The Wrong Side of Right (22 page)

25

Saturday, August 2

Happy Birthday to Me

94
DAYS
UNTIL
TH
E GENERAL ELECTION

It took some coordinating.

First there were the Diazes—explaining my plan to them over the phone with Penny as cheerleader, assuring them over and over that Meg and the senator would keep their confidence, that the Coopers were open-minded people who’d simply never heard a perspective like theirs before.

“And once you’ve met them, if it doesn’t feel right,” I offered, “don’t say anything. We’ll just have a nice lunch.”

That was the strategy Mr. and Mrs. Diaz finally agreed to.

I knew that Meg had made a big point of clearing the day of my birthday since we’d be flying back on a red-eye late that night. The senator had had a brunch with a high-level donor scheduled, but he canceled, telling everyone who would listen that his daughter was turning seventeen, so he’d be doing whatever she wanted. He sounded so eager, like he was relishing the opportunity to sacrifice a few campaign stops to dote on me. It was flattering at first. But after the fourth time he said it—always with plenty of approving ears around to hear—I stopped reading much into it.

Except for one thing. He was up for whatever I wanted to do. He’d said it. And I had witnesses.

After breakfast cupcakes, the Coopers presented me with a pile of gifts—a leather-bound journal from Gabe with a sketch in the front cover as an inscription, a sweet silver necklace with a star pendant from Gracie, and the somewhat mysterious combo of a backpack, Harvard T-shirt, and e-reader from Meg and the senator. Grandma Evelyn had sent her own contribution directly to the hotel—a tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies, with a note instructing me not to let the campaign take them away.

“This came too,” Meg said, handing me a flat, brightly wrapped parcel with frayed edges, as if somebody had already unwrapped and rewrapped it. “In the interest of full disclosure, James took a look to make sure it was safe.”

I turned it over, suddenly wary. The terrifyingly scrawled note said: “
To Quinn, Who Is Now 17. From Your Secret Admirer (in South Carolina).”

“Wow,” I blurted and looked up, giggling, to see everyone staring at me. “It’s . . . yeah. It’s cool, I know who this is. He’s just . . .” I held up the note. “This was a joke.”

The whole time I was opening what turned out to be the new Kudzu Giants album in vinyl, Meg had her eyebrows raised, awaiting further explanation. But the senator swatted at her with a complicit grin.

“Let the girl have some secrets.” He rustled my hair and peered down at the album. “Kudzu Giants, huh? You might have to share that with me.”

“Yeah, right, Dad.” Gracie snorted. “You only listen to old-person music.”

He shrugged, defeated, and Gracie cracked up, sending
Gabe into his own giggle fit. They were still laughing when, after another round of thank-you’s, I led everybody down to the parking level, where James was waiting with the car.

It wasn’t until we’d pulled out of the hotel barricades that the senator asked where we were off to.

“It’s a really good lunch spot. One of my favorites.”

“Mexican food, right?” The senator grinned. “Is it authentic?”

“Extremely
.
”
I trained my eyes at the horizon.
Conveys honesty. Confidence.

In the rearview mirror, I could see James shaking his head at me ever so slightly, but his eyes were bright.

James was the only other person in this car who knew where we were going. I’d had to tell him—he’d asked me for a location so he could secure it in advance along with the other agents assigned to the campaign. When I told him it was a private residence and gave him the suspiciously familiar address, his eyebrows had risen higher and higher, his arms crossing in amused suspicion.

“And . . .” I’d added sheepishly. “You can’t tell the senator. It’s, um . . . it’s a surprise.”

“I thought you were the one who was supposed to be surprised,” he commented dryly. “It’s
your
birthday, isn’t it?”

Still, he’d kept his word. The house was deemed secure, he’d posted extra guards on each street corner to ensure that the press didn’t follow us, and he drove in silence, the only sign of collusion the wink he shot me over his shoulder when we got on the freeway, heading to East LA.

The senator stayed on the phone with Louis the whole ride, going over staffing issues, and Meg was finally reading that
Time
issue with me and the twins on the cover, a faint smile playing on her lips. Gabe watched the sky out the window.

But Gracie knew something was up.

“Where are we going?” She scrunched her nose as we got off the freeway. “Everything’s in
Spanish
.”

The senator peeked out, his brow furrowing, and I shot him a smile. “Like I said—authentic!”

When we reached the house, the Diazes were already arrayed nervously on the front yard, a smaller scale replay of last week’s gathering—minus, thankfully, any banners saying
Welcome Back
,
Happy Birthday
, or anything else. I couldn’t help noticing that the neighbor’s house had a new “Reelect Lawrence” sign beside their mailbox.

The senator got out of the car and stood staring at the Diazes’ house in confusion. I watched his eyes sharpen in one blink as he realized where he’d seen this view before—in news coverage.

I linked my arm through his and held tight so my hand wouldn’t tremble.

“This is my best friend Penny’s house,” I explained. “The Diazes invited us for lunch, and I didn’t want you guys to leave LA without getting to try some of Mr. Diaz’s amazing cooking. Seriously, it’s better than any restaurant.”

Penny called out a greeting from across the yard. Mr. Diaz stood in the driveway, holding little Eva’s hand and waving for both of them. Eva’s hair was neatly braided and tied, but I could see her fighting not to rip it out, squirming in her church dress. Enrico stood in a military stance, his hands behind his back and his posture very straight. Gus, the Diazes’
fat chocolate Lab, was doing a hopping dance from behind a plastic dog-gate in the front doorway. And in front of him, Penny’s mom lingered on the house’s low porch, smoothing her dress with a maniacal grin.

She was terrified. We all were—even the Coopers, by the looks of them.

As Meg stepped out of the car, she turned to shoot me a Significant Look, conveying in one slow blink that she was not born yesterday. I wondered how much she’d sussed out already.

But by the time the twins were scrambling from their seats, the senator had already recovered. He strode confidently forward to greet Mr. Diaz, hand extended and eyes bright as if this were just another campaign stop.

Mr. Diaz shook the senator’s offered one with both of his own. “It is such an honor to meet you, sir.” He looked like he was having a stroke.

“The pleasure’s mine . . .” The senator paused to listen for Mr. Diaz’s name, just as he always did out on the trail.

“Carlos, sir.”

“Please, call me Mark.”

Mr. Diaz turned to his family, who took the cue and hesitantly crossed the lawn. “This is Penny, of course. Penelope Maria when she’s in trouble.”

Meg chuckled and moved to greet the group, giving my arm a sharp pinch as she passed. I hardly felt it. This was happening. And so far, this was working.

“My wife Inez, My son, Enrico, who is home only briefly—he returns to Camp Pendleton on Tuesday.”

The senator turned to shake Enrico’s hand, a question in his eyes.

“Third Battalion First Marines, sir,” Enrico answered, and I could tell by his fidgety hands that he was fighting not to salute.

The senator laid a hand on his shoulder, moved. “Thank you for your service, son.”

Mr. Diaz beamed. “And our little one here is Eva.”

“I’m not
little!
” Penny’s sister tugged angrily on her braid. “I’m
eight
.”

At that, Gracie and Gabe perked up and before I knew it, everyone was moving into the house, leaving Penny and me alone in the yard.

“He does seem nice,” Penny whispered. Then her smile dropped, her eyes clouding. “Are you sure about this, Kate?”

I took her hand and squeezed. “You can trust him.”

Lunch was amazing—and not just the chiles rellenos and chicken mole that Mr. Diaz had labored over for my birthday, knowing how I loved that chocolaty sauce. The conversation flowed so naturally that it felt as if the Coopers and the Diazes were old friends. The senator asked a million questions too, eager to get to know them better.

Penny held her breath next to me. I did the same every time the chitchat went down another level, from what spices Mr. Diaz used (cumin, cilantro), to how he learned to cook (his abuela), to Penny’s own ineptitude in the kitchen, as discovered when we were “lab” partners in sixth-grade home ec and she accidentally set a roll of paper towels on fire.

From chatting about school, we got onto the subject of
jobs, and although Penny and I tensed in anticipation, the topic ended up being innocent enough. Mrs. Diaz cleaned houses and made some extra money tutoring high schoolers in Spanish. Mr. Diaz was a housepainter by trade and landscape painter by vocation. He’d sold a few pieces in a gallery up in Ojai and he was a regular in the local art fair circuit.

As he described his art, I remembered something from the last time I’d been inside this house, the day after Mom’s funeral. Mr. Diaz had propped a half-finished oil painting on an easel by the window, where the golden afternoon light streamed through. The painting depicted a long, empty road. I remembered now the sensation of being pulled into it, of longing to run down that road, hoping for something I couldn’t name at the end of it.

“Do you paint local scenes?” Meg was asking.

“I do,” Mr. Diaz answered. “And also places that I remember, like the village in Mexico where I grew up.”

We were swiftly approaching the point of no return. For one painful moment, I wished I could rewind time, take back the phone conversation I’d had with Mr. and Mrs. Diaz, urging them to share their story. This lunch was going so well. Everyone seemed to genuinely like one another. My mom had been friendly with the Diazes, but not close. What if a real rapport blossomed here?

But I knew I was being silly. They very literally came from two different places. And in any case, time raced on. I held on to the wooden seat of my chair.

The senator rested his elbows on the table, his hands clasped as he listened. “How long have you been in the US?”

He looked intrigued, not appalled. That had to be a good thing.

Penny linked her ankle with mine under the table. Outside, I could hear Eva and Gracie shouting, Gus barking, and Gabe laughing in response.

“Twenty-five years,” Mrs. Diaz answered proudly. “In December it will be twenty-six.”

“And what brought you here?” The senator asked it lightly, suspecting nothing.

Mr. Diaz couldn’t hold his smile anymore. He stared down at his fork, as if examining a speck of food on it. He wanted to tell. I could see it. But it was no small thing to confess.

Enrico turned to me and I gave the world’s smallest nod.

“Go on, Papi,” he said.

I reached my hand flat across the table toward Mrs. Diaz. “You can trust them.”

My eyes found Meg’s, and finally the senator’s, watching as the realization slowly unfurled. There was confusion. And then came clear, heavy shock. You could see it, flooding their expressions. But to my immense relief, neither of them wavered in politeness. Not for one instant.

“Please,” the senator said. “This is your home. Whatever you share with us stays here.”

The Diazes exhaled as one.

“My village was very poor,” Mr. Diaz started, and Penny sat back, her eyes half closed as if this were a familiar bedtime story. “There was no work unless you worked for men . . .” He shook his head. “Dangerous men. Men I grew up fearing. And without work, there was no food. Sometimes we did not eat
for a day. Or longer. It is something that’s hard to explain here, where everything is right at your fingertips.”

Mrs. Diaz put her hand over her husband’s and picked up the story, her eyes dreamy with recollection.