The Chosen One (2 page)

Usually, she whispered the word “convict.”

George Carmichael had landed in Massachusetts stripped of his freedom. When he had stepped off the boat nearly 365 years ago, his ignoble start on American soil had needled him as much as it continued to infuriate Grandmother today.

Me, I didn’t care too much about the origins of the Carmichaels‌—‌not that I would ever say so to Grandmother, who had an unpleasant and finite way of dealing with insubordination. I cared about the future. My future. But I was wise enough to know George Carmichael’s past played a key role in my political biography. Every good politician needed an inspiring narrative.

“Time’s up! Pass your papers forward.” Dr. Gingas motioned to hurry and not waste time.

The crinkling of papers being shuffled forward and students grumbling permeated the air.

Dr. Gingas rifled through the papers, scanning the answers. I was amazed by her speed, considering there were roughly forty-something quizzes. She pulled two papers out of the pile and compared them to the one at the top of the stack.

“Where is Ainsley Carmichael?”

I raised my arm. Dr. Gingas nodded crisply in my direction. I couldn’t tell whether she was satisfied or not with my quiz, although I was fairly certain I had answered the questions correctly‌—‌not that I would argue with Genghis.

Some murmuring arose, and a few people turned to eyeball me‌—‌the daughter of the senior Massachusetts senator, niece of the Democratic Leader in the House of Representatives. A decade ago, another family member had been governor of the Bay State.

“Maya Chandler?”

Gray Eyes raised her hand but kept her eyes locked on the notepad. Dr. Gingas didn’t acknowledge that Maya refused to look at her. However, my intuition pinged loudly. There was no way Dr. Gingas didn’t notice. I wouldn’t want to play poker with Professor Khan. She probably preferred Russian roulette anyway.

“And Susie Quillian?”

Susie?

How had I missed her entrance? I’d been so entranced by Gray Eyes that I’d forgotten the first rule of politics: know your adversary.

I honed in on my blonde nemesis since kindergarten. Per usual, she sat in the front row, smack-dab in the center. Her father, Reginald Quillian, had been the Republican governor of Massachusetts back before I wore big-girl pants. The Carmichaels were staunch Democrats. In 2008, Reggie tried to win my mother’s senate seat. To be fair, the election was much closer than anticipated.

The day Susie’s father had lost was the exact day Susie declared all-out war. Susie didn’t dream about being president, unlike me, but politics coursed through her veins all the same. While I idolized Honest Abe, Susie aspired to be a controversial Ann Coulter, the conservative political commentator. In high school, Susie started a blog. By the time she was a junior, she’d launched her YouTube channel:
Susie Q’s Tattler
, where she highlighted all the “misdeeds” of politicians. Her broad stroke target was Democrats, but most of her venom was directed at my family, and I took the brunt of the abuse. The divide between the truth and Susie Q was wider and deeper than the Grand Canyon.

“The three of you get an A for today.” Dr. Gingas set the papers down on the table and walked to the lectern. She advanced to the next PowerPoint slide, casually stating, “The rest of you get an F.” A hint of glee resided in her frown.

Someone laughed but stopped immediately when Dr. Gingas snapped her head up to locate the offender. “There will be ten pop quizzes this semester. You’ll be allowed to drop your lowest grade.”

“But that’s not fair,” whined a male voice from the back of the room.

The professor’s eyes twinkled. “My class, my rules.”

“What is this? A dictatorship?” challenged another student.

“Very good. You do know something about history and government. I was starting to wonder if I’d wandered into the wrong classroom.” Dr. Gingas grinned. I waited for her to start shouting, “Off with their heads.”

Maya the Gray squirmed in her seat, keeping her head down.

Shoot! Did I just give her another nickname?

Dr. Gingas began her lecture, telling us how pilgrims lived in 1620. Maya’s pen furiously scribbled notes on environmentally friendly paper. Was she transcribing every single word?

The remaining thirty minutes flew by. When Dr. Gingas stopped speaking, I was surprised to find I had taken three full pages of notes, front and back.

“I didn’t bother printing out the syllabus, since the department is cutting back on expenses,” said Dr. Gingas. “When you log into your student account, you’ll find it. If you checked yesterday, you probably would have noticed the warning about the pop quiz today. Actually, all of the questions were posted, although I’m assuming only three of you bothered to check.” She thrust her double chin at me, followed by Maya, who didn’t notice Dr. Gingas’s stare, and finally at Susie. Several students closed their notebooks and laptops angrily.

“It is imperative that you check your account every day for messages and assignments. Welcome to Whitlock University, folks.” With that, she plucked her thumb drive from the podium computer, smooshed the quiz papers into her briefcase, and stormed out of the room.

Students rushed out after her, swearing under their breath. I took my time putting my notebook and tablet away. Maya was still writing in her notebook, and I wanted to see her face again. A few students stared at me like they wanted to toss me in front of the next train on the Red Line. They glared at Maya the Gray too, to no avail. She had only looked up for the quiz and to occasionally check the PowerPoint slides.

Susie flashed a malicious grin as she passed, snapping a photo of me on her iPhone. “Well, well, well, Piglet,” she said. “I would say congrats, but I don’t like to encourage cheaters.”

“How does knowing the answers equate to cheating? You passed as well. Does that mean you cheated?” I asked, ignoring the nickname I’d earned at sixteen in an incident that irrevocably shaped my opinion on trusting girls, even childhood friends.

Susie put a finger to her chin and cocked her head. “Please, we both know who’s smarter. And your family history screams the truth. Carmichaels love to discover the questions ahead of time. Like mother, like daughter.”

“I didn’t know the questions were available.” I sensed my face was starting to match my hair. Reggie Quillian had accused my mother of cheating during the senatorial debates by bribing people for the questions ahead of time.

“Yeah, right. You Carmichaels are all alike.” She triumphantly sashayed out, her hips swaying from side to side. I had to admit she had a nice ass. Not that I would ever pursue such an evil bitch, not even for an imagined romance.

Aghast by her accusation, I fumed silently. The only person within hearing distance was Maya, and she was lost in her note-taking. Her pen never stilled during the brief confrontation. Was she deaf? No, that couldn’t be; she had raised her hand when prompted. Maybe she had a photographic memory and was literally transcribing the PowerPoint slides. Was this part of her study routine? Repetition?

I pretended to peruse my cell phone for e-mails, stalling to catch one more glimpse of those eyes. Soon, it was just the two of us in the room. I cleared my throat, but Maya continued to scribble even as students for the next class filtered in.

It was probably for the best, anyway. It wasn’t like I would consider dropping my no-girls rule, not even for Gray Eyes.

Chapter Two

I wandered to the coffee shop in the student union and logged into my student account on my iPad. I hadn’t checked my university account yet, so I was curious to see whether Dr. Gingas was fibbing. Sure enough, there was the syllabus and the pop quiz warning, along with all the questions. My next class wasn’t until eleven, so I opened up the syllabus and scanned the breakdown of assignments.

My eyes zeroed in on the words “group project.” Just great. Every such project I had worked on in high school had been a complete failure. Not that I failed. No, I did all the work, and everyone received an A due to my diligence.

I checked my e-mail and saw one from Mother. The subject line read, “What’s the nickname of Massachusetts?”

I dashed out of the building. She answered on the first ring, laughing.

“You knew?” I asked.

“You still haven’t answered. What’s the nickname?”

“The Bay State,” I said through gritted teeth. “Or the Baked Bean State.”

She stopped laughing briefly. “Don’t forget the Old Colony State and the Pilgrim State.”

“You could have warned me.”

My mother, the senator, knew every history and political science professor at Whitlock.

“Now that would be cheating. I believe today’s lesson is ‘always be prepared, even when you don’t think you need to be.’” I could feel her slimy politician smile over the phone. “What’s the first rule in politics?”

“Know your adversary.” I grunted.

I could hear someone talking to her, and the rustle of her hand covering the phone’s speaker. And then she was back. “If I’m not mistaken, your next class is at eleven. I hope you’re prepared this time.” She ended the call.

My next class was an introduction to Shakespeare, and I knew full well she didn’t know the professor. Mom was purposefully trying to scare me, and it wasn’t working. Not completely.

Chapter Three

Around five, I finished up my final class for the day. I packed classes in on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, leaving Tuesdays and Thursdays to continue my volunteer and political work. This semester, I was to intern for Paulette Murray, a member of the Massachusetts senate, every Tuesday. On Thursdays, I was scheduled to help out at a homeless shelter for teens and a community center. My cousins teased that I was a do-gooder poser, which was better than what my peers said. Most accused me of wanting to pad my resume solely to get elected in the future. Volunteering was never an option in my family, but unlike most of my family members, I actually enjoyed community work. Making a difference in the lives of ordinary folks was hard to explain, except to say that it powered me through the rest of my obligations. Yes, my ultimate drive was to be president, but I wanted to be a president who would help change the lives of those in need. My motto was “Be like Abe.” He abolished slavery. I wanted to be as transformative, if not more.

I walked through Harvard Square to meet my cousin Fiona for dinner. Several street musicians were camped out, guitar cases open for collecting tips. University students, tourists, and locals crammed the sidewalks, making it difficult to walk without bumping into someone or something.

A thin woman in her twenties placed a paper in my palm. “Read,” she instructed. I couldn’t stop staring at her frizzy hair and bugged-out eyes. The crazy person tapped the paper again. “You must read.”

“Me?” I tapped my chest.

“It’s for you. Read,” she commanded.

I held it up and read aloud, “‘The winds and waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators.’” I glanced up. “What the?” But the woman was gone. My eyes searched for her to no avail; the crowd gobbled her up, denying me a chance to ask questions. “Freak,” I muttered under my breath, tucking the paper into my bag.

Twenty feet away I spied a girl in a black T-shirt and jeans rounding the corner of Brattle Street toward Mt. Auburn Street. She disappeared quickly, and I wasn’t entirely certain it was Gray Eyes, but my body was tingling like it had earlier. All thoughts of the mad woman who had accosted me seconds before faded from my brain.

I wavered, trying to decide whether to head in the opposite direction to the restaurant so I wouldn’t be late meeting Fiona, or to chase after some girl who might not even be the mysterious Maya the Gray. Even if it was her, what was my plan? Slam her against a wall, say, “Hey, we’re going to be friends whether you want to or not,” and follow up by tossing an arm around her shoulder?

Why the compulsion to chase after a girl I had no intention of seeking a relationship with?

Screw it. I chased after Maya. If I found her, I’d go from there. I was fairly sure my initial plan would only get me arrested. I needed to channel suaveness. Think JFK.

The black shirt disappeared into a trendy Parisian café called La Creperie. Perfect. I texted my cousin to meet me there, claiming I was in dire need of a caffeine fix and I’d heard through the family grapevine that this joint had the best java and crepes. As Fiona was a coffee junkie, I knew she wouldn’t complain.

I stalled outside, scanning articles on
HuffPo
and praying Gray Eyes wasn’t getting her order to go. I glanced at my watch. Six minutes had passed. Surely she’d already ordered, and it was safe for me to venture inside.

Think JFK.

I opened the door.

Maya stood to the side of the register, waiting.

I strode to the counter like I owned the place. “Hi! Was your day as long as mine?” I asked the female employee, who sported nose, eyebrow, and lip piercings. Yikes. She would never be elected to any office with those, not even dogcatcher. I dropped my school bag down on the tiled floor.

The woman behind the counter stared at me like I was the biggest fool in the world. Of course her day had been long; she’d probably manned the counter for hours, on her feet, making thin pancakes and fancy cups of coffee for spoiled brats who considered a full day of classes backbreaking work.

I worried the heat emanating from my cheeks would set off the fire alarm. Instead of JFK, I’d come across as a grade-A jackass.

“What can I get you?” the woman said with as much cheer as possible, considering she looked like she wanted to tell me to go eff myself.

I couldn’t blame her. “Coffee, please.” I really wanted something with a wow factor, but I could feel Maya studying me, and I didn’t think ordering a froufrou drink would impress her at all.

“For here or to go?”

I wasn’t positive, but it sounded like the pierced woman stressed the words
to go
, implying I wasn’t welcome to stay.

“Here, please,” I responded cheerily. “I’m meeting someone.” I better justify why I wasn’t taking her not-so-subtle hint.