Five

A couple of hours later, I find myself on a stage once again, this time standing with one arm around my dad’s waist and waving with the other hand at the huge crowd gathered in Central Park. To the left of me is my dad’s running mate, Will Fletcher, who’s also embracing his wife and two junior-high-aged kids.

I pause for a moment, mid-wave, and reach self-consciously to pat the back of my skirt. This must be the hundredth time I’ve checked it since we got out of the car at the rally, but now I’m completely paranoid. Yet again, I’m relieved to find that my skirt is entirely intact. Hmm, perhaps I should start wearing pants to these things, I think as I resume waving.

I’m also relieved to see that my debacle from the previous evening seems to have been forgotten—among this crowd at least. I’d almost expected to arrive and find the audience holding up handmade signs bearing cheesy underwear jokes, but all I can see in the sea of faces are the trademark “Rowan/Fletcher” campaign signs.

I’m not so lucky when it comes to the press corps. After the crowd dissipates, the Fletchers, my parents and I make our way to the campaign bus and form a crude sort of receiving line at the back entrance so the members of the press can meet us one at a time as they board the bus. Not one of them can introduce themselves to me, it seems, without making some remark about my fateful wardrobe malfunction. Their comments range from surprisingly sweet (the woman from Newsweek who patted me on the arm and said, shaking her head, “We’ve all been there, honey”) to skin-crawlingly disgusting (the man from Fox News who looked me up and down while making an overtly lascivious remark about my quality choice of undergarments). Most of the comments are just trite and annoying, and I try my best to laugh them off good-naturedly, but by the tenth person or so, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep up the façade.

That’s when I suddenly find myself face to face with an extremely attractive guy—tousled, shaggy brown hair, a goatee, and mesmerizing green eyes. Very much my type. At first I think he must be in the wrong place, as he looks to be at least two decades younger than anyone else in the press corps. In fact, he doesn’t look that much older than me. But he reaches out his hand to shake mine just as all the other journalists have done.

“Chris Abbott,” he says in a perfect gravelly voice.

“Julia Rowan.”

“Yes, I know who you are.” He gives me a warm smile.

“I’m guessing you caught my big television appearance last night,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush a little.

He nods sheepishly. “I was in the audience.”

I pause for a second. “You’re not going to make the obligatory underwear joke?” I ask.

“I figure I’m not going to come up with anything that you haven’t heard ten times already,” he says, “so why bother?”

“If only the other members of the press felt the same way you do,” I say, eyeing the remainder of the line and anticipating the five or six jokes I still have to endure.

The next journalist in line is heading my way, so Chris turns to greet my mother. “Wait!” I cry. He turns back around. “What newspaper did you say you’re with?”

“I didn’t. I’m with Politico magazine.”

“Jake Bennett’s magazine?” I ask incredulously. He nods.

“And we’re letting you on the bus anyway?” I ask. I can’t help smirking a little.

“We’re just trying to provide fair and balanced coverage like everyone else,” he says with a shrug.

“Oh, I’ll make sure of that,” I tell him. He smiles at me before turning back to shake my mother’s hand.

The next guy heralds the return of the underwear jokes as he shakes my hand, but it doesn’t even faze me. To tell the truth, I’m not really paying attention. I’m watching Chris as he chats easily with my mom. He really is cute, I think, somewhat wistfully. Unfortunately, my attraction to him presents a pretty big problem—Suzette has already told me she doesn’t really want me fraternizing with the press corps (although she’s encouraged my father to head to the back of the bus at least once a day—she has this crazy idea that if he jokes around with the members of the press, they’ll be a bit more lenient in their coverage of him). So if I’m not even allowed to talk to any of the journalists, I’d assume I’m also precluded from forming any romantic attachments with one of them. Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t have a harmless little crush. I can’t help glancing over at Chris once again. This time, he meets my gaze and gives me a wide smile as he climbs up the steps and into the bus. Besides, I tell myself, the campaign won’t last forever, right?