Red Blooded (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Juggling two careers and a small child is no small feat.
Some things have to give.
And other things get pushed together
,
like when scientists smash protons together just to see what the hell will happen.

While I was researching
A Sound Mind,
my book about the fishing industry in New England
,
I
went to Maine for several interviews
,
Peyton in tow.
I
was invited to a lobster bake
,
which I was assured was family friendly.
And it was.
Kids dashed around in the sand as the adults sipped Allagash beer.

What they neglected to tell me was that Maine children are used to seeing live lobsters slowly die.

Peyton was not.
Never one to suppress her feelings
,
she cried for their pain.
I
knelt down and wiped the tears away with my thumb.
“
It’s okay
,”
I
said.
“
I
don’t think they feel it.
”

God knows that wasn’t the first time I lied to Peyton.
But I could tell from the way she frowned and twisted away from me it was the first time she knew I lied.

* * *

All the normal students, and by normal I mean those who do not have presidential campaign duties, have already moved in. I’m moving in last, on the eve of the first day of classes. Annie is not only already settled in our dorm room, she’s already got her extra toothbrush and makeup bag at her boyfriend’s new apartment.

My mom is actually able to make it. But this is a catch-22. They only allowed her to take three-quarters of a day off from the campaign to come because they made this part of the campaign. “It will be great,” Lisa had said. “She’s taking her only daughter to college. She’s just a regular mom at heart. It will really play well with women forty-five to sixty-five.”

That’s a key demographic.

They’re all key demographics.

Yes, Lisa flitters around in the background as I try to decide which drawer should house my socks. A cameraman hovers over me: the great sock decision must be recorded for posterity.

I’m feeling rather warm toward Lisa, as she did politely suggest I mark any box that shouldn’t be opened in front of the cameras. I decided on the infinity symbol for a few reasons, but I told Lisa only one: “Infinitely embarrassing.” She had actually laughed.

Everyone helping me unpack knows to put the infinity boxes aside because I don’t need the whole nation to know what brand of tampon I use or that I write in a diary that has some glitter on it. (Yeah, yeah, I know, but it’s a diary, it’s supposed to be indulgent). I also don’t need the whole nation to know that I brought my floppy, orange stuffed cat that I’ve had since I was six. My dad got it for me when we went to Maine—just the two of us—for a week. Him researching a book, his daughter in tow. I named the cat Sandy because it got sand all over it. Yes, I was a rather innovative child. There’s no way that I was leaving Sandy at home, and I don’t care that home’s only a twenty-minute metro ride away.

“Peyton, what’s it like having such a monumental moment without your father here?” an eager beaver of a reporter asks as I move another non-infinity box.

“Sad.” I slash the box with orange-handled scissors.

“So you miss him?”

I clutch the blade of the scissors in order to keep myself from saying something really snarky. But the camera’s on me, the boom hovers over my head. I smile, as sweetly and as genuinely as I can. “Of course, I miss him every day.”

And it’s true.

But I have my mom.

Once there’s a semblance of order in Annie’s and my room, my mom and I go to dinner, like you’re supposed to. Only we go to Tombs instead of someplace like Friendly’s, and, of course, the cameras follow us. I can see the voiceovers being scribbled and dribbled already.

“
Amber
,
as you saw
,
Senator Arthur had to say goodbye to her daughter today.
Every parent knows what a bittersweet moment that is.
”

“
Why yes
,
Todd
,
they sure do.
Jen Arthur is just a regular mom
,
isn’t she?
Completely worthy of our vote.
”

I can’t loosen up, not fully, while my distorted hair reflects in the camera lens and Lisa taps her pen lightly on her clipboard. I comment on things like how our flowers need rain and how the salad is good, especially the goat cheese, and any other inane thing that gurgles to the surface of my mind.

My mom nods and plays along. Or am I the one playing along?

Eventually, the meal ends. The camera people pack up. The waitstaff get back to whatever they usually do. It’s time for my mom to go.

“I need to use the ladies’ room,” she says. As she walks by, she touches my shoulder and looks down at me with intensity, before her face once again loosens and her confident heels click toward the restrooms.

I get up, careful as possible given we’re basically in an impromptu set—with cords, big black boxes of equipment, and other ambulatory hazards—and follow her. When I get in, she’s waiting for me. “Check the stalls, please.”

I kneel down and my now notorious reddish locks flop against the tiles. It’s clear. “No one.”

She takes a jewelry box out of her purse and presents it, her thumbs on top, her other fingers supporting the base. “I saw this a year and a half ago. I thought about giving it to you after your graduation, but I just couldn’t. It would mean you were grown up, and I fooled myself into thinking that you wouldn’t grow up, not really, until the summer was over.”

She hands it to me and I detect just a bit of redness in her usually perfectly polished, perfectly porcelain cheeks. I open it and a brilliant emerald stone along a silver chain announces its presence.

“It’s your birthstone,” she says as my eyes get a tad misty “Here, let me put it on.” She unclasps it. As I turn around, she flips my hair away so it falls along my shoulder. The elusive movements of her manicured nails tickle the back of my neck. I turn to the mirror. The necklace shines brilliantly.

“Thank you,” I say, holding the stone between my fingers.

She puts her hands on my shoulders and stands behind me. We look at the mirror together. I see my nose, I see my chin, I see my light skin all reflected back to me. Not in my face, but in my mother’s.

“Mom.” I hold her gaze in the mirror. “If you cheated on dad, I’d forgive you.”

She looks down, snapping the reflected sightline.

“I appreciate that, Peyton, but I loved your father very much. I would never have done anything like that.”

I look at the sink’s interconnected tiles, jutting and inserting in an intricate pattern.

“Mom, I—”

“Peyton, I said I wouldn’t have done anything like that. You need to trust me. Come on.” She taps my back. “Let’s go. It’s time to say goodbye.”

Chapter Fifteen

“
He put tampons in my locker
,
Dad.
Like
,
open ones.
He drew faces and put paper clothes on them.
He said my locker was Tamponville.
”

I
covered my mouth with my napkin to hide my grin.

Jen hit my shoulder and frowned
,
but I could see a smile behind her lips as she sipped her wine.

“
Tristan’s always liked teasing you.
You’re like a little sister to him
,”
I
say.

“
Or
,
he’s teasing you because he likes you
,”
Jen said.

“
Tamponville
,
Mom.
Tamponville
,”
Peyton said
,
clutching her armrests.

“
Well
,”
I
said
,
as I tried to be serious.
“
Do you want me to talk to Mr.
McCoy
,
see if Tristan can’t
—”

She sighed.
“
No
,
don’t worry
,
I
already handled it.
”

“
Oh really?
”
Jen’s right eyebrow glided up.

“
Yeah
,
I
made a Padtown in his locker.
Barbie clothes fit really well over panty liners.
”

I
laughed.
Jen shot me a look.
“
That’s not how you handle things
,
Peyton
,”
I
said
,
puffs of laughter still slipping out.

Peyton raised a finger.
“
I
know
,
Dad.
Like you said
,
you’ve got to one-up them.
I
did.
His gym locker is now
,
officially
,
Condomburg.
”

* * *

I’m not surprised when Lisa drops me off at my dorm and Dylan stands ready to pick up where she leaves off. It’s a handoff.

“Is there more stuff to unpack?” he asks. “I can help if you—”

“I got it,” I say, thinking mostly of those infinity boxes.

I’m not sure if I want him to leave, though. Annie’s with her boyfriend, Jason, tonight. I can’t blame her, even if it does make me a little lonely. I shuffle through items and pull a few things out, stuffing them all into the last empty drawer.

“All that stuff goes in that drawer?” he asks, arms crossed and eyebrows very high considering he’s just asking about a drawer.

“It’s my ‘anything goes’ drawer,” I say.

He grins. “You mean like a junk drawer.”

I move a bottle of hand sanitizer and a small purse into the drawer. “No, because it’s not junk.”

“It’s just ‘anything goes,’” he sings and shakes his hands on either side of his head.

“Did you just do jazz hands?” I pause, laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

“Yeah, like the song, isn’t that what you’re referencing?”

“What song?” My laughs continue to hurt, but in a good way. His grin is bashful as he shakes his head.

“It’s a song, I swear, ‘anything goes,’” he sings again, this time with more enthused jazz hands.

“Is the song about drawers?”

“No.” He grins and shakes his head. “No, I’m pretty sure the Broadway song is not about drawers.”

We laugh awhile longer, until I’m biting my lip as we just stand there, staring at each other awkwardly. His smile slips away, and he looks around the room.

“Um, do you want me to make your bed?” he asks.

“Make my bed?” My voice croaks.

“Well, you don’t want me to help you unpack, but I could make your bed.”

“Okay, fine.” I dig through a box and toss him some yellow sheets.

I should be concentrating on placing pens and shit around my desk, but instead I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His shirt sleeves taper off about an inch above his elbow, and as he splashes the sheets over the bed, his arms tense. He’s tall enough that he hardly needs to bend over to each corner in order to firmly put things in place. Whereas I have to move around the bed, flopping over the sheets and trying the indelicate move of pulling them over their designated corner while my body is still on them.

His way works much better. The view is really nice when he bends over. But, more importantly, of course, the sheets are smooth, flat.

“I think I could flip a quarter off of that,” I say, as he runs his hand along the fabric and gives it a pat.

He smiles at me, proud. “I’m pretty good at quarters.”

“Oh really?” I reach for my purse and pull one out. I toss it to him and he has to snap his arm out in order to catch it.

He grins. He takes my Learning Disorders Association mug and steadies himself, his hands stretching over the corner of my desk.

He aims.

He shoots.

He misses.

“I’ll show you how it’s done,” I say. Most of the kids at Annie’s public school actually preferred quarters to beer pong. Not sure why. But I’ve gone to enough T.C. Williams parties to be good at the game.

He steps back, puts his hands on his hips, and stares down at me. His smile is too much, the kind of smile that clinks against my insides. He motions for me to go. “Anytime now, Squib.”

I shake my head and focus.

“Don’t let me distract you,” he says playfully.

“Oh, I won’t.” I hold the quarter carefully between my pointer finger and thumb and think about the cup, a lot. I zone out the rap music wafting in from down the hall and the delightful, soft sound Dylan’s shirt makes as he crosses his arms. I click the quarter on the desk and it deliciously clinks and clanks against the sides of the mug.

I step back, triumphant.

“Beginner’s luck,” he says.

“No, it’s not beginner’s luck. I’ve played—”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve played quarters before? What, with water?”

Even his grin is stern. It’s annoying. He’s not much older than me. He’d be a senior at Yale if he hadn’t taken two semesters off to work on the campaign.

I bite my lip. “Yeah, beginner’s luck.”

He takes the coin and gives it back to me, pressing it into my palm with one hand and holding the back of my hand with the other. The skin on my neck feels light, funny.

“Okay, beginner, try again.”

I smile and bend down, feeling the quarter. “I’m better at this when I’ve had a lot of...water.”

“I’m sure,” he says.

I laugh and concentrate on the rim.

“Peyton!” someone booms from the hallway.

I clasp the coin in my hand and hold it behind my back, as though I’m hiding something. But what would I be hiding?

And, anyway, it’s Tristan. He strides toward me and gives me a hug because he’s very huggy. I wrap my arms around his neck as his arms come around the rest of me. He smacks a moist kiss on my cheek and I pull back, but we’re still holding each other.

“Wow, Peyton Arthur, a college girl. Call the authorities ’cause it’s hot in here,” he says, his evil, wonderful grin on full display.

I finally let go of him. “Oh, hush.”

Now that the hug is over, he can concentrate on other interesting, sparkly things. He turns to Dylan. “And who is this?” Tristan’s eyes are wide. It almost makes me laugh. Almost.

Dylan crosses his arms. All his muscles are tense, ready to spring.

“Tristan, this is Dylan. He’s going to make sure I don’t screw anything up before the election,” I say. The elephant in the room is that me kissing Tristan had been a screwup. So, yes, in some ways, Dylan is here to ensure I don’t kiss Tristan. “Dylan, this is Tristan McCoy, he’s—”

“I know who you are,” Dylan says.

Of course he does.

Tristan nods, and a more somber look than I thought he was capable of meanders across his face. But the expression is merely making a pit stop—it doesn’t linger. “Yeah, well, it’s nice to meet you. My parents mentioned they worked with you on the big fundraiser they’re hosting for the campaign at the end of October. They were really impressed with your work.”

“Thanks,” Dylan says. “But I’m not working on that fundraiser anymore.”

“I know, you’ve moved on to much more important things.” Tristan winks at me and plops down on the bed, crumpling the perfectly pristine, quarter-bouncing sheets. As if to add insult to injury, Tristan reclines on my mound of pillows and swings his feet onto the bedspread. A little moss and a shiny star sticker, along with other bits of dust, fall off his shoes, sullying the clean surface.

“Well, anyway,” Tristan says. “I thought I could take you out. I know a few parties we could hit up so you can lose your college-party virginity.”

“Sure, give me a half hour to get ready?”

Dylan coughs.

“Or...twenty minutes?” I say, eyeing Dylan.

He looks to the ceiling, as though the dorm room gods can supply him with the patience it takes to deal with me. “Peyton, there are still a half-dozen reporters out there. They’re just waiting for you to go out so they can have something juicy to write about.”

I take a couple steps to the window, move aside the blinds and peek out. Cameramen lean against bike racks and a reporter sits in a news van. Dammit. I know there are about a zillion more interesting things going on in the world right now than me going to a college party. Tristan comes up behind me, resting his hand on my shoulder as he looks out too. “Yeah, I saw them when I came in, but I figured we could get around them.”

I close my eyes, blocking out the reporters as Dylan grumbles something about it not being worth the risk.

I turn around. As I do, Tristan’s hand falls from my shoulder. Dylan watches as it falls.

I wait till Dylan looks me in the eye. “So I’m not allowed to go out until after the election?” The fun college memories I imagined myself building drip and swirl down a drain.

Dylan’s mouth opens as Tristan’s voice peals forth. “That’s shit, man. You can’t let these reporters rule her life.”

“She needs to wait a few days for things to calm down.” Dylan’s fists clench.

Tristan leans toward Dylan, but he holds his ground. Tristan sighs and shrugs. “Well, Peyton, you want to just hang out here, then?”

He brushes some of my hair behind my ear. I take his hand and squeeze it. “No, you go out. Have fun. I need to unpack anyway.” I let go and turn back to Dylan, who is probably right about this whole staying in plan.

“I can help you unpack,” Tristan says. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it.

“No,” I say. “No, please go out. If I can’t go out I at least need to live vicariously through you.”

Tristan frowns. “You sure?”

“I’m absolutely positive. I want you to go out,” I say.

He pulls me into another hug and rubs my back before squeezing my hand and smiling. “I’ll see you tomorrow, love.”

His footsteps, and any college fun I might have had tonight, drift down the hallway. I turn back to Dylan.

“That’s Tristan?” Dylan says.

“That’s Tristan,” I say.