Six

I don’t get a chance to talk to Chris again for a few more days. I’ve seen him a couple of times—at various events and press avails that I’m required to attend for some unknown reason (since my only function seems to be standing in the background and smiling approvingly at my dad)—and watching him on those occasions has only served to increase my attraction. When I’m not at events, trying to stare at him without being obvious (an activity I fear I’ve failed at, as he’s caught me looking at him several times already), I’m on the bus, listening to my Leonard Cohen CD and staring moonily out at the wide open fields, allowing my mind to concoct elaborate and fantastical daydreams about the exact setting of my first kiss with Chris.

Somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, I’m in the middle of working out the details to my current favorite fantasy (which involves our campaign bus breaking down and Chris and I being sent to go find help—being the able-bodied young people that we are—then getting caught in a rainstorm and waiting it out on the porch of an abandoned farmhouse, where we finally realize we can no longer deny our attraction to each other) when I get up to go to the bathroom. As big as our bus is, there’s only one bathroom, and it’s currently in use. As I lean against the wall and wait for the occupant to finish, I continue to daydream. What kind of kiss should it be? I wonder. Sweet and tender? Or passionate and lust-filled? I’m momentarily distracted from this pressing decision by imagining exactly how Chris’s lips would feel pressed against mine, when the bathroom door suddenly bursts open.

I jump at the sound, and then am startled once again to see none other than the object of my fantasy emerge from the bathroom.

“Hey, Julia.” Chris gives me a quizzical look, and I suddenly realize that my alarm at having been caught mid-daydream must be registered all over my face.

“Hey, Chris,” I say, attempting to feign nonchalance, but he continues to study me skeptically. “You startled me,” I explain. “I guess I was just lost in thought.” It’s technically not a lie, even though I’d never admit to him the nature of those particular thoughts.

“Strategizing about the campaign, I presume?”

“Something like that,” I giggle, slipping into the bathroom. Once inside, I lean my head against the mirror and sigh. I’m sure my face must have been flushed throughout that entire exchange. Great, I tell myself. Now he probably thinks you’re just some silly schoolgirl—or worse, a stark raving lunatic.

When I exit the bathroom, I’m surprised to find Chris still standing there.

“Look,” he says quickly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not having any fun on my end of the bus. Everyone back there is at least 20 years older than me, and they all know each other from covering previous campaigns. It’s like they have some little club, and they don’t seem to want to let the green-behind-the-ears cub reporter from the hotshot upstart magazine in it. Plus, they’ve all got their daily deadlines to meet, so when they’re not socializing with each other, they’re yelling into cell phones and tapping away on their laptops. Basically, I’m bored. And, since you’re the only other person my age on this entire bus, I’m thinking maybe you are, too.”

I smile. “Actually, I kind of am.” I don’t add that I’ve managed to find a way to occupy the time.

“So…why don’t you come back and hang out with me?” he offers.

“Well,” I say tentatively, “that could be a little bit of a problem, insofar as I’m really not allowed to.”

“Allowed to?” he repeats incredulously. “Allowed by whom? Your parents?”

“No—Suzette,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my feelings about her. “For the next few months, I’m completely at her mercy.”

“That must suck,” Chris says bluntly.

All I can do is shrug. I may be talking to someone I like, and someone who appears to want to be my friend, but in the back of my mind, I can’t forget that he’s a reporter. The last thing I need is for my personal battles with Suzette to be splashed on the front page of newspapers across the country.

“Look,” he says, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No notepads. No tape recorders. This conversation is completely off the record.”

“Really?” I ask, a bit skeptically.

“Scout’s honor,” he says, holding up three fingers.

“You were a boy scout?” I ask disbelievingly.

“Well, just for a year,” he admits. “They kicked me out when they figured out I wasn’t going to earn any merit badges.”

When I start to laugh, he says defensively, “Hey, have you ever tried to start a fire with two sticks? It’s not as easy as it looks!”

“Sorry,” I say, trying to control my mirth. “I’m sure it’s not.”

“So, what do you say?” Chris asks, searching my eyes. “Care to venture to the back of the bus?”

I wince, still torn. “What Suzette catches me? Or what if some of the other press people see me and suddenly assume I’m giving interviews?”

“You’re not going to get caught,” Chris assures me. “Nobody will miss you if you’re only gone for half an hour or so. I mean, is Suzette really that controlling?”

I roll my eyes. “You have no idea.” But he’s right—Suzette probably won’t become suspicious about my whereabouts in such a brief time. Besides, when I left, she was in the middle of an important meeting with my father and some of his other campaign advisers that didn’t look like it would be over anytime soon.

As I’m hesitating, Chris offers, “I have travel Scrabble.”

“You got me,” I tell him defeatedly. “How can I resist travel Scrabble?”

His face lights up. “Works like a charm every time!”

“There’s still the small issue of how I’m going to get past the rest of the press corps,” I remind him.

“They probably won’t even notice you,” he says. “I sit in the front, and they generally don’t pay any attention to what I’m doing up there. But just in case…” He reaches into his back pocket and produces an olive green ski cap. “We’ll give you a disguise.”

“Some disguise,” I mutter. “I doubt that will throw all of those cunning reporters off the trail.”

“You’d be surprised,” he says, stepping closer to me and pulling the hat over my head. I breathe in sharply, feeling a charge between our bodies, which are so close that they’re practically touching. Of all the times for the bus to hit a pothole, I think, this would be perfect…

“They won’t even recognize you,” Chris tells me, stepping back to study his handiwork. “Now come on.”

He takes my hand and leads me toward the back of the bus. I can’t help but notice the callouses on his fingers, and I wonder if he’s a guitar player. As if my unrequited attraction to him weren’t enough already. Guitar players are my weakness.

When we reach the curtained entrance that separates the press area from the rest of the bus, Chris stops suddenly and pulls me next to him. Once again, my pulse quickens when I find myself so close to him.

“I’m going to go in first and make sure the coast is clear,” he whispers. “Wait until I give you the signal.”

I nod and press my body up against the wall as Chris opens the curtain. He takes a moment to survey the seats, then motions for me to follow him. Thankfully, none of the reporters look up as we plop down into two seats in the second row, scrunching down to hide ourselves from any prying eyes that might suddenly become curious. Our heads are bent toward each other, nearly touching.

“I’m a man of my word,” Chris whispers, reaching into a bag on the seat next to him. “Travel Scrabble!”

“Yay!” I whisper back, my face lighting up.

We play two blisfully uninterrupted rounds (I easily kick his ass in both), and I’m having so much fun that I don’t even realize how much time has gone by. We’re just about to start the third (although I tell Chris jokingly that he should just admit defeat at this point) when I think to glance at my watch. I’m alarmed to see that nearly 45 minutes have passed.

“I’ve got to get back,” I whisper urgently.

“Okay,” Chris agrees, “but just let me make sure you’re covered.”

Playfully, he turns around in his seat and peeks his head over the top, then gives me the thumbs-up signal. I’m just about to get up and make my exit when I remember that I’m still wearing his ski cap.

“Wait!” I say. “What about your hat?”

“Keep it,” he tells me. “You might need to use the disguise again.”

“I think I will,” I tell him with a smile before I jump up and slip through the curtain.

On the way back to the front of the bus, I pull the ski cap off my head and tousle my hair to remove any suspicious traces of hathead. I fervently pray that both Suzette and my parents will be too distracted to notice my sudden reappearance, and, peeking through the curtain that sections off our side of the bus, I see my prayers have been answered. My mom is up near the front of the bus, reading a book with her back to me, and my dad and Suzette are still gathered around the table in the middle with the other advisers. As I slip back into my preferred seat—one near the back, next to a window—no one even looks up.

I pull Chris’s ski cap from behind my back and press it up against the window, leaning my head against it. It smells clean and crisp, like his cologne or deodorant or laundry detergent, or maybe a combination of all three. Deeply inhaling the smell, I smile languidly and close my eyes, plunging happily into another daydream.