mom and I won’t hold it against you.”

  Won’t hold it against me. Will they continue to love me? Yes. Will they be disappointed in me and possibly not grant me the internship? Probably. “Aristotle also said the price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men. I don’t want to be indifferent. I’m ready for this.”

  Dad lets go of Mom’s hand as he leans on the table as if it’s just the two of us in the room. “Then what’s your platform when you talk to people? Top three, and keep the pitch short.”

  I angle forward as well because now we’re talking business. I’ve spent days researching Dad’s platforms so I can sound intelligent during the fund-raisers. “Push for higher turnout among younger voters, and find a way to help handle college costs and student loan debt.”

  “Number three?”

  “Your Second Chance Program. It worked, and I want to see the program implemented in other states and expanded in our own state.”

  Dad frowns, and my stomach drops. “What?”

  “There are some magazines,” Mom trails off. With a deep breath she starts again. “There are some articles suggesting that you and Hendrix Pierce are in a relationship.”

  As my mouth slacks, my cheeks burn hot. From embarrassment, from anger to just plain frustration... “I’ve seen him a grand total of three times. Once on the midway, at the press conference and when he showed here for you guys to talk to him.”

  “We know,” she says in that condescending it’s-only-a-nightmare-so-go-back-to-bed Mom voice. “But there are some people in the press and on social media who are extremely focused on the pictures of you and him on the midway.”

  My head falls back, and my fingers cover my throat as if that could save me from this picture that’s been following me around. It’s a picture of him smiling and me smiling and while I have secretly loved that photo to the tips of my toes, it’s also annoying that so many people are making judgments about my life on one picture that they know nothing about.

  I rake my fingers through my hair, undoing the loose braid. “What difference does it make what they think?”

  Mom’s shoulders droop in defeat, and the magazine reappears. She flips it to the middle, slides it to me, and the biggest picture of all the others is of me and Drix on the midway. That hesitant and beautiful smile dances along his gorgeous face, and the best part of it? He’s looking down at me like I’m some sort of magical dream. I’ve seen that picture a hundred times, yet it still causes my heart to flip and my blood to tingle.

  I fiddle with the edge of the magazine, and when I believe I have control over my facial expression, I lift my head. “This picture isn’t new.”

  “No,” Dad says, “it isn’t. But if people think the two of you are together, that will become the story. Not how Hendrix entered my program and through the course of one year, changed his path from one that was broken to one that will guarantee him success.

  “This program works. Not just
with Hendrix, but with the other young men and women who went through the full year. We’re keeping tabs on them, watching them, and we are amazed by how well they’re doing. We need any media coverage on Hendrix to be on that program.”

  And if I talk about the program, the story will revert back to me and him on the midway. It sucks, but it makes sense. “So I don’t talk about the Second Chance Program, and instead focus on voter turnout and the insanely enormous cost of higher education and student loan debt.”

  “That and not calling anyone in the press a stalker. In fact, I’d prefer if you didn’t call anyone names.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “He did, but that left a mess for Sean to clean up.” Dad pushes the binders, all of them, in my direction. “If you’re up for it, you can talk about my clean energy initiative. Our latest poll shows that is a top three priority for younger voters.”

  I wince because clean energy are fighting words in a coal-mining state, but the future is the future. I accept all the “light” reading material that will keep me well rested for the next twenty years. “I’m all for saving baby seals.”

  “As with the other information packets we gave you, bullet points are on the front page. The following pages are the details.”

  And that’s where the devil likes to play.

  “There’s more, Elle,” Mom says.

  I slap both hands against the table. “Okay, this is where I’m putting my foot down. I can’t possibly read any more stuff. You’ve already given me a multivolume encyclopedia set to memorize, and I still have to work through the documents you sent me via email—”

  “Not that,” Mom intervenes. “It’s about Hendrix.”

  The world goes into slow motion. Like I’m standing in the middle of the road, and I’m watching a tractor trailer come at me at a hundred miles per hour. “What about Hendrix?”

  “He’s going to be traveling with us and will be at some of the same events as you.”

  I gathered that last week.

  “Obviously, you should be nice to him, but...” Mom trails off.

  “But...” I encourage.

  “When we are at events, we’d like you to keep a polite distance,” Dad finishes. “If the press, if anyone sees the two of you together, even if it’s just as friends, the story of the two of you in a relationship will continue and the conversation that needs to be happening—the conversation about the Second Chance Program—will never be discussed.”

  “It’s not a big deal.” Mom stretches her arm across the table as if she can reach me. “It would be one thing to ask this of you if you were close with Hendrix, but as you said, you’ve only had contact with him a few times. Be nice when you see him, but keep your distance.”

  I feel like a rose wilting on the vine in fast-forward. Mom’s right, this shouldn’t be a big deal. In the realm of reality, it’s not, but there had been daydreams and dreams at night and lots of possible what-ifs I knew would never come true, but still crushed is crushed. “Okay.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Mom rushes out, and I brace myself for impact.

  “What?”

  “Andrew’s going on the campaign trail with us,” Dad says.

  Once again, I figured that out last week when he showed a few hours after Drix left. Andrew, Dad and Sean were in their meeting for hours. Makes sense, though. Andrew is the grandson of the current senator. Politics is in Andrew’s blood as much as it is in mine. “And?”

  “We don’t want anything like what happened at May Fest to happen again,” Mom says. “This time when we tell you to stay with Andrew, you stay with him.”

  “Like glue, Elle.” Dad pins me with his gaze. “We’ve already had this conversation, but I’ll say it again. You need to trust us and the decisions we are making when it comes to you and your future. What we say goes. Period.”

  I get it. I messed up. I didn’t tell them about the internship, but I should be able to walk down any street in the US by myself and not be harassed. But my parents gave me instructions and I disobeyed. I did ditch Andrew when they were under the impression I wasn’t alone. Fair enough. It sucks, but fair enough. “Okay on Andrew and okay on listening.”

  Mom lets out a relieved breath. “That’s good to hear because you’re going to be spending a lot of time with Andrew.”

  My head tilts, as I broke a major rule to negotiations—read the fine print before signing on the dotted line. “What do you mean by a lot?”

  “If you’re in public, he’s in public,” Dad says. “And you’re within breathing distance of the other. As I said, you two will be like glue.”

  Dizziness. I’m seventeen, I still have a babysitter and it’s the one person I dread the most.

  Hendrix

  “The suits the governor’s office purchased for you should arrive soon.” Cynthia is head down in her cell again. I’m beginning to think she can’t talk if she isn’t texting. “I’ll text you when they’re in, and you’ll need to collect them from the front desk. Please hang them in the closet. We don’t want them to wrinkle.”

  We’re in the lobby of a fancy-ass hotel that’s probably as old as the state. Everyone around me is dressed like they’re attending a funeral or a business event. I’m in a pair of ripped jeans and a black T-shirt. Even the hotel workers are looking at me like I’m about to pull a gun.

  I checked in an hour ago, and Cynthia summoned me. They call, I show. While I hate it, it’s something I have to learn how to handle.

  “What do you mean suits?” I overemphasize the s.

  Cynthia’s fingers fly over the screen. “You’re going to be attending many events over the next year. We can’t dry-clean your clothes after every event. Multiple suits is more efficient. We also included some dress-down options for you. Feel free to wear your own style during time periods between events as we travel. We feel the media will enjoy those pictures.”

  “Glad I have your approval,” I mumble.

  Cynthia cocks an annoyed eyebrow, but still types on her cell. “In the meantime, meet me here at eight, and I’ll walk you around the fund-raiser.”

  Her cell rings. She holds up a single finger as she answers, then tucks the cell away from her mouth. “And remember what I told you about Elle.”

  To stay away from her at the fund-raiser. According to Cynthia, Elle’s been informed to stay away from me. Cynthia said a lot more. Many words meant as comfort, to hide the truth that the governor and his aides believe I’m toxic. But still...staying away from Elle is what needs to be done, and it’s the last thing I want to do. Being with Elle is the only time I feel like the world isn’t turned upside down.

  “Eight,” she says. “Fund-raiser. We will walk.” And I’m dismissed.

  Any mention of the fund-raiser creates the urge for me to throw my fist through a wall. I miss the sound of the wind going through the trees of the forest, the chirp of night crickets and a time where the hardest decision I had to make was which tree to piss on.

  In the forest, all I wanted to do was go home. Weird how I find myself wanting to go back. I should head to the weight room, lift until my muscles hurt and I’m too damn tired to think, but the walls are closing in. I need space. I need freedom.

  I go out the revolving door, and the bright sunlight hurts my eyes as the humid summer heat seizes my lungs. Breathing in is like sucking in water, and it won’t take long for my clothes to stick to my skin. Regardless, I take a right and head for the running path that zigzags through a tree line. It’s not a forest, but it’s better than inside.

  A few feet into the canopy of green leaves and the muscles in my neck relax. At this rate, I’m going to end up one of those guys who lives by themselves in a one-room cabin eating only berries and nuts. Talking to squirrels when I’m lonely.

  The trail continues through the trees, but it doesn’t hide the rest of the world like how
I wish. Airplanes overhead, rumble of car engines on the state road, the tap of someone else running on the path up ahead. A break in the trees and sunlight glitters off water. Now this is what I need. Silence, a lake and time alone. Recharge, reenergize, and make it through this nonsense without losing my mind.

  A slamming of a car door, and my head jerks to the right. Farther down the edge of the water, a guy in a beat-up Chevy sloppily weaves what should be a straight line from the front to the back of his truck. He leans over into the bed and his shirt pulls up. What catches my eye is what is tucked into his belt at the small of his back: a handgun.

  “Drix.” It’s a whisper, and Elle slips out from the shelter of a tree trunk. She’s in a tank top, athletic shorts and in her hand is her cell with earbuds still attached. Her tan skin glistens with sweat, and she’s so damn beautiful it nearly hurts.

  Within a few steps, she reaches me, and we’re shoulder to shoulder. “He’s drunk.”

  Yeah, he is, and he’s armed. “You should head back.”

  Elle frowns. “Don’t you mean we? If this guy is trouble for me, then he’s trouble for you.”

  Tension sets into my jaw, and I work it. Elle stares at me, waiting, and when I stay silent, she crosses her arms over her chest with an annoyed huff. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Thought what?”

  “That my dad’s team got to you, too. The whole ‘the two of us can’t been seen together’ because, in theory, people are more obsessed with the appearance of us dating than the real issues that affect the real world. People are so stupid. I meet a guy and he’s nice to me, and therefore people assume I’m going to give up my entire identity, pledge my undying love to you and bake you cookies every few days as an eternal thank-you.”

  “You mean we aren’t getting married next week?” I ask. Her mouth pops open in shock, and that causes me to grin. “By the way, I like chocolate chip, and I’d appreciate it if you’d iron my clothes. I like my pants pressed at the seams, and I’m not a fan of starch.”