Two
I’m running down the stairs to the subway platform as the train approaches. Jumping down the last few steps, I make it onto the train just before the doors close. I check my watch nervously. I was supposed to meet my parents for dinner 15 minutes ago, and I’m just now getting on the train that will take me uptown to the restaurant. I know they’re not going to be happy. My dad might be pretty liberal about almost everything (political and otherwise), but when it comes to punctuality, he’s a stickler—one of those “if you’re not five minutes early, you’re late” kind of guys. My mom and I like to tease him by telling him he’d have been great in the military, were it not for his unwavering anti-war sentiments.
I shouldn’t have had any problem getting to dinner on time—the Vogue photo shoot finished well in time for me to make it to the Upper West Side—but I couldn’t resist taking advantage of my downtown location to pop over to a few of my favorite music stores in the East Village. I don’t come to New York very often, but when I do, I always make a point to go to them, as the selection is usually far superior to the stores in Providence.
I finally arrive at the restaurant 20 minutes later, but I don’t see my parents when I walk in. “Ah, Miss Rowan,” the hostess says, spotting me, “I’ve already seated the rest of your party. Will you please follow me?”
My parents are sitting in a booth in the corner of the room, deep in conversation, but my arrival causes them to halt their discussion, and a disapproving look fixes itself on my dad’s face.
“Julia!” he cries, checking his watch. “You were supposed to be here over half an hour ago! Where were you? We were worried!”
“Sorry, Dad. I was, umm…” I suddenly remember that I’m holding a bag from the record store in my hand, and I try to slip it discreetly in my purse as I cover, “The photo shoot ran a little long.”
“Uh-huh,” he says drily, and the look on his face tells me that he doesn’t believe me. “And where were you really?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Dad,” I say, pretending to play innocent, but I know by now that I’ve been busted.
“Come on,” he says, extending his hand with a smile. “Show me what you bought.”
“It’s Leonard Cohen,” I tell him, taking the CD out of the bag and passing it across the table. “I’m Your Man. I thought I might need some good music for those long stretches on the campaign bus.” I know my dad will be pleased with this selection—he’s a big Cohen fan. I grew up listening to his music, and sometimes I think the nostalgia factor is part of the reason I’m such a fan now, too.
“Excellent choice,” he says, nodding with approval as he flips the CD over. “Of course, you do realize that we have this at home, don’t you?”
“Yeah, on vinyl,” I respond, “which isn’t exactly conducive to portability. When’s the last time you saw someone walking down the street, carrying a record player with headphones attached?”
“You kids,” he mutters, tossing the CD back to me. “You have no appreciation for the finer things in life. You see, Julia, vinyl…well, it’s an art form.”
I shoot a glance at my mom, and we both roll our eyes. We’ve both heard the vinyl-as-an-art-form speech so many times that we can practically recite it from memory. Fortunately, the waiter comes up to take our order before my dad can get too far into the lengthy diatribe, and by the time he leaves, the discussion of various music recording mediums seems to have been forgotten.
“So, Julia, how was the photo shoot?” my mom asks, taking a sip of her wine.
“It was okay,” I sigh.
“Just okay?” She gives me a quizzical look.
I hesitate for a second, wondering if I should tell them my reservations about my role in the campaign. I mean, my dad obviously has enough to worry about already. But then again, things are about to get really busy—first the convention, and then we hit the campaign trail. If I don’t bring it up now, I may never get another chance—or at least not one without Suzette lurking somehwere in earshot.
“It’s just that…” I begin, not sure how to put this tactfully, “well, I wanted to say so much more than I was allowed to during the interview. I wish that I could actually talk about the political aspect of this whole thing.”
“Julia, we’ve been over this,” my dad says patiently, but with a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.
“I know, I know,” I say. “And if I have to hear Suzette say one more time what a ‘loose cannon’ I am, I think I’m going to scream. Look, I know I sometimes have a problem of saying things without thinking them through first.”
My parents exchange a glance, as if to say, “That’s an understatement.”
“But,” I continue firmly, “I really think I can keep it under control in this situation. I just wish someone would give me a chance.”
“Honey, it’s not like we’re trying to repress your spirit,” my mom begins.
“It’s just that we have so much riding on every word,” Dad jumps in. “In high-profile campaigns, you rarely ever get second chances. One false step could be the difference between winning and losing.”
“I realize all that,” I say. “And Dad, I would never want to be responsible for costing you the election. I just worry that people are just going to think I’m some dumb girl who cares more about looking pretty in magazines than she does about the issues.”
“Who would think that?” my dad asks.
“Jake Bennett, for one,” I mumble, looking down at the plate of food that’s just been set in front of me.
“Jake Bennett?” my mother repeats, confused.
“Where’d you run into Jake Bennett?” my dad asks, popping a spear of asparagus into his mouth.
“He was at the photo shoot.”
My dad chuckles. “What was Jake Bennett doing at a photo shoot for Vogue? I assume they’re not putting him on the cover in some fancy dress.”
“No they’re not, and that’s exactly my point,” I reply indignantly. “Jake and I are practically the same age. So why does he get to play such an integral role in his father’s campaign, whereas I’m basically nothing more than a walking, talking prop?”
“Just because you’re not out delivering stump speeches and debating the issues does not mean you’re not an important part of this campaign,” my father tells me seriously. “For many young people out there, you are the face of this ticket. You’re the one that will convince them to get to the polls, and that could mean more to me than you’ll ever know.”
I sigh, flashing my dad a resigned smile. “I guess it’s just hard for me not to be hurt when people insinuate that I’m just a silly girl who doesn’t know anything about politics.”
“Julia, it’s never going to be easy to hear people say negative things about you,” my mom says. “But that’s just part of the game, and you have to learn to take it in stride. Plus, it’s only natural that Jake Bennett is going to try to provoke you. You can’t let him get the best of you.”
“I know, I know. But,” I say, brightening, “the good news is that I know I won’t have to see him again for a while—at least not for the next week. I assume the Republicans at the Democratic convention will be few and far between.”
“Exactly,” my dad says. “Besides, you have bigger things to worry about…like your speech.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I mutter, shoveling food into my mouth. I’m suddenly ravenous, remembering that, between the photo shoot and my impromptu East-Village shopping spree, I’ve barely eaten all day. “I can’t believe my public-speaking debut is going to be broadcast on network television.”
“Honey, I’m sure you’ll do fine,” my mom says reassuringly. “It’s just a short introduction to your dad’s keynote speech.” She can obviously sense the apprehension on my face, because she quickly moves on to the next subject. “I spoke with Suzette, and we’re going to take you shopping tomorrow and find you something great to wear.”
I can’t help but break into a whine at the mention of Suzette’s name. “Why does she have to go, too?”
“She’s in charge of my image—our image,” my dad responds.
“What, so I’m not even allowed to pick out my own clothes now?” I counter.
“It’s not that,” my mother responds quickly. “It’s just that…well…” She pauses and eyes my outfit—flip-flops, ratty jeans, and a T-shirt that says “Miss Jane’s Ballet Academy” that I bought for a dollar at a thrift store in Providence. “Left to your own devices, we can imagine what kind of outfit you might turn up on stage wearing.”
“Well, I can imagine what kind of outfit Suzette will have me in, and I’m sure it will include some incredibly uncomfortable pointy-toed shoes,” I say. “Sometimes it’s like she goes out of her way to put me in the most physically restricting outfits possible.”
My dad chuckles at this, but I don’t, remembering the pain, both physical and emotional, of the whole ball-gown debacle that morning. Right on the heels of that horrible photo shoot, I’m now going to be in for an entire day of shopping with Suzette? This is not going to be fun, I think. Not fun at all.
I shouldn’t have had any problem getting to dinner on time—the Vogue photo shoot finished well in time for me to make it to the Upper West Side—but I couldn’t resist taking advantage of my downtown location to pop over to a few of my favorite music stores in the East Village. I don’t come to New York very often, but when I do, I always make a point to go to them, as the selection is usually far superior to the stores in Providence.
I finally arrive at the restaurant 20 minutes later, but I don’t see my parents when I walk in. “Ah, Miss Rowan,” the hostess says, spotting me, “I’ve already seated the rest of your party. Will you please follow me?”
My parents are sitting in a booth in the corner of the room, deep in conversation, but my arrival causes them to halt their discussion, and a disapproving look fixes itself on my dad’s face.
“Julia!” he cries, checking his watch. “You were supposed to be here over half an hour ago! Where were you? We were worried!”
“Sorry, Dad. I was, umm…” I suddenly remember that I’m holding a bag from the record store in my hand, and I try to slip it discreetly in my purse as I cover, “The photo shoot ran a little long.”
“Uh-huh,” he says drily, and the look on his face tells me that he doesn’t believe me. “And where were you really?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Dad,” I say, pretending to play innocent, but I know by now that I’ve been busted.
“Come on,” he says, extending his hand with a smile. “Show me what you bought.”
“It’s Leonard Cohen,” I tell him, taking the CD out of the bag and passing it across the table. “I’m Your Man. I thought I might need some good music for those long stretches on the campaign bus.” I know my dad will be pleased with this selection—he’s a big Cohen fan. I grew up listening to his music, and sometimes I think the nostalgia factor is part of the reason I’m such a fan now, too.
“Excellent choice,” he says, nodding with approval as he flips the CD over. “Of course, you do realize that we have this at home, don’t you?”
“Yeah, on vinyl,” I respond, “which isn’t exactly conducive to portability. When’s the last time you saw someone walking down the street, carrying a record player with headphones attached?”
“You kids,” he mutters, tossing the CD back to me. “You have no appreciation for the finer things in life. You see, Julia, vinyl…well, it’s an art form.”
I shoot a glance at my mom, and we both roll our eyes. We’ve both heard the vinyl-as-an-art-form speech so many times that we can practically recite it from memory. Fortunately, the waiter comes up to take our order before my dad can get too far into the lengthy diatribe, and by the time he leaves, the discussion of various music recording mediums seems to have been forgotten.
“So, Julia, how was the photo shoot?” my mom asks, taking a sip of her wine.
“It was okay,” I sigh.
“Just okay?” She gives me a quizzical look.
I hesitate for a second, wondering if I should tell them my reservations about my role in the campaign. I mean, my dad obviously has enough to worry about already. But then again, things are about to get really busy—first the convention, and then we hit the campaign trail. If I don’t bring it up now, I may never get another chance—or at least not one without Suzette lurking somehwere in earshot.
“It’s just that…” I begin, not sure how to put this tactfully, “well, I wanted to say so much more than I was allowed to during the interview. I wish that I could actually talk about the political aspect of this whole thing.”
“Julia, we’ve been over this,” my dad says patiently, but with a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.
“I know, I know,” I say. “And if I have to hear Suzette say one more time what a ‘loose cannon’ I am, I think I’m going to scream. Look, I know I sometimes have a problem of saying things without thinking them through first.”
My parents exchange a glance, as if to say, “That’s an understatement.”
“But,” I continue firmly, “I really think I can keep it under control in this situation. I just wish someone would give me a chance.”
“Honey, it’s not like we’re trying to repress your spirit,” my mom begins.
“It’s just that we have so much riding on every word,” Dad jumps in. “In high-profile campaigns, you rarely ever get second chances. One false step could be the difference between winning and losing.”
“I realize all that,” I say. “And Dad, I would never want to be responsible for costing you the election. I just worry that people are just going to think I’m some dumb girl who cares more about looking pretty in magazines than she does about the issues.”
“Who would think that?” my dad asks.
“Jake Bennett, for one,” I mumble, looking down at the plate of food that’s just been set in front of me.
“Jake Bennett?” my mother repeats, confused.
“Where’d you run into Jake Bennett?” my dad asks, popping a spear of asparagus into his mouth.
“He was at the photo shoot.”
My dad chuckles. “What was Jake Bennett doing at a photo shoot for Vogue? I assume they’re not putting him on the cover in some fancy dress.”
“No they’re not, and that’s exactly my point,” I reply indignantly. “Jake and I are practically the same age. So why does he get to play such an integral role in his father’s campaign, whereas I’m basically nothing more than a walking, talking prop?”
“Just because you’re not out delivering stump speeches and debating the issues does not mean you’re not an important part of this campaign,” my father tells me seriously. “For many young people out there, you are the face of this ticket. You’re the one that will convince them to get to the polls, and that could mean more to me than you’ll ever know.”
I sigh, flashing my dad a resigned smile. “I guess it’s just hard for me not to be hurt when people insinuate that I’m just a silly girl who doesn’t know anything about politics.”
“Julia, it’s never going to be easy to hear people say negative things about you,” my mom says. “But that’s just part of the game, and you have to learn to take it in stride. Plus, it’s only natural that Jake Bennett is going to try to provoke you. You can’t let him get the best of you.”
“I know, I know. But,” I say, brightening, “the good news is that I know I won’t have to see him again for a while—at least not for the next week. I assume the Republicans at the Democratic convention will be few and far between.”
“Exactly,” my dad says. “Besides, you have bigger things to worry about…like your speech.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I mutter, shoveling food into my mouth. I’m suddenly ravenous, remembering that, between the photo shoot and my impromptu East-Village shopping spree, I’ve barely eaten all day. “I can’t believe my public-speaking debut is going to be broadcast on network television.”
“Honey, I’m sure you’ll do fine,” my mom says reassuringly. “It’s just a short introduction to your dad’s keynote speech.” She can obviously sense the apprehension on my face, because she quickly moves on to the next subject. “I spoke with Suzette, and we’re going to take you shopping tomorrow and find you something great to wear.”
I can’t help but break into a whine at the mention of Suzette’s name. “Why does she have to go, too?”
“She’s in charge of my image—our image,” my dad responds.
“What, so I’m not even allowed to pick out my own clothes now?” I counter.
“It’s not that,” my mother responds quickly. “It’s just that…well…” She pauses and eyes my outfit—flip-flops, ratty jeans, and a T-shirt that says “Miss Jane’s Ballet Academy” that I bought for a dollar at a thrift store in Providence. “Left to your own devices, we can imagine what kind of outfit you might turn up on stage wearing.”
“Well, I can imagine what kind of outfit Suzette will have me in, and I’m sure it will include some incredibly uncomfortable pointy-toed shoes,” I say. “Sometimes it’s like she goes out of her way to put me in the most physically restricting outfits possible.”
My dad chuckles at this, but I don’t, remembering the pain, both physical and emotional, of the whole ball-gown debacle that morning. Right on the heels of that horrible photo shoot, I’m now going to be in for an entire day of shopping with Suzette? This is not going to be fun, I think. Not fun at all.
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