Dre
“NICE SOCKS.”
Nice socks? Smooth is not a word anyone anywhere would ever use to describe me. In fact, in the dictionary, under a picture of me, Andre Rosario, would be a list of words that are the opposite of smooth. Bumpy, lumpy, knobby, stony, rocky, rugged, rutted, pitted. I could go on, but I probably shouldn’t. You get the point.
But what else was I supposed to say to Dean Arnault, the son of my father’s sworn enemy, and therefore my sworn enemy? Okay, fine. “Enemy” is probably me being a little extra, but he’s still the son of my dad’s political opponent in the presidential race, and the holder of some highly questionable political opinions, and therefore not someone I should’ve been talking to except that his family and my family were in the same room at the same time and someone thought it would be a great photo op, so they kept shoving us together. I had to say something before things got super uncomfortable.
Also, they really were nice socks.
Dean Arnault reached up to brush his hand through his hair, stopped, and dropped his hand to his side like he could hear his mother telling him not to mess up the hard work his stylist had put into making him the perfect picture of a young Republican. Sandy hair with an aggressive side part and not a strand out of place, brown eyes, freckled cheeks, a roman nose, and a chiseled jaw with a tiny dimple in his chin. Not that I thought he was cute. He was wearing loafers, for heaven’s sake. Loafers! Like a forty-year-old man on his way to the country club to shoot eighteen holes and discuss long-term investment options.
“Thank you,” Dean said after a pause that was too short to be long and too long to be brief. It was like he was on a tape delay so that the censors monitoring him through implants in his brain could bleep out anything scandalous before it had the chance to leave his mouth.
“Could you squeeze in a little more?” the photographer said. “This one’s for the history books.”
“Yes,” Janice Arnault said. “The caption underneath will read ‘President Arnault and family with presidential hopeful Tomás Rosario.’”
Everyone, including my parents, laughed like Governor Arnault had told a stunningly hilarious joke instead of insinuating that she was going to win the election, even though she was trailing my father by three points according to FiveThirtyEight.com.
“Or,” I said, “it might read—” My mother pinched the back of my arm, and I yelped. She was still smiling, but her eyes told me that this was not the time for my mouth, and that if I didn’t shut it, there would be oh-so-much hell to pay when we got home.
“It might read something else,” I mumbled, but no one was paying attention to me anymore. Which was probably for the best.
I tried not to make any inappropriate faces while the photographer was snapping pictures, but it was pretty difficult. I’d already made concessions by putting on that ridiculous tan suit, even if I worked it harder than any tan suit had been worked in its life. What I’d really wanted to wear was some kind of fabulous suit-gown hybrid like I’d seen Billy Porter strut the red carpet in multiple times. I’d even conceded to cleaning the polish off my fingernails for the night, though I’d then painted my toes Tangerine Scream in protest. Plus, I’d allowed my mom’s stylist to cut three inches off my hair even though I’d liked my hair the way it was. All of those concessions had left me with very little patience for putting up with Janice Arnault and the Von Frat family.
“Dre?” My dad nudged me as the photographer asked for some photos of just the Arnaults. “You’re not still upset with me, are you?”
I shrugged, refusing to look at my dad. “Upset? Why would I be upset? It’s not like I had plans tonight and that you essentially forced me at gunpoint to abandon my best friend in order to attend this.”
“I’m sure Mel understands,” Dad said. “And there was no gun.”
“May as well have been.” I had trouble seeing my dad the way other people did. To one half of the country, he was the passionate, handsome, future leader of the country. To the other half, he was a baby-killing, Satan-worshipping foreigner who had no business running anything other than a convenience store. But to me, he was the guy who sang Beyoncé songs with a whisk while making pancakes, was afraid of lizards, forced me to attend ridiculous political events when I had better things to do, and had gone from Dad of the Year to Dad Who? in the span of an election cycle.
“This will get easier, Dre.”
“You mean when you’re president and we have Secret Service agents controlling our every move, and we have to be doubly concerned about the press examining the minute details of our private lives and roasting us for every fumble and fuckup?”
“Language, Dre,” my mom said from where she was standing with Jose Calderon, my father’s dictatorial campaign manager, pretending not to listen in.
Dad chuckled. “It won’t be that bad.”
“It’s already that bad.”
“Then at least it can’t get much worse.” My dad slung his arm around me and pulled me into a hug. I caught Dean watching us, and he quickly turned away like the affection embarrassed him. I figured his parents probably thought there was something unmanly about a father hugging his son. Dean and his dad probably exchanged firm handshakes and the occasional nod.
“Besides,” my dad went on. “I might not even win.”
“What do you think I wish for every night before I go to sleep?”
“Andre?” Jose was waving for my attention. “The photographer wants a couple with just the children.”
“I’m seventeen, so, not a child.”
“Do it for me,” Dad said.
“Not a chance,” I replied, but my dad was already pushing me toward Dean, who was standing in front of a tall American flag.
“I know you hate this, Dre, but it’s important to me, okay?”
I shook my head. “Whatever. But you owe me so big. Like, maybe it’s finally time to buy me a car big.”
Dad clapped me on the shoulder. “Not a chance. Have fun!”
Fun. Sure. I couldn’t imagine any world where spending a single second with Dean Arnault would be considered fun, but I trudged toward him anyway because that was the sacrifice I was willing to make to help my father become president of the United States.
Dean
THE PHOTOGRAPHER WAVED at me. “Move in a little closer. I’m sure he won’t bite.” I threw a glance at my mother, who was clustered off to the side with the Rosarios, laughing at something someone had said, though I couldn’t imagine what anyone could possibly find amusing about this situation.
“He’s wrong, you know,” Andre said quietly as I scooted closer to him. “I do bite.”
Andre had huge eyes that were an algae green, framed by long eyelashes. His dark hair was wavy, hung down over his forehead, and it managed to look like he spent a lot of time styling it and also like he rolled out of bed with it looking that way. I admit to being jealous. I’d had the same haircut my entire life, and I doubted Nora, my mom’s campaign manager, would have allowed me to change it without first polling potential voters.
I threw my arm around Andre’s shoulders and put on my most winning smile to prove to him that he couldn’t get to me.