Chapter Ten
Three hours earlier
Gale’s Rolls Royce sped across town with the benefit of a small security detail and a police cruiser assigned to ensure the safety of the presidential progeny. Washington, DC traffic is notoriously bad and because many of its residents rotate in and out of the city every two, four, or six years, their careers synchronized to the House, Presidential, and Senate election calendar, there is a constant influx of new bad drivers from cities across the country, who are all convinced they are the good drivers. Snow baffles the visiting Southerners. Rain confuses the Californians. Avenues that run neither east, west, north or south flummox the New Yorkers and those from Chicago. And, of course, any city with streets that run in a straight line for any distance leaves Bostonians at a loss. Add a healthy dose of tourism to the mix, and without a police escort, there’s no ten-minute trip in the city that can’t be easily turned into a thirty-minute slog.
“This is awesome!” noted Kayla from the backseat. She was enjoying every minute of this glimpse into how the other one-percent live while Web was still trying to work out how he ended up in the backseat of a car with a girl he’d just met. The result was that Kayla kept up a steady stream of questions and comments for Gale, while Web just looked mildly ill, having given up trying to piece together the sequence of events that resulted in him inviting this strange girl to the White House.
“It must be nice to get a police escort everywhere you go,” said Kayla.
“Oh, this isn’t for me,” replied Gale. “They’re here to make sure we don’t kidnap the son of the President. I usually have to get around town on my own.”
“Well, at least you get a sweet car,” observed Kayla, while reverently patting the red leather of the back seat.
“That’s nice of you to say, dear. It’s mine, actually. The government issued option is a bit more understated,” Gale commented, without the least bit of embarrassment or apology.
“Gale has a lot of money,” interjected Web, in a socially awkward blinding glimpse of the obvious.
Completely oblivious to polite conventions regarding the discussion of personal wealth among people who both have it and those who do not, Web barged onward. “Base price of this sucker is like one hundred fifty thousand dollars, but this one definitely has some upgrades. What’d it set you back, Gale, like one-seventy-five?”
The driver exhaled loudly and gripped the wheel, as though it might try to escape.
“Web, please,” Gale chastised. “You’re upsetting my assistant who believes I will deduct from his paltry salary any scratches to the paint.”
“Your assistant gets to drive this sweet car?” Web asked, astonished at the blind luck of some assistants.
“He gets to do many things, Web, including actual work for the country, but yes, driving this sweet car occasionally is one of them,” she admitted.
“Does he have a name?” asked Kayla, on behalf of assistants everywhere.
“No,” replied Gale.
“Tripp,” said Tripp. Gale sighed.
“We’re here,” Tripp announced, in a voice usually reserved for parents completing an eight hour road trip with children under the age of ten who ate too much cotton candy despite being told not to and then puked in the back of the car, which was totally predictable . . . godammit.
“Come on,” Web called, having immediately jumped out of the car and started for the side door to the White House, leaving Kayla and Gale behind.
“I think he means you,” Gale suggested.
“He doesn’t do this much, does he?” asked Kayla.
“I would suspect not. Good luck, and it was very nice to meet you, Kayla,” Gale said.
Kayla waved as Gale and Tripp drove away, then ran after Web. He was about a hundred feet ahead and showed no sign of slowing. Finally, at the door, which was bookended by two Marine guards, Web paused briefly to explain that Kayla was with him.
Fifteen minutes later, she found him in the kitchen sitting in front of a tub of cookies-n-cream ice cream. She pulled a tall stool up next to him. Between mouthfuls, Web nodded toward a basket on the counter filled with spoons.
“What took you so long?” he asked, as he recovered from his third brain freeze. Interestingly, there is a strong correlation between people who suffer multiple brain freezes and those who knock their toothbrush into the toilet, yet never move the cup that holds the toothbrush to the other side of the sink.
“Strangely, the Secret Service agents at the door would not simply take my word for it that I was not a terrorist,” she said acidly.
“I told them you were with me,” Web countered.
“Uh, huh. Well, they don’t take your word for it either,” she said and scooped out a huge spoonful of ice cream.
“They didn’t tase you, did they?” Web asked between bites.
“No, they checked my ID,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “You are a strange kid. You know that, right? Not that I don’t appreciate the ice cream.” Kayla had a knack for verbal tightrope walking.
“Want to see my room?” Web asked, oblivious to the potential layers of meaning, innuendo, awkwardness, appropriateness, and the short and long term relationship implications of the question. Kayla stared at Web for a moment, realized there were no layers, no innuendo, no implications . . . just awkwardness.
“Sure,” she said.
“Great. Come on.”
“Shouldn’t we put away the ice cream?” she asked.
He stopped. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean?’ The container is half full. You can’t leave it out here.”
“I guess. I never thought about it.”
“You’ve never thought about what happens to ice cream after you leave the room?”
“It’s always back in the fridge when I want some,” he said with great unrecognized privilege. Lest you think too poorly of Web, know that prior to his mother’s lucrative separation from the small family unit that was the Stocktons, both parents were frequent users of the extendable child leash, which allowed them the appearance of responsibility in lieu of actually paying that much attention to young Web. Therefore, Web’s personality is not far off from one of a puppy who is constantly shocked when his parents actually return home and has a very short recall of any consequences for his actions. Web also occasionally likes to pee outside.
Kayla put the ice cream back into the freezer and followed Web down a nondescript hallway that did not seem to be part of any public part of the residence. At the end of the hall was an elevator, and inside the elevator seated on a small stool that folded out from the side wall was an African American woman in her sixties with well-styled gray hair and a warm smile. Her name was Jordan and she was an elevator operator. She was not trapped in a time bubble, but was in fact a modern day literal button pusher. She was also one of the few White House staff who thought there might be more to young Web Stockbridge than he was given credit for. This was based on little more than her belief that most people had more going on than they were given credit for and also that most people didn’t know a darn thing about nothing. Jordan had strongly held beliefs that were not always, strictly speaking, internally consistent.
“What do you know, Mr. Stockbridge? she asked as Web and Kayla stepped into the elevator.
“Nothing,” said Web.
“Uh huh,” nodded Jordan.
“Hi, I’m Kayla,” said Kayla.
“Nice to meet you, Kayla. I’m Jordan. Where are you two heading?”
“Third floor, Jordan. I’m taking Kayla to my room,” Web offered.
“Are you now. Well that’s interesting,” Jordan. “I could be forgetting. If so, I apologize, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before, Kayla. Where did you two meet?” Jordan was not forgetting. Jordan did not forget anything. Jordan had stories she could tell. Oh yes, she did. She would not tell those stories, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
“I’m staying over in Anacostia with my dad. The President was visiting the shelter. Web offered to give me a tour of all the secret passageways,” Kayla said enthusiastically.
Web paled. He’d forgotten that part. He looked at Jordan with panic clear in his eyes.
“Secret passageways, huh? I’d stay out of those today. Rats, you know. Exterminators are working on them right now,” Jordan said. Before either teenager could ask any questions she pushed the button for the third floor and the doors closed. Fortunately, an= White house elevator operator can hold the doors open for as long as she wants and only start the journey upwards when ready, which is a great advantage to someone running to catch a ride or to a narrative that needs a little extra time before slamming the door on questions.
As much as one could say there was a sense of privacy in a building filled with armed guards and sharpshooters on the roof, the third floor of the White House was where one might find it. Web’s father’s room wasn’t even on the same floor and no one but Web was allowed into Web’s room, except for his two Secret Service agents, but they had to knock when he was there. Well, there was also the maid, but she only came when he wasn’t there or was sleeping really late. And the steward only came in to collect empty bowls of ice cream and sometimes things broke by accident and had to be fixed, so there were some people who did that. But, aside from that, Web had the room to himself, and his collection of teddy bears. Oh, shit.
Web froze in the doorway to his room.
“Um, do you have a hobby, you know, collect things or anything?” he asked, as he continued to block Kayla’s access to his room.
“My dad and I have two suitcases and a backpack. No, I don’t collect things,” she stated.
“What about before, you know, when you weren’t, well, you know,” Web tried.
“This is stupid. Are we going into your room or not,” Kayla asked, growing impatient and a little annoyed. She pushed Web aside and walked into the room.
“I like bears!” Web stammered.
“You sure as shit do,” Kayla whispered. She was staring at a goddamn Build-a-Bear Workshop masquerading as a bedroom. No, it was like someone had knocked over every milk bottle at every county fair on the eastern seaboard and in every case said, “I’ll take the bear.” Or maybe, it was like stumbling into an archtophilists convention. The point is, there were a lot of teddy bears in Web’s room. So many, in fact, that discerning the actual shape and contents of the room made Kayla wonder if the secret passageways were all right in front of her, but hidden beneath a pile of fake fur. There was a bunk bed against the far wall and she thought she could see hints of a navy blue comforter. Taking the theme to extremes, the walls were covered in posters, all bear-themed. She suspected the presence of chairs, but would have to defer judgement until more evidence could be uncovered.
“Where did you get all of them?” Kayla asked, still processing the various personality disorders possibly at play here.
“I’ve been collecting them during my gap year,” he said. Picking up a dark brown, mid-sized bear, he added, “this one’s from North Dakota. We drove through there on the way to a state my dad cared about.”
“Wait, you’re going to college next year? How old are you?” Kayla asked.
“What? Oh no. I’m taking my gap year now, after tenth grade. Maybe I’ll take another before college. You should try it. It’s fun. You don’t have to do anything. It’s like being a grown-up.”
“I think we have very different ideas about what being a grown-up means. What else do you do aside from collect bears?” Kayla asked, sensing the part of the Venn diagram that overlapped their interests, life experiences and understanding of reality, was very small.
“I play video games. We could do that. Do you want to?” Web asked while casually tossing a stack of twelve bears off of a chair so there would somewhere to sit other than the bed.
“Sure. That’s cool,” she said, and sat in the chair while he started clearing another stack of bears to free a second chair and the game system from their furry cocoon.
Suddenly one of the bears at Kayla’s feet began to buzz. She kicked the bear aside and picked up a phone.
“Text message for you,” she said handing Web the phone. “Never seen that app before.”
“Can you keep a secret?” Web asked winking conspiratorially, which came off more like an awkward facial tic, but Kayla got the idea. She said she could.
Can
you talk now?
And you know the rest . . .
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