The Perfect Candidate Page 6

  “We’re both early!”

  I turned to see that Lena and I had walked into the same cramped corridor of books. Books about sex positions.

  “I think this is a sign,” said Lena.

  “Yes, all of these guidebooks will come in handy tonight,” I replied in an ironic creeper voice that came off as a legit creeper voice.

  “Pervert.”

  “Wait up, you can’t call me a pervert when you start off saying that it’s a sign, and then—”

  “Enough about books,” she interrupted. “It’s time for pie.” As she walked to the restaurant part of the store, she looked back at me. “By the way, nice to see you, Cameron.”

  “Nice to see you, Lena.”

  She wore a long blue dress made out of T-shirt fabric, cinched at the waist with a wide brown belt. Plus some scuffed-up Vans that look like they were white four summers ago. Earlier this week, she’d looked cute. But tonight, somehow this simple getup made her look beautiful. We sat down, ordered (apple crumble for me, vegan pecan for her, $17.50 total—sheesh, we’re not at Marie Callender’s anymore), and promptly had nothing to talk about. We made eye contact and simultaneously raised our eyebrows like you do when you have run out of things to talk about at the end of a date. Except this was the beginning of a date.

  “So. Your dad’s diplomat nerd friends . . . ,” I said, as she asked at the same time, “How was the second week of work?”

  “You first,” we both said to each other.

  I obliged. “It was exactly what I was expecting, which is weird,” I said. “It felt like a normal week, but it shouldn’t have been normal. I mean, Ariel died, and then everyone’s all ‘business as usual.’ ”

  “Yeah, that is horrible. Any word from the memorial service?”

  “It’s happening right now,” I replied. “Whole office headed down there, except for the interns.”

  I told her about Nadia’s harsh warning and Zeph’s OCD system for folding letters. I told her about Marcus the Cheetos hoarder and my heroic educational research. About when I delivered a folder of select constituent mail to BIB so he could read them—a single act that instantly made me feel cooler than my entire high school graduating class.

  “So basically, I’m going to be running the country by the end of the summer,” I said. “And by the way, Congressman Beck is awesome. We grew up in the same hometown, and he always likes to talk about it with me. He’s going to be the next Speaker of the House, and he treats me like I’ve been around for years.”

  “Impressive, but you know that’s what politicians do—right?” She laughed as the waiter promptly served up two heaping plates of pie, into which we both promptly dug. It was my preferred ratio of crumble to apple, which is precisely three to two.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You know how everyone who met Bill Clinton said that it was like they were the only people in the world in that moment? That guy seduced . . . okay, maybe ‘seduced’ isn’t the best word choice . . . he mesmerized everyone, from granny voters to heads of state. But spoiler alert: They weren’t the only people in the world. He was just the only one who could make them feel that way.”

  “So you’re saying I’m not special,” I concluded.

  “No, Cameron, I think you’re special,” she said. “But not because a career politician makes you have a crush on him.” She smiled as she lightly bit her fork and chewed on a mouthful of chocolaty pecans. “Anyway . . . you can’t find this at a stupid intern reception.”

  “Well, I’m still gonna believe that Beck and I have something special.” I laughed, but I was partly serious. “And now it’s your turn.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “My dad and the diplomats. Well, I guess if we are going to be friends this summer, I should be up front with you. I am the daughter of the president of Mexico, and I have escaped my bodyguards to be with you tonight, but we can only stay together until they find me.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Actually, that is the plot of some Disney Channel movie I watched as a kid.” She laughed, her slight Spanish accent creeping into her speech.

  “I think I saw that movie too. Didn’t Miley Cyrus play the part of you in this scenario?”

  “No way, gross,” she quickly dismissed. “So actually, my dad is the Mexican ambassador to the US. . . .”

  Okay, finally some truth here.

  “. . . and I’ve been living in DC since junior high. And I like it a lot more than Mexico City. And sometimes I feel guilty about that. Hi, my name is Marielena, and I’m an expat.”

  “Wow, so did you go to high school with the president’s son?” I asked.

  “Yes, I had the pleasure of knowing Timothy and his various body odors in sophomore year chemistry at the Sidwell Friends School. Goooo Quakers!” she added with a sarcastic fist in the air.

  “Yeah, he looks like he would stink.” I tried to relate. Somehow.

  She continued, “But honestly, the best part about high school is that it’s over. And I can’t decide who is more obnoxious: the kids here in DC who tag along at state dinners by night and smoke pot by day, or my friends back in Mexico who fly in their parents’ G650s to Miami for weekend shopping trips and drive Hummers to school.”

  “The plight of the privileged,” I commented.

  “And my dad thinks it’s better for public impressions that I go to university in Mexico, but I secretly applied to Princeton and he is not happy that I’m going there. So I’m trying to spend this summer as far away from him and the Beltway brats as I can. Which is why I spend my time hiding at the Press Club and Kramerbooks. And you’re my accomplice.”

  “Well, I’ve never been to a state dinner nor flown to Miami, so you’re in luck,” I offered.

  Seriously—being high at a state dinner and weekend shopping trips to Miami? She wasn’t just out of my league. She ran her own league. She was the president of a league far, far away.

  “Aaaand I’ve officially overshared, so now you get to tell me too much. But first, you’re not eating the raisins,” she observed. I wasn’t. Because raisins are disgusting. “And you’re out of ice cream already. Proper ice cream management is key when one eats pie, you know?”

  “Very observant,” I said.

  “Anyway, okay, back to you. Tell me about yourself. What’s your family like? What does your dad do?”

  I coughed on a bite of pie as I realized my dad’s occupation didn’t exactly compete with “ambassador.”

  “He’s the CEO of a landscaping corporation,” I said, teeth clenched with technical honesty.

  “Wow, that’s cool,” said Lena. She was clearly just trying to make conversation, but I was trying to make an impression.

  “Yeah, he runs the thing,” I added. “Like a hundred people work for him, I guess?” I squinted my eyes and looked up as if I were counting his extensive payroll. All I could see in my mind were him and Rogelito in sweat-stained T-shirts.

  “What’s Lagrima like?” she asked.

  I hesitated, then asked the question that would explain it all: “Have you heard of cow tipping?”

  She cocked her head with a concerned look. “You mean, like, cows?” Her arms gestured wide as to indicate an ambiguously large thing. Somehow, in the privileged circles of the Mexican and political elite, this concept had eluded her.

  “On my way over here, I saw a Facebook photo of some guys from my high school. They had pushed over a cow on its side.”

  “Like, to the ground? That’s awful!” exclaimed Lena.

  “That’s Lagrima. You see, all throughout high school, everyone talked about going cow tipping, but I don’t think anyone actually did it. It was like an urban legend. Or a suburban legend, whatever. Not physically possible. So I guess these guys decided to actually make it happen last night. Twelve of them cornered some poor cow and pushed it over. And then took pictures with it.”

  “These guys are your . . . friends?” she asked. Her forehead crinkled slightly and h
er eyes grew bigger, intrigued. Confused cute.

  “Well, we were pretty tight in elementary school. But paths seem to diverge halfway through the seventh grade, you know? That’s when everyone puts you in your place and doesn’t let you out until high school’s over. Or actually, in Lagrima, they don’t let you out until you get out of town,” I said.

  “Is that what you’re doing here in DC?” she asked. “Finding your new ‘place’?”

  The answer was “yes,” but it somehow felt traitorous to say it out loud—to my city, my family. I guess she had experience trying to shed some adolescent skin. She could relate, a little. But would she think I was disrespectful—or worse, pathetic, a poser?

  Apparently, it took a little too long for me to answer, because she said, “I’m sorry. I’m asking too much. I guess it’s not fair of me to avoid your questions and then go full-on therapist with you.” She looked down and cut the remains of her pie into neat cubes. A thick strand of hair fell down her right shoulder. She quickly tucked it behind her ear. And shot a quick smile at me. Even though I’d only known her for a week, Lena was easy to talk to. And even though she flew on private jets and went to school with the president’s son, she felt more like home than anyone I’d met in DC. Since Ariel.

  “No, no, you’re not asking too many questions,” I said. “You’re just . . .” Beautiful, I thought. “. . . really good at asking them. I guess I am realizing that I don’t want to grow old in the place where I grew up. My high school graduation was a few weeks ago, and it already feels like it was a year ago. Other than my buddy Berto, I haven’t talked with any of those classmates since. And I’m okay with the distance. And the not cow tipping.”

  “I am too,” Lena’s eyebrows raised.

  The server dropped the little black check envelope at our table. I quickly pulled out the only twenty from my wallet and placed it inside like it was nothing. Except it was approximately three to four lunches I would have to scrounge for somehow. She was worth it.

  “You don’t have to pay, Cameron!” she exclaimed. “Coming here was my idea.”

  “I guess manners are one of the good things about growing up in a small town like Lagrima,” I answered and handed the check back to the server.

  As we finished our pie, Lena told me more about the magical bookstore restaurant we were in. Like how it was open twenty-four hours on Fridays and Saturdays. And how in 1998, they refused to comply with a subpoena to disclose the purchase records of a frequent customer, one Monica Lewinsky. And they won.

  “This is like if a bookstore was Kurt Cobain, but also Stephen Colbert. With baked goods.”

  “Exactly,” Lena confirmed.

  Two tables away, I noticed a lady scanning her phone and saying to her friend, “That poor girl . . . and her mom. I love her mom.” I instinctively knew they were reading about Ariel, and I told Lena we should see if there was any more news about the memorial. We both whipped out our phones.

  REPRESENTATIVE BECK CONSOLES FORMER STAFFER’S FAMILY, said one headline.

  Lena pulled up a picture of the funeral—a stoic Nani Lancaster flanked by her husband on one side and BIB on the other.

  We each searched for more info.

  “Some local newspaper has posted a photo gallery,” said Lena. She showed me a picture of a jam-packed high school gymnasium, with Ariel’s picture projected onto a large screen in the middle of the basketball court.

  I skimmed an article: “ ‘Lancaster’s office has released a statement—she hopes Ariel’s passing can be a warning to all Americans, about the dangers of drunk driving, and the need to hold our loved ones close because—’ ”

  “Wait,” Lena put down the phone. She covered her mouth with one hand and shook the other hand like it had just touched something unbearably hot. “No way.”

  She refreshed her phone again.

  “What?!” she said again, as if something she’d hoped would disappear had come back, even stronger.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  Lena pushed her phone across the table to me. I turned it around so I could read the words.

  Words that screamed off the small, gently glowing screen.

  DEAD STAFFER AND REP BECK—SEX ON CAPITOL HILL.

  8

  BIB’s alleged indiscretions with his now-dead staffer were suddenly the only thing people talked about. Including us.

  And it’s a shame, because the whole Kramerbooks are we flirting or not? thing with Lena was actually kind of great. We got on the metro, taking the red line to the blue line. Throughout the trip, we heard fragments of Very Opinionated people’s conversations:

  “Someone that high up . . . Can’t these guys keep it in their pants?!”

  “Wouldn’t be summer without a sex scandal . . . but she’s dead now too!”

  The conversation with Lena became more serious as we thought about the increasingly complicated dynamic at my office. Despite the tantalizing subject matter, news of a possible sex scandal had sure killed the mood.

  “A little weird, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” I replied.

  “This girl dies, and within a week, the press is jumping all over allegations of an affair she had,” she said.

  “. . . it’s worse now that she died in that accident . . . ,” some lady loud-talked from a few rows behind us.

  “And he works with that girl’s mom on the Hill! How awkward . . . ,” said the woman next to her.

  “Like she died because . . .” I realized my own voice was louder than normal too, to compensate for the shrieking steel of the metro. I spoke more quietly, in case anyone else was listening to me. “Like she died because they were . . . doing it? She was having an affair with BIB. That’s crazy.”

  Lena’s station was next: Farragut West, just one stop before Foggy Bottom. As the train vroomed to a halt, she stood up and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. But see, you’re doing it too. Talking about an affair. Not her death anymore. An affair. Everyone on this train is, apparently. And in this town, what everyone is talking about is usually not an accident.”

  Eight years in DC had either made her really cynical or really smart.

  Suddenly less pensive, she said a quick, “Had fun tonight. Thank you, Cameron,” as the hydraulic train doors hissed open.

  “Me too,” I said, walking toward her to give her a hug. She stepped off the train before she saw my outreached arms. By the time she turned around to wave good-bye, I tightly folded my arms around myself, as if my standing self-hug were totally intentional. As the train jolted to life, I resisted the urge to see if anyone noticed the unreturned embrace. Less awkward for all of us if I didn’t make eye contact.

  I walked in our apartment door to hear a salacious salutation from Hillary: “It says she was sleeping with a whole fraternity at American University!” She and Zeph were in full-on news junkie mode—news blaring, laptops glowing, and phones jumping from headline to headline. “I can kind of see that.”

  “Nice, Hill,” said Zeph. “Hi, Cam. You can see we have officially moved on from the bereaved-ex-colleagues phase.”

  “No, I’m serious. It sounds like Ariel was quite, um, prolific,” reported Hillary.

  “According to some desperate blogger who just wants to grab the attention for a few minutes,” clarified Zeph. “Can we please just listen to some truth from my man Anderson Cooper?”

  “I’m sure he’d LIKE to be your man,” said Hillary, straining for a laugh.

  Neither Zeph nor Anderson seemed to care about Hillary’s unfortunate nonjoke as Mr. Cooper’s nasal voice droned on the TV: “. . . detailed in pages from Ms. Lancaster’s diary, which has been obtained by the website DistrictDaily—who first broke the story earlier this evening. No word yet from Congressman Beck, who was attending the former staffer’s funeral—and sitting next to the girl’s mother, Congresswoman Nani Lancaster—when the news hit. . . .”

  “Awkward . . .” was Hillary’s astute observation
.

  “You always know how to say the right thing, Hillary Wallace,” said Zeph.

  I continued to third-wheel my way through the weekend as the news cycle cranked out more sources and rumors and questions—and Zeph and Hillary provided their own commentary.

  We were all speechless, though, when BIB himself appeared on The Week with Sterling Steele, a Sunday morning news show whose anchor was three decades too old for the job but did have a spectacular name. BIB and his wife sat before the octogenarian host, who asked about their relationship with Ariel Lancaster. It was a familiar sight—the accused politician, the supportive and modestly dressed spouse, and the barely contained glee of a reporter who had them cornered.

  “Ms. Lancaster was a hard worker, but more important, a daughter and a friend to many. She joined thousands of her peers in wanting to make our country a better place by working on Capitol Hill. And I join those fellow staffers, as well as Congresswoman Lancaster and her husband, Jim, in mourning her life cut short, but also in honoring her.”

  Katherine Beck resolutely nodded along with every sentence.

  “And by having sex with her?” strained Steele.

  Mrs. Beck’s head nodding lingered for a fraction of a second after the bold question was asked.

  “Did anyone else see that?” I asked.

  “That man is senile—how did Nadia let BIB get in that chair?” yelled Zeph, not noticing what I had noticed.

  Hillary screamed with horror and voyeuristic delight.

  “Sterling,” BIB said, his voice suddenly peppered with resentment, “if you are going to speak plainly, then so will I. These stories about a relationship between Ms. Lancaster and I are totally inappropriate and totally false. And in the wake of Ms. Lancaster’s accident last week, we should be better than to entertain such garbage. You should be better than such garbage.”