“That’s it!” the photographer said, and started snapping away.
This wasn’t the first time I’d met Andre Rosario. Our parents’ campaigns crossed paths more often than people might expect. I also knew him from Dreadful Dressup, the website where he and his partner, Mel, posted photos and videos of monster makeup tutorials. Before Mr. Rosario had won the Democratic Party’s nomination, more people had recognized Andre’s name than his father’s. But this was the first time we’d said more than five words to one another, and I honestly wasn’t yet sure whether to treat him as friend or foe.
“I didn’t pick them out,” I said, trying to make conversation while the photographer moved us into different positions.
“What?”
“The socks.” I raised my pant leg to reveal one of the socks, which were gray with bright cartoon bumblebees on them. They didn’t really match the suit. “A stylist chose them for me.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“How so?”
Andre mugged for the camera a few more times before the photographer finally declared we were done. My parents had drifted down the hallway, and I was turning to join them when Andre said, “I’d been telling Mel, she’s my best friend, that you usually dress like you’re heading to a funeral, which I guess is appropriate tonight since my dad’s here to bury your mom, but then I saw the socks and thought I’d misjudged you a tiny bit, only I guess I hadn’t.”
I could have let it go, but Andre’s smug attitude wouldn’t let me. “My mother’s campaign manager believed a whimsical addition to my outfit would help me appeal to average people.”
Andre cocked his head to the side. “Did you just call me average?”
“I’m sure I said no such thing.”
“Whatever. Why don’t you go plug yourself into a wall socket somewhere and recharge?”
“Oh,” I said. “Ha, ha. Because I’m a robot—”
“Programmed to do what your mommy tells you.”
“Funny,” I said. “Except for the part where it wasn’t.”
Andre stood with his arms folded across his chest. After a moment, he said, “Wait, was that your comeback?” He grimaced. “You obviously got your debating skills from your mom.”
“I would destroy you in a real debate.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
A loud crash ricocheted from down the hall. Someone screamed. Two agents in black suits materialized as if from the walls themselves and were suddenly herding Andre and me into the greenroom they had assigned my mother.
One of the agents, a serious woman with finger-length black hair, poked her head in and said, “Do not leave this room under any circumstances.” Her voice was stern and left no room for argument.
“What’s going on?” Andre called. “Where’re my parents? Is everyone okay—”
But the agent shut the door without answering either question, and when Andre tried to open it, he found that it was locked. He pounded on the door a few times before leaning with his back to it and sliding to the ground.
The whole thing had taken fifteen, maybe twenty seconds, and I wasn’t sure what had happened, therefore I had no idea whether this was a false alarm and that everything would be all right or if this was a real emergency and that I should be worried.
“Do you have your phone?” I asked.
Before I finished, Andre was digging into his pocket for his cell phone, tapping the screen. I did the same. I tried calling both my parents and Nora, but I couldn’t get a signal.
“Damn it!” Andre held his phone like he was about to throw it across the room, which likely wouldn’t have helped the situation. “Can’t get through.”
“Neither can I,” I said.
“I’m not surprised with that antique.” Andre’s voice was shaky. “Isn’t that model from like five years ago?”
Heat rose in my cheeks. “I have a tendency to lose things, so my parents see no sense in spending a lot of money on a new phone I’m likely to forget somewhere.”
Andre was quiet for a moment, probably doing whatever he could to avoid worrying about what might be happening on the other side of those doors. “It’s kind of reassuring to know you’re not perfect.”
“I never claimed to be perfect, Andre.”
“The news sure loves playing it like you are.” He looked up at me. “According to them, you’re Captain America, volunteering your time to teach underprivileged kids to read and build houses, while I basically murder puppies.”
I was scared, which made me want to fire back at Andre, but he was probably scared too. Instead, I grabbed a water from the table and brought it to him. “Here. The first rule of being on the campaign trail is to stay hydrated.”
“Thanks.” Andre took the water and twisted off the cap but didn’t drink. “And it’s Dre.”
“Pardon?”
“My name,” he said. “It’s Dre. Only my dad’s campaign manager calls me Andre. And my mom, but only if she’s really angry, and then she calls me ‘Andre Santiago Rosario,’ and it’s usually followed by some form of ‘What did you do?’ and a bit of mild profanity.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Good to know. And, hey, I’m certain Secret Service has everything under control. More than likely it’s a bomb threat or—”
Dre’s eyes popped. “You think there’s a bomb?!”
“I did not say that—”
“You know what? How about you don’t say anything at all, okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Fine by me.”
Dre
I STOOD WITH my ear pressed to the door, trying to hear what was going on in the hallway. It was eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that sent my mind spinning off in a thousand directions, imagining all the different potentially dangerous scenarios that could be playing out.
“Anything?” Dean asked.
“Nope. Not a sound.”
“That could be a good sign.”
“Or it could mean that some politician-hating dudes with guns are holding everyone hostage, including our parents, in some other wing of the school, and that they’re going to start shooting them at any moment.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Of course,” I said. “Your side practically worships guns, so I’m sure your parents aren’t in any real danger.”
The first debate was being held at the University of Miami, which Jose had protested because he claimed it gave Governor Arnault the advantage, but my dad hadn’t minded, and it had allowed Jose to ensure the second debate would be held in Nevada. Of course, I bet none of this would’ve happened if we’d held the debate somewhere boring like North Dakota.
Dean was sitting on a couch with one leg crossed over the other like we were about to enjoy brandy and cigars and engage in casual sexism. He’d been trying to get a signal or log onto the building’s Wi-Fi but hadn’t had any luck. “How can you be so calm?” I asked.
“Because I trust that the Secret Service details guarding our parents have got everything under control.”