One

“Owww!”

I whip around and shoot a glare at Simon, the Vogue stylist who is currently trying to wrench me into a corseted ball gown.

“Is it supposed to be this painful?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“It’s couture,” he says, by way of an answer. “Pain is irrelevant.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It is not meant to make you feel better,” he snots as he gives the ribbons lacing up the back of the dress another firm tug. “It’s meant to make you appreciate the beauty of the dress.”

“Well,” I shoot back, “it would be a lot easier to appreciate it if I could actually breathe.”

At this, Simon gives a tiny, dissatisfied snort and yanks even harder on the ribbons, further cutting off my already much-depleted air supply.

“Look,” I say, spinning around to face him, “if you’re trying to go down in history for assassinating the daughter of a presidential candidate by asphyxiating her with a ball gown, then congratulations! Because you’re well on your way.”

At this, Simon throws up his hands in exasperation. “I cannot work like this!” he cries, storming out of the room.

Immediately, the photographer and editor who are there for the photo shoot run after him, presumably to cajole him into returning to the laborious task of trying to squeeze me into a dress that clearly does not fit. Loosening the ribbons on the corset, I breath a sigh of relief and shoot a satisfied smile in the direction of Suzette, the public relations chief for my father’s campaign, who’s perched primly on a velvet settee a few feet away. I can immediately see that Suzette does not share my overwhelming sense of relief, however, as I am met with her patented icy stare of complete and utter disdain. Uh-oh.

Slowly, Suzette rises and walks toward me, the click-clack of her pointy-toed shoes on the wooden floor sounding like the seconds of a clock as it ticks down the time I have left before I go in front of the firing squad.

“Julia,” she says in an eerily calculated calm voice as she comes to a stop a few inches from my face, “I will not tolerate any more outbursts of that nature. Do I make myself clear?”

I nod meekly. I’ve only known Suzette for a few weeks, but I’ve learned quickly that it’s best to pick your battles.

“Furthermore,” she continues, “I don’t want to hear any more complaints about this dress. We’re trying to frame you as an American princess, which your rude remarks and general lack of cooperation are turning into quite the challenge. At least this dress will be of some help in fostering the illusion.”

“But that’s the problem, Suzette,” I protest. “It’s just an illusion. I’m not a princess. I never wanted to be a princess.”

“Ah, but America wants you to be a princess,” she replies, her voice softening slightly. “And therefore, a princess you shall be. This is what’s best for your father’s campaign, Julia. You do want that, don’t you?”

Again, I can only nod.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, she says, “I must go find the editor and make sure this unpleasant little incident doesn’t make it into print. I trust you can behave yourself unattended for a few minutes.”

I roll my eyes, but luckily she doesn’t see it, as she’s already started click-clacking her way to the hallway. Stuck on a platform in the center of the room amidst layers of tulle, chiffon, ribbons and feathers, it’s impossible for me to move, so I take a moment to evaluate my surroundings. The Vogue photo shoot is taking place in a huge Soho loft, and directly opposite me are expansive floor-to-ceiling windows. Standing up on my tiptoes, I lean forward so I can peer through them and watch the people walking down on the street. They’re in jeans and business suits, carrying coffees and talking on their cell phones and walking their dogs. In other words, normal. As I look around me, my eyes stop on the row of mirrors in the corner, where impossibly thin models sit, getting their makeup done for the next photo shoot that will take place in this loft. And that’s when it hits me: I’m no longer one of the normal people. In fact, I may never be one of them again.

It wasn’t always like this, I think, reflecting wistfully on my days of normalcy. I mean, sure, my dad’s been a senator since I was two, so there’s always been a sense of growing up in the public eye. But if I was ever mentioned in the press, it was only in short, fluffy little pieces about, say, my high-school graduation. (My dad gave the keynote address.) And all of his campaigns (at least, all the ones I can remember) have been relatively uncontested, so our family has never had to deal with much mudslinging from opposing candidates. Plus, my dad’s actions in Washington have generally been respected by the people in our home state of Vermont, so we’ve never run into much bad press there, either. All in all, I guess you could say we were leading a pretty idyllic life, considering my father’s chosen occupation.

But all that changed last year when he announced, to the great excitement of many Democratic party leaders, that he was planning to make a bid for the presidency. First there were the primaries, which got pretty ugly, with allegations of affairs (none of which were true) and arrests (some of which were true, but only because my dad was such an avid anti-war and environmental protester in college). For the most part, I was able to stay out of the fray, and the mentions of my name in the press were minimal to nonexistent. At the time, I was trying to navigate my freshman year at Brown, a task that was difficult enough without a constant barrage of reporters asking me for sound bites about the latest scandal my father was embroiled in. My parents managed to keep the press away from me, but that doesn’t mean I felt the effects of having a national media spotlight shine on my family any less acutely. In time, I learned to deal with the negative press about my father by tuning it out and concentrating on the man I knew: strong, honest, caring and funny.

Eventually, I managed to convince myself that my skin had grown thick enough to withstand the rigors of participating in the campaign. When my freshman year was over, I determinedly announced to my parents that I wasn’t planning on returning to Brown in the fall—I would be taking the first half of my sophomore year off to help with the campaign. Initially, my parents were skeptical—they’d seen how badly I’d been hurt by the mudslinging that went on in the primaries, and they warned me that it would only get worse now that my dad was facing off against the conservative, decorated war hero Bill Bennett. I assured them that I could take it.

What I couldn’t take, it turned out, was this. Not this photo shoot, specifically, although it was a prime example. I, who had been accustomed to making my own decisions all my life with minimal authority (even from my parents, who were very big into the whole free-spirited, follow-your-own-path parenting thing), was suddenly forced to have my every choice determined for me by other people. And not just other people—people like Suzette, whose every interest and idea seem to run contrary to my own. She’s the one who decided that my only in-depth interview before the election should be with Vogue. (And by “in-depth,” I don’t really mean “in-depth,” but rather “two-page fluff piece in which I am not allowed to say anything of political consequence.”) Personally, I had envisioned making my debut in the press with an essay in The New Yorker or The Atlantic Monthly that would explore the important issues of my father’s campaign and the implications for people my own age. But Suzette quickly nixed that idea, telling me that we needed “a more mainstream vehicle” for my one and only interview. She also informed me that I would be forbidden from discussing any of my father’s policies during the campaign. My role, she said, was to humanize my father by providing charming anecdotes and affectionate father-daughter photo-op moments. I was also supposed to mobilize the youth vote, but, she emphasized, I was to do so in a general fashion, without resorting to any sort of discussion of policy or partisan politics.

Sighing, I gaze back out the window and see two girls emerging from the coffee shop across the street. They’re both wearing backpacks and carrying notebooks, and it’s obvious they’ve just finished studying. I suddenly feel a stab of longing: That should be me. I should be returning to Brown, moving into the room in Caswell Hall that I was supposed to share with my friend Ilse, getting coffee and catching up with all my old friends. But instead, here I am: being forced to pretend that I’m some sort of princess.

The click-clack of Suzette’s heels jolts me out of my reverie. I turn toward the doorway, where I suddenly spy a rack of clothes, at the end of which is a gorgeous slinky white jewel-encrusted cocktail dress. I eye it enviously, considering for a moment whether it would be wise to try and persuade Suzette to let me switch dresses, but one quick look at her face tells me the answer to that question is no.

“Okay!” she says a little too brightly as she clips across the room, trailed by the editor, photographer and a very dejected-looking Simon. “Are we ready to try this again?”

I give a sweet smile that I hope conveys my acquiescence in the most princess-like manner, and Simon steps up on the platform to resume his torture while a makeup artist rushes up to dust my face with powder.

“Thank you for cooperating, Miss Rowan,” Simon says as he gives the ribbons a final tug into place.

Suddenly, a male voice echoes through the loft. “Not Julia Rowan?” I dodge the makeup artist’s advancing powder puff and spin around to see who could have arrived at a Vogue photo shoot looking for me. Standing in the doorway is a tall, lanky guy with dark, spiky hair. Next to him is a full-lipped blonde with hipbones and cheekbones jutting out everywhere. They look vaguely familiar, but it’s not until he cries, “Why, it is!” and flashes a devilish dimpled grin that I know exactly who they are. The guy is Jake Bennett, the son of my father’s opponent, and the girl is his latest girlfriend, British supermodel and It Girl of the moment Sophie Yates.

As they advance across the room, I feel an overwhelming urge to sink down and hide in the skirt of my dress (which, considering its sheer volume, would not be that hard, were it not for the binding corset holding me stiffly upright). Truth be told, I’ve had a little bit of a crush on Jake Bennett ever since I started seeing his face in the tabloids. With his clean-cut good looks, piercing blue eyes and charming grin, he’s widely considered one of the country’s most desirable bachelors. Not to mention the fact that he’s incredibly successful—two years ago, just out of college, he launched Politico, a politics-and-pop-culture magazine that immediately topped every critic’s must-read list and was lauded as one of the most successful magazine launches in recent history. Ever he and Sophie started dating about a month ago (after she posed as a sexed-up Statue of Liberty on the cover of his magazine), they’ve achieved the coveted title of New York’s golden couple. This is the first time I’ve ever met him, and I’m not exactly thrilled that the introduction is taking place when I look like I should be standing on top of a wedding cake somewhere.

“Well, well, well,” he says, sauntering up and taking in the sight of me in my enormous ball gown. “Julia Rowan. What a pleasure.”

“Jake Bennett,” I return quickly. “Wish I could say the same.”

As soon as the words pop out of my mouth, I want to take them back. Suzette would definitely consider this un-princess-like behavior. I glance warily in her direction, but am relieved to see that she’s busy discussing something with the photographer and is apparently oblivious to the little scene that’s playing out a few feet away from her.

Jake seems amused by my sarcasm. “Ooh, feisty!” he says, not a little condescendingly. “They’d better keep an eye on you.”

Just as I’m starting to seethe with anger, he flashes that trademark grin and says, “Nice dress,” and I soften a little.

“Thanks,” I reply, and, leaning forward, whisper conspiratorially, “It’d be a lot better if I could actually breathe.”

At this, Jake chuckles, but beside him, Sophie gives me a smug little smile and pipes up, “Well, not everybody can be a supermodel.”

My mouth falls open in horror, but Jake seems to be unaffected by his girlfriend’s malicious remark. He simply turns to her and, putting his arm around her waist, murmurs, “We know, babe.”

Turning back to me, he says, “I just hope Julia knows that politics isn’t just about pretty dresses.”

And that’s it. I can take his girlfriend’s cutting remarks about my appearance (I don’t need Sophie Yates to break it to me—I know I’m not a model), but his attack on my intelligence is a little more than I can bear lying down, no matter what Suzette has to say about it.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I respond hotly, my voice rising. “And for your information…” I get ready to launch into a heated diatribe all about my father’s policies and how they’re completely superior to his father’s policies—the exact sort of thing Suzette has expressly forbidden me from saying—when suddenly she appears in front of us, extending her hand to Jake.

“Jake Bennett,” she says, loudly but smoothly. “Suzette Hines. We met two years ago at the White House dinner honoring your father?”

“Ah yes, Suzette,” he says, giving me a little smirk before turning his attention to her. “How have you been?”

“Great,” she replies. “And yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Julia,” she says, suddenly turning to me. “The photographer is ready for you.”

“Yes, well, I should be going,” Jake says, glancing at me. “I’m double-parked.” He gives Sophie a kiss on the cheek and says, “See you later, babe.” He turns to go, and I swivel around to find the photographer waiting patiently.

“Oh, and Julia?” I hear Jake say as he’s halfway across the room. I turn back around to see him standing there, facing me. “I’m sure I’ll see lots more of you.”

There’s a sarcastic remark on my tongue, but I bite it back when I see Suzette looking at me expectantly. “Looking forward to it,” I say through clenched teeth.

As Jake leaves, I turn my attention back to the photographer, who immediately starts clicking away. I’m trying my best to look regal and princess-y, but behind me, I can hear Sophie’s tinkling laugh echoing through the room, and each peal of giggles reminds me of her bitchy comment. Eventually, I manage to banish my reservations, telling myself that she’s just an insecure model who needs to be mean to other people to make herself feel better. But when my mind isn’t fixated on what Sophie said, it’s focusing on the comment from Jake. Does he really think my only reason for joining the campaign is so I can parade around in a bunch of designer outfits? Or worse—is that what it looks like to everyone on the outside?

The photographer stops shooting for a moment to adjust the lighting, and the editor begins asking me questions about my relationship with my father. I reel off a series of anecdotes, all sanctioned by Suzette ahead of time—tales of how he stayed up late with me when I was sick, giving me Saltines and ginger ale and rubbing my tummy, tales of him coaching my Little League soccer team and interrogating my prom dates. I try to tell the editor these stories animatedly, but my heart is sinking. No wonder Jake Bennett thinks I’m nothing but a superficial nitwit. I glance over at Suzette, who’s hanging on my every word, smiling and nodding. I know this is exactly what she wants me to say, but I can’t help thinking that I’m only telling half of the story, that there’s so much more to who I am, to who my father is. Somehow, I think, studying Suzette carefully, I’ll have to find a way to get the rest of the story out there.