Chapter Twenty-Eight

Jamie:

What dude wears makeup? This one apparently. I coughed and sputtered as one of my dad's secretaries brush powder across my cheeks. Again. This was the third interview I'd had to attend in the two months since December. I never said anything. I was an ornament, there to remind the people that my dad was just like them. He too had been touched by tragedy.

He was using me, using what happened to us, for political gain. It should have bothered me, but all I knew was that he hadn't hit me since it happened. He hadn't yelled or made me feel like I wasn't wanted in his family. In fact, for the first time in my life, it felt like he wanted me. Me. Not Jay. I'd always been the son in the background. The one he didn't want everyone knowing about because I represented what he'd done.

I followed a step behind my father as he walked up to the podium. I blinked as cameras flashed bright and blinding. Reporters spoke one on top of another, but my father's press secretary was able to calm them down enough to get the questions one at a time. My father expertly answered a few before the big one came.

“Congressman Daniels,” the reporter said. “Is it true that you're planning a run for the US Senate?”

I couldn't see his face, but I could picture my dad's smile. The one he saved for the cameras. His back shook as he chuckled in his scripted way.

“Now, Linda. You just had to go and steal my thunder.”

There was a rumble of laughter from the crowd.

“It's true. Today I am announcing a run for the US Senate. But don't you folks worry, my job in the state senate isn't finished, and I will continue to work for all of you during this campaign.”

“One more question.” The press secretary nodded at a man in the back. “Paul.”

“Thank you,” Paul said, rising to his feet. His eyes weren't focused on my father, however, they seared into me. “Your son was part of the missing nine at the tragedy that occurred at Gulf City High, and we are so thankful they were all found. But you have, as of yet, failed to tell us how you plan to combat future events such as this. What will your campaign say about guns in schools?”

I wiped my sweaty palms against my slacks, feeling the weight of my father's impending answer hanging in the room.

My father glanced sideways at his press secretary. He'd just announced his campaign. He couldn't not answer. My heart thundered in my chest as images of that night rolled through my mind. I'd dreamed about it. Thought about it. Lived it every day since.

The heat from the cameras overwhelmed me as we all waited. Someone tapped their foot against the ground, the sound echoing through the room.

Growing up with my dad, I knew how politics worked. This early in his campaign, he couldn't speak to support guns or against them. It was one of the hottest issues in this state. He breathed, preparing to give his scripted answer to any gun question.

Without realizing what I was doing, I stepped forward and leaned toward the microphone.

“Kids died,” I said, clearing my throat. “My friend was shot.” Someone tried to pull me back, but I shook them off. “Do you get that?” They were more forceful this time. I lunged away from them for one more moment. “Don't freaking politicize us.”

A strong arm wrapped around my chest, pulling me back. One of my father's body guards. I didn't fight him this time. I caught one more glimpse of my father at the podium before he turned on his heel without another word and walked backstage, ending the press conference.

“Let me go,” I growled once we were out of sight. He did.

With my father refusing to look at me, I stormed out and got in my car without looking back.

He was right. I screwed everything up. I couldn't help it. And Callie had been right. Simply feeling lucky to be alive wasn't enough to combat the crash of reality.

The clip of me dropping yelling at reporters made the national news. Passionate. Scarred. Misunderstood. Those were a few of the things they called me. It brought my dad the recognition he'd wanted for his campaign, but it was more likely to hurt than to help.

That night, he backhanded me for the first time in months as I sat at the kitchen table with my math book open in front of me. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

Things were back to normal between us.

I went to hide out in my room, powering up my laptop and looking through the list of small colleges the guidance counselor sent me. I didn't know if I'd get in, my GPA as low as it was, but I had to try. If there was one thing I knew, it was that I couldn't stay in Gulf City after high school. I had to get away from here.