Twelve

As the bus winds through Wisconsin and Minnesota, I spend every free moment I have studying my father’s campaign platform. Actually, I’m spending a lot of non-free minutes on it, too, taking notes and documents with me to press events, trying to read over them inconspicuously as my father gives his speeches. By this point, I’ve pretty much got his standard-issue stump speech memorized, but apparently that isn’t enough. I’ve got to be able to recall every minute detail of every issue in case something comes up out of the blue.

Every morning, have a quiz on the issues with Marie, my dad’s public-policy adviser. And every afternoon, I have a meeting with Suzette, where she drills me, asking the kinds of tough, left-field questions that I’m likely to hear from journalists or audience members. I know the meetings and the quizzes and the studying are all incredibly important if I’m ever going to prove myself, but I can’t help but dread them a little. It feels like I’m back at school, and as much as I wished for that at the beginning of the trip, I’d actually started to enjoy my little break.

I know I asked for all this, but I can’t help but wonder if I really knew what I was getting myself into. A typical day for me, for instance, might involve plowing through my dad’s 40-page plan on health-care reform, which is every bit as scintillating as it sounds. My idyllic days of playing Scrabble with Chris are long gone—in fact, I’ve barely seen him at all since I’ve embarked on this new quest. But maybe that’s a good thing. At least I’m keeping myself out of trouble. And I’m doing something productive for the campaign. After all, that’s why I’m here.

As the days pass, I become more and more confident about my knowledge of the issues. My public-policy quiz scores have improved drastically, and I’m fielding Suzette’s questions like an expert. A few days before my rally in Iowa, I sit down with Suzette and re-write my speech. We keep the same get-out-the-vote message running thoroughout, but this time it’s peppered with concrete examples that illustrate how my dad will fight for the issues that are important to young people.

When the day of the rally finally arrives, I’m the most nervous I’ve ever been during the campaign, with the possible exception of my debut at the convention. This time, I leave myself more than an hour to review my notes. I hardly drink any water, and I check my skirt at least five times to make sure it’s not tucked into my underwear. I also scan the stage carefully for any loose wires. I don’t want anything—anything—to go wrong this time. There’s a lot riding on this speech, and I want it to be perfect in every way.

For once, blessedly, my wish is granted. There are no wardrobe incidents or pratfalls or protesters to fluster me, nor is Jake in the audience to distract me. The whole thing goes off more brilliantly than I could have imagined, and when I see Suzette smiling at me approvingly as I walk off the stage, I know that all of my hard work has been worth it.

In fact, it turns out, Suzette was so impressed with my performance that she’s changed the format of my event at St. Louis University (scheduled for the morning before the first debate between my father and General Bennett) from a generic rally to an intimate, informal question-and-answer session.

“Now, some of the questions they’re going to ask you will probably be pretty innocuous,” Suzette tells me as we walk across the SLU campus. “You know, who’s your favorite band, what’s your favorite flavor of ice cream, that kind of stuff.”

I glance at her skeptically. “Seriously?”

She nods.

“People are really going to care what flavor of ice cream I prefer?” I ask incredulously.

“You’d be surprised,” she says, pushing open the door to the student union. “Anyway, sometimes those silly little questions stick in people’s minds more than the big ones. So I just want you to think carefully about each and every question before you answer it.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This is only about the thousandth time she’s told me to think before I answer since she set this event up. “Got it,” I tell her.

Inside the union, we head to a small auditorium. Two plush armchairs have been set up on the stage (how very Inside the Actor’s Studio of them, I think), and there are two microphones set up in the aisles for people to ask their questions.

Half an hour later, I’m sitting in one of the armchairs, trying to scan the audience as the student moderator gives me a brief introduction. It’s a bit difficult to see because there are no house lights up, only two spotlights on the microphones, but it looks as if it’s a standing-room-only crowd. As soon as the introduction is over, the first questioner, a goofy-looking guy in a striped sweater and black-framed glasses, steps up to the microphone.

“Julia, do you have a boyfriend?” he asks.

The audience responds with a nervous twitter, and I can’t help but laugh a little, too.

“Nope, not at the moment,” I respond with a smile. This isn’t really a lie, I tell myself. After all, whatever is going on between Chris and me, I wouldn’t go so far as to call him my boyfriend.

“In that case, would you go out with me tonight?” the guy asks.

“Um, I’m a little busy tonight,” I say with another laugh. “You know, with the debate and all. But maybe next time I’m in St. Louis.”

There’s more laughter and a couple of cheers from the audience.

“Julia, you’re driving all these single men crazy,” the moderator says, and I feel my cheeks flush a little. She waits for a moment for the audience to respond to this, then drawls, “Ooookay. Let’s move on. Next question, please?”

“Julia, what are your thoughts on gay marriage?” asks a bookish-looking girl in a skirt and a sweater vest.

“I believe, as my father does, that all citizens should be awarded equal rights under the constitution, no matter what their sexual orientation,” I tell her. “I know that if my father is elected, he will work to champion the rights of gays and lesbians—the same rights that so many other people are trying to deny.”

We move through a few more questions (including, oddly enough, one about my favorite ice cream flavor, which leads me to wonder whether Suzette was handing out suggested questions to the audience members ahead of time) before a guy with a buzz cut wearing tattered jeans and a hooded sweatshirt approaches the microphone and asks, “Julia, have you ever smoked marijuana?”

“No,” I answer honestly. “It’s just really not my thing.”

He nods a little before asking, “What about your father?”

What about my father? I think. The thing is, I’m not really sure. We’ve never actually talked about it before. (He left the whole “don’t do drugs” lecture up to my mom, which she roped into a nice little “don’t smoke,” “don’t drink,” “don’t have sex before you’re ready or without protection” catch-all package.) My dad was such a hippie back in his younger days (he even followed the Grateful Dead for a little while there) that I’d always kind of assumed that he had tried marijuana. But I couldn’t very well say that. At the same time, I couldn’t bring myself to give a flat-out no, because I wasn’t sure if that was the truth, either.

“Well, my dad was at Berkeley in the ‘60s,” I say with a little chuckle. “What do you think?”

I’m quite pleased with this answer. I’m not saying he did, and I’m not saying he didn’t. I’m just presenting the audience with the facts as I know them, and then leaving them to make up their own minds.

As I turn back to the moderator, though, I swear I can make out Suzette in the first row, clutching her head in her hands. Hmm.

I field several more questions, most of which are political, running the gamut from abortion rights to peace in the Middle East to the economy. I answer each one of them confidently, and I’m feeling pretty good about my performance, but my answer to the marijuana question is still nagging me. Maybe I just imagined Suzette freaking out in the audience. I mean, that was a good answer, right?

As soon as Suzette makes her way backstage after the event, it’s clear that the answer is no.

“Julia, what the hell were you thinking?” she cries, her voice practically shaking with anger.

“What?” I exclaim defensively.

“What?!” she repeats. Her voice is getting really shrill now. A few more minutes of this, and she’ll be at a frequency only dogs can hear. Grabbing me by the arm, she lowers her voice and hisses, “You practically told them that your father has done marijuana.”

“I did not!” I insist, breaking free from her grip. “I simply laid out the facts so they could make up their own minds.”

“‘He was at Berkeley in the ‘60s,’” Suzette quotes back to me. “Julia, that is not a fact; that’s practically an admission of guilt! Practically everybody at Berkeley in the ‘60s smoked marijuana!”

“It is too a fact,” I argue. “My father was at Berkeley in the ‘60s. And if you’re insisting that everyone at Berkeley smoked marijauna, then you’re as good as admitting yourself that my father did, too! So what do you want me to do, lie about it?”

“No, I do not want you to lie,” Suzette spits, “but the next time you’re not sure of an answer to a question, why not try saying…oh, off the top of my head, ‘I don’t know’? For God’s sake, you didn’t have to insinuate that your father’s done drugs.”

“I didn’t,” I say firmly.

“Look, Julia, I don’t have time to argue with you about this,” she snaps. “I’ve got to do major damage control. I’m calling you a cab, and I want you to go straight back to the hotel and get ready for the debate tonight.”

“But I’m supposed to go down to the Arch with my parents for a photo-op,” I protest.

“I don’t want you leaving the hotel,” she says. “I’ll let your parents know you won’t be joining them. I don’t want you in any situation where reporters might be able to ask you questions. And I’ll have the front desk block all calls to your room, just in case. Now go.”

I sulk out of the student union and sit glumly on the front steps, waiting for my cab to arrive. I’ve had my share of fights with Suzette, but I’ve never seen her this angry. This must be a lot more serious than I thought.

I continue to mope for the entire cab ride back to the hotel, and then I mope around my suite for a few more hours. I try to watch television, read the paper, take a nap, but I can’t focus on anything. Finally, I decide it’s a reasonable hour to start getting ready for the debate.

I’m sitting at the vanity in my bra and underwear, putting my makeup on, when I hear a knock at the door. Who could that be? I wonder as I slip on one of the hotel’s terry cloth robes and pad across the room to answer it. I decide it’s probably Suzette—or worse, my dad—coming to yell at me, and as I open the door, I brace myself for the worst.

Instead of yelling, though, I’m just met with Chris’s grinning face. “Where were you earlier?” he asks, concerned. “Why weren’t you at the Arch?”

“You mean they didn’t tell you?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“Tell me what?”

“Apparently I told everyone in the audience at my Q-&-A that my father does drugs,” I say bitterly, “although that’s not exactly how I recall it.”

Chris grimaces and inhales sharply. “Let me guess—Suzette wasn’t exactly pleased by your little revelation.”

“Not quite,” I say. “She banished me to the hotel for the entire day, and I’ve been completely miserable. Although now that you’re here,” I say, grinning and grabbing one of his belt loops in an attempt to pull him into the room, “things are much better.”

“Julia,” he says, pulling back a little.

I lean my head out of the door and quickly scan the hallway. “No one’s watching,” I say with a suggestive smile.

Chris returns my smile, then pushes me back into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. In a flurry of kisses, we stumble and spin across the suite until we collapse on the bed.

“I need to be getting dressed for the debate,” Chris mumbles into my hair as he slips his hand into my robe.

“Mmm,” I murmur. “Me, too.” Actually, the debate is probably the furthest thing from my mind. Well, that’s not entirely true—I’m trying to figure out a way to skip it so I can keep making out with Chris. Maybe I can feign illness. Or maybe Suzette will decide to keep me under house arrest for the rest of the night anyway. Or— As Chris nibbles on my earlobe, I suddenly lose that train of thought.

The debate doesn’t enter my mind again until I happen to glance over at the clock and see that an entire hour has passed.

“Oh, God!” I exclaim, sitting up quickly and knocking Chris in the teeth with my forehead in the process.

“Oww,” we both moan before he says dazedly, “What is it?”

“Look at the time!” I cry, grabbing my robe as I jump up from the bed. “My parents are going to be here to get me in half an hour!”

“Crap!” he responds, hurriedly buckling his belt. “I’m supposed to meet Suzette and the rest of the press corps down in the lobby in fifteen minutes!”

As he’s fumbling with his shirt, I race to the vanity to re-do my makeup. On his way out the door, Chris stops to give me a quick kiss.

“Wait!” I cry as he begins to turn the doorknob. “Will you come by later?"

“I can’t,” he says. “My magazine wants me to do an analysis of the debate, so I’m actually on deadline for once.” He strides back over to the vanity and gives me another kiss. “But we’ll do this again sometime,” he says, cupping my face in his hands. “I promise.”

I smile at him as he walks out of the door, then turn my attention back to the mirror and quickly swipe on some mascara.

Exactly twenty-five minutes later, I’m just slipping my shoes on when I hear a knock on the door.

“…some Internet chatrooms, but it hasn’t gotten out to the mainstream press yet,” my dad is saying to my mom as I open the door. As soon as they see me, their conversation halts.

“Hi, honey,” my mom says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

Just seeing my dad makes me feel horrible about what I said that morning, and before he can even say hello to me, I jump right in with my apology.

“Dad, I’m so sorry about—”

He cuts me off, holding up his hand. “Julia, you don’t need to apologize,” he says. “I knew this was going to come up sooner or later during the campaign, and I’m just sorry that you’re the one who had to deal with it first.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as he gives me a hug. “Now let’s go,” he says, “or we’re going to be late.”

We arrive at the auditorium where the debate is being held about an hour early to give my dad time to prepare, which means there’s nothing much for me to do other than sit in the audience with my mom and scrutinize everyone as they file in.

A few minutes after we’re seated, I see Jake arrive and sit down with his mother. He catches me looking at him and gives me a smirk and a condescending little wave. I reply in a similar fashion before turning around to see if I can spot Chris in the press section. I scan the press seats thoroughly, but he’s nowhere to be found. I hope he was able to get down to the lobby in time to meet the rest of the group.

The hour passes excrutiatingly slowly. I’m finally able to locate Chris. I wish I could go up to the press section and sit with him to kill time before the debate starts, but at an event that’s swarming with media, I think it’s best not to excite suspicion. The press corps on our bus is well aware of the terms of our friendship (or at least they think they are) and have become accustomed to it, but I’m afraid that if other journalists see us together, rumors will start flying. And that’s the last thing I need right now.

Finally, after what seems like years, the moderator is welcoming us to the first presidential debate of the year. After briefly explaining the rules, he introduces my father and General Bennett. Because there are no opening statements, the debate opens with a question, which is directed at my dad.

“Senator Rowan,” the moderator says, “I’d like to open things on a bit of a personal note. Recently, there have been rumors floating around concerning drug use in your past. Would you like to address these allegations?”

Oh God, I think, sitting up in my chair and holding my breath. Is this in reference to what I said this morning? It has to be, as it’s the first time it’s come up in the campaign. But how did they find out about it so quickly?

After giving the requisite thank-yous to St. Louis University for hosting the event, my father takes a deep breath. “I do think it’s time for me to quiet these rumors with the truth,” he begins. “And the truth is that, yes, I have smoked marijuana on occasion in the past—in college, to be more specific. But that was more than twenty-five years ago, and we were living in a vastly different world then. We didn’t know everything we know now. And knowing what I know today, if I had to do it all over again, I doubt I would make the same choices.

“However, I fully admit that I did make that choice at a time in my past, and I’m not going to stand here and lie about it to you today. You may call me a hypocrite for sharing this information with you and then saying that we have to do everything we can to keep our children away from drugs, but I don’t see it that way. Because the fact is, I’ve been there. I’ve seen what years of substance abuse can do to a person. And as president, because I’ve been there on the front line, I can help us win the War on Drugs.”

The moderator throws it over to General Bennett, but I don’t hear a word he says. My head is spinning. Did my father really just admit to using marijuana? And on national television, during a presidential debate? What has he done? Worse, what have I done? After all, I’m the reason the whole thing was brought up to begin with.

After the marijuana question, the debate turns to foreign policy and stays there for most of the evening. I try to concentrate, but it’s pretty much impossible. All I can think about is how I’ve probably cost my father the entire election.

When the debate ends, my mom and I rush down to the stage. I greet my dad with a hurt and anxious expression. He kisses me on the top of my head and whispers, “It’s all going to be all right,” before turning to shake hands with General Bennett’s wife.

As my parents exchange greetings with the Bennetts, Jake sidles up to me. Leaning down, he whispers in my ear, “Good one.”

I pull back and study him. “What are you talking about?”

“Your Q-&-A today at SLU,” he says. “‘Berkeley in the ‘60s.’ Very nice.”

“How do you know about that?” I ask, alarmed.

“I was there,” he chuckles.

“You were at the event?” I ask incredulously. “I didn’t see you.”

“It was dark,” he says. “I was in the back. I didn’t want you to get so flustered by my presence that you’d trip and lose your shoe again.”

I’m dying to hit him with some witty comeback, but my mind is somewhere else. Jake Bennett attends my Q-&-A, in which I more or less insinuate that my father has done drugs, and by that evening, the moderator of the presidential debate knows all about it. There’s no way that’s a coincidence.

I’m just about confront him on this when Jake says, “Julia, there’s something I need to say to you.” His tone is very sincere, not at all combative or condescending, which is odd. I cock my head to one side and look at him quizically.

Just then, I feel someone touch me on the arm. Turning around, I see that it’s my mom.

“Julia, we need you for pictures,” she says, adding, “Hello, Jake.”

“Hello, Mrs. Rowan,” he responds politely.

I can’t imagine what Jake is about to say, but before I have a chance to ask him to find me later, my mother is escorting me to the other side of the stage, where dozens of photographers are waiting to snap a photo of me with my parents. After the photos, my eyes are disoriented from the flashbulbs, but I try to scan the crowd again for Jake. He’s nowhere to be found.