Eight

The next morning, as the bus is speeding out of Philadelphia, I feel something poke me on the arm. I turn around to see what at first appears to be an abnormally large straw, but upon closer inspection is actually five or six regular straws pushed together, digging into my shoulder. The straw wielder is on the other side of the curtain, and I think it’s probably one of the Fletcher kids trying to annoy me, but a quick glance up toward the front of the bus reveals that they’re sitting at the conference table, studying with their private tutor.

I grab the poking device out of the hands of its owner, and the curtain parts slightly to reveal Chris, his mouth open in mock outrage. I gesture toward the straws and shrug, and he motions for me to follow him out into the hallway by the bathroom. After a quick check to make sure no one is watching, I slip through the curtain.

“Where did you get this?” I ask, handing him back the straws.

“I made it at lunch yesterday,” he says proudly. “You know, just in case I need to get your attention without anyone noticing. Pretty clever, huh?”

“Oh, yes,” I say with a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” he says defensively.

“That’s true,” I admit.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I heard what happened at the rally yesterday, with the protesters and everything. I thought you might want to talk about it.”

“That would be great, actually,” I tell him.

“Well, then follow me,” he says, and we do our usual Mission: Impossible-esque sneak back to the press section. Once we’re safely seated, I start to spill about how upset I was by the demonstration at the rally. I’m just in the middle of telling him how flustered I got during my speech when I hear a familiar voice in the hallway.

“And how are things in the back of the bus this morning?” Oh, God. It’s my dad. He must be coming back for one of his informal, jokey chats with the press. I freeze for a moment, and Chris and I stare at each other with wide-eyed expressions of horror. As I hear the curtain being pulled back, I do the only thing I can think of: I dive to the floor at Chris’s feet in an attempt to hide.

Crumpled up into a little ball, I’m afraid to even breathe. I feel like a member of the Von Trapp family, hiding from the Nazis at the end of The Sound of Music. Thankfully, my dad seems to be cavorting with some of the TV people and hasn’t taken any notice of Chris. I’m fervently praying that he’ll leave soon when I hear him say, “How are you doing this morning, Chris?” Uh-oh.

“Just fine, sir,” Chris says, with a little nervous chuckle.

“Chris, have you brought a stowaway on my campaign bus?” my dad asks suspiciously.

“A stowaway, sir?” Chris asks, feigning innocence.

“Yes,” my dad replies. “Would you like to introduce me to your…uh, friend?”

Chris starts stammering, trying to come up with some sort of excuse, but it’s pretty clear at this point that I’ve been busted. “Hey, Dad,” I say sheepishly, turning around to see him peering over the seat.

“Hey…Julia,” he says slowly, his voice betraying his surprise. I hear a murmur ripple through the seats behind me, and I figure I’d better think quickly if I want to avoid a big scene that will surely be considered fodder for tomorrow’s news.

“Dad, you see,” I say, standing up, “um, I was on my way to the bathroom, right? And, uh, my earring fell out and, uh, rolled back here. So I was just, um, looking under Chris’s seat to see if I could find it. But no luck!”

My dad’s still looking at me suspiciously, and I decide it’s best to beat a hasty retreat before he can say anything. “Well, I guess I’d better be getting back!” I trill. “Bye, everyone!” I slip back through the curtain, but not before catching a glimpse of the pained expression on Chris’s face and the stern one on my dad’s.

I’m just about to hurry back to my seat and try to pretend like this whole thing never happened when I realize that a confrontation with my dad is inevitable. And there’s no reason why said confrontation should have to take place in front of Suzette and the campaign staff (which would undoubtedly make it that much worse), so I linger in the hallway until my dad is done with his press chat.

“Julia,” he says with a warning tone in his voice when he strides through the curtain and sees me standing in the hallway.

“Dad, let me explain!” I cry before he can say anything else. He takes my arm and leads me closer to the front of the bus so no eavesdropping press members can hear our conversation.

“I know I’m not supposed to be talking to the journalists,” I tell him, “but this isn’t how it looks.” He eyes me skeptically, as people are wont to do when such a defense is offered. “Really,” I assure him. “Chris and I are just friends, hanging out. We’re both bored, being the only people our age on the entire bus. And he’s already told me that everything we talk about is off the record, not that anything I say to him would be of any use in an article anyway. Mostly we just joke around and play Scrabble. There’s no harm in playing Scrabble, right?” I give him my best puppy-dog eyes.

He sighs. “No, I guess not. And I do feel bad that you don’t really have a friend your age on the campaign bus. I can see where it might get boring.” I smile at him hopefully.

“Of course,” he continues, “I’m going to have to clear this through Suzette.”

My face falls. There’s no way she’ll approve of me spending considerable amounts of time with a member of the press. “Can’t we just not tell her?” I ask.

“Julia,” my dad says, looking at me pointedly. “You know that’s not possible. Besides, now that the other members of the press corps know that you’ve been sneaking back to see Chris, the news is bound to get to her eventually. I think it’s better that she hear it from me first.”

My expression remains crestfallen, so he gives me a smile and a little nudge on the arm. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I’m sure I can talk her into it.”

This prompts a tiny smile from me, but secretly, I’m still worried. I’m not completely sure that Suzette can be talked into anything, even by my father.

Returning to my seat, I look on in nervous anticipation as I watch my dad approach Suzette and start to explain the situation. They’re up at the very front of the bus, so I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the look of displeasure on her face doesn’t give me much hope. However, she is nodding, so maybe that’s a good sign.

After a few of what seem to be the longest minutes of my life, their conversation finally concludes and Suzette turns to talk to another staff member. My dad turns around and sees me watching him expectantly. His face breaks into a smile, and he gives me a thumbs up.

I return his smile and mouth, “Thank you,” before racing giddily to the back of the bus.