

Campaign Promises

a novella

by

Laurel Osterkamp

Published by PMI Books at Smashwords

Copyright © 2011 by Laurel Osterkamp

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Discover other titles by Laurel Osterkamp at

http://www.laurelosterkamp.com

Table of Contents

1. The Prom and John Bayard Anderson

2. The Wedding and Gary Hart

3. The Funeral and Paul Wellstone

4. The Baby Shower and Pat Schroeder

5. The High School Reunion and Michele Bachman

Praise for Starring in the Movie of My Life

Preview of Starring in the Movie of My Life

About the Author

# 1. The Prom and John Bayard Anderson

### 1989

If you were going to compare my high school experience to any political candidate in recent years, it would be to John Bayard Anderson. He was invisible, forgettable, awkward, and too honest for his own good.

He just wasn't able to fit in.

Flash back to nine years ago: The presidential campaign was between Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan. We all know how it turned out. But what a lot of people don't know, or perhaps they've forgotten, is there was a third party candidate: John Bayard Anderson.

For little more than a moment's time he was in the national spotlight. He's now merely a blip on the radar screen of history. They say we study history so we can learn from it, so we won't make the same mistakes twice. But if you ask me, history is a circle, not a line. We start at one spot, and it may feel like we're going forward, but really we're just going around and around.

Maybe this view of mine will change. Maybe I'm too young to have any sort of perspective. I'm only eighteen, after all. The 1980 election was half my life ago, but my life hasn't been going on super long yet, so perhaps I just haven't figured out what all the possibilities are. God, I hope that's what it is.

It's Monday morning, and I'm walking from first period to second. Mary talks loudly while swatting at her shellacked bangs. "I can't believe he dumped me for Amanda! It's so humiliating! And after I bought the dress, and booked the limo, what am I going to do?

She's talking about prom, of course. That's all she or anyone has talked about for the past month. Sometimes I wonder how the idea of "prom" was ever invented. My guess is some evil loner longed to punish teenagers for being too self-involved and superficial and devised an event that will lure us into destroying ourselves through these very flaws. I mean, come on. Nobody ever actually has fun at prom. Having fun at prom is a myth that's been sold to us through John Hughes movies. So we just waste a massive amount of money, time, and emotional energy on the whole idea. But what do I know?

I'm not going to prom.

"Do you think I should go stag?" Mary asks this as if it's a hypothetical question, but I know it's not. She's waiting for a response.

"Well..." I say, drawing out the _ell_ part, "it's been done before. And you might have a better time just hanging out with your friends."

It's hard for me to give her advice since I don't have a date, or a boyfriend, or even an ex-boyfriend. In fact, I'm sort of jealous of Mary and her problems. At least she knows she exists. Sometimes I don't feel like I do; I'm like a non-entity, especially to the opposite sex. I'm less than a non-entity. I'm like the toenail on a little toe, just cuticle, there's nothing there to paint or file, just tissue that is slightly more than skin.

I guess you could say I'm a late bloomer. I'm shy, scrawny, and at five foot one, I'm easy to miss. Who would want to go to prom with me?

"Who am I going to go with?" Mary demands, completely ignoring my nugget of advice. That _I_ don't have a date is not worth even mentioning.

"I don't have a problem asking someone else," she says. "I just need to know who to ask. You have to help me come up with ideas."

What I have to do is get to class. It's hard, when clumps of students walk slowly or simply stop in the middle of the hallway, causing human traffic jams. Walking the halls of school has become too familiar. I notice the open lockers as students retrieve what they need for their next class. The same pictures are stuck inside the same doors, mainstream girls with cutouts of Bon Jovi and the "rebels" with their REM posters. No matter what their social status, almost everyone has snapshots taken from school events or parties where people look like they're having an impossibly good time. Once they close their lockers, the same people travel together, walking to class in packs. Out of default Mary has chosen me to walk with me to World History, probably because she knows I'll listen to whatever she has to say.

"Well, anyway, they deserve each other. You know what I heard? That Amanda spent $100 on lingerie! She is going to surprise him on prom night in their hotel room, which if you ask me, is just so wrong. And they haven't even been dating for a week, so they're both sluts."

"At least it happened now. There is still time for you to find another date." I say this for two reasons. One, I have no idea what else to say. Two, if there is still time for her to find a second date, there has to be time for me to find a first.

"Right!" her screech is at once sarcastic and shrill. "Like there is anyone good left! Only losers don't have dates at this point."

"Thanks..." I murmur. I could say more, but she hears me and actually absorbs the comment.

"Sorry," she says, but somehow implies I am the one at fault. "I didn't mean you."

We finally make it to class and she sits down at a desk in the back row. Her assigned seat. Mary hates assigned seats, but I love them. It takes care of the politics; it is one less decision to make. Not that I am so pathetic that I worry about who I am going to sit by. It's just nice that it's a non-issue.

My seat is on the far side of the room, third seat back. In the second seat sits Jack, a thin boy with curly blond hair that needs to be cut. In the first seat sits Kari, who is a senior, like me. Jack is merely a junior, but you wouldn't know it, given how confident he is. Every day he spends the majority of class leaning forward, talking to Kari. Kari looks like one of those girls on _Baywatch_ , and she has a boyfriend in college.

The bell rings and Mr. Howard takes attendance. I notice before he does that Kari is not here today. Soon he begins his lecture on Iran and the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini (because we're up to present times). I try to focus. My theory is the best way to make it through high school is to work at anything and everything until something actually pans out.

Other than me, Jack is one of the only students actually taking notes. Ever since May hit, I've noticed how most of my classmates are even less motivated than before. Seriously, they ought to end the school year in March.

After the lecture is over Mr. Howard gives us our assignment. There are fifteen minutes left in class to do the reading and answer the questions in the back of chapter twelve. I hear Mary close her book, put it in her backpack, and commence talking with Rachel, the girl who sits next to her.

She's practically yelling "One hundred dollars on lingerie! Like she even has the body for it! What a waste!"

I flip the pages through my history book. I try to stay interested, but it's all so distant from who I am. Do they even have prom in Iran? If not, maybe I'll move there.

Mary continues on. "Does Amanda think she's going to lose her virginity on prom night? God, barf me out! Besides, Kyle doesn't even _like_ virgins."

Then, from in front of me, a whisper: "Shut the fuck up."

Jack turns around. His eyes meet mine, and he smiles.

"Sorry," he says. "I know she's your friend."

I shrug my shoulders and smile. "I don't think she's actually my friend. She's just someone I walk to class with."

"Oh, that's good."

"It is?"

He smiles again. "Sure. I was worried before."

"Huh?"

"You know, that stuff about judging a man by the company he keeps?"

I feel my cheeks grow warm. He thinks about me enough to be worried? And he judges me for hanging with Mary? I don't know whether to be angry or flattered.

I settle for slightly sarcastic. "Right. Except I'm not a man. And this is high school. People can't be held accountable for their actions. It's like a time of war."

"High school is a war?" Jack smiles again and cocks his head in question.

I hate conversations with boys. I never know what to say. I don't speak boy-language.

That's because I don't speak the language of sex. Girls like Mary don't know any more about speaking to boys than I do. But they know how to speak sex. The great divider in high school is between those who know how to speak sex, and those who do not.

Jack's still looking at me. It's my turn to speak. Luckily I come up with something to say.

"Pain, suffering, loss of free will. Of course high school is a war. Thank God I'm being liberated soon."

He turns almost completely around in his seat and leans forward. "That's right. You're a senior. Only a few more weeks and you're out of here."

My response is a sigh of satisfaction.

"Hey," he says. "Who are you going to prom with?"

Damn.

I twist one my curls that escaped from my tightly bound ponytail. My hair will go crazy if I let it. "I'm not," I say. "I don't have a date."

I remind myself of a loser when I say this. Like the time in 7th grade when I got mixed up during spirit week. I thought Tacky Tuesday was on Monday, but it was actually Get Up and Go Day. Honestly, how could anyone make that mistake? Well I did, and I wore my pleated plaid skirt paired with my mom's neon floral polyester blouse from the seventies, while everyone else was wearing their cute pajamas. Five years later and the image of it is still a tattoo in my mind, not unlike the memory of walking in on my grandparents having sex.

"No kidding!" says Jack. "So you don't have a boyfriend?"

"Look!" This comes out more tersely than I mean it to. "It's not a big deal."

"No, of course it isn't. I didn't mean it was."

The bell rings. I gather my books and get up to go. He touches my elbow lightly, and an electric wave flows through my body. I try not to let on that anything unusual is happening inside of me, and I listen to what he has to say.

"Don't be mad. I was just asking cuz it seems like it's all that everyone is talking about. Sometimes I just run out of smart things to say."

I relax, and a laugh escapes from my lips. "I'm not mad. I'm just tired of everyone talking about prom. Especially since I don't want to go." There, I lied. But not going out of choice seems so much better than just not going. Period.

We walk out together. "Yeah," he says. "I can see your point. It's a lot of fuss over something pretty cheesy."

"What are you guys talking about?" We are back out in the hall, and Mary has caught up with us. Jack turns to her.

"Prom. We were just talking about how we're not going." He touches me again, this time on the shoulder. "Stay cool, Lucy." Then he walks away. I didn't even know he knew my name.

All that week Kari is not in class; I hear she's in the hospital. That's the rumor anyway. Am I a terrible person for being happy about it? Jack turns around every day to talk to me, and prom is the only thing we _don't_ talk about

Tuesday

Jack: "What's your favorite cafeteria lunch?"

Me: "The chicken fingers, definitely."

Jack: "Okay, but why?"

Me: "Easy. Chicken fingers are inherently impossible to perfect, yet also so hard to ruin, that all chicken fingers have become interchangeable. The ones from the cafeteria may as well be from a gourmet restaurant; they're all the same."

Jack: "Good point, but I like the lil' poppers. Their name alone makes them great. Plus, they're lunch and they're a mystery. I still can't figure out what's in them."

Wednesday

Me: "Have you ever wondered if Mr. Howard is secretly a robot? I don't think I've ever seen him eat, drink, or use the bathroom."

Jack: "I've heard there's some oath that adults have to take before they become teachers, where they promise to quit having bodily functions. Otherwise students would be too disgusted."

Thursday

Jack: "Do you have a sister or a brother?"

Me: "No. I'm an only child. What about you?"

Jack: "You're kidding, right?"

Me: "No. Why?'

Jack: "You haven't heard about Monty?" (Monty graduated last year. I didn't know he and Jack were related. Monty was homecoming royalty, student council president, a soccer star, and had a 4.0. Jack hates him because they're related. "Otherwise we'd be friends," he says.)

Friday

Jack: "What are you doing this weekend?"

Me: "Not much."

Jack: "Yeah, me neither."

Then there's a long pause. Am I supposed to say something? I thought guys did the asking out. I look down at my notebook. The bell rings, and he gets up and walks toward the door without me. I seriously don't understand guys.

****

On Monday Mary catches up with me on the way to class. She grabs my arm in a fit of urgency and pulls me away from the swarm of people in the hallway. Her bright pink nails dig into my arm like Joan Crawford's would in that "Mommy Dearest" movie.

"I wanted you to hear it from me first. _Please_ don't be mad."

"What?" I respond, not at all prepared for what I am about to hear.

"Jack and I were both at Stuart Franklin's party this weekend, you know, the one I told you to go to? Anyway, we both got kinda drunk, and we made out in the guest room."

My stomach takes a nosedive, but I refuse to let my face betray my emotions. Besides, there's more.

Mary continues. "But I was like, really wasted. And I sorta ended up puking on him."

Most of the time I would find that funny. But I can't laugh, so I fake a smile.

"The next day I called Jack to apologize, because I felt really, really bad. And to make it up to him, I offered to take him to prom. Please don't be mad."

I am screaming on the inside, angry at Jack for being such a hypocrite, angry at Mary for being so predictable, angry at myself for not having seen this coming.

"Why would I be mad?" I reply. "He's just some guy I sit next to in history."

I walk away, towards class. Mary follows. Thankfully for once she is silent.

****

For some reason political campaigns have always fascinated me. I think it's because the competition is at once personal and universal. We compare and contrast the strengths and weaknesses of two or more men, we analyze their accomplishments and their missteps, and everything they've ever said or done will be put under the microscope. Then we're supposed to determine which one we want.

But what most people want and what I want don't seem to match up. Take John Anderson. Nobody would have thought he'd have a chance at the presidency. Then came his money shot: during a Republican primary debate, he and the other candidates were asked to name a political decision they regretted.

Everyone evaded the question except Anderson. He said he wished he'd never voted to amend the Gulf of Tonkin resolution, which is what gave President Johnson the ability to send more and more troops to Vietnam.

People loved his answer, and his poll numbers skyrocketed. So he began his campaign against Reagan and Carter as an independent candidate, and everything was great except he was stiff, he wore these ugly thick-rimmed glasses, and he proposed a fifty cents per gallon gasoline tax to aide our economy and decrease our dependence on foreign oil.

Yeah, major oops.

Did I mention that John B. Anderson was an advocate for the environment before anyone started worrying about rain forest depletion? He also spoke out in favor of preventative measures towards oil spills. Nobody listened, now nine years later we're cleaning up after the Exxon Valdez.

Who cares if he was right? Who cares if he had substance? He wasn't pretty to look at, and he didn't tell voters what they wanted to hear. I'll bet he wasn't popular in high school either.

In other words, doing the right thing doesn't matter, and people don't appreciate foresight. John B. Anderson was never the type to get drunk and make out with guys he didn't even know or like, only to puke on them and ask them to prom. But then, John B. Anderson will never be elected president.

When I arrive to class the first thing I notice is that Kari is back, and she's turned towards Jack, recounting her hospital adventure.

"Yeah, nowadays they hardly ever take out tonsils, but I guess that mine were so infected that they had to. You would not believe how much my throat hurt. And I haven't had a cigarette for over a week."

I sit down behind Jack, cursing the fact that we have assigned seats. Mr. Howard begins his lecture, and today my note taking looks like a bunch of angry squiggles. I'm pressing my pencil so hard against the page that the lead breaks. I search awkwardly in my bag for a new writing utensil, but of course I don't have one, and I'd rather die than call attention to myself by sharpening my pencil. So I sit there, doing nothing.

Jack spends all of class talking to Kari. When the bell rings we all get up to go, but Jack stands in front of me, blocking my exit.

"Hey," he says. "Did you have a nice weekend?"

"I heard you did," I reply.

"Oh." his face turns bright red. "Yeah, so I guess I'm going to prom."

"Have fun," I say, and shove my way past him.

Prom comes and goes, and I am glad when it's over. I hear that Jack spent the whole evening going after Kari (who was there with her college boyfriend), and that Mary got drunk and made a fool of herself over Kyle. So I didn't miss much.

It's now a week before school gets out. We're sitting in history class, and Jack is listening to something Kari is saying. Suddenly he turns around in his seat, away from Kari, towards me. He looks pale.

"Hey, guess what? I was out with my parents last week at this fancy restaurant, for my dad's birthday. Anyway, they had chicken fingers for eight dollars! I thought, no way! How can they be worth that much? Because I remembered what you said, I ordered them. And they were really good! _Much_ better than the cafeteria's. So, uh, I was thinking I could take you there, my treat, and prove your theory wrong."

It's the first time he has said anything to me since that awful Monday morning. I take a second before responding, but I ask the question to which I must know the answer.

"Is that the only reason you want to take me out? To prove me wrong?"

For whatever reason, he seems to find what I said amusing. Some of the color enters back into his cheeks, and he re-adopts his usual confident manner.

"It's not the only reason." He clears his throat. "But keep in mind, we're all at war. I can't be held accountable for my actions."

I consider this. "I don't know," I say. "I'm not so sure high school is a war after all. I think it might be more like a campaign. You have to be willing to work the system a little if you want to get ahead, and integrity is going to hurt you more than it will help."

He just sits there, and looks at me like he really sees who I am. I can't remember being looked at like this before.

"Well, you could be right." He straightens himself up and sits with perfect posture. "But sometimes things work out the way they're supposed to. And other times... I don't know. It's not always easy to have the right perspective on something that is still happening, you know?"

I feel myself wanting to forgive him. After all, at least he's trying. Still..."So I shouldn't judge you for making out with someone you can't stand?"

He shakes his head. "No. You should definitely judge me. I judge me. But..." he lowers his voice and leans in towards me. "I'd never kissed anyone before. She was all over me, and I just wanted to get my first kiss out of the way, you know?"

"Hmm," I say. I understand completely, but I don't say so. My only kiss happened a year ago, at my friend Karen's birthday party. She had invited some guys she knew from her karate class, and we played Fifteen Minutes of Paradise. I went into the closet with this pimply faced kid named Patrick. The kiss lasted about fourteen minutes too long, but I was relieved afterwards to have my first kissing experience out of the way.

I'm surprised though, that Jack has never been kissed before. He talks to girls all the time. I guess they all put him in the "friend" category. I arch an eyebrow at him, because I can see he's waiting for more of a response.

"You didn't have to agree to go to prom with her."

"I know. It's just..." He squirms a little, hesitates, but continues on. "You said you didn't want to go. I wanted to ask you, and it was this elephant in the room. In a crazy sort of way, I kinda thought it would be better if the subject was just off the table completely."

I hang my head to hide my hurt feelings. "I've been pretty busy lately."

"Lucy..." he reaches out and grabs my arm. "Please? Give me one more chance."

I agree to go.

# 2. The Wedding and Gary Hart

### 1995

It seems like most politicians have a problem with monogamy. I wonder if it goes with the territory of being a man who craves power, or if it just goes with the territory of being a man. I contemplate this as I drive into the parking lot of the wedding chapel. It doesn't matter how many times the institution of marriage is tarnished by public figures and the national media, people still believe in it.

Our current president is a perfect example. Bill cheated on Hillary, yet both his marriage and his career survived. That's not always the case. In 1987 Gary Hart made history by raising peoples' hopes, taunting the press, and sleeping with a woman who wasn't his wife. Rarely do people ascend to such great heights only to cut of their own wings. But Gary Hart did, and the world will remember him for it.

I get out of my car and walk towards the chapel. It's a beautiful September day, the sun is shining, and love is in the air. I spot him first; he's standing outside, greeting guests, looking way in over his head. I stand still for a moment, wondering if he'll sense me watching him.

He does.

"You look great!" Jack's face morphs into a huge grin as he comes bounding towards me. He stops just short of stepping on my toe; there's maybe half an inch between us, except for the vast difference in our heights. He crouches down and kisses me on the cheek. "I was worried you wouldn't make it."

"I could never miss your wedding." I mean this completely. Sure, Jack and I dated at the end of high school and during the summer before I left for college. But that was so long ago. Once I started at the University of Minnesota we kept in touch, but a long distance relationship was never in the cards for us. Instead, we slipped into an easy friendship. No muss, no fuss, no drama.

His arms fly out in a gesture of surrender, and I marvel at how skinny he is. No freshman fifteen for Jack: no sophomore, junior, or senior weight either. His wedding-day tux engulfs him. He looks young, like a boy playing dress-up. Handsome, but so innocent. "I can't believe you're getting married!" I tell him.

"Neither can I," he says. "I keep expecting to wake up from a dream or something. But no...it's like I'm set for life now."

I peer into his eyes, trying to detect a trace of cynicism, but I don't see one.

"Being set for life is good," I tell him as I squeeze his hand.

He squeezes back. "Sort of like an endless membership to beer of the month club."

"True, but you'll be drinking the same beer for the rest of your life." Jack gives me a questioning look. "A really, really great beer, of course," I qualify.

He shrugs his shoulders. "And I'll never have to make another run to the liquor store."

"Yeah, but you were never a big drinker anyway." I cringe. That came out wrong. I am happy for him, I am. It's just...God. I don't know. If he's already getting married, and he was my younger-than-me first boyfriend, then what does that say about my life?

He looks at his watch, deflecting the moment of awkwardness between us. "Hey, speaking of alcohol, I'd better go. I'm supposed to do shots with Monty before the ceremony."

"Why? Don't you want to be sober for the most important moment of your life?"

He laughs. "I'm so nervous, Lucy! I think it's better if I'm a little drunk." He draws me into a hug and I can smell his aftershave. It smells sort of like Pine Sol, only nicer. "Don't tell Petra, okay?"

"My lips are sealed."

We exchange grins one more time, and Jack heads off to find his brother. I enter the chapel to find a seat. Of course, I'm the only one sitting alone. Always dateless it seems, at least when it comes to Jack.

He's actually one of the few high school friends with whom I've kept in touch. College was a different story. I majored in political science, and volunteered for Senator Wellstone's campaign, then the Clinton campaign. Meeting people and making friends with other people my age who cared about more than next week's keg party made everything fall into place. I was no longer tongue-tied, hesitant Lucy. I was Lucy on a mission, passionate and idealistic. Guys dug it.

Well, a few did anyway. I dated around a little, nothing serious, but enough to get my feet wet. Now I live in Minneapolis and work for the Neighborhood Revitalization Program; mostly I organize youth programs and events. College-graduate Lucy is confident and successful, but put her back in her hometown of Applewood, Iowa, and she's the same shy girl who left six years ago. Okay, the wedding is actually in Fort Peter, Petra's hometown, but I think something about the air in Iowa itself just sucks away at my confidence.

I sit, wishing I had someone to talk to. Then, like a gift from God, I hear my brand new cell phone ring. Heads turn towards me in annoyance, even though the ceremony has yet to start and technically I'm not interrupting anything. I quickly fish my phone from my purse and answer it.

"Hello?" I say in a hushed voice.

My best friend Sharon answers me back. "Are you at the wedding yet?"

"I just got here. I'm waiting for the ceremony to start."

"So you're still sober."

Geez. Does everyone have a preoccupation with alcohol today? "I'm afraid so," I tell her.

"That's too bad," says Sharon. "I think you should get plastered as soon as possible."

"That would be pretty irresponsible, don't you think?"

Sharon grunts out a laugh. "Come on, Lucy. Lighten up. You're alone at you're first love's wedding. You _deserve_ to go a little crazy. Forget responsible – you owe it to yourself to hook up with someone hot, and you owe it to me to remember all the details so you can tell me about it later."

The blue-haired lady in front of me is giving me the evil eye. Clearly she doesn't approve of cell phones. I slink down in my seat.

"Sharon, I'll try my best. But I should go."

"Fine. But have fun! If I find out you wasted the evening by being a wallflower, you'll have me to answer to."

We exchange goodbyes and I shut my phone with a smile. I don't know if Jack actually qualifies as my "first love." He was my first legitimate kiss. At the time I had practically nobody else to compare him to, but even still I suspected he wasn't that great of a kisser. I was right. After kissing a handful of guys in college I realized he was sort of slobbery and inept at using his tongue. It's probably unfair of me to judge him so harshly though; we were both inexperienced.

Really, I'm very lucky my relationship with Jack worked out so well. It's so easy to make mistakes when it comes to romance.

Take Gary Hart. His goal of course was to be president. And for a while, it looked like he had a real shot at it. He was from Colorado, but he acted like he was from New England, and every now and then when he was speaking in front of a crowd he pretended to straighten out his back. These mannerisms achieved their desired effect, and everyone started to believe he was the next JFK.

There were other reasons for the comparison. He was bright, charismatic, young, and handsome. He was a democrat and stood for a lot of the same ideals that Kennedy stood for, and it seems he was also an enemy to the mob.

His downfall? He was also unable to keep it in his pants.

The ceremony starts, and I watch a goofy-grinned Jack look at Petra with adoration in his eyes. They promise to love each other forever. Best-man/big brother Monty stands by Jack's side, and although he is shorter than Jack, I could swear he's looking down on him.

After the ceremony I drive a mile up the street to the reception at Oak Hill Country Club. I decide to take Sharon's advice, so when I walk in my first order of business is to find the bar. Gin-n-tonic in hand, I brace myself to mingle with people I don't know, and perhaps a few familiar faces from high school. I could never think of anything to say to them four years ago, but hopefully it will be easier now.

I'm standing on the precipice of the crowd, trying to decide where the best diving in point is, when I hear a voice from behind me.

"Still shy, Lucy?"

I turn around and see Monty. He's holding a beer in one hand and his cell phone in the other, and he looks like he'd rather be getting a root canal than standing here, talking to me.

"Hi, Monty. How are you?"

He speaks a little too loudly. "Me? Oh, I'm great. Couldn't be better. You?"

I take a sip of my drink. "I'm fine."

He slaps me on the back, causing a little of my drink to splash onto my hand. "Glad to hear it. Have fun!" Then he walks away.

Nice.

I take a breath and walk towards some people I think I know.

Two gin-n-tonics and several "Oh my God how are you? What have you been up to's" later, I sit down for dinner with several other stray friends of Jacks. Thank goodness our name cards are sitting out, because I don't know if we'd remember what to call each other otherwise. The meal goes by in an awkward blur, but when Jack gets up to make his toast the evening suddenly becomes more vivid.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," he says. "Friends, family, people I only sort of know... I appreciate seeing you all." He looks at me when he says that last part, and we share a smile. He clears his throat. "Four years ago I was a geeky kid with no direction and very little confidence. Then I met Petra." He looks down at her, sitting at their wedding table like a princess, and he touches her shoulder. She beams back up at him. "For some reason she saw something worthwhile in me..." He chokes up. "Look at how beautiful she is. She could have had anyone, and she chose me." The crowd murmurs and ahhs over his sentimentality. "So thank you, Petra, for loving me, and thanks to you all for bearing witness to it. Cuz honestly, I have trouble believing it myself." He raises his glass in a toast. "Petra, I will always, always love you. Here's to love." Everyone drinks, and then they ding on their glasses. Jack and Petra take the cue and lean in for a kiss.

Suddenly the alcohol and emotion gurgle inside my gut, and I feel an urgent need for air. I walk as steadily as I can toward the front door, then exit outside into the warm and humid September evening. I just hope nobody notices my absence and takes it the wrong way.

It's not that I still have feelings for Jack; it's that I have feelings for nobody, and nobody has feelings for me. I'm drifting in a sea of apathy. But I know how this looks, standing outside and alone at my first boyfriend's wedding, gulping down sentiment like a soccer player would Gatorade.

And I also know how irretrievable being caught in the act can be.

Back in 1987, before Bill Clinton was on the scene, the press wasn't really in the habit of investigating the personal lives of politicians. Hart changed all that when he made his fatal mistake of daring the press to follow him. "You won't find anything," he taunted.

So when the _Miami Herald_ caught Gary Hart having an affair with this model named Donna Rice, they took Gary Hart to town. Headlines exposing the affair were in every newspaper in the country.

Some people said, "Who cares? A man's ability to stay faithful to his wife doesn't reflect upon his ability to lead a country."

Others said, "This scandal shows poor character and judgment. Let's go with Michael Dukakis instead."

And then were those who uttered, 'It's all a scam! That reporter from Miami was told by the CIA to investigate Hart. Hart knew that the CIA was aligned with the mob, and they both wanted to destroy his candidacy."

In the end none of it mattered. Nobody believed Hart could win, whether they wanted him to or not. The robotic Michael Dukakis got the nomination, and he of course lost to George Bush. The Gary Hart scandal forever changed how the press would treat political candidates, especially since Hart blamed the press for his problems. But years later, when Bill Clinton was caught having an affair with Gennifer Flowers, Clinton knew enough to be reticent. He took responsibility for his actions, and his and Hillary's appearance on _60 Minutes_ saved his campaign.

Lesson learned: people will forgive you for just about anything if you're willing to own up to your mistakes, but it's better not to make a mistake in the first place. Especially when it comes to love.

I'm focusing on taking even, steady breaths when I hear someone talking. I squint into the distance, and realize that it's Monty on his cell phone. I look away and try not to listen, but his voice is getting louder and he is getting closer.

"You know I feel the same way," he says. "But it's not that simple."

I turn my head down and study the pavement beneath my feet. Should I go back in? Surely he's noticed me standing here by now, so if I go back in that would be awkward too, right?

His voice becomes more demanding. "Come on! I never said that. You're rewriting history."

He's now standing directly across from me, his tie askew and his eyes focused on my face. It's like he's talking to me, but he's not. And I'm a deer caught in the headlights...this is definitely getting weird.

"Look, if you're going to be that way, I can't change you and I refuse to beg." He stops talking, and listens to whatever the person on the other end is saying. Whatever it is, I can tell it's not good.

"Okay." He speaks in an angry little burst. "I've got to go. Jack's old high school girlfriend is standing here, and she's totally listening in on our conversation."

"Huh?" I utter in shock and irritation. "You came up to me."

"Good bye." He snaps his phone shut, then, ironically, he looks away now that he's actually speaking to me. "I wasn't serious about you listening in. I just said that to get off the phone."

"Oh."

Neither of us moves or says anything for a moment, but the humid September air presses down on us like a soggy dishtowel.

"Gotta love cell phones, huh?"

He doesn't answer. I continue speaking. "I just got my first one a couple weeks ago. It made me feel real important. But I don't know if I'll use it enough to justify the expense. Maybe I'll get rid of it... I don't know."

He cocks his head to the side, a gesture to confirm his understanding. While I'm relatively sure that my statement was pretty normal, I doubt that my delivery was. I think I sounded pretty squeaky.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Fine," I say. "Just had one drink too many."

"How many drinks did you have?"

"Two."

He laughs.

"I'm sort of a lightweight," I tell him.

"Not hard to be a lightweight when you weigh 90 pounds."

I notice his eyes travel the length of my body, up and down, at lightening speed, and they land back in the safe spot of returning my gaze. He smiles, causing little laugh lines to form around his eyes and mouth. Charming... something inside me twinges. "I weigh more than 90 pounds," I say.

"Okay." He sighs, and leans back against the wall of the country club, making a wide-angled L-shape with his body. He taps his fingers against the wall. "Can you believe Jack just got married?"

"Well, since I witnessed it with my own two eyes I guess I'll have to believe it."

"You mean you didn't keep one eye closed?"

"No, I'm not like you."

He chuckles. "Huh? Is that supposed to be an insult?"

My head is still spinning a little, so even though it means standing closer to him, I lean against the brick wall myself, letting it support my weight.

"No. I don't mean it like that. You just didn't look too happy during the ceremony."

"I wasn't," he says. "My little brother just married the only girl he's ever had sex with. She'll own him for the rest of his life. It won't be an equal partnership."

I contemplate his statement. God, I wish I was clever. I should have a zippy one line response to this, but nothing comes to mind. "So, you think because he hasn't had sex with anyone else..."

He interrupts me. "I **know** he's never had sex with anyone else."

I turn my head and see him staring down at me with this lecherous sort of grin. "The only other girl he ever dated is you."

I bite my lip and consider my next words carefully. I've had maybe two or three actual conversations with Monty, and they were all several years ago. But I do know a few things about him, either based off observation or from what Jack told me:

1. Monty is a genius. He went to Northwestern and finished in three years. Then he scored near perfect scores on his LSATs, and he went to NYU law school and finished fifth in his class.

2. Monty is pretty popular. In high school he was one of those guys who was elected homecoming king and student class president because he talked to everyone and was funny. He always seemed to have girls following him, but I'm not sure if any of them were actually his girlfriend.

3. Monty is liberal and idealistic. He now works for the ACLU in New York.

4. Monty's good looking, but in an unpredictable way. He's shorter than Jack and darker. But he has huge green eyes and a swoon-worthy smile. He wears his confidence like an old leather jacket - a lucky find from a thrift store that's actually worth a ton. This gives him a magnetism that's hard to dismiss.

5. You would think a smart, charming, successful and handsome guy like Monty would be evil underneath, or have some latent insecurity or bad boy tendency. But as far as I can tell, he's just a normal guy who Jack can't help but compare himself to and compete with. It is possible I'm seeing Monty through Jack's eyes. Jack seems to at once elevate and envy Monty, so I don't know what I'd think if I knew him as something other than Jack's older brother.

However, the world thought Gary Hart, who was also smart, liberal, idealistic, and good looking was the complete package. It was the "lots of girlfriends" thing that was his Achilles heel. Well that, and the fact that he not only lied but thought he was above the truth.

I decide to ignore Monty's not-so-subtle insinuation that he has intimate knowledge of what I did, or did not do, with Jack. Instead I ask, "So you think it's like, a requirement to have had sex with someone else before you get married?"

"Yes."

"Just for guys, or for girls too?"

Monty looks up towards the sky in thought. "Definitely for both," he says definitively, as he looks back down towards me. "This is the nineties. People live longer and the sexual revolution has come and gone. You need to experience life before you commit to spending seventy or more years with the same person."

"And true love...?"

He turns his body towards me. "Do you really believe there is such a thing?"

Suddenly it hits me. I look around, past him, but I know I won't see what I'm looking for. "Hey, where's your date?"

Underneath his tan, his cheeks turn a little pink. "I don't have one."

The alcohol gives me courage to say this with confidence. "You're going through a bad breakup."

His mouth curves into a cynical half smirk. "Good deduction, Lucy."

"Every now and then I get something right."

He exhales and his body slumps a little in defeat. "Have you ever been through one?"

"A bad breakup? No. All of my breakups have been pretty low-key. Fade-aways, I guess you'd call them. Nothing was ever really broken; they just sort of slipped out of existence."

"So you've never been in love?"

I feel my defenses go up. "I guess not."

He places his wide, warm hand on my shoulder in a dry clasp. "Trust me," he says. "Another thing everyone should experience before they get married is having their balls ripped out, twisted, knotted up, and thrown away. It will give you perspective."

I escape from his grasp and give him a playful punch in the arm. "Yeah...but I don't have balls, so it will be hard for me to take your advice."

He moves in closer, and fingers a strand of my hair, which is currently chin length and allowed to hang free. I spend a lot of time in the morning combing and spraying it into submission, so my "Rachel" cut won't turn into an afro-like helmet by mid-afternoon.

"Right," he says. "How could I forget? You're definitely a girl. And you grew up real nice, too."

Then his hand moves down my neck and lands on the small of my back. The only thing separating his flesh from mine is the silk of my floral print baby-doll dress. Maybe I should have chosen something more sophisticated?

Wait...why am I thinking about wardrobe choices? Monty is using his rather well-developed bicep to pull me close, and before I can resist or even comprehend what's happening, his mouth is on mine. He wraps both of his arms around me, and gently pulls me to him, so our bodies are pressed together. Without consciously deciding to, I'm kissing him back. I don't know if I can blame the gin, the day, or Sharon's advice, but there's one thing I do know:

Monty is a much better kisser than Jack ever was.

Jack. Oh geez, what am I doing?

I push away and Monty lets go of me.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Monty shakes his head, like he's been in a trance, and he has suddenly come to. "Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, it's just..."

"No, no. It's not okay. I don't make a habit of kissing girls I barely in know in parking lots, especially not on my brother's wedding day. I'm just having a tough time. This breakup I'm going through, and Jack got married, and then here you are, and I have to say, you look really good. But still, any ounce of common sense or judgment I've ever had must have gone on strike."

I give him a friendly pat. "Like the unions you no doubt represent?"

He crinkles his eyes and beams at me in this way he has to know is endearing. "Exactly. Let's blame that kiss on the ACLU."

"Now you sound like a Republican."

"Perish the thought, right?"

I laugh, relieved we can now talk about a safe subject like politics. "Exactly. I've never understood people who change their political affiliations. It's like changing gender, or something." My voice begins to bubble in speed and intensity, but rather than slow down I bounce a little to emphasize my point. "I mean, I know people do change genders occasionally, but that's because they were born with the feeling that nature made some horrible mistake – it's not some willy-nilly decision. But how can you just change your mind about fundamental issues, boom, just like that, unless it's for political gain?"

He bites his lip and squints at me, and his brows knit together like he's taking what I just said super seriously.

"Sometimes the political party changes. Ever think of that?" he asks me softly.

"Actually," I say, "There's been quite a bit of evolution as far as that goes. I mean, the Republican Party started for real with Abraham Lincoln, you know? Now if you consider..."

He cuts me off with a laugh. "Jack told me. You not only majored in political science, but you've read just about every book on American politics that you can get your hands on."

"So?"

"So, no offense, but I'm not quite up for a history lesson right now."

"Sorry." I start towards the door.

"No, wait. I didn't mean... I just feel like an idiot, kissing you like that, out of nowhere."

I sigh heavily. "Seriously. Don't worry about it. I enjoyed it."

"Really?" He moves back closer to me. "Well, in that case..."

I step back.

" _I'm_ sorry," I say. "I can't. Not with Jack's brother."

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "You're taking the 'Jack's brother' position? Come on; with that, you don't have a leg to stand on."

My mouth drops open in exasperation. "Yes, I do. People don't hook up with siblings of ex's. It's just wrong."

He shakes his head. "But Jack just got married. All bets are off."

"He'd be upset if he knew."

He spreads out his arms in a lawyerly gesture. "Then we won't tell him."

I give him a silent, incredulous look as a reprimand, and I say, "Because you're above the truth, right?" Again I start to walk towards the door. I need to get out of this heat, back to the safety of the wedding hall. Monty jumps to catch up, and steps in front of me to block my way.

"Lucy, hold on," he says. "I'm not a total dick. It's just so perfect, don't you see?"

"What's so perfect?"

"This...today. Lately I've felt too much, and you haven't felt enough."

"I never said I haven't felt enough."

"At twenty-four you've never had your heart broken? You haven't felt enough."

I regard him. Maybe I've been wrong and he does have some latent bad-boy tendency that is just itching to get out. "So you want to hook up with me so you can break my heart? Or is it because you think you can spend the night with me without actually feeling anything?" I ask these questions in a huff, then punctuate them with, "Either way, no thanks."

I'm walking away but he leaps in front of me again and this time his arms and legs flail a little in the process. If I wasn't trying so hard to be indignant I'd laugh. "That's not what I mean," he insists. "It just feels like good timing, for both of us. Think of all we have in common. I'm not even talking about hooking up. Let's just...I don't know. We could make out a little, talk politics, and celebrate love."

I relax my stance a little, and I can't help grinning as I respond. "That has to be the cheesiest pick up line I've ever heard."

"Cheesy, yet effective, right?"

I say nothing. He extends his arm in my direction. "At least come inside and dance with me."

My hand takes on a mind of its own as it rises to meet Monty's. He leads me back into the reception hall, where they just happen to be playing Kiss From a Rose. He takes me into his arms and we dance. I don't see Jack anywhere.

Monty's face is close to mine, and he leans his head in to whisper in my ear. "John Anderson," he says.

What? Did I hear him right, or am I'm imagining things? Before I can ask, he continues.

"He switched parties. Started out as a Republican, but switched to Independent so he could run against Reagan. Yet he still had integrity."

I pull away. Is this all a big joke to him? "Okay, Monty. What's your point?"

"My point is simple," he says, as our bodies sway to the music. "There are always exceptions to any rule."

Either Monty can read my mind and he knew exactly what to say to persuade me, or he just happened to say the right thing at the right time. Either way, I start to consider the idea that at least for tonight, we are perfect for each other. I tighten my arms around his neck, and we continue our dance.

Perhaps some things need to be private. At what point do people have a right to know the intimate details of someone else's life? I'm sure Gary Hart could give me his opinion, but since he's not here, I can't ask him. The music continues to play, and Monty's arms encircle me like I'm valuable enough to be kept both close and safe. My thoughts start to slip away, leaving room for feeling instead.

I have to admit... Sometimes it's good to be bad.

# 3. The Funeral and Paul Wellstone

### 2002

" _The future will not belong to those who sit on the sidelines. The future will not belong to the cynics. The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams."_ Paul Wellstone said that more than once; it was a frequently used quote of his, meant to inspire the masses.

It always inspired me. I thought it was words to live by, and I honestly tried. But lately all I've done is cynically sit on the sidelines, without a dream to believe in at all. I suppose that means the future doesn't belong to me, which isn't really a surprise. Does anyone own the future? Paul Wellstone certainly doesn't—not anymore, anyway.

I pinch my temples as I look out at the window at the grey day. Drew comes up from behind me, places his hands on my shoulders and kisses my temple.

Man, I have a headache.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," I say. "I'm not the one to be worried about."

"Well I don't know Jack or Monty, so it's hard for me to be worried about them. That leaves you."

"You have to be worried about somebody?"

"Forget it," he says, and with a gentle little squeeze of my arm he walks off towards the refreshment table.

I watch him go.

The last time he and I attended a funeral was only a few weeks ago. But it doesn't really count, because we were among thousands of mourners. When you're a public figure like Paul Wellstone, your funeral becomes quite the event.

Say what you want about Wellstone, but he stuck to his ideals. He had ideals, period. Lately I've been feeling ideal-less, like I lost them somewhere along the road or accidentally donated them to the Salvation Army, mixed in with a bag of old tablecloths and sweatshirts I no longer use.

This is a problem, yes, but I was immediately given perspective when late one December evening my phone rang. It was Jack.

"My father had a heart attack," he said simply.

"Is he okay?" I asked.

"He's dead." Then he made this weird laughing/crying noise, like he couldn't decide which sound he wanted to make, so he made them both at once and the result was sort of primitive.

"I'll be there tomorrow," I told him.

Mourning is not something I've been taught much about. My parents are still alive and well, thank the Lord. I did attend my grandfather's funeral when I was eight, but I don't remember much about it. So, silly as it sounds, save for losing pets or the friend of a friend, mourning Wellstone's death is about the depth of my experience.

He was the first candidate I ever voted for, and his was the first campaign I ever worked on. He was my hero who I believed to be above other, more superficial elected officials.

He was his own brand. You wouldn't immediately think "politician" when you looked at him. He wasn't good looking or slick, and he didn't dress well. He was shorter than most of the men he served with in the United States Senate, but he was never, ever diminutive.

He won his first run for the Senate in an upset. His opponent Rudy Bochwitz outspent him seven to one, and Rudy used dirty campaign tactics to boot. But Wellstone was fiery, and his humor and charisma inspired young and minority voters to campaign for him, young voters like me. He won the election, proving that people, not money, are the true deciders.

Of course, when Jack called I pushed aside my generic grief for his oh-so-personal loss. Drew was lying by my side during our phone conversation, and when I told him I was driving home for a funeral, he insisted on coming with. Back when we first started dating, Drew and I gave each other our entire dating histories, so he knows all about both Monty and Jack. I can't help but wonder if he's here more to keep an eye on me than to lend his support.

Drew and I have been a couple for the last year and a half. My friend Sharon set us up because we have similar interests. On our first date we attended benefit concert honoring the victims of 9/11. We were standing towards the front, and people started to shove. "Watch it," Drew shouted to the guys in front of me, and then he served as my bodyguard for the duration of the evening by keeping his arms loosely around me. After the concert, while our ears were still ringing, he joked, "On our next date it will be your turn to protect me."

Two days later he called.

"Have you ever been apple picking?" he asked. "It's sort of a Minnesota tradition in September."

"Then let's go!" I knew I wasn't playing it cool; my excitement was as easy to read as last week's issue of _In Touch W_ eekly, and if Drew were to come over after our date I would have to make sure my copy was hidden from sight.

"Great. I'll pick you up on Saturday at noon, and wear something appropriate for a tractor ride."

The day was brilliant, bright, and beautiful. We drank cider while we strolled the grounds, picked apples and got lost in a haystack maze. I had to squint because it was all so vivid, like a dream you can't wake up from. Drew was also brilliant, bright, and beautiful; he looked like he had just come from "perfect boyfriend" central casting. When he started in on how campaign tactics used by John Adams and Thomas Jefferson were actually much dirtier than the ploys used my modern day candidates, I thought I might be in love.

Finally, I'd found the white knight for whom I'd been waiting. By Halloween, when he suggested we go as George and Barbara Bush (me as George, him as Barbara), I knew I'd found a keeper.

Yet the thought lingered in the back of my mind, that we have different goals, different plans for our lives. But there had to be a way to work it out. At least that's what I told myself at the time.

Then the talk of entering into another gulf war began and Paul Wellstone died, which weren't tragedies that in any way belonged to me, but somehow I slipped into this funk nonetheless, believing for the first time that integrity could actually be defeated.

I see Jack so I cross over to him. He's standing in the middle of the room, holding a paper plate heaped high with food. There have to be at least three different types of casserole smooshed together, and veggies and dip off to the side. He's looking at it like he's forgotten what to do.

"Hey, Jack," I say to him.

He looks away from the food, up at me. "Lucy. Hi."

"Hi. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. But people keep giving me food I didn't ask for." He extends the plate towards me. "Are you hungry?"

"No thanks." I take his plate anyway, and put it on a nearby table. Then I tug on his arm. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Outside to get some air."

He shakes his head. "Nah. It's cold out there." He rolls his head around and I hear his bones pop. "How about we go somewhere else instead?"

"Like where?"

He looks around the quiet, somber room. "Anywhere but here."

Monty comes striding up to us. "Hey Lucy, thanks for coming."

My heart skips a beat and my skin grows warm. It's been years since he and I had our night together, and, wow – it was a really great night. Since then we've exchanged occasional emails. One Christmas we were both home visiting our families, and we made out under the mistletoe when nobody else was looking. Two years ago, before I started dating Drew and before Monty and his current girlfriend, Evelyn, were hired by the American Bar Association to travel through the Congo and provide legal help for rape victims, we were both single and I happened to be in NYC for business.

So yeah, that night we were acting pretty free and easy. More accurately, he was free and I was easy. To say it meant nothing would be like saying global warming is a myth. I know that's not true, but I have trouble explaining it. However, as far as I know, Jack never found out about any of it, which is good, because if he did I'd feel embarrassed and weak in his eyes.

"Of course." I say to Monty. "I'm so sorry about your dad."

He shrugs his shoulders. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault."

Jack turns toward him. "We were talking about getting out of here. Wanna join us?"

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"How about Ruthies?"

"What about your mom?" I ask.

"She'll be fine. Our aunt Margot is here, hovering over her. We'll be back before we're even missed."

"Well..." I say, torn between wanting to support Jack and not wanting to do anything wrong.

"I'll go find Petra," Jack says, as if we'd already confirmed we were going.

****

Jack, like me, has always cared what people think of him. But I suppose there are times when those cares slip away, and you are suddenly able to put your needs above your image.

It's easier for some than for others. When Wellstone was sworn in by Dan Quayle he wasted no time making his views known. He immediately handed Quayle a tape of a town hall meeting, where constituents criticized our involvement in the Gulf War. In fact, Wellstone was constantly a thorn in the side of Bush, Quayle, and other leading Republicans. He was fearless and argumentative, passionate and annoying.

And on October 25th, 2002, he was also dead.

Eleven days before the election for what could have been his third term in the senate, he died in a plane crash, along with his wife, his daughter, his driver, two staffers, the pilot, and the copilot of the plane.

The night of his death there were vigils at the state capitol. I didn't go. It was a Friday night, and exhausted from a busy work week, I stayed home and watched the coverage on television, wishing I could simply turn it off and make it not true.

****

Jack's exit has left Monty and me standing together, alone in a crowded room.

His voice is warm. "It's nice to see you again. How have you been?"

I self-consciously finger my hair. It's short now, sort of like Keri Russell's cut ala' _Felicity_ in its second season, and just as regrettable. "I've been good. What about you?"

"I don't want to talk about how I've been," he says plainly, like he's refusing a second helping of chicken. "Who's that guy you're with?"

"That's Drew. We've been dating for a while." My words tumble out quickly in one hurried breath. What am I nervous about?

"Sounds serious."

I shrug my shoulders. "He's great."

"But...?"

"But I think we want different things."

He addresses me like he's the lawyer and I'm the witness. "Specify."

I laugh nervously. "You don't want to hear about this."

"Oh, but I do. After the week I've had, I'm dying to hear about somebody else's problems."

We both pause for a moment when we realize simultaneously that he said the word _dying_.

He stammers a little. "I just mean, you know, that it would be a nice break to think about something other than, you know..."

I place my hand on his. "I get it."

He gives me a smile of appreciation.

"Okay." I take a sniff of air and I scratch my wrist, nervous gestures of procrastination. With a sigh, my statement sounds like a complaint. "Drew wants to run for the state legislature."

He wrinkles his forehead in confusion. "That should be perfect for you. You could run his campaign."

"As an Independent."

"And that's a problem because..."

"Because he didn't start out as an Independent," I qualify. "He only switched because the Democratic nomination in his district is a sure thing."

Monty laughs. "So that's the reason you're against it. I remember – you have a thing against people switching political affiliations."

"It's not even so much that," I say. "It would tie us to Minneapolis."

"Would that be so bad?"

I start to answer, but Drew approaches, and puts a proprietary hand around my waist.

"Hi," he says. "I was just talking to this really interesting guy. He's owned his tire store for decades, started it with nothing, and now after years and years of hard work, he's opening second and third stores in the same week."

Drew's face is lit up like a birthday cake. He reminds me of Bill Clinton sometimes, the way he seems to genuinely experience joy in small talk with strangers. I guess he's a natural politician, but more and more the stories he seems to really appreciate are the ones of financial stability and success.

"You must have been talking to my dad's neighbor, Matt Nesbit," says Monty.

Drew shifts his attention over to Monty. "Hi. I'm Drew. I'm guessing you're either Jack or Monty."

"Monty," he says, extending his hand to shake. Drew accepts the gesture, but he keeps his other hand on me.

Jack walks up to us again, and Petra is by his side. "Come on," he urges. "Let's go."

Monty shakes his head and speaks with absolute certainty. "We shouldn't leave."

Jack looks around the room and his voice breaks. "I need to escape this place."

"How about the basement?" I'm familiar enough with their house to know they have a rec room downstairs, complete with an air hockey table, comfy chairs, and a bar. Jack looks at Monty, and he sees Monty's stiff jaw and clenched fists.

"Fine," Jack concedes, his body slumping a little.

Moments later the five of us are sitting downstairs. We've helped ourselves to drinks from the well-stocked mini refrigerator adjacent to their bar. Jack has a Red Stripe with lime, Monty has a bourbon, Petra has a Bacardi Diet Coke, Drew has a Miller, and I have still have a headache.

Monty has found an old box of records sitting on top of the air hockey table and he's going through it. The rest of us arrange ourselves on the tan, overstuffed furniture in the center of the room.

"So were you guys very close to your dad?" Drew asks.

Jack scrunches up his face. "I was. We talked all the time, and he'd come down to Des Moines and eat at my restaurant at least once a month."

"That's great," says Drew. "He must have been really proud of you."

Monty makes a grunting sound, expressing, I don't know. Irritation? Annoyance? But at what, at whom?

Drew turns around and addresses him. "What about you, Monty? Were you and your dad close?"

Monty doesn't look up from what he's doing "He and I almost never spoke," he says. "It was too hard, with the time difference, and he didn't exactly approve of what I was doing. He thought it was too dangerous. Ironic, huh? I'm fine, but he died while sitting in his living room."

Monty says this like a joke that he knows is not funny. I think it's maybe meant to challenge Drew, but Drew doesn't bite.

"I hope you don't mind me asking," Drew says. "It's just that when something bad happens to me, I want to talk about it. I always welcome the chance. I think we're too closed up in this society, especially when it comes to talking about death."

"Well, I'm not like you." Monty holds up an old Michael Jackson album, _Thriller_. "I didn't know we had this." He walks over to the entertainment center next to the TV, and powers up the stereo. Moments later "Wanna Be Startin' Something" is playing.

Petra addresses Drew. "My cousin had leukemia when I was twelve," she says. "Nobody would talk about it, not even my family. It drove me crazy."

"Did she make it?" I ask.

Petra shakes her head no. "I still get sad when I think about it."

Jack takes a swig of his beer. After he swallows, he says, "But you get through it. I don't suppose you have any other choice though, huh?"

Monty snorts. "Of course you do. You always have a choice. You can let it destroy you. You can shut down, give up, do nothing for the rest of your life."

Petra flips her hair back. "But how many people actually do that?"

"Some do," says Monty.

"He's right," I say. "I could totally see that happening."

Jack gives me a questioning and sarcastic look, and spreads his hands out, palms up, in a gesture of confusion. "Wow. Thanks, Lucy. I feel so much better."

I square my shoulders. "All I'm saying is that mourning must take time. Not that I know much about it, really, but when you're in a funk, it's hard to get out of it simply because you think you ought to."

Monty laughs, and it's genuine, not sarcastic or cynical sounding at all. "A funk? Our dad dies, and we're 'in a funk'?"

"Never mind."

"Okay," says Monty. "How about we talk about something else?" He walks towards Drew and sits on the arm of the sofa nearest to where Drew is sitting. "Lucy tells me you're running for state legislature. How's that going?"

Drew leans back a little in surprise. "It's okay. I'm not for sure about it yet. It's just something I'm considering."

Monty nods his head seriously, sort of to the rhythm of the music. "Why?"

"Why am I considering it?" asks Drew.

"Yes."

"Because I think I could do some good, and I'd enjoy it."

Monty is still holding his drink and begins to tap his finger against it. "Okay, but why?"  
"Monty," Jack interrupts. "Lay off the guy."

Drew holds up his hand. "No, it's okay. I think our schools need work. Children are literally our future, but we're not doing enough for them. That's why I'm making education my platform."

Monty listens to him, his fingers tap-tap- tapping. "So what does that mean?"

Drew squints at him. "I'm not sure I understand the question."

"When you say education will be your platform, what exactly does that mean?" He asks this like he's speaking to a belligerent child, but to his credit, Drew pretends like he hadn't noticed.

"I want to introduce legislation that will give more funding to public schools. I also think we should implement task forces made up of educators, parents, and experts to rethink our whole system. Something isn't working."

Monty laughs. "Right. Just what we need – another committee where nothing gets done."

I place my hand on Drew's arm and rub it a little to silently thank him for staying cool. The song switches to "Baby Be Mine."

"Maybe we should change the subject," I say.

"To what?" asks Monty.

I look at Jack, who is sitting crumpled in his chair, and I get the idea he's barely been paying attention to our recent exchange. People experience grief differently; some feel angry and some feel lost, but surely everyone needs to talk about it?

"Maybe we _should_ talk about your dad," I say.

Jack raises his head. "He kept meaning to do something about our recycling." He points to a corner of the room, full of boxes overflowing with newspaper and plastic bottles. "He just never got around to it. Meanwhile it junked up this room where he spent so much time. I don't know why I never offered to take care of it for him. It would have been so easy."

We all just sit there, quiet, letting the Michael Jackson music fill the room with inappropriate cheeriness. I wish I possessed the words to make this better.

Monty breaks our silence. "We're so spoiled," he says. His chest heaves a little as he continues. "I see terrible, tragic loss every day. People live in poverty, they encounter danger all the time, and they try not to become too attached to anyone or anything because they never know when it will be ripped away."

Petra chews on her fingernails, Jack's eyes dart around the room, and Drew looks down at his feet. Monty continues talking. "I mean, a parent dying? That's nothing. We're lucky we had our father for this long. Hell, we're lucky we knew him at all."

"So we shouldn't feel sad?" asks Jack.

"I'm just saying we should have some perspective."

Jack's face sets into a hardened expression. "He was our dad, and now he's, he's just...gone."

Petra speaks up. "I don't care who you are, it's always hard to lose a loved one."

"I'm not denying that," says Monty. "I just wish we could talk about something, anything else."

Jack leans towards his brother. "You do know you're in denial, right Monty?"

"Gosh, Jack. If I _knew_ I was in denial, then it wouldn't be denial, now would it?"

"Don't be such an asshole," Jack responds.

Petra puts a cautionary hand on his arm. "Honey, maybe you should just worry about yourself."

He turns to her. "So I shouldn't worry about my brother?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Unlike you," he says, "I realize I'm not the only person in the world."

Drew and Monty immediately, simultaneously take swigs of their drinks, as if they can escape this tense moment by doing so. I grab the edge of the couch with my left hand, desperate to save this moment from devolving into a scene from an Edward Albee play.

"Maybe Monty has a point," I say. "We are all spoiled; at least I know I am. I've been lucky so far, but I know that someday, something sad will happen, and it will change me. It's inevitable, right?" Drew is scowling at me, giving me his _Be Careful_ look, but I proceed. I know Jack and Monty, and he doesn't. I know I can handle this, so I continue. "I mean, the only other option is dying young, which, um, no thanks. But option "A" scares me just as much."

All heads are turned to me. I keep on.

"After all, we could spend our entire lives running from loss. I personally have never suffered a real loss, not like Jack, Monty, and Petra have. My losses have been more universal in nature." I stop for a second, and let out a sigh. Jack's eyes are meeting my own, and silently he tells me it's okay to be saying all this. "But I've hurt enough to realize that once I really actually suffer a huge loss, it's going to hit me like a ton of bricks. It will be a ten on my spectrum of pain. And I'll have to deal with it. Telling myself that in the grand scheme of things it's no big deal just won't help."

Jack's face changes and he rolls his eyes at me. "That's real profound, Lucy."

I shrug my shoulders. We've been friends long enough that he's allowed to tease me, no matter what the situation. "Okay then Socrates," I say. "Your turn."

He pauses for a moment. "I just really miss my dad and I want him back." Jack turns to Monty. "Now you," he says.

Monty tugs on the tie he's loosened since this morning's service. He looks like an unhappy businessman or a caged animal. I'm not sure which. "I don't want a turn," he mumbles.

I feel a rush of sympathy for him, and I want to put my arms around him in this moment; maybe then I could physically squeeze all his pain away.

Monty catches my look, and he must notice the compassion in my eyes. He tosses me a pathetic little smile.

"I'm sorry." Monty directs this towards all of us. "I realize I'm not at my best right now. One week ago I was begging work to give me two weeks off for Christmas, so I could spend it here with my mom and dad. Now..." He voice trails off and he hangs his head. We all lean forward in anticipation, like passengers in a car that's about to collide with another, our feet futilely pressing on nonexistent brakes while we're wondering if he's about to crash. But he doesn't. He straightens himself up. "I think I'll go for a walk. The fresh air will do me good. Besides," he looks at his watch. "It's late morning now where Evelyn is. I should call her." He extends his hand towards Drew. "It was nice meeting you. I'm sorry if I was an ass."

Drew shakes it. "You were fine. And I'm sorry about your dad."

"Don't be," says Monty. "It wasn't your fault."

Monty gives me a wink, and goes upstairs to exit into the cold.

We all breathe a collective sigh—like we're relieved and sad at the same time that he's gone.

"Do you think I should go after him?" Jack asks.

"No," says Petra rather brusquely. "I think you should let him be."

Again some tension crackles between Jack and Petra. During a conversation I had with Jack, the last one we had before his dad died, he told me they've been arguing about having kids. Jack wants them; Petra doesn't.

Drew goes over to the stereo. Michael Jackson is now crooning about sweet young things. Drew lowers the volume and then he addresses me. "Why were you guys talking about me running for office?"

"It just came up," I say.

"Oh," says Drew. "That's funny."

"Why is it funny?"

"Because you've been refusing to talk to me about it, but you talk to Monty for five minutes at his dad's funeral, and suddenly it's the subject of choice."

He sounds hurt.

My eyes tear up. This day, my headache, and this lingering feeling that nothing is working out the way it's supposed to, they all press down on me. Suddenly all the sadness in the world feels like a collective, a co-op on which my fees are overdue.

I hang my head for a moment before I respond, because I know my words could impact me for years to come.

Campaigns can go so horribly wrong. A good man can run, and still be raked over the coals. Or worse, his plane could crash, and people on either side of the political spectrum could be waiting in the wings to take advantage. His memorial service could turn into a political rally, the press could cry foul, and voters would forget the message behind the man who was being honored. I saw it happen. If Drew runs, he's opening himself up to all the possibilities.

And yet, trying to hold him back would be less than futile. "I think you should run," I say.

Drew inhales deeply through his nose, his nostrils flaring slightly. "But..." His question hangs in the air, waiting for me to answer it.

"I'm tired of my job and I need a change, a big one. I feel lifeless inside lately, and there's no excuse for it. So I've been applying to schools all over the country. I've decided I want my grad degree in political science, so I can teach, like Wellstone did."

He nods. His face twists into something I can't quite read, but I can detect some pain and confusion in his hunched up shoulders and tense neck muscles. "Do you love me?"

Jack and Petra fidget in their seats, unwilling to witness this private moment, but unable to escape. I focus only on Drew. Now my heart feels like it weighs an extra two pounds. Water weight I'm sure, but it sinks down in my chest. "Yes."

Drew sits down next to me and puts his hand on top of mine. It's warm, safe, and dry, and I fruitlessly wish I could keep the security of his touch around me forever.

We sit, finish our drinks, and we talk about other things. I picture Monty walking out in the cold, aimless and aching, and I think about planes losing course and crashing in the snow. I know it's a fool's game to avoid risk and run from loss. Sometimes you can lose your way and the people you love while simply standing in place. Perhaps you need to start the journey before you realize what, or whom, it is you're searching for.

# 4. The Baby Shower and Pat Schroeder

### 2008

It's always been hard for a woman to find her place in politics. As much as I hate to say it, ultimately the political arena is a man's world. Case in point: Pat Schroeder. She's as tough as they come. At thirty-one she was the second youngest woman ever to be elected to the House of Representatives. She's who you should thank for your maternity leave if you've had a baby. In fact, she came up with the Family/Medical Leave Act while she was changing her baby's diaper on the floor of Congress. Okay, that may not be completely true, but it's close.

Extremely clever, she coined the label "Teflon President" for Ronald Reagan. And as the first woman to serve on the House Armed Services Committee, she famously once told Pentagon officials that if they were women, they would always be pregnant because they never said no.

But is that what she's remembered for? Not exactly. A lot of people, if they think of her at all, think of her as "the one who cried at a press conference."

Poor gal—she was in charge of Gary Hart's presidential campaign. That obviously didn't work out, so she thought for a while that she'd take a stab at the presidency herself. But if you think things were tough for Sara Palin and Hillary Clinton, imagine or try to remember the world around twenty-five years ago, and you can understand what Pat Schroeder was up against.

When she announced at a press conference, "I couldn't figure out a way to run. There must be a way, but I haven't figured it out yet," she burst into tears. Her emotions simply got the better of her.

Letting my emotions get the better of me is something I'm overly familiar with lately, especially now that I'm pregnant. However, I let my emotions get the better of me before I got pregnant too. In fact, it sort of explains how I wound up pregnant in the first place.

****

I feel the baby move, and I rub the spot where she's kicking.

"Lucy," yells my mom. "Come see the living room and tell me what you think."

I walk in and check out the decorations. There is pink crepe paper everywhere, and unintentionally creepy dollar store baby dolls occupy every corner. My mother loves throwing parties, so when she heard we were going to visit over Thanksgiving, she insisted on putting together a couples' baby shower.

I actually sort of love it. It's festive and funny. "Looks great, Mom."

She puts her arms around me. "It's not too much?"

"I like it."

"The babies are going to be part of a game. The guys are going to put napkin diapers on them, and the ladies will judge who did the best job."

I hug her. "Sounds fun."

My cell phone rings. I look and see it's Drew. "Hold on Mom, I want to take this." She nods and I walk into the kitchen.

****

Months ago I received a different call, one that would change my life although I didn't realize it would at the time.

"Lucy... Hi. I'm in town, and I was wondering if you'd like to meet for a drink or something. It would be great to see you. Give me a call." That was the message, left on my phone approximately six months ago. So of course I called. Why wouldn't I? There was no bad blood between us, and besides, hearing his recorded voice made me realize that I missed him.

I met him after work at a bar down the street from where I live. When I walked in he was already there, tapping his fingers against the bar in that familiar way and standing in anticipation, like he was waiting for something big to begin. He turned around before I could say anything, and a soft smile teased the corners of his mouth.

"Hi," he said, pulling me into a gentle hug. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise," I replied, my mouth pressed up against his shoulder. And it was good to see him.

We started our evening at the bar, giving each other the recent highlights of our lives. I told him how much I enjoyed teaching social justice at Seattle University, and he told me about how everything had changed for him. His life had taken unexpected turns, giving him a totally new perspective.

"Is your new perspective a good one?" I asked.

He stuck out his chin a little. "It's better than my old perspective. What can I say? It was time for an upgrade."

We moved into the dining room, where we shared a calamari appetizer, a huge seafood salad, some seared tuna, and a basket of fresh baked bread. Over our dessert of caramel apple tart, he confessed, "I never thought I'd be alone this late into my thirties."

"I did," I said. He wrinkled his brow, and I went on to explain, "Not you. Me. I always sort of knew I'd be alone."

"Why?"

"Because I'm bad at compromise."

He smiled, reached across the table, and gently twisted a lock of my now shoulder length hair around his index finger. "But you're so good at everything else."

Our eyes locked, and from there it was a short trip back to my apartment, where for the remainder of the evening we both felt the opposite of alone.

It wasn't one of things where he didn't call the next day. He did call, and what he said sent me spinning like a wobbly top.

"Turns out I'm moving here," he said. "This job offer was too good to turn down."

I was thirty-seven years old, comfortable with being alone and satisfied with my work. Having him back in my life made me feel like I was in high school again, only this time I was actually popular.

We agreed to take it slow. We went out once or twice a week, and he'd call me every couple of days.

Until I was compelled to call him.

"I'm pregnant," I said. Then, like Pat Schroeder did so many years ago, I burst into tears. What was I going to do? How was I going to keep my head steady and my heart from breaking? How would I balance it all, without admitting that I needed his help?

"I don't get it," he said, his voice full of confused emotion. "You said you were on the pill."

I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand. "I was. I am. I just forgot that I was on antibiotics earlier this month. I guess that messed everything up."

"Wow." He punctuated his statement with a sigh. "We should have used a condom too, huh? It was careless not to get some."

I recalled that first night; we had reached my place and realized there was neither a condom in my medicine cabinet nor in his wallet. Since we had both been tested recently we decided to take a chance rather than spoil the mood. After that, there seemed to be no point in using them at all.

"Careless? That's it. That's all you can say?"

His confusion came out in a burst. "What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing specific. But how about focusing on what we're going to do now, rather than on what we didn't do then?"

I could hear his breathing; it sounded practiced, steady and even. "How about giving me a minute? You've had time to absorb this. I haven't."

I said nothing in response, and the silence stretched between us like an awkward empty gesture you make towards someone you don't like. Finally, I said, "How about you call me back after you've had some time to think?"

He agreed.

Two impossibly long days later I heard from him. He sounded diplomatic and controlled, like the world had reversed itself and he was now on the witness stand. "Of course you should keep it," he said, "If that's what you want to do. Is that what you want to do?"

"I think so," I told him. "Yes. I want to keep it." Admitting that to him was also the first time I'd admitted it to myself.

"Then I'll help." Sweet words, but I could hear no confidence behind them.

We continued our current dating routine, and we talked about the baby as little as possible. I tried not to puke on him when we went out, and in return he'd say nothing when I fell asleep right after dinner.

Then came my nine-week appointment He stepped outside during the internal exam, thank God, but stayed to ask the doctor questions and to hear the heartbeat. Hearing that miraculous, swift whoosh-whooshing sound was when it actually started to feel real.

Later, over a dinner of soup and crackers—which was about all I could stomach—he told me, "I thought about you a lot when I was sick."

He had been sick a while ago, and we weren't communicating at all during that time.

I tried not to sound too shocked. "Why?"

"I don't know. I guess because you felt like a lost opportunity. I would lie there, convinced I was about to die, and all the lost opportunities of my life would swim around in my head. You were one of them."

"But you were with..."

He cut me off before I had a chance to say her name. I got the feeling he didn't like hearing it said aloud. "It wasn't like she was at my bedside all the time, bringing me ice chips and praying for my recovery. And in retrospect, I didn't miss her as much as I should have. I know that now."

I stirred my tomato soup, which had grown lukewarm, and I tried to think of a worthy reply. When nothing came, he broke the silence.

"So you would think I'd have this amazing outlook since I nearly died, like I'm ready to embrace whatever life throws at me. But honestly, when you first told me you were pregnant I was terrified."

"What about now?"

"Now I'm not. I'm really pretty calm."

"Great," I replied. "That's high praise. But how do I know you don't say that to all the women you've knocked-up?"

He laughed. "Just you."

"Well, here I am. More booby prize than lost opportunity."

He arched an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

My hands travelled the length of my chest area, game-show hostess style. "Can you believe how big they've gotten?"

"They're massive," he said. He was being kind. They'd grown from a size A to an almost B, tops. But we shared a laugh and I could easily have started talking about work or the weather and he would have complied and dropped our current conversation. But I didn't change topics. Some things needed to be said.

I began. "I don't know if I can give you much. It's hard enough to start a relationship under the best of circumstances. But I have tons of hormones rushing through me and I'm tired and crazy. I can barely tolerate my work schedule, and it's not even all that bad. Meanwhile, I'm getting fat and I feel about as sexy as Janet Reno, and at the end of it all, there will be a baby to take care of."

He drummed his fingers on the table during my little speech, but he stopped when it was his turn to talk. "Lots of couples get through it."

"Lots of married couples. We're not that familiar."

"We're hardly strangers."

A lump formed in my throat, making the truth hard to swallow. He was so cute, and virtually impossible to let go of. "But we're definitely not married."

He winked at me. "That could change."

****

"Nobody ever says to a man, 'How can you be a Congressman and a father?'" That was one of Pat Schroeder's more famous statements about running for office. Women responded to it because they could identify. You don't have to be running for office to appreciate the double standard. To be a father is to add one item to your resume of a lifetime of accomplishment. Yet motherhood defines your resume, overshadowing any other accomplishment or goal.

Standing in my parent's kitchen, I'm talking to Drew. "Hello, Congressman," I say. The 2008 election brought about a lot of change, not the least of which was Drew getting elected to the United States Congress.

His laughter answers me back. "I haven't been sworn in yet."

"How are you?"

"I'm good. How have you been feeling?"

"Okay." I sigh. "It's hard to believe I'm going to get three months bigger."

He chuckles. "Lara said the same thing when she was six months pregnant, but she got through it. Oh, by the way, she's packing up her old maternity clothes to send to you."

"That's wonderful. Tell her thank you. I could definitely use them."

He clears his throat. "Hey, I can't talk long, but I'm wondering something. How much do you know about writing bills?"

We talk until I hear the doorbell ring. My mom steps into the kitchen, signaling for me to hang up and greet the guests. "Drew, I have to go. Can we talk more later?"

"Of course. Just promise me you'll think about what I said."

"I promise."

I put my phone away and go to greet the guests, most of whom will be my parents' friends. But the first person I see is Jack, standing in our hallway.

His grin is wide. "Hiya, Tubs."

"I've told you not to call me that."

"True," he says as he nods his head. "But you know all too well that I don't always do what you tell me to."

I give him a sigh of resignation, and walk into his personal space. He captures me in a hug. "I still can't believe this is happening," he says into the top of my head.

"You're okay with it though, right?"

"I don't think I'd have a right not to be."

I pull away from his embrace. "That's not an answer."

"Lucy," he says. "Of course I'm okay with it. I'm better than okay. I'm really, really happy."

I lock eyes with him, sort of like a staring contest, and I'm thinking that if he looks away first I'll know he's lying. But he doesn't look away; he just raises his eyebrows to signal that he's accepted the challenge.

I laugh in conceit. "Is Petra here?"

"No," he says. "Poor little Michael has a fever, so she's home with him. But she said to say hi, and to tell you that she's going to pack up all her old maternity clothes for you in the next couple of days."

"Great. Tell her thanks."

We walk into the living room, where the rest of the party has gathered. Jack scans the room. "Where's Monty?"

"My mom sent him out for ice. He should be back any time now."

****

When people would ask Pat Schroeder why she was running as a woman, she would always answer, "What choice do I have?" But ultimately she gave up the fight, conceding that it was just too hard to be both a woman and a candidate. Of course other women have gone on to fill her shoes, but now, almost thirty years later, has very much changed? Sure, Hillary made all those cracks in the glass ceiling, and Sara Palin made enough waves to nearly cause a tsunami, but what of it? Does that make life any easier for me?

During our "couples' shower" Monty sits next me, keeping his hand on my back most of the time. He laughs at all the baby jokes, and he's a real trouper when it comes time to play the games my mom has planned.

After it's over we sit in the living room amidst the opened presents—a diaper genie, swaddling blankets, and countless pink onesies. He picks up one of them. "I hope she looks good in pink."

"All girl babies look good in pink," I say.

"Good to know." He puts the onesie down and grabs the list of presents. "Do you remember who gave us the baby monitors? There isn't a name here."

"Jack and Petra."

He looks up from the piece of paper. "Oh. That was nice. With all the hand-me-downs they're passing on to us, I wasn't expecting anything else."

He writes down their names on the list, and I watch him as he does. Actually, I look at him like I'm analyzing a painting of my life. My breath still catches sometimes when I realize he's mine. He senses he's being watched and returns my gaze.

"What's up?" he asks. "You seem strange."

"Drew called me today."

"Oh yeah? How is he?"

"He's good. Rearing to go for this January. He's already planning on writing a bill."

"On what?"

"Education. He wants to fix No Child Left Behind."

"That's ambitious of him."

"And he wants me to help him."

Monty arches his back and stretches out. We're familiar enough now that I can guess the exact spot of muscles that's bothering him. "That's great."

"Is it? I don't know." I raise myself from the couch and join him sitting on the floor. Pretty soon I'll be too big to do such a thing comfortably. " My plate is sort of full right now. Plus, I'd need to be in D.C. or Minneapolis some of the time. And even if I could work that out and we wrote the bill, the most likely scenario is it would be thrown out or ignored, or at the very least, changed beyond recognition."

He kicks me gently with his left foot. "That's the spirit, Lucy."

"This isn't a pep rally, Monty. This is serious."

"Yeah. You know what's more serious? Not doing something because you're afraid to."

I quietly explode (my parents are within earshot, after all). "It's not about fear. It's about balance. How am I supposed to handle the career I already have, and be a mother, and add to that a new project? Maybe there's a way, but I don't know what it is."

He shrugs his shoulders. "Take a leave from your teaching job."

"You say that like it's so easy."

"It could be easy," he says gently. "I think you tend to make things more difficult than they have to be because you don't want to take risks."

I know he is trying to speak diplomatically, and that angers me even more. "That's not true! You just say that because you're the king of taking risks, so you compare my life to yours and somehow I come up short."

Monty exhales, and moves closer to me. He places his hand on my belly, and kisses my forehead. "You're wrong," he says.

I swat him away. "About which part?"

"I'm not the king of taking risks. I'm not even a prince. I'd say I'm more of a lord." He throws me one of his charming smiles, which he does every time we approach conflict, believing it will melt some of the tension. Sometimes it's cute, sometimes it's annoying. Right now I can't decide which.

"Ha ha."

"But I don't think you come up short."

I pick up a stray pink bow, and study it harder than I'm studying this situation. "Not everybody is as lucky as you are."

He starts his finger tapping; they're bouncing off his knee. "You think I'm lucky?"

"You don't?"

"I caught malaria. How is that lucky?"

"Travelling through Africa for several years? It's lucky something much worse didn't happen to you."

"Believe me, the malaria was bad enough."

"Well, thank God you got through it."

He leans back to create some distance between us. "Still, I was left alone and weak in the Congo. So how is that lucky?"

Monty told me this story on our first night together in Seattle. After years of working together as a couple, he and Evelyn were going to get married. They had just committed to two more months in Africa. After that they were going to return to the U.S. and start their own practice, specializing in serving the underprivileged. Then Monty contracted malaria. He could have died, and was bed ridden and weak for quite a while. In the meantime Evelyn fell in love with Monty's doctor. As soon as Monty was well she broke up with him. Monty returned to the U.S. alone.

But all was not lost. He wrote about his experience and published a feature article in _The Atlantic_. That led to an invitation from his alma mater, NYU, to guest lecture for an international human rights course. He was such a hit that he repeated his lecture for the general public. That led to a speaking tour, which then led to job offer from the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation to work in their legal department on writing policy developing a malaria vaccine.

I stroke his cheek with the back of my hand. "Somehow you managed to come out of it all, better off than before."

He takes my hand from his cheek and places it on the back of his neck. Then he pulls me closer, so we're sitting together in an embrace. "I agree." He kisses my shoulder. "And in the process I learned that when opportunity knocks, you should answer the door and invite it in."

I peer intently into his eyes. "Is that why you want to get married?"

"Besides loving you, yeah, that's the reason."

He leans in to kiss me, and I welcome it. I should have learned my lesson thirteen years ago in the parking lot at Jack's wedding: it's a stupid idea to try and resist Monty. I'm not built for it, and I'm almost giddy when, after a minute or two, we pull away.

How did it happen, that this incredible man actually chose me? He makes me feel like anything is possible, like all the campaign promises I've ever heard could honestly be kept.

"What were we talking about?" I ask.

"How lucky we are."

# 5. The High School Reunion and Michele Bachmann

### 2009

Michele Bachmann is the epitome of a high school mean girl. She's pretty and has the self-righteous arrogance that's trademark to her species of beauty and entitlement. She's the sort who will raise her hand in class and speak about how we need to reach out to the disadvantaged, but once the bell rings she'll walk away and spread rumors about whomever she dislikes that week. She'll make truly outrageous statements with such authority that people pay attention and want to be her friend. She doesn't get called on for most of the crap she pulls because people are afraid of her. For this reason, her popularity is not based so much on being liked, but on people's desire for her to like to them.

There are Michele Bachmanns everywhere. Especially at high school reunions.

I inhale and exhale deeply. I look at myself in the mirror and can't help but question my choice of outfits. I'm wearing a tight red cocktail dress with high-heeled red pumps to match. It felt like a good idea at the store when I picked it out; I thought I looked glamorous and thin, but maybe it's too much.

As if on cue, Monty comes up from behind, wraps his arms around me, lifts up my long mane of curls, and he kisses the back of my neck. "You look amazing."

This shade of red seems awfully bright. "I look like a Republican."

"A hot Republican."

"Exactly," I say. "Why are the only female politicians who are considered attractive, Republicans?"

"Because they know how to dress. You could wear a blue Hillary-style pantsuit to this thing, but I doubt you'd get the same response."

I regard my reflection one more time. "I just don't know."

"Lucy, are you sure you don't want me to go with you? I know your mom wouldn't mind staying with Abby."

I turn away from the mirror and move out of Monty's arms. "I'm sure. Besides, Jack is taking me."

"I still don't get why you'd rather go with him." He sounds a little jealous, so I explain it to him one more time.

"If I let you accompany me, the only thing people will notice is that shy, wallflower Lucy married the homecoming king/student council president from her previous year."

"Not if you're wearing that dress."

I grab my purse. "Make sure you put Abby in her footed pajamas. I left them out. I think she was cold last night."

"Right. Footed PJs. Got it." He comes up and gives me a goodbye peck on the cheek. "Just promise you'll wear that dress the next time we go out."

"Promise."

"Even if we're just going to the grocery store, you're wearing that dress."

I roll my eyes and wave goodbye.

****

I'm sure it would have been easier to go to my reunion with Monty. But if I had, I probably would have stuck by his side the entire evening, while he mingled with my classmates who loved him as much as his classmates did. Since we specifically travelled home in June so I could attend the reunion, I decided it would be better to actually experience it and be brave without him.

"You feel like this is some sort of test, don't you?" Jack asks me this as we pull into the parking lot of the hotel where the reunion is being held.

"Yes," I say. "And I heard that Mr. Howard is going to grade us on it."

"Then you shouldn't worry. I think you were the only one to get an A in our entire American History class."

"Yeah, but the curriculum has changed."

Jack and I walk into the lobby, and we spot the sign that points us to the reunion. I put my hands on my stomach, as if doing so could make the butterflies disappear. "Just remember, Lucy." Jack says. "You don't care what these people think."

****

I bet Michele Bachmann was pretty much the same in high school as she is now. Crazy yet compelling; Presumptuous yet personable. And the women like me, the ones who _have_ changed, at their reunion they were probably desperate to talk to her. For some reason it was important to prove to her that they are better: better than was readily apparent twenty years ago. Yet at the same time they deeply dreaded talking to her, because who knows what asinine or offensive thing Michele B might say.

Michele Bachmann has made a career out of saying wild and senseless things. Her supporters love her for her anti-abortion stance, especially since she wasn't afraid to go out on a limb and say it should be illegal even in cases of rape and incest. Her opinions on gay marriage, science vs. religion, and the environment are about what you'd expect: homosexuality is immoral and we need a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage, religion trumps science and the earth is only tens of thousands rather than billions of years old (and hundreds of Nobel-winning scientists agree with her on that,) and global warming is a hoax because carbon dioxide is natural to the earth.

These are the sort of statements that are so crazy you can't argue back. Drew

doesn't even try. Both he and Michele Bachmann are Congressional House members representing Minnesota, but from different districts, and from different sides of the aisle. He did offer to introduce me to her once, but I said no thanks. However, if this reunion doesn't go well, maybe I'll change my mind.

Jack and I walk in. Immediately a guy I recognize, Kent Arnold, comes bounding up to us. "Jack Bricker! How are you, Man? Aren't you here a year early?"

Jack laughs. "I'm considering this a warm-up."

"It's good to see you," says Kent. 'But seriously, what are you doing here?"

Jack motions to me. 'You remember Lucy Jones, right?"

Kent's face goes blank for a moment, but he recovers quickly, and pretends we're long lost pals. "Lucy, of course! I didn't recognize you. How are you?"

"I'm great! How are you, Kent?"

"Can't complain." He launches into a description of his family (wife and twin eight-year-old sons), his career (manager of a security system business) and his health (he recently lost twenty pounds but now he has anemia.) "And you?" He looks at Jack while asking this. Jack tells Kent about Petra, their son Michael, and the restaurant he owns. None of this is news to me, so I sort of tune it out. My eyes scan the room.

There are faces I recognize. Some of them I want to talk to. I'll hear about their lives over the past twenty years, and I can fill them in on the details of mine. If I want to show off a little I'll mention how I helped pen an education bill that's still in committee, that I teach part time at Seattle University, and that recently I've landed a book deal to write about twentieth-century political campaigns. It's with a small university press, but I'm proud.

Of course I'll mention Monty and Abby, because at the end of the day they make me believe in the validity of what I do. Fearless and affectionate Monty, and sweet, adorable Abby remind me that it's important to examine the choices we make and strive to make better choices in the future. And sometimes it's worth it to take a chance.

Speaking of taking chances, I realize it's time to take one of my own. I tug on Jack's sleeve. "I'll find you in a little bit. I'm going to work the room."

"Good luck," he says.

I circulate around, and catch up with several old friends, ones who I had sleepovers with in Jr. High or commiserated with during gym class when we were picked last for basketball.

Then someone taps me on the shoulder. "Lucy? Oh my God, it is you. You look amazing! So much better than you did in high school! I didn't even think it was you at first. Is it true you married Monty Bricker?"

She speaks just as loudly as she did twenty years ago. The only difference is now she isn't only speaking about herself. I wager that is about to change.

"Hi, Mary. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm great. I live in L.A now. I'm a physician's assistant in a plastic surgery clinic. You wouldn't believe the market for it out there, and the guy I work with is the best. Plus, I get a discount on having work done. These..." she points to her lips, "and these..." she points to her breasts, "are totally fuller than they used to be. And it cost me next to nothing."

She blabs on about the L.A. dating scene and how close her apartment is to the beach. I nod my head and my mind wanders.

In 2008 Michele Bachmann became super famous when on the Chris Matthews show she said that Obama has anti-American views, and that there ought to be an investigation into Congressional liberals like Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi to see if they have anti-American views too. Bachmann was running a re-election campaign to the house at the time, and within twenty-four hours of saying these things, her opponent received nearly twenty-five thousand dollars from donors all over the country.

Yet, like the girl who is sweet to your face but nasty behind your back, the kind you campaign against for homecoming queen, she still won. You're left wondering: who voted for her?

Probably the guys. Hell, even Monty thinks she's cute, in a crazy-putty sort of way. He hates what she has to say, but he loves looking at her. If other, less well-informed voters are like Monty, it's no wonder she's successful. She's just one of those people who can get away with whatever she wants to get away with.

And I'm sick of it.

Mary starts craning her neck and looking around the room. "So where's Monty?" she asks.

"He's at home with our daughter."

"Oh, bummer. I'd have loved to see him. So who are you here with, then?"

Mary is obviously not going to be polite and ask me about Abby. Never mind.

"I'm with my brother-in-law, Jack. You remember him, right?"

Mary shakes her head, and my blood begins to boil. I know it's a little silly, but maybe she's my own, personal Michele Bachmann. Maybe, just maybe, twenty years later it's time to put her in her place.

"Mary," I say, "Don't you remember how you puked on Jack Bricker and then asked him to the prom?"

"Sort of..." she says. Her defenses are going up, and she's regarding me like I'm the crazy one.

"You know," I say, "technically you had every right to do what you did. However, it was still thoughtless and self-involved, because you were just interested in having a date. If you had stepped outside of yourself for a moment, you would have realized that I actually liked Jack, and I was trying to get up the nerve to ask him myself."

"Look," she interrupts, "I'm not interested in being attacked. I'm sorry if I somehow messed up your plans, but let's be real. It's not like I ruined your life. Besides, you married his brother. I bet I did you a favor."

She has a point. What would have happened between Jack and me if she hadn't asked him to prom? Maybe we still wouldn't have gone together, and rather than trying to "make it up to me" he would have just slipped out of my life all together.

"You're right," I say. "I suppose I should be saying thanks. If it wasn't for people like you, the rest of us wouldn't work so hard to try and make the world a better place. Then where would we be?"

Somebody nearby laughs, and I realize we've had a bit of an audience for our conversation. Mary stands there, a little angry and a little speechless. "Take care, Michele." I start to walk away.

"You mean Mary."

I laugh. "Whatever."

I enter back into the throng, trying to find the people I actually want to talk to. Jack is by my side in a moment. "How're you doing?"

"Not bad." Spontaneously I give him a hug. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being in my life."

"Any time." He hugs me back, then we let go of each other.

I rub my hands together. "Let's give this thing an hour tops, then go get something to eat. I'm starving."

"Chicken fingers?"

"Definitely."

************

Please continue reading for a special bonus excerpt from Laurel Osterkamp's newest novel, _Starring in the Movie of My Life_.

# Praise for _Starring in the Movie of My Life_

\--Award Winning Finalist 2011 International Book Awards (Women's Fiction and Young Adult Literature)

\--Award Winning Finalist 2011 Indie Excellence Awards (Chick Lit)

Book Reviewers:

"A riveting romance and drama. Highly recommended." — _Midwest Book Review_

"Two stories collide in this novel that deals with acceptance, love and revenge. This story will stick with you long after it's come to an end." (4-Star RT Rating) — _RT Book Reviews_

" _Starring in the Movie of My Life_ is fast-paced, engaging, and a recommended read." — _All Books International_

Book Blogs:

"This is a great love story, very deep and complicated and messy, but very real." — _ChicklitPlus.com_

"I'm not one for giving out 5 stars all willy-nilly. I am deadly serious about my 5 star rating and have only given out two so far this year. Pretend you can see my serious face. Okay? Well, I am giving my third 5 star rating for this incredible and surprising novel by a new favorite author, Laurel Osterkamp." — _StephTheBookworm.blogspot.com_

" _Starring in the Movie of My Life_ is about second chances at any age. It's also about discovering how to fulfill your needs without expecting an outside source, especially a relationship, to magically fix everything. I really enjoyed reading this novel." — _Bitchlitblog.wordpress.com_

"Laurel Osterkamp is an author to watch." — _GirlyScribbles.wordpress.com_

"The story is emotional and intense... I can certainly see why _Starring in the Movie of My Life_ is a 2011 International Book Award (Women's Fiction and Young Adult Literature) and 2011 Indie Excellence Award Finalist. I can't wait to see what's next from Laurel Osterkamp!" — _ReelSwellBlog.com_

"Starring in the Movie of My Life was immensely involving. I truly enjoyed Laurel's writing and I am looking forward to her next book." — _PiaBernardino.com_

"This book definitely took me by surprise and really held my attention the whole way through. If you are looking for a great read then this is it!" — _ChickLitCentralTheBlog.blogspot.com_

"Get your copy today & weigh in on a rising star, before she jets off into the Milky Way." — _ElsieLovesFiction.blogspot.com_

"This book has it all: problems with mothers, problems with the opposite sex, marital problems, crushes, surrogate pregnancy, to name some. But this doesn't mean this book is all over the place. It's tight and concise and you find yourself cheering for both women. I don't like to cry, but this book made me sob like a baby. And I didn't mind...Do yourself a favor and pick up _Starring in the Movie of My Life_. It's a fast read because you want to keep going to find out what happens. Actually, because you need to find out what's happening!" — _Motherhoot.com_

"This book was one of my first summer reads and I was not disappointed. It had a great story line with great characters. I actually left the book thinking about my life and where I am at." — _ATaleOfManyReviews.Blogspot.com_

"This is one of those rare reads I come across where I'm so enthralled from the first page that I can't stop reading and nothing else gets done until the book is finished." — _TheBookFetishBlog.com_

Reader Reviews:

"This novel is quite winning and entertaining!" — _J Faulk_

"I loved this book and couldn't put it down!" — _Ashlea Bushman_

"The plot moves quickly, and there's a love story...but don't let the genre fool you: this is great story, written by a great author! I can't wait to see the movie..." — _Christina_

"I totally enjoyed this book!" — _C Williams_

"The complexity of each character is refreshing. This book is a thoroughly enjoyable read....I highly recommend it!" — _edwardse_

# Preview of _Starring in the Movie of My Life_

### Starring in the Movie of My Life

### Part 1

### 1. Melody

Winter 2006

The girl's restroom is cold, dark and empty. I feel like I'm trespassing. Even the faint scent of cigarette smoke mixed with fruity body spray feels forbidden, and it's how this bathroom always smells. I'm here because I hate to pee in the company of others, and when you're in high school public peeing is an everyday reality. Not tonight. Tonight I refuse to suffer in any way, shape or form. So I told Axel I'd be back shortly, and I snuck up to the English hallway, away from the noise and hustle of the school dance. Here I can pee and primp in peace.

I flush the toilet, straighten my dress, exit the stall, and admire myself in the grimy mirror above the sink. All my effort and suffering has paid off. The hours spent working at Subway to buy this dress, the strategic flirting with the most popular boy in school, the lying to my mom about what I was doing tonight—it's all been worth it. Finally I will no longer just be academically successful. Tonight is the beginning of my social success as well. But even more importantly, if all goes well, I'll have a boyfriend I can count on, and maybe even love.

I take one more appreciative glance at my expensive black strapless gown that, combined with my ultra high heels, makes me look like a slightly shorter Audrey Hepburn. I check that my dark hair is secure in what's supposed to look like a loose upsweep that took no time, and head out to find Axel. I'm startled to discover him standing right outside the bathroom, by the water fountain.

"Hey," I say with a smile. "How did you know I was up here? Did you follow me?"

"I figured you wanted me to follow you." He steps closer to me, and I can smell the liquor on his breath. When did he have a chance to drink? Was it just now, or had he been drinking before he picked me up? I don't have much time to contemplate because in a moment he is kissing me. Softly at first, but then his tongue is in my mouth, his slobber is on my lips. I turn my head to the side.

"Let's go down to the gym," I manage to squeak out.

He presses into me. "Why? Aren't we having fun right here?"

I play along with a little laugh but gently push him away, creating some space between us. "Well sure, but there's plenty of time for this later. I want to dance." And I want the rest of the school to see me dancing with you, I silently add to myself.

"High school dances are over-rated," he says. "I want to be alone with you."

He grabs me and kisses me again. At first I kiss him back, wondering if this is what passion is supposed to feel like. But his tongue goes so deep down my throat that I begin to gag, and the smell of his breath does not help. I wiggle out of his arms.

"Axel, slow down."

He smiles like he knows some wicked secret. "Don't tell me you're not up for this. You pretend to be all prissy and shit, but I read your notes."

It's true, I did write him sexy notes, ones filled with ideas I got from studying endless copies of _Cosmo_ —articles like "How to Drive Him Crazy in Bed," or "His Pleasure Zones (and there are more of them than you think!)." The last note I wrote said, "I need some of your frontal friction to heat up my hot spot." They all said something like that. Anyway, I would slip these notes into his locker during passing time after second hour. Then I would see him fifth hour, where we sit next to each other in History. He would whisper all sorts of things to me, and I would bat my eyes and giggle, although sometimes I couldn't hear or completely get what he was saying. Honestly, I wasn't even always one hundred percent sure of what my notes meant as I was writing them. I am a virgin after all. But I was just playing, flirting really. That's what flirting is.

Then he started asking me out. Other girls would have been thrilled with his requests, but I knew better. When he'd suggest that we meet up after a game, or go for a drive together after school, I would just grin and shake my head, and tell him I was busy. I do have standards, by the way, and my refusal to simply answer a booty-call was finally rewarded when, after several weeks, he asked me to the Valentine's Day dance. Such an invitation proves he not only likes me, but respects me as well. Me, Melody Madsen is going out with Axel Radcliffe, star basketball player and everyone's favorite guy. My stock has gone way up.

Except now things have gotten a little out of control. So I take a deep breath to compose myself, and turn away. I figure if I don't answer but make it clear I'm walking down to the dance, he'll have to follow. Then things will get back on track.

I hear him behind me as he catches up. Suddenly his hand is on my arm and he yanks it, hard, forcing me to turn towards him.

"Ouch! Don't do that!"

His face contorts with aggression and flushes to a deeper shade of red. "Then stop being such a goddamn tease! You know I only asked you here because of those notes."

He captures my body and squashes his mouth into mine; this time he isn't even a little bit gentle. "Come on," he mutters after he comes up for air, "haven't you always wanted to do it here at school? I sure have."

"No," I say.

He doesn't listen. Instead his mouth covers mine again, and his hands cover my breasts. First they are above the fabric of my dress, but soon they are beneath it. Then he pulls my dress completely down, leaving me exposed due to the unfortunate ease of removing a strapless gown.

He stops kissing me and buries his face in my chest. I feel bile rising from my stomach and tears squirting from my eyes. There are two things I pride myself on never doing—crying and puking—and I'm about to do both at once. But then I feel this push from inside me, and I realize it's my own strength.

"I said no!" I yell, and kick him squarely in the balls. He gasps in pain and I begin to run, pulling my dress back up as I go. I don't run towards the dance, to the safety of a crowd. That would be the obvious choice, the smart direction to choose. But instinct or my gut or some unnamed force propels me the opposite way down the hall, and I have only moments to escape.

Because he recovers quickly. "You bitch!" he yells, and runs in my direction. Even in pain he's quite the athlete, and soon he's close enough to tackle me, forcing me to the floor. His hand covers my mouth, but I scream through it anyway, a muffled scream swallowed with fear and nausea. He climbs on top of me, tugging my dress back down, and I think, This is it. This is really going to happen.

Then, like magic, his weight is no longer pressed against me. He's been lifted away, and I open my eyes to see light from a classroom spilling out into the darkened hallway. Mr. Linden's classroom. We are in front of Mr. Linden's classroom, and Mr. Linden has grabbed Axel and shoved him against a wall.

"What the hell are you doing?" he cries, as he shoves Axel again, banging his head and perhaps punching him in the stomach. I can't quite tell. Then he lets go of Axel and comes over to me. Too late I grab my torn dress to cover myself. Mr. Linden looks away but I know what he saw. And I realize I don't care, because in the space of a moment I have discovered what this night is actually about. Tonight is about destiny; it is destiny that drove me towards Mr. Linden's door. I'll be tied to him forever.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Instantly a fresh batch of tears surface, and they are much more passionate then any I have yet to cry. It's just \- I can't remember the last time anyone has cared enough to ask me if I'm okay.

### 2. Samantha

Early spring, 2006

When I was three years old, a miracle happened. It wasn't quite on the level of seas parting or water turning to wine, but within my own personal context, it was definitely epic. My dad took me to see my first movie, Cinderella, and I discovered a more perfect and entertaining version of the world, reflected off that giant silver screen. From that moment on, real life just couldn't compete, and I began to watch whatever my parents would permit me to see.

I'll admit it: occasionally I like to pretend that my life is a movie, and that I'm the star. No problem feels insurmountable if I'm humming a heart-rousing movie soundtrack in my mind. No conversation is too painful or awkward if I can utter a truly quotable line. And no mistake is too asinine if I can imagine an audience's sympathetic laughter at my ineptitude. This used to work for me all the time, but lately, not so much.

You see, there are very few leading ladies over thirty-five. I think it's quite unfair. There's such a double standard in Hollywood when it comes to age and gender. Harrison Ford is almost twenty years older than Julia Ormand in _Sabrina_ , and it's a barely mentionable plot point. Yet, in _Prime_ , nearly forty-year-old Uma Thurman falls for some guy in his twenties, and that's what the movie is _about_.

Anyway, no, I've haven't been preoccupied with this inequality for my whole life, and I realize there are far more serious concerns to devote my energy to, like curing cancer, ending world hunger, and stopping global warming. However, this particular issue hits close to home since I myself married a man ten years my junior. That sort of thing doesn't happen in movies, and neither does the following:

1. Peoples' eyes immediately darting to my belly whenever I tell them about my sudden wedding. Since my belly is naturally a little bloated, their eyes stay there slightly longer than is comfortable or even decent, in an effort to ascertain whether my belly is in fact, any larger than normal.

2. After deciding that it's impossible to tell whether or not I'm pregnant just by looking at me, they are left with a decision—are they going to be blunt, or indirect? Most people take the latter route, and say things like, "Wow, that's great! You must be so excited to start a family?" But I actually respect directness more, like when my dad said, "Sam. Tell me you married him because you wanted to, and not out of some false nobility that you've never even had."

3. Bad as these questions may be, at the end of the day I'm haunted with another question that nobody has been rude enough to ask—What does he see in you? Even I don't have the answer to that one.

The only person I've shared this with is my best friend, Jane.

"You need to trust him, Sam. That's what marriage is about."

She says this to me as we're driving home from her nineteen-year-old cousin's baby shower. It's 1:30 p.m. on a cloudy and cold Monday afternoon, and Jane suspects she was only invited to this thing because her aunt thought she'd be working and unable to come. Jane teaches film and television production, full-time, at the local community college. However, Jane has no classes on Mondays. Still, I don't understand why she went, even if she does believe in the value of putting herself in uncomfortable situations to "appease her fears and develop her ability to grow." I volunteered to go with her; nobody should have to grow on their own.

"I do trust him," I say, focusing on what she just said to me. "It's myself that I don't trust."

Jane cocks her head and tightens her mouth into a firm little line. "I can't think why. You're certainly the most honest person I've ever met."

"You are mad, aren't you?"

"Sam, I just think there's a time and a place..."

"I was standing up for you!"

"And I appreciate it. But was it worth it, after the commotion you caused?"

Jane is referring to a comment I made at the shower. You see, her cousin Brittany did not plan this pregnancy. So people were talking about how it must be God's will for her to have gotten pregnant, because God believes that Brittany will be a fantastic mother. After several minutes of this conversation, I couldn't take it anymore, and I broke my silence with, what I still maintain, was a very simple question.

All I said was: "Come on! Do you all _really_ believe in this 'God's will' stuff?"

I was faced with a bouquet of blank stares. There was that awkward silent time that went on for a few seconds too long. I kept hoping someone would answer me with laughter in her voice, but it was not to be. So I continued.

"All I mean is, Jane would make a fantastic mother. And God hasn't _willed her_ to have a baby. If it is God's fault that Jane hasn't had a baby yet, then I think she has reason to be pissed off."

Jane's aunt answered me. "We can't rationalize God's will. It's not for us to question, but to accept. God works in mysterious ways, and we have to trust him."

All the other women, sans Jane, started nodding their heads in agreement. I know I should have let it go, but the look on Jane's face reminded me of a toddler in the school yard: the littlest one, left out of the bigger kids' games, the one who is trying to be brave but is utterly transparent.

I shook my head. "No. I won't accept that there's some cosmic reason why Jane can't have a baby and Brittany can, not while every year tons of babies are born to unfit mothers who won't love them. The minute I accept that..." My voice trailed off. If I accepted that, then what? I wasn't sure, and being glared at by everyone in the room wasn't making my thinking any clearer. And it also didn't help that I was looking right at Brittany when I said that "unfit mother" thing, because people got really worked up.

Jane and I left the party fairly quickly after that.

Now, I look over at Jane, who is gripping the steering wheel as she speeds down the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic. Jane drives like someone who suffers from ADHD and a bladder problem at the same time. It's her one habit that doesn't fit with the rest of her calm and nurturing personality.

"It wasn't that much of a commotion..." I say.

"We were asked to leave."

"So? You didn't want to go anyway."

She takes a deep breath. I can tell she's trying not to yell, but her words sound like they're being forcefully pushed out of her mouth anyway. "Not the point!"

"I'm sorry! Okay? Really."

She breathes again, and her death grip on the steering wheel loosens just a little. "Sam. It's all right. It's just, are you sure it was me you were sticking up for?"

"Who else would I have been sticking up for, if not you?"

"Yourself."

"Yeah, right."

"No. Really. I was thinking at the time, maybe what they were saying was pushing your buttons."

"Well, it wasn't. That was about you." I brush my hair out of my eyes and turn my face away to look out the side window.

"Okay. Whatever." She speeds up, and honks at the guy to her right as he tries to cut her off. "Where did he learn to drive? Geez." Suddenly, her whole body relaxes. "Oh whatever. You were right. Brittany is going to suck ass as a mother."

We both laugh and the tension in the car evaporates.

"Let me take you out for a late lunch," I say. "There's a Don Pablos over there. On such a gray and icky day we need margaritas and greasy Mexican food."

Jane smiles in answer as she exits off the highway.

Later, after two full size margaritas and way too many chips with salsa, I head home. It's 4:00 in the afternoon when I open the door to our apartment, and the first thing I see is Nathan, lying on the couch and reading a book. He's changed out of his formal school clothes into jeans and his college sweatshirt, so he looks like a frat boy.

"You're home early," I say.

Nathan smiles—the type of smile that changes the entire shape of his face—the type of smile I worried I would never elicit from anyone again. He gets up, and crosses the room to kiss me.

"I missed you," he says as he leans down and kisses me. "Besides, I had no meetings, no after school activities, and I'm even up-to-date on my grading. Figured I'd take advantage of my good fortune and rush home to see my wife."

I giggle, as I've done every time he refers to me like that. Wife! Even during our wedding vows the word made me giggle. Good thing the witnesses were people we only met that day at the Wisconsin Dells.

"So what do you want to do? We could go for a bike ride, or a walk, or out to eat for an early supper. You name it—I'm yours for the entire afternoon and evening."

I wrap my arms around him, a gesture made partly to express affection, but mostly to reassure myself that my good fortune is real. He is not just a figment of my imagination.

"I thought you were mine forever," I say.

He hugs me back and kisses the top of my head. "That too," he responds. "That too."

I close my eyes and revel in his warmth. Surely God didn't will Nathan and me to be together. Yet, in his arms, I feel that I've finally discovered what my fate is. It's to love Nathan Linden.

### 3. Melody

This morning when I get to school I find whore written on a piece of paper, taped to my locker. I pretend I don't care while I rip it off the hospital-green metal door. I hear someone laughing behind me, but I refuse to turn around. I won't let them think they're affecting me.

It's been a month and a half since Mr. Linden saved me from Axel and Axel got expelled. But the school hasn't forgiven me for it. The very next weekend we played in our division championship basketball game and lost. Lost—because Axel wasn't there to win the game for us. And whose fault was that? According to popular opinion, it's mine. Mine and Mr. Linden's.

So even though his classroom is way far away from my first hour, I stop in every morning to say hello. Outcasts have to stick together, after all. When I walk into his room I see him sitting at his desk, his blond head leaning over a book, his fingers messing with the collar of his shirt. Mr. L wears a tie to school every day. I'm not sure why because he's always tugging, trying to loosen it. But his ties are his trademark, and I think it's nice he makes an effort. So many people are slobs nowadays, but not Mr. L. Today his tie is dark blue with green polka dots, and it brings out the color of his eyes beautifully.

"Good morning Mr. L."

He looks up, and half a smile teases the corners of his mouth. He can't act too pleased to see me, it wouldn't be professional.

"Miss Madsen, how are you this morning?" Every morning he asks me this, and every morning my answer is a lie.

"I'm great, how are you?"

"I'm fantastic," he beams, "as usual."

This is what we do; it's our code. But I know the truth. He's hurting on the inside from being ostracized just as much as I am.

"I looked for you yesterday after school, but you weren't in your room."

"Yeah, I was actually able to get out of here early for a change. Did you need something?"

My right index finger is twisting itself into the metal wire that loops through my notebook and binds it together. The top part had become unwound from its pages, and now my finger's circulation is cut off. "Well, I was wondering if you could use an aide next trimester."

He frowns and digs his heels into the floor, pushing himself backwards with the wheels of his office chair. His chest raises and lowers with a careful sigh before he answers me.

"Melody, do you really think that's a good idea?"

This is the first time he has ever called me by my first name! Mr. L always, always calls students by our last names. Finally, the moment I have waited for has arrived! Now I know without a doubt that I mean something to him, that I am more than just a student. In my shock and joy I forget to answer his question though, so he continues on.

"I just think we need to be careful. People in this school love to talk, and if I took you on as my aide things could get worse before they get better."

My joy increases—he just referred to us as a "we." _We need to be careful_ —it sounds so scandalous! "But I'm fine," I say, wiggling my finger free and holding my notebook tightly to my chest. "And I don't care what people say. Besides, I could do a great job for you." I walk over to his file cabinet and open the top drawer. With a grin I turn to him. "Really Mr. L! This drawer is a mess! I could organize this; I could organize all of these!" I sweep my arm up and down, gesturing toward his cabinets. Then I walk over to his bookshelf. "And these shelves!" I look back over at him, expecting to see him smile, but I'm met with a scowl instead. "I'm sorry," I continue. "I don't mean to insult you. I know you're creative and smart and all, and you don't have time to think about details. That's why you need to let me do it for you."

"Miss Madsen..." he tries to cut me off, but I step in before he can.

"Mr. L, please! Let me do this. Give me the chance to thank you for... you know." I look down, and will my cheeks to flush. I can feel the warmth creeping across my face, and I mentally pat myself on the back for spending hours alone in my room, mastering this skill. After all, older guys like girls who embarrass easily, so that they can feel worldly and experienced.

He hangs his head down momentarily, like he's memorizing the scuffed linoleum floor. "You don't need to thank me any more than you already have. You never needed to thank me. I just did what anyone would do."

"That's where you're wrong," I say. And I mean it. Mr. L doesn't realize how special he is. That's why he needs me. He needs me so much that I'm willing to do anything in order to be in his life. "What you did, it's the nicest, most decent thing anyone has ever done. Please, Mr. L, let me be your aide. I'll work really hard."

His hand creeps up to massage his neck. "I have no doubt you would, but I still think it's a bad idea."

I look down, away, and wipe a phantom tear that, if it were real, would be blocked from his view.

"I see," I say, and start out the door. His voice stops me, just like I knew it would.

"Miss Madsen..." but he doesn't finish. So I take my last, best shot. It's a gamble to play this card so soon, but I'm confident it will work. Besides, it's the truth.

With my back turned, still half way out the door, I say, "It's just, your room is the only place in the whole school where I feel...safe."

He sighs again, this time with resignation. "My prep hour is fifth."

I turn around. "That's perfect! All I have fifth hour is study hall!"

His same half-smile threatens to escape again. "I'll let the office know."

### 4. Samantha

The phone wakes me up. I pick up on the second ring. "Hello Dad," I say, before he has a chance to greet me.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"I've told you before; you're the only one who calls me this early."

He raises his voice, and I hold the receiver away from my ear. "It's 10:00 a.m.! I've been up for hours!"

"Yeah, but you go to bed at 9:00. I work till midnight."

His voice lowers back to a normal level. "Well, I'm sorry honey. I guess I forget your schedule. You know me. I was raised with the farmer mentality. Early to bed, early to rise, and too much sleep is a sin."

"I think we can agree that sleeping till 10:00 is the least of my sins."

He chuckles like what I just said was a joke, even though we both know it isn't. Then his voice turns serious. "Samantha, it's never too late to change."

I count to three and remind myself how much I love my father. "Did you need something?"

"I just wanted to know if it's okay for me to sell your old bedroom set. I found a second hand store willing to buy it."

"Dad, I've told you twice that I don't care. It's fine if you want to get rid of it."

"I just thought you might want it someday, in case you ever have kids. Now that you and Nathan are together..."

His voice trails off and there's a pause. Sometimes I worry. He's been living alone in Chicago, in the home I grew up in, for most of the last seventeen years. But I left that home more than half my lifetime ago, and he still has trouble accepting that except for visits, I'm not coming back.

"Dad, do what you think is best. If you want the space it's okay to sell it. If Nathan and I decide to have kids there are plenty of cheap bedroom sets around."

"But this is a nice set, been in the family for years. Not like the cheap stuff from that Swedish place you like..."

"Ikea?"

"Yeah. That stuff is made of cardboard. I wouldn't want my grandchild sleeping in a cardboard bed."

"Then maybe you should hold onto my bedroom set. Just in case."

"Fine. I just needed to know, one way or the other. So I won't sell it then."

"Sounds good, Dad."

"Okay, I'll talk to you later."

"Bye."

He hangs up first, then I set down the phone, wondering how many similar conversations we'll have this week. Dad never calls just to chat, there's always a question he needs an answer to. Once he gets the answer it takes him less than thirty seconds to get off the phone, but he'll keep calling back with the same question until he gets the answer he was looking for.

I get out of bed and walk towards the mirror, examining my morning face and hair. Not bad for a thirty-five year old with no makeup or comb. Time has been good to me, better than I deserve. The lines in my face are little ones, around my mouth and eyes, appearing mostly when I'm stressed or tired. My brown hair is still untouched by gray, and it's as thick and shiny as it was in my teens. That's the good news. I look down, away from my reflection, to examine my belly and thighs. Time hasn't been quite as good to me in this area, although still I can't complain. So what if I'm never a size eight again? There are worse things than being a size ten (or a size twelve on my bad days), and at least I have the big boobs to compliment my expanding hips and buttocks.

Truthfully, I've never been more insecure about my appearance than I am now. This is what marrying a man ten years my junior has done. Plus, Nathan isn't just any man; he's one who spends his days with size-two girls who dream up romantic scenarios with him as the hero. Early in our relationship Nathan confessed that quite a few of his students harbor crushes on him, but that's just par for the course, he said. It's what young teachers have to deal with.

I know he'd never take advantage of that; Nathan would sooner die than do something that unethical. But still, most of these girls are closer to his age than he is to mine. That's food for thought, if nothing else.

My reverie is broken by my phone ringing again.

I pick up. "Hi again, Dad."

"It's me, Sam." Through static and background noise, I hear Jane's voice.

"Where are you calling from?"

"I'm in my car. I'm sorry to call so early, it's just sort of an emergency...oh, crap!" A car horn blares. "Watch where you're going, asswipe!" Jane yells. "Sorry, Sam. Are you still there?"

"Still here."

"That jerk just totally cut me off."

I try to make my tone light. "Maybe you shouldn't be driving and talking on your cell phone at the same time?"

But my effort to speak diplomatically is wasted because she snaps at me anyway. "Please don't give me that lecture again, okay? I wouldn't have called if it wasn't an emergency. I... oh crap, hold on a second."

There's hushed swearing while I wait for the return of Jane's phone voice. "Sam?" she says, after a moment.

"Yeah," I say. "Still here."

"Anyway, you'll never believe what happened. This morning this woman from Milwaukee called. She saw our name on one of those adoption lists, and she's having her baby in, like, two weeks. She wants to interview Jake and me, because she's looking for a couple to give her baby to."

"That's great, Jane!"

"Yeah. But she wanted to meet today. No notice—I guess giving up the baby is a split second decision, so I don't know how much she can be trusted. But I'm driving to pick Jake up at work, and we're heading out. Can you cover my class at the college for me?"

"Um, I guess. Am I qualified to do that?"

"You'll be fine. Just show them how to use the video-editing equipment. You could do it in your sleep."

"Okay," I say, with more confidence than I feel.

"The class starts at three. You don't have to work today?"

"Nope," I lie. "It's not a problem. Don't worry about a thing, Jane. I've got everything covered."

"Thanks so much!"

I hear a knock at my door. Since when did I become in such high demand? "Jane, I've got to go. Good luck, and drive carefully!"

She thanks me and hangs up. I go to look through the peephole, and am horrified to see an unbearably familiar face, one that I know better than my own.

Without opening the door, I shout, "Collin, what do you want?"

He yells back, "I just need to check your stove, that's all."

"Why do you need to check my stove? It's fine."

"Sam, I have a key. Either open the door or I'll let myself in."

"Hold on." I run and throw on a pair of jeans and sweatshirt over my nightshirt, not taking the time to put a bra on as well. I cross my arms over my chest and hope nothing is too noticeable. I open the door and there he is, looking how he always looks, sort of like an older, bigger-nosed version of Orlando Bloom, but not like the strong, sexy guy in _Pirates of the Caribbean_. No, he's rather like the defeated yet unfortunately cute loser of _Elizabethtown_. Collin is the manager of our apartment building, and he's also the reason why I wound up in Shannon, Wisconsin, a small city perched on Lake Michigan, a few hours away from my hometown of Chicago.

"Why do you need to check my oven? It's fine."

"Because 2G had a leak. If she hadn't noticed it in time, the whole building could have blown up."

"So just because her oven was leaking gas you think all of them are?"

"They're all old ovens, Sam. I don't think it's a good idea to take chances." He grins. "Don't worry. I'm not making up excuses to see you. Believe me, I've moved on."

"So have I," I remind him.

"Thank God for small miracles" he says, as he moves past me into the kitchen. I follow him, and watch as he pulls out the stove, then bends down to examine the pipes behind it. Without turning to look at me he asks, "How's married life?"

"Great" I say. "Sorry you weren't invited to the wedding. It was really small and quick."

"Hopefully you can't say the same about your husband." He laughs at his own joke, while he raises himself up and pushes the oven back against the wall. Then he starts to fiddle with the stove dials. "Anyway, don't sweat it. I'm the last person you should have invited to your wedding. Although... it would have been nice if you told me yourself, rather than just adding his name to your lease."

I shift uncomfortably. "Sorry," I say. "I guess I thought, after everything that's happened between us, you wouldn't care."

He turns back around and his gray eyes squarely meet mine. "It's because of everything that's happened between us that I will always care."

I look down, switch my weight and hug my arms closer to my chest. "Is the stove okay?"

"Perfect," he says. Then without another word, he strides out of my apartment, so quickly it makes me wonder if his entire visit was a figment of my imagination, sort of like the questions you're left with at the end of that terrible Tom Cruise movie. What was it? Oh yeah— _Vanilla Sky_. I hate it when movies leave you wondering like that. If the entire story was supposed to be an invention of the main character's thoughts or dreams, fine. But at least be clear about it so the audience won't feel like they just wasted $10 and two hours of their life.

Uhgg. I've been awake for less than twenty minutes and already I'm having a bad day, and seeing Nathan is the only thing I can think of that will make me feel better. I look at the clock. It's at least 6 hours until he gets home, and I have to find someone to cover for the first part of my shift (Yeah, I lied to Jane about not having to work. Why complicate things with the truth?).

I stroll into the bathroom and turn the shower faucet on. The water coming out is hot and steams up the tiny space. I stand in front of the mirror, watching as my reflection slowly disappears.

Read the rest of Starring in the Movie of My Life

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# About the Author

Laurel Osterkamp was a comedy writer in Minneapolis before she began writing novels. Her first novel, _Following My Toes_ , has been a Kindle best seller and won the 2008 Indie Excellence Award for Chick Lit. _Starring in the Movie of My Life_ received honors in the 2011 Indie Excellence Awards for Chick Lit, and in the 2011 International Book Awards for Women's Fiction and Young Adult Lit. She currently teaches high school, and is working on a sequel to _Campaign Promises_.

Discover other titles by Laurel Osterkamp at Smashwords.com:

Following My Toes

Looking for Ward

Starring in the Movie of My Life

To learn more about Laurel Osterkamp and her books, visit her website:

http://www.LaurelOsterkamp.com

Laurel's Blog: http://laurelosterkamp.blogspot.com/
