Twenty-Three

The invitation is the last I hear from Jake. The days pass, slowly at first, as I fall back into the habit of racing home to check for any word from him. After a couple of weeks of silence, I try to distract myself again with classes. But all the distractions in the world can’t divert my attention from the fact that General Bennett’s inaguration is quickly approaching. It seems like everywhere I go, I hear reports of the exorbitant parades and lavish balls to come. I wonder if I’ve done the right thing by refusing to acknowledge Jake’s invitation. I’m plagued by the sinking feeling that I’ve just thrown away my last chance to make things right between us. But I have to accept the fact that there’s nothing I can do about it now.

On the day of the inauguration, I’m attempting to shelter myself from the media onslaught by spending a few hours reading at my favorite coffee shop. I’m curled up in a comfy easy chair, just getting to the exciting part of my novel, so I don’t notice for a while that the girl behind the counter is shouting my name.

“Julia Rowan?” she shouts. “Is Julia Rowan here?”

Shoving my bookmark back into my book, I jump up to see that, predictably, the entire coffee shop is staring at me, and their stares aren’t just of the “why is that girl shouting her name in a quiet coffee house” variety. Great. I guess anonymity is still a little much to hope for this early in the semester.

As I race toward the counter, I notice several people whisper to each other as I pass, not taking their eyes off me. I greet the barista with a slight scowl.

“You have a phone call,” she tells me, handing me the receiver.

“Julia!” Ilse exclaims as soon as I put the phone to my ear, before I even have a chance to say hello. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“What’s up?” I ask curiously. It must be important for Ilse to have had to track me down like this.

“Have you seen the new issue of Politico?” she asks breathlessly.

“No,” I respond hotly, “and I doubt I will. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not on the best of terms with the editorial staff of that magazine.”

“I think you’ll change your mind once you see the issue,” she tells me.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“That’s all I’m saying,” she says mysteriously. “You’ve got to read it for yourself.”

I roll my eyes, feigning nonchalance, as I hand the phone back across the counter. But inside, my heart is racing. The new issue of Politico. This can’t be good. Can it? Ilse did say it would change my feelings toward the editorial staff, though. One thing’s for sure: I’ve got to see a copy of that magazine. Now.

Scanning the coffee shop, I spot someone in the far corner of the room reading what I assume to be the most recent issue, an assumption based both on the fact that I don’t remember seeing it on newsstands as well as the fact that the person reading it is whispering to his companion and pointing toward me.

Boldly, I stalk across the coffee shop and approach their table. But before I can even ask to borrow the magazine, he hands it over to me, folded open to a specific page.

“This is what you want to read,” he says.

I give him a smile of gratitude. As much as I want to sit down right there and read whatever this mysterious mind-changing story is, I make the long trek back to my chair, not wanting to endure the inevitable penetrating stares I would receive if I were to read it in front of these random strangers.

When I sit down, I see that the magazine has been flipped open to the editor’s letter. Next to the column of text is a picture of Jake, sporting his devilish grin. Just seeing his picture causes my heart to skip a beat. I’m finding it increasingly hard to breathe, but I force myself to read the letter.

“Dear readers,” it begins. “As many of you know, since my father announced his bid for the White House, my role as editorial director at Politico has been largely ceremonial. In the interest of providing fair and balanced coverage of the campaign, I have precluded myself from taking part in the day-to-day editorial duties of the magazine. Now, as my father prepares to assume the presidency, I must announce my complete resignation from the staff. I leave the magazine in the very capable hands of my good friend, editor in chief Sasha Smith.

“However, before I bid you a final farewell, I feel there is a very important issue that I feel needs to be addressed. Shortly before the November election, several credible news sources ran a story claiming that this magazine intended to publish a story about Charlie Rowan’s daughter, Julia, that would further expose her alleged ‘wild child’ tendencies. I would like to state for the record that it was never our intention to publish such an aritcle.

“Furthermore, I have since learned that the reporter quoted in this story, Chris Abbott, was engaged in a romantic relationship with Miss Rowan, the purpose of which seems to have been to trap her in a compromising situation. The picture that accompanied this story, of Miss Rowan dancing in a bar, was taken by Mr. Abbott only after he had supplied her with many alcoholic beverages. Needless to say, Mr. Abbott was summarily dismissed from the staff of this magazine as soon as this information came to light.

“And so I want to use these words, the final ones I will ever write on these pages, to extend a sincere apology to Julia Rowan, who was merely a victim of the actions of one callous individual who unfortunately saw it fit to act under the name of our magazine. There have been many who have blamed Charlie Rowan’s loss in the election on his daughter, but I can only think that they are seriously misguided. During the campaign, it was my distinct pleasure to get to know Julia, and I can honestly say that I have never met a more caring, more intelligent or more spirited woman. If anything, Julia Rowan is part of the reason her father was so admired by so many people…including me.”

Slowly, I walk back across the coffee shop, barely cognizant of my surroundings, and hand the magazine back to the couple I borrowed it from, murmuring a dazed, “Thank you.” I can feel them staring at me curiously, but thankfully, they don’t ask any questions. Still stunned, I walk out of the shop and onto the street, moving with the flow of pedestrian traffic but without a clue as to where I’m going.

All I can think is how foolish I’ve been once again. Why didn’t I listen to Jake when I saw him in Seattle? Or when he called me on election night? Why didn’t I pick up the phone any of those times he called, and why did I throw his invitation away so hastily? I think of the Leonard Cohen lyrics he included with it. “I told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you.” Of course that meant something! I am such an idiot. And I’m completely powerless to reverse the damage I’ve done to him.

I walk around aimlessly in the cold for what must be hours, tears welling up in my eyes. Finally, when I become tired of the curious glances I’m garnering, I head back to my dorm room. As soon as I start to turn the knob, the door flies open, yanked from the other side.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ilse cries as I walk forlornly into the room.

“Out walking,” I mumble, pulling off my mittens.

“Did you read the magazine?” she asks impatiently. She’s incredibly jittery, bouncing up and down like one of those dime-store rubber balls.

“Yes, I read it,” I snap, whipping around. She immediately stops bouncing and gets a somewhat frightened look on her face. I soften my tone. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You were right, okay? You were right, for the hundredth time. But it doesn’t much matter, because there’s nothing I can do about it now.” With this pronouncement, I flop back onto my bed dejectedly.

Ilse races across the room, grabs my hand and pulls me off of the bed. “What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?” she exclaims.

I give her a pointed look. “Just that. There’s nothing. I. Can do.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course there is!” she responds. “For starters, you can go to that ball!”

“The inaugural ball?” I reply. “No, I can’t. I threw that invitation away weeks ago. They’d never let me in the door.”

Ilse walks over to her desk and, opening the top drawer, produces a cream-colored envelope. “You mean this invitation?” she asks with a gleam in her eye.

“Where did you get this?” I cry, grabbing the envelope out of her hand. I open it just to make sure and find that it is indeed my invitation to General Bennett’s inaugural ball that evening in Washington.

“I rescued it from the trash can,” she admits. “I had a feeling you might change your mind.”

A smile spreads across my face as I squeal and hug her. But mid-embrace, I’m struck with several troubling thoughts all at once.

“Wait,” I tell her, breaking away. “What about my dad? I mean, he was the reason I decided not to go in the first place. And I have nothing to wear. And I’ll never—”

My frantic ranting is interrupted by a loud knock on the door. Ilse smiles at me, and I respond with a questioning look.

“I think that might just be the answer,” she says knowingly, striding across the room to open the door.

Of all the people I expected to see on the other side, Suzette had to be one of the last ones. And yet there she is, grinning and holding a big white box. She and Ilse exchange hellos and smile at each other conspiratorially. I glance warily from one to the other, not sure what’s about to happen.

“Now, let’s see, what were you saying?” Ilse asks me nonchalantly, but I cut her off before she can delve any further into her little act.

“Suzette, what are you doing here?” I ask her disbelievingly.

“Your roommate called me,” she replies. “Told me you were in a bit of a jam and could use my help.”

I briefly shoot Ilse a scornful glance (to which she responds with another beatific smile) before turning my attention back to Suzette.

“So you came here…to help me?” I ask, baffled. “But…I thought you weren’t speaking to me. I thought you hated me.”

“Oh, please, Julia,” Suzette replies, instantaneously resuming the all-business personality I’d grown accustomed to. “We don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. We’ve got to get you to that ball!”

“But, but…” I sputter, unsure of where to begin. Suzette and Ilse both regard me impatiently. “What about my dad?” I exclaim, suddenly remembering my reservations. “Won’t he be upset by me attending the inaugural ball of his opponent?”

“I’ve already talked with him,” Suzette informs me briskly, setting the box in her arms down on my bed. “He gives you his blessing.”

“Really?” I ask in amazement.

“Of course,” Suzette scoffs. “Who wouldn’t? It’s obvious how much you and Jake care about each other.”

I’m stunned, unable to speak. Apparently I’m the last person on earth to find out about my feelings for Jake, which seems to me to be awfully unfair.

As I ponder this thought, Suzette has already moved on to the next dilemma. “Now, for the dress,” she says.

“Yes!” I exclaim, cutting her off. “A dress! I need a dress! I don’t have a dress!”

“Calm down,” she tells me derisively. “You do have a dress.” She gestures to the white box on the bed. “It’s a little something I picked up when we were at the Vogue photo shoot. I thought it might come in handy one day.”

At the mention of Vogue, I start to back away slowly from the box, as if it contains a rabid beast. In fact, it might as well, as far as I’m concerned. “Oh, no,” I say. “I would rather go to the ball naked than have to shove myself into that dress again.”

“Would you relax?” Suzette says. “Just open the box.”

I approach it tentatively and lift off the lid. Inside, I find the gorgeous beaded white cocktail dress I had been eyeing at the shoot.

I turn to Suzette. “How did you—”

“I saw you drooling over it at the photo shoot,” she replies with a smile.

“Go on!” urges Ilse, who has been silent in Suzette’s wake for several minutes. “Let’s see if it fits!”

Obligingly, I peel off my jeans and sweater and slip on the dress. As Ilse zips it up, I look at myself in the full-length mirror. It fits perfectly, as if it were cut specifically for my body. I gaze at my reflection happily…until my eyes trail down and catch a glimpse of the sweat socks on my feet.

“What about—” I begin, but Ilse holds up a finger to silence me, running over to her closet and rummaging through it until she finally emerges, triumphant, holding a pair of silver strappy sandals.

“You can borrow my Jimmy Choos,” she tells me, and for what might be the first time ever, I find myself rejoicing that I have a roommate with such extravagant taste in footwear.

Before I can even thank her, Ilse announces, “Hair and makeup!” and drags me over to her desk chair where, after pulling out her gigantic makeup box, she begins plying me with every cosmetic product known to man. From her perch on my bed, Suzette merely looks on in amusement.

As Ilse is dabbing at my eyes with a pointy brush, I’m struck by another dismaying thought. “I’ll never make it to Washington in time!” I cry. “The train there will take like eight hours, and that’s assuming there’s even one leaving anytime soon!”

Ilse steps back and gives me a scornful look. “What’s all this nonsense about trains?” she asks.

Before I can respond, Suzette jumps in. “There’s a charter flight waiting at the airport to take you to Washington,” she tells me. “A driver will meet your plane at Dulles and take you to the White House. You should arrive just in time.”

I stare at them both, my face a mixture of amazement and gratitude. They beam back at me. Then suddenly, the moment is broken as Ilse returns to frantically applying my makeup and Suzette begins pacing around the room.

Twenty minutes later, we’re all bundled up and crowding into Ilse’s miniscule Saab, heading for the airport. Just the short walk to the dorm parking lot has already succeeded in turning my scantily clad feet into ice cubes, but I’m so nervous that I barely notice. Ilse and Suzette, apparently fast friends, chatter all the way to the airport, but I can’t bring myself to concentrate on what they’re saying. My mind is somewhere else entirely.

At the airport, they smile and wave excitedly, like two parents sending their only daughter off to her senior prom, as a freezing wind sweeps down the runway. As I bid them good-bye I take one last exhilarating gulp of the frigid air before boarding the tiny plane that will carry me to my fate.