I pound on the door for the third time, the heavy wood shaking on its hinges.

“We are leaving in forty-five minutes,” I call.

From inside the room there’s the sound of a blanket hitting the floor, then a long, dramatic groan. Feet shuffle to the door, and it’s pulled open to reveal the surly face of my little sister Pearl.

“It’s early,” is all she says.

I can read the rest of it on her face, too, even though vocalizing her complaints was trained out of her years ago: it’s early, she hates going to our father’s rallies, she hates campaign events, she’d rather stay home.

Pearl’s sixteen, and I love her but she’s been going through a bitchy phase for months now, grouching and sniping at anyone who crosses her path.

But she’s a rule-follower, through and through, and she’ll probably grow up like Grace: marry the man my parents choose for her and have two kids by the time she’s twenty-four.

Even I started down that path, though I made sure early on that kids weren’t in the equation.

“Yes, and we’re still leaving in forty-five minutes,” I say.

Pearl makes a face. I lean into the doorway and peek at the other bed, which still has my youngest sister’s motionless form sprawled in the middle.

“Get ready,” I say, and walk away from the door. “And make sure Joy does, too.”

We’ve had this conversation before, about a thousand times. Pearl and Joy are ten and twelve years younger than me, so I half-raised them both.

I head back to my room to finish getting myself ready. Having a bedroom all to myself, even though it’s about the size of a closet, is one of the few concessions my parents made to my adulthood — they nearly made me share a room with Pearl and Joy when I moved back home.

It was the only thing I fought them on. After all, they didn’t have to take me back. I’m still half-convinced that they only did because my father is campaigning for re-election, and putting your own daughter on the street doesn’t play well with voters.

In my room, I put on my shoes — black ballet flats, because heels are designed to accentuate a woman’s bosom and buttocks, therefore tempting men — and then I kneel on the floor by my dresser, open the bottom drawer, and reach in.

All the way in the back, jammed into a corner, is the bottle of vodka from the day before yesterday next to a flask shaped like a makeup compact, as long as no one looks too closely. Sitting on my floor, I very very carefully fill the flask, then put the vodka back.

It might be dumb to bring this, but on the other hand, I’ve discovered how much easier is it to smile nicely, nod your head, and keep sweet when you’ve braced yourself with a swig of vodka.

So really, it’s a toss-up: do I get in trouble for having an attitude, or do I get in trouble for drinking?

I put the flask in the bottom of my purse, hide it as well as I can, and head downstairs.

* * *

Gabriel’s waiting next to the campaign bus, wearing a suit, as the whole Burgess family comes outside. Besides the eight Burgess children — me, Grace, James Jr., Daniel, Zeke, Pearl, Joy, and Paul — there’s Grace’s husband and her two children, James Jr.’s pregnant wife, the girl Daniel’s courting, my father’s aide Mason and his girlfriend Lilah, not to mention the rest of my father’s campaign staff.

Bless his heart, Gabriel doesn’t even raise his eyebrows. On the bus, he sits in the row behind me, next to another security guy. I sit with Grace and her kids, while her husband sits in the front of the bus with the rest of the men.

“Kyle came to the house again yesterday?” Grace asks, bouncing Emma, her four-month old. Emma just looks at me, her tiny face completely unamused.

“He did,” I say evenly, although I don’t want to talk about Kyle.

“He brought flowers?”

“Yes,” I confirm, because when you have seven siblings there are no secrets.

“He’s a very appropriate young man,” she says.

I give my younger sister a sharp look.

“Is he?”

She frowns at me, still bouncing Emma. In the row behind us, I hear Gabriel say something to the guy next to him, and it sends a slight prickle down the back of my neck.

Kyle gives me zero prickles. Well, that’s not true. Is revulsion a prickle?

“Ruby,” she says admonishingly. “You know he’s reformed.”

“Yeah, that’s worked out well for me in the past.”

“You didn’t give it a chance in the past.”

“I gave it years of chances.”

Grace glances over at me, and I can tell she’s getting mad. It’s nine in the morning, and I’ve already angered the closest thing I’ve got to an ally on this bus. It’s gonna be a hell of a day.

“Marriage vows aren’t until I get tired of you or unless you mess up big time,” she says, her voice tightly controlled. “They’re ’til death do us part.”

“Spare me the lecture,” I snap.

“If you weren’t prepared to commit to Lucas you shouldn’t have gotten married,” she says in her haughtiest voice.

I take a deep, deep breath and look away, all the muscles in my back knotting with tension. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter of marrying Lucas. Besides, I’d spent my entire life learning to obey my father’s every word. It didn’t occur to me to say no.

“I was nineteen when we got engaged,” I point out, keeping my voice steady and quiet.

“That’s more than old enough,” she goes on, still lecturing. “And now, you’re lucky anyone is interested. Really, Ruby, what are your options?”

I turn my head away as the bus rolls out of the driveway. I can’t believe we’ve barely left and I’m already fighting with my sister over Kyle of all people.

The only reason Kyle brings me flowers and then talks at me for an hour is that we’re both damaged goods, and everyone knows it. He’s the son of the President of Calvary Bible College, an extremely conservative Christian school near Huntsburg.

Last year he got arrested for visiting a prostitute. It was a huge scandal, and it also came out that he had a pornography addiction, not to mention a problem with texting students at Calvary College inappropriate pictures.

His father nearly disowned him, but Kyle went on an apology tour, going on Christian talk shows and to Christian churches, giving interviews in the Christian press, talking about his recovery from his problems and how his faith helped him heal. He pleaded guilty to the charges and got probation plus community service.

Conveniently, he got to count the lectures at churches and schools about the insidious danger of pornography as his service.

I, of course, am divorced. Basically the same thing as frequenting prostitutes, sending out pictures of my genitals to people who don’t want them, and masturbating to pictures of cartoon characters having sex, right?

“I’m only telling you this because you’re my sister and I love you,” Grace says softly. “Someone has to talk reason into you.”

The worst part is that it’s true. She is telling me because she thinks she’s helping, and that might be the thing that makes me feel most trapped of all.

“I know,” I say, and lean my head back, closing my eyes. We don’t talk for the next two hours.

* * *

When we get to Greentown Community College, there’s a small crowd of protesters already gathered. They’re waving rainbow signs that say things like IT’S OKAY TO BE GAY, wearing flowers in their hair, the girls in tank tops and the guys in shorts.

I think they’re having a lot more fun than I am.

On the bus, I stand in the aisle and wait for everyone in front of me to disembark. Grace hands me Emma, who’s half-asleep, so I hold her while my sister gathers all her things together in one place.

She definitely has more baby stuff than she does baby.

“Hey there, cutie,” says Gabriel’s voice.

Emma stares, and I turn my head.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, keeping his voice soft. “What do you think you’re looking at?”

Then he reaches out and taps Emma on the nose very lightly.

After a second, she gives him a giant toothless grin, and I laugh.

“She likes you,” I say.

“Kids usually do,” says Gabriel. “I have no idea why.”

He holds a manila folder up in front of his face. Emma’s smile drops, but after a moment, Gabriel lowers the folder and she grins again, even bigger this time.

“Boo!” Gabriel says, and does it again.

I try to act normal, but I think my ovaries might actually explode, because it’s just about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. They play peek-a-boo until Grace takes Emma back, I grab her diaper bag, and we finally start moving for the front of the bus.

“You remember everything we talked about, right?” he says. “Lines of sight, exit routes?”

“I think so,” I say, even though I’m scrambling to remember, and then we’re getting off the bus.

Gabriel stands between me and the protesters, though he only gives them a cursory glance before glancing around at the trees, the tops of the buildings, the other knots of people milling around.

“Then you remember that the most important thing is to stay alert,” he goes on. “Don’t let yourself get distracted. If someone tries something, it’s likely that there will be some sort of distraction first, just to make sure as little attention as possible is on you.”

I still haven’t told him that I’m nearly positive my father wrote those letters. I don’t think he’d believe me — why would he? — and he’d still have to do his job anyway.

“Right,” I say.

Two of the protesting women, both in shorts and tight-fitting tank tops, have stopped waving signs and shouting. They’re just staring at Gabriel, whispering to each other.

He glances at them for a second, then looks away, but they keep gawking until we walk through the auditorium doors. Gabriel acts like nothing happened, even though I know he saw them.

“You remember the exits?” he asks.

I look around, trying to picture the floor plans in my head.

“Right there, obviously,” I say, pointing behind me. “Same place, on the other side of the stage, halfway down the auditorium, back of the auditorium.”

“And?”

I narrow my eyes, looking at him. He smiles.

“One more.”

“…underneath the stage at the back?”

“I had a feeling you were a quick study,” he says. “Nice work.”

He holds out one fist, and I bump it with my own, smiling back at him.

“Ruby,” my mother’s voice says, and I jump about a foot, wiping the smile off my face.

She gives me a sharp look, then settles her glance on Gabriel, features melting into her usual sweet smile.

“Your brother needs help sorting out name tags,” she says. “Could you be a dear?”

“Of course,” I say, returning her empty, sweet smile, even though my stomach is in a knot.

I didn’t do anything, I remind myself, over and over again.

The next hour goes by in an exhausting blur. There are children everywhere, one of the speakers cancelled last minute so we have to redo the schedule, not to mention set up the table in the foyer of books, CDs, pamphlets, and homeschooling materials that my mother sells.

The women do all this. The men stand around talking, except Gabriel, who does whatever I’m doing.

Finally, ten minutes before the event is scheduled to begin, my father calls a prayer circle. I hold hands with Grace and Daniel while my father calls on Jesus to bless this endeavor, open the hearts of his supporters, turn the wickedness away from the hearts of his detractors, continue to defend against Satan, et cetera.

To be honest, I kind of tune out after a minute. When it’s over I get pulled away again to re-tape a red, white, and blue ribbon to the back of a chair, Gabriel hovering in the background.

As I’m taping, my mother swishes around a stage curtain, practically dragging Joy behind her.

“Ow,” Joy mutters, because she knows better than to shout.

“You will not disrespect me like that,” my mother snaps, pulling on Joy’s arm a little harder. Joy’s only an inch or two shorter than my mom — she’s fourteen — but there’s still fear in her eyes.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Joy whispers.

My mother grabs Joy by the chin, squeezing my sister’s face tightly. I wince in sympathy, even though I don’t do anything. I know how much that hurts. I’ve had my chin grabbed a lot.

“Now go out there with a pleasant, pleasing countenance,” she says.

Joy nods.

“Keep sweet,” my mother says, lets Joy go, then walks away without even looking at us again.

Joy glances our way, eyes shining, then scurries off. Gabriel looks at me, and I make my face as neutral as possible, like nothing just happened.

But inside, I’m furious. I’m mortified. I think I might throw up, and it’s half because I hate that he just saw that and half because I hate that I didn’t do a single thing.

I remember the vodka in my purse. If I can’t do anything, maybe at least I can care less.

“Excuse me,” I tell him. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

I grab my purse and walk off.