“It’s good to tap into the economy issue,” Mason says. “From working in Silicon Valley, I can tell you that California needs to do whatever’s possible to keep the tech industry based here. It’s the fastest growing industry in the state and not going away.”
“What about immigration?” Royce asks.
I’m sure that’s a big question on Royce’s mind, especially since Jas isn’t a full citizen yet. The de los Santos family managed to get lucky and secure temporary green cards, but they’re still not guaranteed citizenship.
“Immigrants are obviously a major part of our state’s economic and cultural fabric,” Dad says. “We need common sense reform in that area too. We need to reward those who contribute their hardworking values to our state. Let’s help them to get on their feet so all of us can work together for a better California.”
Dad’s already completely in campaign mode. His speech sounds like a well-oiled machine. It’s not that I disagree with most of his politics. It’s that I don’t think I have the energy to get up in front of strangers and pretend to be a person I’m not.
“Only bridge building through back doors for now,” Dad drones on. “Setting up how we’re going to steamroll this thing. When we do win the election, we’re moving to Sacramento. With you boys out of the house, it makes sense to downsize. If I win, then Liv will already be well into college by the time my first term is up.”
Mason nods, his arms folded. “Sounds good,” he says. “Anything you need.”
Royce shrugs and nods. I can tell he really doesn’t care right now, though he supports Dad. It doesn’t matter as much to them. They’re adults.
I’m the hostage. Dad doesn’t lose elections. He’s great at campaigning. Unfortunately. Not even the thought of living in the governor’s mansion for the last half of my senior year makes me happy about the campaign.
“I don’t know about you all, but I love the state capitol,” Mom says, like she’s a real estate agent trying to sell us an ugly house. “I love the architecture, the neighborhood, the people. There’s a lot for me to do. A great private school for your senior year, Liv. We could even move up early, depending on how polls are looking.”
That’s the last thing I want to hear. Mason and Royce aren’t too concerned because they’re already out of the house and have their own lives. They’re both living in the Bay Area—Royce is going to graduate and will probably have a grown-up job by that point, while Mason’s working for a Silicon Valley venture capital firm as a junior associate. But uprooting me isn’t fair. I won’t know anyone in Sacramento.
“I don’t see why you’re doing it,” I say. “You’re supposed to move up from Congress to the presidency, not down to governor.” It’s the opposite of what I really think—I’d hate to be in the kind of media cross fire of a presidential election—but I thought Dad would feel defensive about going back to state politics after having been in Washington for so long. It is an unusual political move. “I’m not just trying to be a jerk. You already know all the journalists and talk show hosts are going to ask that question.”
“Oh, Liv—” Dad sighs “—don’t belittle a governorship.” I can tell he’s about to launch into a history lesson, upset that I challenged him. “The state of California is one of the greatest in the union. Its economy is the largest in the entire country. Besides, many governors have not only run for president but have become president.” He starts counting on his fingers. “Thomas Jefferson, James Monroe. Both Roosevelts. Clinton and Bush. And let’s not forget Ronald Reagan was governor of California.”
“Like what, a hundred years ago?” I say. “He adopted some of the worst mental health policies in generations. And pretended AIDS didn’t exist until way too late.”
“Liv,” Mom says, warning me, but I can’t help myself.
“Don’t even get me started on Nancy and how she was using an astrologer to help influence her decisions,” I add to my argument.
I may not like politics, but I know a lot of history. When you’re the daughter of a politician, you have to stick some things in your back pocket to rile up your parents.
Mason snickers. Royce looks like he’s on another planet. He’s probably still thinking about Jasmine. Dad just crosses his arms, waiting for me to finish.
“I could deal with living in DC,” I say, shaking my head. At least Washington is more metropolitan than Sacramento. “It’s close to New York.”
“I really do think you should consider other places to go to college,” Dad says. “Just to keep an open mind. What about Georgetown, my alma mater? Those were some of the best years of my life. Or your mother’s? Smith is a wonderful school.”
Mom sits up straight. “All kinds of women from across the political spectrum got their start there,” she adds to the pep talk. “Barbara Bush. Gloria Steinem. Sylvia Plath. Yolanda King. That’s Martin Luther King’s daughter.”
“I appreciate the advice, but I’m not like the rest of you. I don’t need to go to a traditional college to do what I want. I know I want to make art my career.”
“That’s a tough career path,” Dad says. “Almost nobody makes it. What will you have to fall back on?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say.
“Exactly,” Dad says, thinking he’s won this argument.
This is exactly why I hope to talk to LeFeber. How did he answer these questions? His career didn’t take off until he was middle-aged. Did people tell him they never thought he was going to make it? How was he able to believe in his dream for that long?
“Sorry, Mom,” I say, changing the subject back to the election. “Sacramento might be a cool town and awesome if you’re working your way up through the state assembly, but how much better is it for the family to keep its LA image? You really want to lose that in gloomy, rainy NorCal?” I turn back to Dad. “You might think you’re ahead in the polls now, but we won’t be a cool LA family anymore. We’ll have a dusty image. Good old boys and that kind of thing. You’re making a huge political mistake.”
I’m trying my best, but the truth is I am so done with this meeting. But I know I can’t get up and leave. Dad’s going to say his piece. Maybe Mom too. Royce and Mason probably won’t talk. They’ll be mentioned in the news some and get trotted out for big nights—major campaign highlights—but they’ll be able to be more detached.
Daughters of politicians always get more media attention than their sons. People love to gossip about the girls—Malia and Sasha Obama, Christina and Katherine Schwarzenegger, Georgina Bloomberg. Anything one of us does while our parents are in office—and sometimes even for the rest of our lives—will be up for major media and public scrutiny.
“That’s a good argument,” Dad says. “I hear you. I recognize how these decisions might be hard for you, but Mom and I already made our decision. And I want to make this very clear. I don’t want any of you to do something that puts you in the news other than for campaign coverage. That especially means you, Liv. You’re still a minor.”
I can see it now. My junior year is going to become all about the campaign. Fund-raisers at the house. Appearances at events. Interviews on news channels. Looking put together all the time. Staying out of trouble. A well-timed father-daughter lunch at a public place. Spending summer canvassing for him. Watching the polls. Making calls.
The election will happen at the beginning of senior year. If he wins, I would have to move to Sacramento by January, effectively cutting off the rest of my time at Eastlake to do anything that’s not related to the gubernatorial race.
“Clearly you don’t think I’m part of this family,” I say, feeling the anger bubble up my throat. “Otherwise you would have asked me what I thought about your decision to run before you made it. Don’t let me get in your way.”
“Olivia.” Dad says my name like he can’t believe what I just said, like I should just agree with everything that comes out of his mo
uth. “That’s completely out of line.”
“Both of you need to calm down,” Mom says, standing up from the couch. “Come to the kitchen with me, Liv. I need your help finishing up dinner.”
The last thing I want to do is talk things out with Mom, but I don’t have any choice. It’s either that, or being stuck here alone with the campaign dream team.
As I follow Mom out of the living room into the kitchen, I hear Mason suck up to Dad. “I can’t take a lot of time off from work, but I can definitely help out with donors.”
“At least someone in this family actually wants to help,” Dad grumbles. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Liv. Has she always been this way?”
“Something has to be going on,” Royce says. “Probably something at school.”
It would be nice for them to actually talk with me about my feelings instead of talking about me like I can’t hear them. Is that too much to ask?
Mom puts me straight to work once we’re in the kitchen. She asks me to wash a bowl full of baby spinach, then start cutting the carrots and radishes for the side salad.
I take the knife from the knife block and begin slicing the radishes. I fantasize about slipping as I cut one of them and plunging the knife through my finger just to get out of this miserable dinner.
“I know you’re feeling frustrated,” Mom says, pulling the beef Wellington out of the oven. The smell of the steak’s juices with the pastry puff is starting to make me sick to my stomach.
“It’s not my fault Dad doesn’t listen,” I say.
Mom sighs. “It’s not always not your fault either. You have to learn how to meet him halfway. He’s trying to set an example for you.”
“You mean by being gone for most of my childhood? Or for dragging me to a completely new city for my senior year of high school? What an example...”
Mom stops paying attention to the food and looks at me. I’m starting to get on her nerves. “I understand why you’re upset, but you’re making this into too big of a deal. We aren’t expecting you to do that much related to the campaign. Just a little more than you have in the past. We need you to be aware of how what you do affects our family.”
“I’ve always been aware of that,” I say, setting down the knife. “Can I go to my room?”
Maybe I’m overreacting, but my emotions feel out of control. I can’t tell whether that’s from the bingeing and purging or from all the pent-up anger I can’t let go of, or what’s going on. It’s all swirling around my head and I just want to go to sleep.
“No.” Mom shakes her head. “Stay. We’re finally all together.”
“Suit yourself,” I say, dumping the radishes and carrots into the salad.
I know my broken relationship with Dad is partially my fault. I haven’t been the best daughter. I want to live up to my family’s expectations, but at the same time I don’t want the same things that they want for me. It’s an impossible situation.
Mom calls Dad and the boys into the dining room as I finish setting the table. Mason and Royce do their best to chat with Mom as if my blowup from before never happened, but Dad and I don’t make eye contact. I know I should apologize for how I reacted, but my feelings are the same. I just want a chance at a normal teenage life.
“This is amazing,” Mason says, devouring a massive bite of the beef Wellington. “I can’t remember the last time I ate something cooked at home.”
“You don’t cook for yourself?” Mom asks.
Mason shakes his head. “Too busy at work.”
“Like you know how to cook anyway,” Royce says.
“Better than you,” Mason shoots back.
“What are you focusing on at work, honey?” Mom asks, delicately wiping her face with a napkin. “You said something about doing research on a new start-up?”
“My firm is thinking about funding a company that’s building technology to scan a bunch of different sources for information about potential job candidates. Social media. The internet. Different universities and companies. The idea is that eventually, in certain industries, businesses will stop wasting time with wasteful recruitment costs and general advertising of jobs and be able to go straight to the source—the top candidates.”
I take a look down at my plate. I’ve separated each type of food so nothing is touching. I don’t want the beef Wellington to contaminate my salad. My stomach is grumbling, but I’m too emotional to eat. I can’t let my body win.
“That’s interesting and all, mister big Silicon Valley hotshot,” Royce says, “but let’s get back to the real conversation. I bet you don’t know how to cook pancit.”
I push a tiny white potato back and forth across my plate, concentrating on its path from meat to salad back to the other potatoes. It’s taking all the energy I have to sit here. My shoulders ache from tension. I really would rather be alone.
“I see,” Mason says, cutting another piece of beef. “Jasmine must have made you a regular Filipino chef.”
“I guess so...” Royce trails off.
“You should cook that for us sometime,” Mom says, turning on the cheer, happy her two golden boys are finally home. “How’s the job search coming? I’d love to know...”
“Stop!” Dad shouts all of a sudden. He slams a fist down on the table, which startles everyone. Mom’s eyes widen with surprise, but she doesn’t say anything. “You’re nearly seventeen years old. I shouldn’t have to tell you to stop playing with your food.”
Everyone goes silent. I look down at my lap, feeling tears welling up in my eyes. There’s nothing I can say that will make him happy. I’ll never be the perfect daughter. I’ll never live up to their expectations. Why should I even try?
“Why don’t you eat? Your mother went to the trouble of making this incredible meal and you can’t even pretend to care,” he says.
Mom turns to him. “It’s really all right...”
Dad sets his fork down. “It’s not all right, Debra. She’s been completely ungrateful. After all we do for her—give her a beautiful home, send her to a world-class school, provide her with anything she could possibly need—and all she does is sit there and pretend that none of us are here? I won’t stand for it.” He turns his attention to me. “Eat.”
“I’ve lost my appetite,” I say, pushing my chair back. I can barely look at Mom because of the tears welling up in my eyes. “May I be excused now?”
She barely has time to nod before I’m out of my chair, dumping my uneaten food into the trash can. I practically run up the stairs to my room.
I go to my bathroom and open the medicine cabinet, finding my package of straight razors. The blades are clean and sharp and I want so badly to slice open my skin. To feel anything other than what I’m feeling right now.
I’m about to take one of the blades out of the package when I hear my bedroom door click open. Stuffing the blades into my pocket, I shut and lock the bathroom door.
“Thanks for the privacy,” I say, sitting on the toilet.
“I know you’re upset with us,” Mom says through the door, “but your father and I really did think about you when we were discussing whether to campaign or not. Trust me.”
I flush the toilet and wash my hands. “Why do you want to move to Sacramento?” I ask, opening the door. I’m starting to feel guilty for ruining her dinner. I really have been awful to them. My diet makes me so irritable, but when I eat, that hateful voice in my head gets louder and louder. “It sounds like retirement,” I say.
“Your father still has a lot of work he wants to accomplish, and both of us are getting older. We’re tired of flying back and forth across the country.”
When Dad was first elected to Congress, Mom argued for us to stay in LA. She wanted to keep working as a lawyer for a while and didn’t want to uproot all three of us kids. That means I pretty much see Dad only on the weekends and during his recess per
iods, but he’s always working or meeting with someone even when he’s home.
“I wish you’d thought of that before my junior year...”
“It’s not the ideal time. I know. There might be a way for you to graduate early.” Mom moves out of the doorway. “But I don’t know where you’re going to be next year—you could end up at Stanford like Royce... I’d really like to be in the same state as my children. You know how much I love you.”
I start to feel a pounding at the front of my forehead. Graduating early? I can barely handle all the classes I’m taking right now. “Can we not start this right now?” I walk by her and sit down on my bed. “I love you too, Mom. But you know I’m different from Royce and Mason. I don’t need to go where they went. I don’t...fit in. I’ve been trying to find my own way...but... I don’t know. I have a headache.”
“We all love you. I don’t know why you don’t think you fit in. Each one of us is different. You can have your own dreams and still be a part of the family, Liv. We want you to be happy. Come back down. Eat some dinner. You’ll feel better.”
Do they think this campaign is going to make me happy? Why can’t Dad find a job in the private sector or something? Hasn’t he been a politician for long enough?
“I’ll eat later. I need to be alone right now.”
I keep thinking that, no matter how much I try to fight Dad about this campaign, I’m still going to have make all these appearances with him and pretend to be his perfect, perpetually perky daughter. Everything about me—from the monochromatic suits and American-flag pins to the smile plastered across my face—will be phony.
“I want to talk to you about something else,” she says, sitting next to me. “Just us girls.”
“What’s there to talk about?” I ask.
I really wish she would leave. Every minute she spends up here talking to me is another minute Dad will be fuming about my being selfish and keeping her from dinner.