Seven

Two days—and many Scrabble tournaments with Chris—later, I find myself standing on the Bryn Mawr campus, pretending to listen to an exuberant student tour guide explain the detailed history of the school’s various academic buildings. It’s not that I don’t care about the architectural significance of Bryn Mawr buildings (although I can’t claim to have much interest in the subject); it’s just that my mind is somewhere else. Two other places, to be specific. One of these places is with Chris, obviously, who always seems to find a space at least in the back of my mind. But today I’m finding another preoccupation much more pressing, as Bryn Mawr is the site of my first solo campaign appearance—a get-out-the-vote rally in the student union.

Suzette has insisted on accompanying me to this event. I didn’t ask her why, as I can pretty much guess what her reasons would be for not trusting me to handle a campaign experience entirely on my own. Thankfully, she stayed in the student union to work out some last-minute logistics with the campus representative in charge of the rally, so I have no one by my side on this tour, nudging me every five minutes to pay attention.

I’m so deep into my thoughts that for a moment, I don’t realize that Lindley, my tour guide, has stopped talking and is looking at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘This is really boring, isn’t it?’” she replies with a smile.

“Well…” I hesitate for a moment before finally admitting, “yeah.”

“It’s OK,” she reassures me. “You don’t have to feel bad. I give this tour three days a week, so if anyone knows how mind-numbingly dull it can be, it’s me.”

I laugh, and as we begin walking again, she says, “Instead of me boring you with historical facts about these old buildings, let’s talk about something interesting. I’m a political science major, and I’m dying to know what it’s like to be part of a major campaign. It must be incredibly exciting.”

“It is,” I respond immediately, almost out of habit, but then I take a moment to consider my answer. “Well, I guess it is. I mean, I haven’t been part of the campaign for that long, so it might still be too early to tell. But it’s definitely not what I expected.”

“How so?” she inquires.

“Well, I guess I just didn’t expect that everything I say and everything I do would have to be the result of some calculated, controlled effort. In fact,” I add conspiratorially, “if my PR manager knew I was having such a candid conversation with you, she’d probably flip.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, “I won’t tell her.”

We walk for a few moments in silence before Lindley suddenly blurts out, “OK, I just have to ask—have you met Jake Bennett?”

“As I matter of fact, I have,” I reply ruefully, thinking back to our encounter at the photo shoot.

“He came here to speak during the primaries,” she gushes, “but I was off that day, so one of my friends gave him the tour. She said he’s just as cute in person as he is in all the magazines. Is that true?”

I consider this for a moment. As repulsed as I was by Jake’s personality, I had to admit that he wasn’t altogether unattractive in person—objectively speaking, of course.

“I guess he’s pretty easy on the eyes,” I tell her. “But as long as we’re being honest here, I have to say that he’s a complete jerk.”

“Really?” Her eyes widen.

“Really,” I say. “Or at least he was to me when I met him. You should probably be glad you didn’t have to give him a tour.”

“Yeah, I’m glad I ended up with you,” she smiles. “You saved me from having to repeat that tour-guide spiel for the thousandth time.”

“And you saved me from having to listen to it for the first time,” I say, “and for that I am eternally grateful.”

We eventually make our way back to the student union, where I am unsurprised to find Suzette bustling around in her usual frenzied state. We’ve still got about an hour before the rally starts, so the room they’ve reserved for us is still pretty empty, but I notice that we’re starting to attract some curious glances from students passing through the union on their way to class.

“Julia, good, you’re back,” Suzette trills, racing across the room to meet Lindley and me as we walk through the door. “Now, I’ve gotten you some lunch. I’d like you to eat in here, behind the stage, so as not to attract attention in the food court. You can also use this time to be going over your speech. After I get some last-minute details smoothed out, I’ll come back and review it with you as well. Sound good?”

“Great,” I say with enthusiasm I hope she can’t tell is fake. She either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore me as she clips back across the room, barking orders at the volunteers who are milling around, setting up chairs.

Once Suzette’s back is turned, Lindley whispers, “I see what you mean.”

All I can do is raise my eyebrows and nod.

“Listen,” she says, “I’ve got to get to class, but it was really nice meeting you. Good luck with the campaign!”

“It was nice to meet you, too,” I return, “and thanks.”

Once Lindley leaves, I head backstage to see what kind of lunch Suzette has picked out for me. I’m ravenous, so I hope it’s something good. I spied a McDonald’s out in the food court. Mmm, maybe a quarter pounder. And fries. I love the fries.

Just as I’m starting to salivate at the very thought of salty, ketchuppy fries, I slip through the stage curtain and spot what is undoubtedly my chosen lunch sitting on a chair—a salad. Great. After working myself into a serious fast food craving, I’m afraid the salad just isn’t going to cut it. I remember that I have some cash in my wallet and wonder what the repercussions will be if I sneak out to McDonald’s. Suzette’s so busy running around that she probably won’t even notice. Then again, it is around lunchtime, and the line could be long…it could take me too long to get through. I figure I’m pretty much resigned to eating the salad. Unless…

Poking my head through the curtain, my eye fixes on one of the student volunteers, who’s fiddling with the mic stand on the stage. “Psst!” I whisper until I catch her attention.

In my best pleading voice, I ask if she’ll run and get me something from McDonald’s. Thankfully, she obliges. I toss the salad in a nearby trash can (best to destroy the evidence) and sit down under the pretense of reviewing my speech, but really I just let my mind wander to thoughts of Chris.

I rerun all of our moments together over and over in my head, trying to analyze each word, each gesture, to squeeze out some deeper meaning. Over the past couple of days, I’ve started to think that maybe he feels the same way about me as I do about him (after all, why would he want to spend so much time with me if he weren’t interested?), but as soon as I allow myself to feel giddy about that prospect, I immediately strike it down. Of course he doesn’t like me. He’s just being friendly because there’s no one else his age on the campaign bus—he even said it himself. But is it just my imagination that he was being a little flirtatious with me? Yes, I tell myself, it probably was.

I’m still in the middle of this dizzying game of back and forth when Suzette sweeps backstage, announcing that it’s time to go over my speech. Her presence suddenly reminds me that my oh-so-helpful student volunteer friend hasn’t come back with my lunch yet. So either she took the money and ran (which, why would she since it was only five bucks, unless she just wanted to brag to all of her friends that she stole five dollars from Julia Rowan), or the line was really long and she just hasn’t gotten the food yet. Either way, I think as Suzette pulls up a chair opposite me, I’m screwed.

Sure enough, just as Suzette is getting good into her “now remember, do not talk about politics” spiel, the girl returns with a greasy McDonald’s bag, sing-songing, “Here you go, Julia!” As she hands me the bag and drops the change into my outstretched hand, I can only glance at Suzette sheepishly.

“The salad didn’t exactly fill me up,” I say, hoping that this explanation will be sufficient to dismiss the glare that’s currently forming on her face.

“You mean the salad I just saw in the trash?” Suzette asks. Crap! How did she see that? “Generally, food doesn’t tend to fill you up unless you actually eat it.”

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I just—I just wasn’t in the mood for a salad.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?” she asks incredulously. “I would’ve gotten you something else.”

“Really?” I ask, somewhat stunned.

“Honestly, Julia,” she says exasperatedly, “I’m not some Nazi trying to control every aspect of your life. I couldn’t care less what you eat for lunch.”

I stop myself short from uttering another sarcastic “Really?”, deciding that it’s best not to anger Suzette during a rare moment of pleasantness (or what passes as pleasantness for her, at least).

As I chow down happily on my fast food and Suzette and I go over my speech at least a dozen times, I can start to hear the room fill with the low, steady buzz of the audience’s chatter. When there are only about ten minutes left until the start of the rally, Suzette leaves to do a final check on a few details, and I can’t help but indulge my curiosity by peeking through the curtain at the growing crowd.

I’m pleased to see that it looks like a tame bunch. A few people are waving around the generic Rowan/Fletcher campaign signs, but that’s about it. This shouldn’t be too bad, I tell myself confidently. And that’s when I spot them.

It’s a group of about ten girls huddled in the far corner of the room. I first notice them because they’re all dressed alike, in what I soon realize are shirts printed with my father’s picture, which is circled in red with a line through it. Not too creative, but pretty effective, I’ll admit. They’re also carrying handmade signs, which bear slogans like, “Go Home, Daddy’s Girl!” and “Rowan = Pseudo-Liberal Liar.” I fervently hope that they’re just there for a nice silent, peaceful protest, but I fear this may be too much to wish for.

And it is, I find out moments later, when I walk out on stage and, amidst the cheering, hear a definite chorus of boos coming from their side of the room. Maybe that will be it, I hope as I begin my speech, but again, such hope is futile. I’m not two words into my introduction when they start their heckling, which is mostly a repetition of the sentiments expressed on their signs.

Whatever disdain I might hold for them, it’s still difficult to deliver my lines effectively in the face of such distraction. When I start to falter and stumble, they just get louder. Finally, I’m at my wit’s end, and I decide I have two options: I can either run off the stage crying, or I can stand up to them. And since I’m not about to run off crying, my choice is pretty clear.

I stop in the middle of a sentence. “Look,” I say loudly, and the microphone squeaks a little, responding to my voice’s sudden change. “I’m well aware that some of you might not agree with my father’s political views. Hell, I don’t even agree with all of them. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about today. What I’m here to talk about is something we can all agree on, whether you’re a Democrat, a Republican, an Independent, a Libertarian or whatever—and that’s the importance of your vote.”

I know this is where I should logically transition back into my speech, but I can’t help but stick it to the hecklers, who are now looking somewhat put off but are listening nonetheless.

“Furthermore,” I continue, “I would hope that, no matter what your political beliefs are, you would show all people a little bit of respect by shutting up and listening when they’re talking. Because take it from me—you’re not going to win any sympathy for your cause by being rude.”

From there, I segue into my prepared speech, which I’m able to deliver without so much as a peep from the audience. I don’t dare glance over at Suzette—I’m already imagining the reprimand I’ll be handed later, and I can’t bear to see her icy stare just yet.

When I finish my speech and walk off the stage, the protesters’ politeness comes to an end, and they resume their booing and heckling. Fortunately, I don’t have to hear too much of it, as Suzette quickly says her thank-yous to the campus volunteers and whisks me back to our rental car, which will take us back to Philadelphia to meet the rest of the campaign.

I expect Suzette to begin her tirade before we’ve even left the parking lot, but she’s strangely silent. I decide to revel in it while I can, but after about ten minutes, anxiousness sets in. I imagine that Suzette’s reticence is a sign that she’s stewing in anger, and each minute that goes by adds expotentially to the eventual explosion. I’ve got to do something.

“Just say it,” I finally blurt out.

“Say what?” Suzette asks coolly.

“Whatever you want to say to me about what just happened. I know you’re dying to yell at me about it, so just do it already! I can’t take the anticipation!”

Suzette glances over at me and rolls her eyes. “You can be so dramatic sometimes.”

This doesn’t faze me. “Well…” I press her.

She stalls for a moment before saying quietly, “All I was going to say is that I was proud of you.”

This statement comes as such a surprise that I can’t help but let out a loud chuckle. After composing myself, I ask, “Really?”

“Really,” Suzette says earnestly. “You handled yourself very well back there. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

I’m so taken aback that at first I don’t know what to say. Then I realize that I may never again catch Suzette in such a favorable mood (at least where I’m concerned). I decide to seize the opportunity.

“So maybe now I’m ready to start talking about politics…” I venture.

“Don’t press your luck,” she tells me derisively, and suddenly, in a way that’s oddly comforting, I know the old Suzette is back.