Ellison
Mom just informed me her stylist has to dye my hair. As it turns out, people with my shade of blond aren’t taken as seriously as people with a different shade of blond that comes in a bottle. Mom also made an appointment at the eye doctor for new prescription contacts—colored contacts. Ones that will make my eyes pop. All of this is done courtesy of answers from a focus group, and I’m having a hard time wrapping my brain around certain truths.
One—that a focus group was created with the purpose of asking questions about me.
Two—some of those questions seriously asked what shade of blond and blue makes people like me better.
Three—that anyone thinks changing my appearance to please anyone is okay.
“What do you think?” Mom asks. “I think you’re going to look gorgeous when we’re done.”
It’s a rhetorical question. This is where I say yes, and Mom is happy. I can say no and make her disappointed. So I give her a, “Sounds good.”
“Great! Now, let’s continue.” Mom holds up a picture on her tablet. “Who is this?”
I rest my elbow on the dining room table and prop my head up by my hand. My brain is melting and is in the process of draining out the side of my ear. It’s been the same thing for the past week...names, faces, why the person is important and then an endless stream of possible questions I could be asked and the appropriate answers, and I’m wondering if melted brain fluid can be collected and poured back in at a later date.
Next to me, my Southwest chicken salad sits practically untouched. It’s a down day in my house. I’m in yoga pants and a cotton T-shirt. Mom is wearing the same, but just her own style, and Dad’s wearing his favorite pair of jeans Mom complains are too old and need to be thrown out. He also wears one of his numerous shirts that claims he’s a University of Kentucky fan.
We finished dinner a half hour ago. Dad, in theory, went to get more to drink, but I have a feeling he got sucked into ESPN. That gave Mom the excuse to focus us back on work. “Really, Elle, I know you know who this is.”
Another old, rich white guy. They all look the same at the moment. Gray hair, aging face, black suit. Why not mix it up? Wear something else? Try some color? It’s like they want to make it easy for their family when they drop dead in their Sunday best. “Senator Michael Jacobson.”
“No.”
“US Congressman Michael Jacobson.”
“No.”
“Party Chairman Michael Jacobson.”
“It’s not Michael Jacobson. It’s like you aren’t even trying anymore.”
Sad part? I am trying.
“Who is this, Elle? He’s going to be at the fund-raiser tomorrow, and if you’re going to attend more of these things, you need to be able to make proper conversation.”
It’s sort of scary because for the first time in my life, there is complete and utter silence in my brain. Not even a backup thought to maybe breathe in air. This is brain dead.
“Dwight Stevenson,” Mom says with exasperation, and my forehead hits the table with a loud thud. I knew that...about an hour ago.
“He has been one of your father’s biggest donors this year, and he has expressed an interest in meeting you.”
Mom’s said that for easily fifty of the people we’ve gone over tonight. I turn my head so that my cheek is pressed against the wood of the table. “Why do these people want to meet me?”
“Because you have a gift, Elle.” Dad walks into the dining room, and in his hands are several binders, but it’s a magazine that he drops onto the table. “There’s something about you that makes people feel at ease. You make them feel included.”
Because people like things that are pretty.
The magazine on the table is one of those gossip ones everyone reads the cover of as they stand in the grocery store line. I lift my head, flip the magazine around, and spot a small picture of me in the right-hand corner. It’s a close-up, me in the purple sundress and wearing one of those smiles that means I’m on display.
“Sean stopped by to bring us these,” Dad says.
These. Meaning more than one magazine, yet Dad only chose to bring this one along. I sigh at the title underneath: Bluegrass Beauty. How original. “They compared me to grass?”
Mom snatches the magazine and goes to the page marked by a sticky note. There’s a long and awkward silence that makes me wish I had something to do as she reads.
“It’s a page article on you, but they do mention your dad a few times. There’s a great picture of you and your father, and they do talk about your keen fashion choices.”
“Did they actually use the word keen or was that your one million dollar addition?”
Mom raises an eyebrow, but then her lips twitch when I wink at her. She continues to silently read, and the many worry lines she’s collected over the years become more pronounced.
The article must contain more than just my “keen” fashion choices, and my heart clogs my throat. I’m wagering that it mentions how the Bluegrass Beauty had to be saved. Stinking fantastic. “Does the article at least mention Dad’s program?”
Mom’s sad eyes meet mine. She understands why this bothers me. “Yes. They credit Hendrix’s actions to his being reformed in your father’s program.”
I try to breathe the embarrassment away. “That’s what’s important, right?”
Dad and Mom share their patented long look. I gather my hair to the side, start to braid it and pretend they aren’t having a private, silent conversation about and without me.
Mom rolls up the magazine and places it in her lap. Done in such a way that it’s like she’s hoping I’ll forget the magazine and the millions of other copies in the world exist. There’s something in there she doesn’t want me to see. Something, I’m sure, I won’t want to see either.
Dad reclaims his seat next to Mom. From the opposite side of the table, they become the solid front that is their marriage. Their fingers automatically link together on the table.
“From the initial reaction,” Dad says, “we think the media is going to grab on to you and it’s only going to get bigger. More pictures, more articles—”
“More public appearances on behalf of your father,” Mom interjects. “My phone has been ringing off the hook.”
“Elle,” Dad says, and I force a smile on my face when I glance up at him. “Are you sure you’re okay with all this? Taking on more fund-raisers? Becoming more active on the campaign trail? Because we can keep you at the same commitment level you had before.”
I do like being involved, but I don’t like the idea of changing my appearance, nor do I like being fodder for gossip. But I’m sick of being a failure. Sick of not being taken seriously. Maybe if I do this, my parents will be proud.
“My job as a politician is to serve,” Dad continues. “My job is to listen to my constituents. The form of government is best in which every man, whoever he is, can act best and live happily.”
“Aristotle,” I say, because my father has taught me well. He nods with pride, and I finally find the energy to sit taller.
“I’m under intense scrutiny. It comes with the territory, but you don’t have to live under the microscope. You can choose to stay out of this. Your mom and I won’t hold it against you.”
Won’t hold it against me. Will they continue to love me? Yes. Will they be disappointed in me and possibly not grant me the internship? Probably. “Aristotle also said the price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men. I don’t want to be indifferent. I’m ready for this.”
Dad lets go of Mom’s hand as he leans on the table as if it’s just the two of us in the room. “Then what’s your platform when you talk to people? Top three, and keep the pitch short.”
I angle forward as well because now we’re talking business. I’ve spent days researching Dad’s platforms so I can sound intelligent during the fund-raisers. “Push for higher turnout among younger voters, and find a way to help handle college costs and student loan debt.”
“Number three?”
“Your Second Chance Program. It worked, and I want to see the program implemented in other states and expanded in our own state.”
Dad frowns, and my stomach drops. “What?”
“There are some magazines,” Mom trails off. With a deep breath she starts again. “There are some articles suggesting that you and Hendrix Pierce are in a relationship.”
As my mouth slacks, my cheeks burn hot. From embarrassment, from anger to just plain frustration... “I’ve seen him a grand total of three times. Once on the midway, at the press conference and when he showed here for you guys to talk to him.”
“We know,” she says in that condescending it’s-only-a-nightmare-so-go-back-to-bed Mom voice. “But there are some people in the press and on social media who are extremely focused on the pictures of you and him on the midway.”
My head falls back, and my fingers cover my throat as if that could save me from this picture that’s been following me around. It’s a picture of him smiling and me smiling and while I have secretly loved that photo to the tips of my toes, it’s also annoying that so many people are making judgments about my life on one picture that they know nothing about.
I rake my fingers through my hair, undoing the loose braid. “What difference does it make what they think?”
Mom’s shoulders droop in defeat, and the magazine reappears. She flips it to the middle, slides it to me, and the biggest picture of all the others is of me and Drix on the midway. That hesitant and beautiful smile dances along his gorgeous face, and the best part of it? He’s looking down at me like I’m some sort of magical dream. I’ve seen that picture a hundred times, yet it still causes my heart to flip and my blood to tingle.
I fiddle with the edge of the magazine, and when I believe I have control over my facial expression, I lift my head. “This picture isn’t new.”
“No,” Dad says, “it isn’t. But if people think the two of you are together, that will become the story. Not how Hendrix entered my program and through the course of one year, changed his path from one that was broken to one that will guarantee him success.
“This program works. Not just with Hendrix, but with the other young men and women who went through the full year. We’re keeping tabs on them, watching them, and we are amazed by how well they’re doing. We need any media coverage on Hendrix to be on that program.”
And if I talk about the program, the story will revert back to me and him on the midway. It sucks, but it makes sense. “So I don’t talk about the Second Chance Program, and instead focus on voter turnout and the insanely enormous cost of higher education and student loan debt.”
“That and not calling anyone in the press a stalker. In fact, I’d prefer if you didn’t call anyone names.”
“He deserved it.”
“He did, but that left a mess for Sean to clean up.” Dad pushes the binders, all of them, in my direction. “If you’re up for it, you can talk about my clean energy initiative. Our latest poll shows that is a top three priority for younger voters.”
I wince because clean energy are fighting words in a coal-mining state, but the future is the future. I accept all the “light” reading material that will keep me well rested for the next twenty years. “I’m all for saving baby seals.”
“As with the other information packets we gave you, bullet points are on the front page. The following pages are the details.”
And that’s where the devil likes to play.
“There’s more, Elle,” Mom says.
I slap both hands against the table. “Okay, this is where I’m putting my foot down. I can’t possibly read any more stuff. You’ve already given me a multivolume encyclopedia set to memorize, and I still have to work through the documents you sent me via email—”
“Not that,” Mom intervenes. “It’s about Hendrix.”
The world goes into slow motion. Like I’m standing in the middle of the road, and I’m watching a tractor trailer come at me at a hundred miles per hour. “What about Hendrix?”
“He’s going to be traveling with us and will be at some of the same events as you.”
I gathered that last week.
“Obviously, you should be nice to him, but...” Mom trails off.
“But...” I encourage.
“When we are at events, we’d like you to keep a polite distance,” Dad finishes. “If the press, if anyone sees the two of you together, even if it’s just as friends, the story of the two of you in a relationship will continue and the conversation that needs to be happening—the conversation about the Second Chance Program—will never be discussed.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Mom stretches her arm across the table as if she can reach me. “It would be one thing to ask this of you if you were close with Hendrix, but as you said, you’ve only had contact with him a few times. Be nice when you see him, but keep your distance.”
I feel like a rose wilting on the vine in fast-forward. Mom’s right, this shouldn’t be a big deal. In the realm of reality, it’s not, but there had been daydreams and dreams at night and lots of possible what-ifs I knew would never come true, but still crushed is crushed. “Okay.”
“There’s one more thing,” Mom rushes out, and I brace myself for impact.
“What?”
“Andrew’s going on the campaign trail with us,” Dad says.
Once again, I figured that out last week when he showed a few hours after Drix left. Andrew, Dad and Sean were in their meeting for hours. Makes sense, though. Andrew is the grandson of the current senator. Politics is in Andrew’s blood as much as it is in mine. “And?”
“We don’t want anything like what happened at May Fest to happen again,” Mom says. “This time when we tell you to stay with Andrew, you stay with him.”
“Like glue, Elle.” Dad pins me with his gaze. “We’ve already had this conversation, but I’ll say it again. You need to trust us and the decisions we are making when it comes to you and your future. What we say goes. Period.”
I get it. I messed up. I didn’t tell them about the internship, but I should be able to walk down any street in the US by myself and not be harassed. But my parents gave me instructions and I disobeyed. I did ditch Andrew when they were under the impression I wasn’t alone. Fair enough. It sucks, but fair enough. “Okay on Andrew and okay on listening.”
Mom lets out a relieved breath. “That’s good to hear because you’re going to be spending a lot of time with Andrew.”
My head tilts, as I broke a major rule to negotiations—read the fine print before signing on the dotted line. “What do you mean by a lot?”
“If you’re in public, he’s in public,” Dad says. “And you’re within breathing distance of the other. As I said, you two will be like glue.”
Dizziness. I’m seventeen, I still have a babysitter and it’s the one person I dread the most.