Much to everyone’s surprise, and probably his own, Tim thrives at Mom’s campaign office. He makes voter registration calls in twenty different accents. He convinces ordinary folks who believe in Mom to write in to local papers about how their lives have been changed because Senator Grace Reed cares. Within two weeks, he’s even writing short speeches for Mom. She and Clay can’t stop talking about him.

“That kid really has it all going on,” Clay marvels as we drive to yet another meet-and-greet, where I stand next to Mom, trying to look wholesome and supportive. “He’s got smarts and he’s wily. Always thinking on his feet.”

“Yeah, well. Turns out it’s all about manipulating things—and people,” Tim allows when I repeat this to him. We’re hanging out in the driveway of the Garretts’ house while Jase works on the Mustang. I’m sitting on the hood, on a blanket, which Jase sheepishly insisted on, saying he didn’t want any of the primer scratched off. He’s wrestling with some sort of wiring issue. “Who knew that years of lying and bullshitting would be so useful?”

“You’re cool with this?” Jase asks. “Hey, Sam, can you hand me the wrench? God knows what the guy who owned this before me did. Drag races? The clutch is completely burned out…and the five-speed’s making this whining noise even though it’s still operable. Plus all the u-joints are loose.”

“English, dude?” Tim requests as I hand Jase the wrench. He’s under the car, working hard, and I feel this urge to kiss the line of sweat trailing from his throat. I’m out of control.

“Somebody didn’t take care of this car,” Jase responds. “But you—sorry Sam—you don’t believe in anything Grace Reed is supporting, Tim. You aren’t even a Republican. Don’t you feel wrong helping her out?”

“Sure,” Tim answers easily. “But when haven’t I felt wrong? Nothin’ new there.”

Jase ducks out from below the Mustang, slowly straightening up. “That feels okay? ’Cause I can’t see how.”

Tim shrugs.

Jase ruffles his hair, the way he always does when he’s confused or hesitant.

“So Nan went to New York with the boyfriend this weekend,” Tim mutters.

I start. I didn’t know Nan was going somewhere with Daniel.

“From what I can see, he’s a conceited douche bag who’s only going to wind up hurting Nan. But did I stop her? Nope. I’ve made a million mistakes. Time for ol’ Nano to catch up.”

Jase’s fingers close on something in his tool kit. He slides under the car again. “You’ll feel so much better when she’s unhappy?”

“Maybe.” Tim reaches for the Mountain Dew he’s been nursing for the last half hour. “At least I won’t be alone.”

“Samantha, you’re slouching. Stand up straight and smile,” Mom whispers to me. I’m standing next to her at a Daughters of the American Revolution gathering, shaking hands. We’ve been here for an hour and a half and I’ve said “Please support my mother. She cares deeply about the State of Connecticut” approximately fifteen million times. And she does care. That much is true. I just find myself feeling worse, more guilty, at each event, about what she cares about.

I’m no political animal. I know about current events from the newspaper and discussions at school, but it’s not like I go to rallies or picket for causes. Still, the space between what I believe and what my mom believes seems to be widening by the day. I’ve heard Clay talking to her, telling her it’s great strategy, that Ben Christopher’s big weakness is that he’s too liberal, so the more Mom talks up the other side, the better for her. But…last time she ran, I was eleven. And she ran against this maniac who didn’t believe in public education.

But this time…I wonder how many children of politicians have thought the way I’m thinking right now, shook all those hands and said “Support my mom,” while thinking, “Just not what she stands for. ’Cause I don’t.”

“Smile,” Mom hisses through her teeth, bending to listen to a small, white-haired lady who is angry about some new construction on Main Street. “Things should have a certain look, and this does not! I am up in arms, Senator Reed, up in arms!”

Mom murmurs something soothing about making sure it complies with the bylaws, and having her staff look into it.

“How much longer?” I whisper.

“Until it ends, young lady. When you’re working on behalf of the people, you don’t have regular hours.”

I look off in the distance at one of Mom’s posters propped on a tripod—GRACE REED, FIGHTING FOR OUR FOREBEARS, OUR FAMILIES, OUR FUTURE—and try not to notice, just outside the French windows, the turquoise shimmer of a pool. I wish I could lunge into it. I’m hot and uncomfortable in the navy blue empire-waist dress Mom insisted I wear. “These are very conservative women, Samantha. You need to show as little skin as possible.”

I have a mad desire to rip off my dress. If everyone here screamed and fainted, we could all go home. Why didn’t I just tell Mom no? What am I, a mouse? A puppet? Clay rules Mom, Mom rules me.

“You didn’t need to be so unpleasant the entire time,” she says crossly as we’re driving home. “Some daughters would be thrilled to be involved in this. The Bush twins were everywhere when W ran.”

I have nothing to say to this. I pick at a pulled thread in the seam of my dress. Mom reaches over, closing her hand on mine to stop me. Her grip is firm. Then it relaxes. She takes my hand, squeezes.

“All that sighing and shuffling your feet.” She sighs. “It was embarrassing.”

I turn and stare at her. “Maybe you shouldn’t bring me along next time, Mom.”

She shoots me a sharp look, seeing right through that one. There’s steel in her eyes again, and she shakes her head. “I don’t know what Clay’s going to say about your little performance.”

Clay left a little early, to go back to the office and get more paraphernalia for the next event, a clambake in Linden Park, where I fortunately am not required.

“I don’t think Clay was paying attention to me. He only has eyes for you,” I tell her.

A flush crosses her cheekbones and she says softly, “You may be right. He’s very…dedicated.”