The Perfect Candidate Page 2

They said good night, and just before Hillary closed her door, she added, “Welcome to Washington, Cameron Carter.”

  I went into my room and sat down on the low mattress, bent knees almost at the same level as my hunched shoulders. A frantic siren zoomed by outside, and an oontz-oontz beat from upstairs became increasingly intrusive. It was after midnight, around nine p.m. in Lagrima. So I was certain my dad was walking around the neighborhood, up and back along the perimeter of a nearby farm. We’d done that Sunday-night walk together every week for as long as I could remember. And then, tonight, we didn’t. I thought of Humberto, my best friend since the fourth grade, who was probably having game night with his younger brothers. I always let them win at UNO; he never did. I felt the uneasy freedom of a new routine, a broken tradition. I probably should have called my dad or Berto, but I was worried I’d say something that sounded like homesickness.

  Made it, I texted my dad. Hitting the hay.

  I pulled out the wallet-size picture of my mom and leaned it against the base of the small lamp, when there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find Zeph handing me something.

  “This is the second-most-important access card you’ll have all summer.” He smiled.

  It was a driver’s license from Alabama with my senior portrait laminated into it. A twenty-one-year-old, Alabaman version of myself—named Chester Arlington Vanhille III.

  “But I didn’t give this to you, okay?” Zeph’s eyebrows were raised.

  “Okay . . .” I examined the card cautiously. “That’s a very elaborate name I’ve got.”

  “I pride myself on my work.” Zeph laughed and closed the door.

  My dad texted back and made me wonder if he’d somehow seen what had just happened: Stay out of trouble.

  The jet lag was supposed to keep me up for another three hours, but I crashed hard. For years, I had dreamed about DC. But that night, I dreamed of Lagrima and the walk by the farm.

  3

  As I followed Zeph and Hillary that morning to the Foggy Bottom metro stop, at first it felt like some hazing ritual (make the new kid run!). But I soon realized that was how fast everyone moved in Washington.

  Hillary provided unsolicited office gossip as we darted toward the metro. “So you’re going to meet everyone. BIB himself, all of the LAs . . .”

  “Legislative assistants,” translated Zeph.

  “And the staff asses . . .”

  “Staff assistants,” said Zeph.

  “Well, ‘staff ass’ might actually be a more accurate title for Ariel Lancaster,” said Hillary, tossing out a morsel of conversation bait.

  “She runs the intern program,” explained Zeph. “Also, minor detail: daughter of junior congresswoman from Virginia Nani Lancaster.”

  Our hurried commuter numbers grew as we got closer to the futuristic awning that signaled the start of the escalators. I was relieved to stand on a moving panel for a second, but even that had a fast lane:

  “Stand on the right, walk on the left!” some exasperated bureaucrat raged. At me.

  Hillary grabbed me closer to her, opening a floodgate of disapproving commuters whom I had been holding up.

  “Sorry,” I said to each one. “I’m sorry! I’m new here.”

  Zeph laughed. “Amateur.”

  Hillary sighed and prattled on: “Okay, so most important, Ariel has been in the Fifty Hottest Staffers on Capitol Hill for two summers in a row, which almost never happens,” said Hillary. “And this summer I plan to join her there.”

  “Wait a second.” I finally got a word in. “Fifty Hottest Staffers on Capitol Hill?”

  “It’s this stupid list that HillZone puts together at the end of every summer—supposedly the best-looking staffers on Capitol Hill, and by that I mean anyone who will hook up with the editors of the blog,” said Zeph.

  “It’s legitimate!” shouted Hillary.

  We descended into the cavernous Foggy Bottom metro station, a gigantic oblong tube encased in a honeycomb-like design. Sleek silver trains shot in and out of the tunnels, the whirring sound of brakes preceding them and then peaking in intensity before the cars stopped. A friendly chime signaled the doors open, and a voice announced, “This is the blue line train, headed to Largo Town Center.”

  “This is our train,” said Hillary. She grabbed my hand and we entered the packed tube of people.

  I was riding to work on Space Mountain.

  When the train arrived at the Capitol South stop, a mostly youthful crowd—sporting lanyards and badges similar to the one I had—lurched toward the doors as they opened. I kept thinking someone was going to call me out: You’re a landscaper from Lagrima. You’re an impostor. But they didn’t. Maybe they were impostors too? In any case, I was one of them. Part of the army. If only for a summer.

  As we emerged from the metro, I found my step quickening, the same way I’d walk faster to the Oakland A’s games with my dad in the parking lot, even though it wasn’t going to make the games start any earlier. I saw the tall marble walls of the Rayburn House Office Building a block away and bolted toward it, when Hillary shouted, “Slow down, cowboy!” The Capitol came into view, and I stopped to take a picture of the scene with my phone. I turned around to see Zeph and Hillary taking pictures of me.

  “You’re such a nerd,” said Zeph. “You’ll get used to it.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  We entered a stream of Hill staffers walking through a metal detector and soon found ourselves in the lobby. I looked up and around, my mouth gradually opening in awe.

  “Mouth-breather,” said Hillary as she pushed my back with her hand. “Let’s go to work!”

  We took the elevator to the second floor and turned down a long, white hallway of doors, each one flanked by an American flag and the state flag of the representative whose office it signaled. Flowery leis adorned the entrance of a Hawaiian rep’s office. Country music already blared from the office of a Texan congressman, at nine a.m. And the people inside a New Jersey congresswoman’s office were really loud.

  “I know, could it be any more cliché?” complained Hillary.

  A trio of intense staffers zipped by, arguing about trade sanctions, which seemed to be a popular topic to debate. At that point, I realized Zeph and Hillary were no longer by my side and an angry set of footsteps stalked me from behind—each heel click a quick, nasty bullet into the hard floor. I turned to see the person, but instead I saw Zeph and Hillary urgently signaling me to get out of the way, which I did.

  “Hello, intern,” the woman behind me said, annoyed, as she stared and pecked away intently at her phone.

  “That’s Nadia Zyne!” whispered Hillary. “She’s BIB’s press secretary, aka bad cop. She does the dirty work, stuff he doesn’t even know about, so BIB can be the hero. She wrecks people for fun. I heard she had a janitor fired once because they accidentally vacuumed up an Hermès scarf she left on the floor. It’s awful. But she dresses really well.” Followed by, “Oooh, she’s rocking the DVF today.”

  We arrived at our office, announced by a plaque that read CONGRESSMAN WILLIAM “BILLY” IRMAN BECK, CALIFORNIA. HOUSE MINORITY LEADER. Aside from the obligatory flags, there were no distinguishing flowers or music or voices, which seemed about right for Lagrima. As we walked across the threshold, my foot hesitated for just a second. The internship, DC, Congressman Beck—it was all happening. I thought of my mom on the first day of her internship at the USDA. She wouldn’t have hesitated. And so I wouldn’t either. I took a deep breath and walked inside the office.

  It was a large room, with tall, ornate ceilings, yet it felt cramped with desks and meeting tables and percussive office sounds. Just inside the door, I saw Nadia’s lithe figure deliberately slip around a mess of mail and papers that another woman leaned down to collect. Hillary followed Nadia’s steps, entranced. Zeph and I knelt down to help, recovering the spilled letters and files spread across the floor. The woman looked up at me.

  “Happy Monday, I guess.” She smiled and reached out he
r hand to me. “I’m Katie Campbell, chief of staff.”

  “Hi, I’m Cameron. I’m the new intern,” I said, holding some letters in my left hand and a Sharpie pen wrapped in paper in my right hand.

  Katie urgently snapped the pen out of my hand at the same moment I realized it wasn’t a Sharpie pen wrapped in paper; it was an unused tampon.

  “Oh my Lord,” she said, her voice cracking and her cheeks lighting up red. She stuffed my discovery deep into her briefcase.

  Zeph put his hands in the air and walked away, his pained laughter barely suppressed.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said to Katie, instinctively stepping away from the scene.

  “No need to be sorry; we’re just gonna move on here,” she blurted out, now haphazardly cramming everything into her briefcase.

  “I mean, I guess you just don’t recognize certain things when you don’t grow up with any sisters. . . .”

  “And that’s where you’re going to stop talking, okay, Cameron?” She stormed away to her office, both arms straining to hold the spilled materials and a few sheets of paper seesawing their way to the floor anyway.

  “Ugh, tragic,” moaned Hillary as she watched Katie scramble to the other side of the office. “A pushing-thirty workaholic who thinks her Ann Taylor Outlet blazers can hide her muffin top. All those Bikram Yoga sessions can’t save you from your genes, honey,” she added, eyelids flittering to the vacant air.

  Zeph rolled his eyes. “You’re just jealous she was made chief of staff in her twenties and you never will be.”

  “Hi!” A girl wearing a yellow blouse and billowy linen pants had approached us. “I’m Ariel, the summer intern coordinator.”

  “Hi, I’m Lagrima—I mean I’m Cameron, and I’m from Lagrima,” I stumbled, her dirty blond shoulder-length hair and smattering of freckles effectively halting my ability to say my name. “And I’m a summer intern here for the summer. Interning.”

  “I figured that.” She chuckled. “So, are you ready to get to know all of the good constituents of the fifty-seventh congressional district of California?”

  “Yes, I would love to do that,” I replied, like an idiot.

  “Good.” She started to walk toward the mailroom. “Your friend Zeph here knows the ropes, but basically you’ll start each day opening all of the mail. Anything from VIPs”—she pointed to a list of names on a sign marked VIPS—“goes in this pile. Regular names, you’ll process them in the system on the computer. You have access to all of BIB’s people’s contact information in here, so no identity theft, okay?”

  “Of course not!” I blurted out. “I will treat it all with the utmost confidentiality. When I was on the campaign back in Lagrima, I managed the donor lists, and—”

  “Oh man, calm down. So formal,” she said. “Very cute.”

  The feeling’s mutual.

  “Well, I can see that you’re a fast learner,” she remarked. “This is good.”

  She continued to show me around the office: the kitchen, the reception desk, and the phone system. All the while, I was able to verify every inch of her consecutive years of eligibility for the Fifty Hottest Staffers on Capitol Hill. She was better-looking than any of the girls in Lagrima. Her eyes were light green with tiny slivers of yellow barely peeking through. And the rasp of her voice somehow made a phrase like “tour guide manual” sound like a two p.m. breakfast.

  Ariel continued the orientation with introductions to the legislative assistants—four fidgety thirtysomethings who all wore glasses and, with remarkable uniformity, each clutched a coffee in one hand and a smartphone in the other. The whole orientation felt like the opening credits of an old-school TV show—each person giving a brief wave and an even briefer smile before turning away. The senior staffers popped in and out of their own rooms, which surrounded the chaotic main floor. And a set of closed dark brown double doors proclaimed the most senior office of all.

  I recognized the conspicuously stylish young man who walked in the door, though his perfectly manicured goatee was new.

  “Jigar Shah, nice of you to come to work this morning,” announced Ariel. “This is our new intern . . .”

  “I know.” He patted me on the back. “I interviewed this guy when I was visiting the home office!”

  And by “interviewed,” he meant talking to me from a bank of urinals as he scanned e-mails on his phone. “Sorry, no time; if you want an interview, the interview’s in here,” he had told me as he’d walked through the bathroom door.

  He was scanning e-mails on his phone this morning as well. Ariel snapped her fingers so he’d actually look at me, but he spoke without making eye contact: “How are you doing, buddy? You’re looking sharp. Sebastian, right?”

  “His name is Cameron Carter,” corrected Ariel.

  “Of course it is! Welcome to DC, bud!” He proceeded through the office, oblivious.

  Jigar walked into the office of his boss, Nadia Zyne, the one person to whom Ariel did not make a personal introduction.

  “That’s Nadia Zyne,” she said, pointing to the slightly ajar door.

  “The one I’m supposed to stay away from?” I asked with a smile.

  “Well, I won’t confirm nor deny that, but I will say that you are a quick study, Mr. Carter,” she said. She walked me to her desk. We sat down and she continued, “I just want you to know that I’m here for any questions you may have. I know it’s tough to be away from home for the first time.”

  It was, though I’d never acknowledge it to her.

  “Well, I do kind of feel like an outsider here,” I admitted.

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she responded. “Outsiders see things we insiders don’t notice anymore, you know?”

  “Yeah, I get it,” I responded. “It’s like this one time I went to a farm and all of these cows were running around, and I was like, ‘Hey, guys, get off the tractor because the cows . . .’ ”

  A heavy click sounded from the double doors and Ariel’s eyes immediately darted in that direction, though her head didn’t move. I was actually grateful for the interruption to my word vomit.

  “Sure,” she said, not listening, as Congressman Billy Beck opened the doors and emerged from his office. Most everyone else seemed to share the same reverence I had for the moment, but Ariel looked down at her desk and shuffled some papers.

  A couple voices sang out, “Good morning, Mr. Congressman,” but they were outnumbered by those who said, “Hey, BIB!” And suddenly, the man, the acronym, was standing in front of me, reaching out his hand.

  “Billy Beck,” he introduced himself. And before I could reply: “And you are Cameron Carter.” His bright blue eyes locked on mine from about six inches above, and his long fingers firmly wrapped around my right hand in a hearty, seismic jolt. Like my track coach’s congratulations after a good meet. An honorable mention in the form of a handshake.

  “You’re a great guesser!” I exclaimed, which is basically the exact opposite of the first four words I intended to say when I met the congressman. In fairness to me, I wasn’t expecting him to know my name, and it threw me off a bit.

  “And you’re going to be a great intern, I can tell,” Beck retorted. His expression looked exactly like it did in those ads I passed out all over town—a smile that curved up to one side, with wrinkly, almond-grower eyes. The fluorescent lights of the office bounced off the signature American flag pin fastened to the lapel of his navy-blue suit. “Your dad has that big landscaping business, doesn’t he? Real salt-of-the-earth guy—that’s what I love about the people of our district. . . .”

  “Yeah, he’s doing really well,” I said, though BIB clearly hadn’t heard that my dad had lost out on some major contracts in the past few months.

  “That’s great.” Katie smiled as she gently tugged at BIB’s elbow. And then, to him: “You’re going to be late for the vote.”

  He slowly lifted his hand to Katie and continued looking at me. “So . . . Lagrima High, I assume?”

/>   “Yes, sir,” I said, a little surprised that he was taking time for small talk with the most junior person on his staff.

  “Bolander is still the football coach?”

  “He’s retiring next year,” I said, incredulous. “How do you know him?”

  “He was the assistant when I started for the team,” he explained.

  “BIB . . . ,” interjected Katie with a sharp, quick smile.

  “Great man,” he mused. He then leaned in toward me and said, as if a secret, “So please tell me the teenagers are still breaking into the Del Lago golf course at night and ice blocking down the hills?”

  My eyes widened as I realized he’d once taken part in a time-honored but unspoken activity among Lagrima’s youth—buying huge chunks of ice at a convenience store and riding them down the green hills of the golf course, destroying the fairways in the process. I had done it two nights ago with Berto.

  “Not sure how to answer that one.” I laughed nervously.

  “Well, we always used to say it’s only a crime if you’re stupid enough to get caught,” he whispered in my ear.

  By that point, most of the staff watched our interaction, surprised and maybe a little jealous at the face time I was getting.

  “Look,” said Katie, “you guys are clearly hitting it off, but you’re going to have to continue the nostalgia session later.”

  “Okay, okay,” said BIB, like a teenager being picked up from a party by his mom. “But one last thing. Most important advice you’ll get all summer . . .”

  I noticed the rest of the staffers were watching intently, hoping to glean any wise tips from their boss.

  “The best food on the Hill is on the Senate side, Dirksen cafeteria, to be exact. And Cups for coffee.” He laughed. “Don’t even bother going to the place they have in the basement here. Rayburn’s the worst. Can I say that?” He glanced at Katie, who was texting someone on her phone. “I like this kid,” he concluded, sizing me up.

  Katie looked up and said, “Yes, he is going to be a great intern. He’s already proven very proactive.” She playfully raised an eyebrow. “And now, Mr. Congressman, we need to get you to the floor for a vote and prevent those Republicans from scaring more senior citizens.”