The Perfect Candidate Read online

  “Subtle,” Beck reflected.

  “Those grandpas and grandmas will be going to the voting booth in five months; I don’t care what you call it,” instructed Katie as she guided Beck out the door.

  As lunchtime neared, I waited for Ariel, who told me she would host a welcome meal for me, with Hillary and Zeph joining as well. However, she apologized for having to cancel twenty minutes into the lunch hour. She repeated this rain-checking for the next few days. Always canceling at the last minute. Something’s come up, she’d say. We’ll do it tomorrow. Always with a concerned, distracted look on her face.

  • • •

  The week passed quickly, and though she bailed on lunch, Ariel had taken an interest in me. Or at least, my ability to compensate for struggling staffers. She pulled me off filing duty and asked me to help Marcus with a report on literacy statistics. Marcus, education LA and office Cheetos hoarder, “could use the help,” she said. It was true.

  I typed a note to Ariel on MessageNow, the instant message app on our computers: So is this whole thing a joke and I’m supposed to find out that Marcus is the literacy statistic? He spends most of the day watching sneaker unboxing videos on YouTube.

  He hasn’t done anything for the report, has he? she replied.

  That thing is all me. I finished it this morning, I typed back. Just sent it to him so he can take credit for it. So . . . what’s next? You aren’t going to send me back to letter-opening duty, are you?

  No, she responded and paused. I looked at her across the room, her eyes barely above the computer screen on her desk. She continued, We never had that welcome lunch, did we?

  Correct. You bailed on us on Monday, I replied.

  Rayburn cafeteria, today? she typed back. 11:15 a.m. See you there.

  I looked up and made eye contact with her, surprised by the early hour and somewhat confused given BIB’s negative review of the eating establishment. Then my eyes pointed toward Hillary, who was showing Zeph the correct way to store reams of paper in the supply closet. Ariel shook her head back at me: Just us.

  She left for the basement at eleven, signaling that we were to walk there separately for some reason. As I walked out of the front door alone, I told Zeph and Hillary that I had to make a phone call to my dad. I was following Ariel’s lead; this lunch was off the record.

  The Rayburn cafeteria provided just the right number of people to make Ariel and me anonymous, unnoticed. Two congressmen sat in the middle of the place, and they seemed to draw the attention of any onlookers. Ariel’s table selection (two-top behind a refrigerator filled with preprepared food) added to our privacy. The whir of the machine’s motor masked our conversation to anyone farther than five feet away.

  “I hope you like Caesar salad,” she said and pushed a plate of wilted, soggy lettuce toward me. I sat down across from her.

  “Oh, the famous Rayburn Caesar!” I feigned enthusiasm. “Lunch of choice for secretive Capitol Hill encounters.”

  “It’s not a secret,” she defended herself. Her eyes darted to the left as she said it, which confirmed that it was at least kind of a secret. “I just . . . can’t stand that intern girl with the weird voice thing.”

  “You mean, ‘thing-ah’?” I asked, doing my best Hillary imitation. Ariel nodded and laughed. And I realized that I’d made her laugh. As in, intentionally. She smiled back at me. The bottom of my lungs did that weightless thing for a second, before I told myself to get a grip and play it cool.

  “So you ran circles around Marcus on that project?” she asked.

  “Well, he gave me his Congressional Quarterly login name and password, so I didn’t do everything,” I explained.

  “You don’t have to be modest,” she said. “You’re smarter than he is.”

  “He’s an LA,” I reminded her. “I just graduated high school.”

  “I know, I know,” she said. “But I can already tell. You’re quick. You’re going to do well here.”

  The refrigerator motor machine grumbled to life. I could feel the warm exhaust from the vent blow on my ankles.

  “So do you mind telling me why we’re eating lunch at the worst cafeteria on Capitol Hill, sitting in the corner next to a dying fridge?”

  She laughed again and spun a piece of lettuce around with her fork. “So Sasser from the district office told me that you submitted your résumé like seven times or something,” she said.

  “What?” I exclaimed. “That’s crazy. It was just three times.” A pause begged further explanation: “There was a temp one time, and I was pretty sure she didn’t know who to give it to . . .”

  “You’re persistent,” she said. “You’re resourceful.”

  “And you’re not answering my question,” I replied. “Anyway, I’m not hating on the people back home, but if you lived in Lagrima, you’d understand about the multiple- résumé-submission thing.”

  “No offense,” she said, “but I didn’t expect a high school grad from Lagrima to seem so at home here. You fit in, but you’re still normal.”

  I fit in. Best thing I’d heard anyone say all week. I wanted to stand up and tell the sparsely populated cafeteria that I fit in! but then I realized that would be counterproductive.

  “Oh, I have family in the area, so . . .” I was referring to my mom, eighteen years ago. Close enough.

  “ ‘Normal’ is a secret weapon in this town, you know,” she told me.

  “A weapon against what?” I asked.

  I could tell she had something to say. Or she just needed someone to listen.

  She inhaled a bit and then smiled and said, “DC changes people. Power . . . it facilitates things. It’s like BIB, you know? He’s not a big name yet. But he knows everyone. He’s tight with the maître d’ at Old Ebbitt Grill—can get the private room there, just by showing up. He can make tax audits happen, get protesters arrested . . .”

  It was her turn for the word vomit.

  “What?” I blurted out. My question stopped her increasingly whispered stream of thought. “What are you talking about? How do you know he did that?”

  “Anyway,” she deflected, “it’s better to be in the background with a bunch of people owing you favors, I guess. And the biggest favor they owe him is voting him in as Speaker of the House in the fall.”

  “Okay,” I told her. “Our boss got the IRS to look a certain way and put some people in jail? You can’t take that back. You said it yourself: I’m persistent.”

  She scanned the room and her eyes unmistakably said, Shhh. She looked less cute all of a sudden. More vulnerable, worried even. She sat back and folded her arms, her body language telling that she wouldn’t say more.

  And then she did.

  She leaned forward and said, “BIB’s buddy in the IRS initiated an audit of the chief fund-raiser for his competitor a few cycles ago. And the protesters? BIB got them arrested in the same phone call he set up a fishing trip with the DC chief of police. The same trip he invited my mom on.” She paused and then explained to me, “Nani Lancaster, junior congresswoman from Virginia Beach . . .”

  “I know who your mom is,” I told her.

  “Anyway, she hates the outdoors. But ever since she got elected, she’ll tag along wherever BIB goes. Like I said, DC changes people. . . .”

  I tried to reconcile her model-next-door looks with the increasing severity of her words. Cute girls back at home could be cryptic—but nothing like this. The conversation made me feel uncomfortable—guilty. But it also made me want to learn more.

  “Why are you telling me this, Ariel? These stories about BIB, your mom’s extreme political makeover . . . this isn’t exactly intern orientation material. Also kind of hard to believe.”

  “I’m telling you because I might need your help with another project, Cameron,” she answered, “and there isn’t much time.”

  I had barely celebrated my apparent promotion from the copy machine when a surprise guest showed up at the table.

  “Well, what are you two doin
g hiding down here? It’s not even lunchtime yet.” Katie Campbell appeared out of nowhere and opened the frostbitten refrigerator door. Ariel cleared her throat and then smiled a very convincing smile. As she pulled out a small cup of yogurt from the shelf, Katie said, “Word to the wise: This is the best yogurt parfait on the Hill. I find myself down here basically seven times a day. Which is why Ariel’s so skinny, and I’m . . .” Her voice trailed off as she examined Ariel’s toned upper arm.

  “I was just giving Cameron an orientation—a little bit about the office, the people . . . ,” said Ariel, suddenly all business.

  “Oh, she’s telling you where all the bodies are buried?” Katie asked me.

  “No,” I quickly answered. Nothing to see here. “No, she’s just . . . I’m learning a lot already.”

  “It’s a figure of speech, Cameron.” Katie smiled warmly. “See you back at the ranch, you two,” she said, before walking toward the cash register, both hands clasping her snack.

  We followed her to the office a few minutes later. As we got on the elevator, Ariel said, “Look, Cameron. I’m afraid that was a rather serious lunch. And I do have something in mind for you to work on. Just need another day or so to get things ready. And anyway, you shouldn’t forget to have fun this summer either.”

  We walked down the second-floor hallway, back to BIB’s office, where we bumped into Zeph and Hillary, who were on their way to grab a bite to eat.

  “I see you found time for lunch.” Hillary broke her silence to Ariel. “With some of us.”

  “I was just telling Cameron about a little fun we’re going to have tonight,” said Ariel, ignoring Hillary’s jab. “And you’re all invited. A few of us from the staff get together at Capitol Sinny on Thursday nights. Little place in Adams Morgan. Nothing official. And by that I mean, you should bring the twenty-one-year-old versions of yourselves.”

  “Our fake IDs?” said Hillary, in an attempt to clarify.

  Zeph laugh-shushed Hillary’s rookie move.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ariel winked.

  4

  After having dinner from a curbside hot dog vendor and a balmy evening walk along the Mall, Zeph, Hillary, and I took the metro to Dupont Circle. Even riding the escalator, it took forever to emerge from the extraordinarily deep subway depot below. Once we reached the street level, buzzing cars ringed around the otherwise abandoned roundabout.

  Zeph led us down one of the spokes that shot north from the circular road, and we dodged our way through an oncoming wolf pack of frat bros. The sidewalks became saturated with raucous staffers, annoyed locals trying to walk their dogs, and “business casual” clones clumsily downing cheap and greasy pizza by the slice. Walking past the successive skinny buildings was like rapidly changing the radio dial—from smooth jazz to bad karaoke to EDM and back to bad karaoke. DC after dark. Interns gone wild.

  “Almost there,” said Zeph, as he pointed to a narrow, four-story structure, the top three stories of which were exposed because the adjoining building was only one story high. The bare wall was a vast canvas for a gigantic portrait of George Washington—with spray painted devil horns and red eyes. Passersby jumped to slap a hanging, swinging sign out in front: CAPITOL SINNY.

  As we walked up to the door, I reached for my fake ID and hesitantly offered it to the bouncer. He scanned the card, and I prepared to be arrested. My screaming conscience made me feel like a drug smuggling, tax-evading serial killer. Fortunately, the bouncer thought otherwise, and let us through.

  “You’re welcome, kid.” Zeph winked as I put the Alabama driver’s license back in my pocket.

  We entered the cramped first floor. The decoration was the interior design equivalent of Lewis Carroll’s and Slipknot’s love child. One wall was covered in bendy mirrors, while a corner of the ceiling featured a goth mannequin lady riding a tricycle and brandishing—what else?—a chain saw. The air was thick with the booming vocals of an overweight rocker lady on stage, the stinging vapor of beer, and the pungent memory of cigarettes that were probably banned last year. Decades of booze and sweat on the floor clung to my shoes with each footstep. Guys with glazed eyes yelled into the ears of goofily smiling girls, while green-faced coeds made frantic beelines for the bathrooms. There seemed to be no in-between at Capitol Sinny. These peoples’ evenings were either going to end very well or very badly.

  I didn’t tell Zeph and Hillary that this was my first time in a bar. Most of the parties in Lagrima took place in foggy orchards, until the owner started pumping his shotgun or a passing cop shined the lights. This was a whole new level. Four levels, to be precise.

  We made our way up a narrow, winding staircase in the back to the second story. Aside from the residual din, this area looked nothing like the craziness below. It was also where we saw our first familiar faces: a welcoming Katie Campbell and a demure Ariel Lancaster, who was surrounded by four guys in khakis and blue button-up shirts. In DC, this apparently doubled as both office wear and party attire. They all looked very interested in what Ariel was saying. She wore a light yellow dress, and one of the guys was tugging at the cap sleeve. She didn’t seem to mind.

  “I see Ariel’s found her dude-tourage,” said Hillary.

  “So glad you guys could make it,” greeted Katie. “And you survived the first floor! This area is much more hospitable. And sanitary.”

  Three pool tables dominated the floor, with plush red velvet couches lining the walls. A waitress came by and offered me a drink. I declined.

  “Good answer,” said Zeph. “You don’t want the boss’s number two thinking you’re underage—”

  “No, really, I don’t drink,” I clarified.

  Alcohol meant car crashes. Well, not always. But it did for some dude who hit my mom. And that was enough for me to have never given it a try.

  “Boring,” Hillary declared.

  I took in a shallow breath and started to explain, before stopping myself.

  “Weird,” she said as she walked away.

  She wasn’t worth the explanation.

  “Well, we can be designated partiers together,” Katie told me. “I don’t imbibe either. Someone needs to get these people home safely.”

  She offered me a Diet Coke and we clinked glasses.

  A tall, tan guy with a loosened tie was the self-appointed manager of the pool tables. “This guy looks like he’s up next,” he loudly announced to the room while pointing at a guy who was apparently going to play pool next. “These ladies need a drink,” he declared to a group of giggling girls.

  “You’ll find that every party has a mayor here,” commented Katie. “You know, the guy who decides that everyone else needs someone to be in charge and tell them what to drink and do.”

  I watched as Mr. Mayor bought a tray of shots and then pushed one of the tiny glass cups in the face of an underling, who was unsuccessfully saying no.

  “This town is filled with big fish from small ponds, and some of them don’t realize that they’re actually little fish now. And you and I have the pleasure of dealing with them,” said Katie.

  “Speak for yourself,” I told her. “Are you calling me a little fish?”

  “I’m calling you one of the good ones, Cameron. I can already tell you have potential.”

  “I may have gotten into this establishment under false pretenses. Do you still feel that way?” I replied.

  “I’m strategically looking the other way.” Katie laughed. “It’s actually a good career tip for this town.”

  This town. She’d said it with equal parts admiration and disdain. Like a bad relationship you don’t want to quit. Or can’t.

  “Cameron, get over here!” shouted Ariel from across the room. She was holding court on the couch, and the guys surrounding her were not pleased with the increased guy-to-Ariel ratio that I created.

  “Save me from these savages,” she said to me. One “savage” in particular had his arm firmly placed around her neck and a don’t even think about it
smile on his face. She was slightly tipsy but sincere as she introduced me to her admirers. “So, I’ve only known this kid for a week, but he is a really cool guy.”

  “Ariel, you don’t have to . . . ,” I said.

  “No, no, no, no, no. You’re normal, like we were talking about. The good normal, like under the radar. I’m sick of all these silver-spoon Bush relatives everywhere. This kid and I share . . . humble beginnings.” Her words were sloppy but adamant. “I’ve decided we are going to be friends. And now my friends are your friends. Right, guys?”

  They nodded in grudging agreement. They didn’t really have a choice.

  Ariel grabbed my hand and pulled me down so that her mouth was a tiny beer-breath cloud away from my ear. “My friends are your friends. You need to meet all of them—especially Caitlin.” Her eyes watered, and I couldn’t tell if it was emotion in her face or a clumsy, drunk pout. “We need to talk before you leave tonight, okay? It’s that thing, that project from lunch—our lunch. Just you and me. Just talk with me before you leave. . . .”

  Zeph suddenly put his arm around my shoulder and apologized to Ariel. “Excuse us. Jigar Shah is reportedly smashed out of his mind and singing karaoke Disney songs on the third floor. This is a historic moment, and I cannot let our Cameron miss out.”

  “Have fun tonight, gentlemen,” Katie said from across the room. “I’m heading out. Too old for this.”

  As we scaled another circular staircase upward, she called out, “It’s not historic, by the way. Happens all too often. Tell Jigar I’m requesting ‘Feed the Birds (Tuppence a Bag)’!”

  The third floor was yet another scene change—a dramatically lit, disco ball karaoke stage where Jigar Shah himself was belting “Let It Go” without any need for the scrolling lyrics on the screen in front of him. The song clearly hit an emotional nerve, as his eyes were watering and strings of saliva spanned his warbling open mouth. Half the crowd was booing while the other half sang along (including most of the LAs from our office).