Four
Whatever cares might have been washed away by my bath come rushing back the next morning when my clock radio goes off at 6:00.
“I don’t know—I always pictured Julia Rowan as more of a thong kind of girl,” I hear a DJ say crassly as his obnoxious counterpart guffaws in the background. “To tell you the truth, it’s kind of disappointing!”
I reach over and bang on the radio until the chuckling mercifully ceases. Groggily, I make my way to the bathroom. I’m just washing my face when I hear a knock on the door.
I open it to see my dad leaning against the doorframe. “Feeling better?” he asks.
“Not really,” I reply honestly.
“Well, I’ve got just what you need,” he says, pulling his hand from behind his back to reveal a Zabar’s bag. “Bagels. And cream cheese. And lox.”
I smile, opening the door a little wider so he can come in. “Well, I’m not sure it can stop everyone in the country from talking about my underwear,” I say, “but it’s a good start toward lifting my spirits.”
“I’ve got some more good news,” my dad says as I sit down at the table and start slathering my bagel with cream cheese.
“Really? What’s that?” I ask.
He tosses me the op-ed page of the Times, which features a huge picture of him pretending to hug me while adjusting my skirt. Of course, the photo was snapped mid-adjustment, so my underwear is still in full view.
“And how is this good news?” I ask through a mouthful of bagel.
“Read the headline,” my dad says, and I glance at it obligingly. “Great Save by Major Dad,” it reads.
“So?” I look at him pointedly.
“So?” he repeats. “Don’t you see? I’m this big hero now because I saved my daughter from further humiliation by fixing her skirt!”
“Couldn’t you have saved me from humiliation altogether by fixing it before I went out on stage?”
“Julia, I didn’t see it before you went out on stage,” he replies defensively. “No one did!”
“Not even Suzette?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“You know, contrary to popular belief, Suzette is not out to get you,” my dad says, taking a seat opposite me and looking me directly in the eyes. “She’s here to help you. To help all of us.”
“I know, I know,” I sigh, rolling my eyes. Desperate to change the subject, I tell him, “Anyway, I’m glad my most embarrassing moment can at least be advantageous to your political career.”
“That’s the spirit!” my dad cries, reaching across the table and swatting me playfully on the arm with his newspaper. “Now hurry up and eat so you can get ready to go. The car’s going to be here in 45 minutes to take us to Central Park for the big kick-off rally. And then”—he jumps up and throws his arms out with excessive bravado—“we set off across the country on our great American road trip!”
“Dad,” I scoff.
“What?” he asks, in a tone of mock alarm.
“Well, it’s just that we’re going to be on a campaign bus with a bunch of reporters,” I say. “Not exactly Jack Kerouac.”
“True, true,” he says, nodding. “But I’m sure you’ll have plenty of adventures anyway.” He gives me a little wink.
“We’ll see,” I say as he turns to leave.
As I’m packing my suitcase half an hour later, I start to think that maybe he’s right. Sure, spending two months on a bus with my parents isn’t exactly every college student’s idea of the perfect freewheeling road trip, but then again, not many college students have the chance to be on the inside of a presidential campaign. It’s like being a part of history, really. My excitement grows, and as I wheel my suitcase down to the lobby to meet my parents, I’m daydreaming about all the adventures that might come my way.
“I don’t know—I always pictured Julia Rowan as more of a thong kind of girl,” I hear a DJ say crassly as his obnoxious counterpart guffaws in the background. “To tell you the truth, it’s kind of disappointing!”
I reach over and bang on the radio until the chuckling mercifully ceases. Groggily, I make my way to the bathroom. I’m just washing my face when I hear a knock on the door.
I open it to see my dad leaning against the doorframe. “Feeling better?” he asks.
“Not really,” I reply honestly.
“Well, I’ve got just what you need,” he says, pulling his hand from behind his back to reveal a Zabar’s bag. “Bagels. And cream cheese. And lox.”
I smile, opening the door a little wider so he can come in. “Well, I’m not sure it can stop everyone in the country from talking about my underwear,” I say, “but it’s a good start toward lifting my spirits.”
“I’ve got some more good news,” my dad says as I sit down at the table and start slathering my bagel with cream cheese.
“Really? What’s that?” I ask.
He tosses me the op-ed page of the Times, which features a huge picture of him pretending to hug me while adjusting my skirt. Of course, the photo was snapped mid-adjustment, so my underwear is still in full view.
“And how is this good news?” I ask through a mouthful of bagel.
“Read the headline,” my dad says, and I glance at it obligingly. “Great Save by Major Dad,” it reads.
“So?” I look at him pointedly.
“So?” he repeats. “Don’t you see? I’m this big hero now because I saved my daughter from further humiliation by fixing her skirt!”
“Couldn’t you have saved me from humiliation altogether by fixing it before I went out on stage?”
“Julia, I didn’t see it before you went out on stage,” he replies defensively. “No one did!”
“Not even Suzette?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“You know, contrary to popular belief, Suzette is not out to get you,” my dad says, taking a seat opposite me and looking me directly in the eyes. “She’s here to help you. To help all of us.”
“I know, I know,” I sigh, rolling my eyes. Desperate to change the subject, I tell him, “Anyway, I’m glad my most embarrassing moment can at least be advantageous to your political career.”
“That’s the spirit!” my dad cries, reaching across the table and swatting me playfully on the arm with his newspaper. “Now hurry up and eat so you can get ready to go. The car’s going to be here in 45 minutes to take us to Central Park for the big kick-off rally. And then”—he jumps up and throws his arms out with excessive bravado—“we set off across the country on our great American road trip!”
“Dad,” I scoff.
“What?” he asks, in a tone of mock alarm.
“Well, it’s just that we’re going to be on a campaign bus with a bunch of reporters,” I say. “Not exactly Jack Kerouac.”
“True, true,” he says, nodding. “But I’m sure you’ll have plenty of adventures anyway.” He gives me a little wink.
“We’ll see,” I say as he turns to leave.
As I’m packing my suitcase half an hour later, I start to think that maybe he’s right. Sure, spending two months on a bus with my parents isn’t exactly every college student’s idea of the perfect freewheeling road trip, but then again, not many college students have the chance to be on the inside of a presidential campaign. It’s like being a part of history, really. My excitement grows, and as I wheel my suitcase down to the lobby to meet my parents, I’m daydreaming about all the adventures that might come my way.
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