Most of all, I wanted to pretend that I still believed I lived in a world where hair and jeans really mattered. But I didn't. So I just thought about my mission and stared out into the crowd.
And then I disappeared.
The Essentials of Being a Chameleon By Cameron Ann Morgan
1. It's very important, at all times, to look like you belong.
2. When #I is difficult, try pointing to imaginary people and walking purposefully toward no one.
3. Stillness. Stillness is key (except when you're doing #2) because people see motion more easily than they see things. So when in doubt, freeze.
4. It totally helps if you aren't all that special looking (in either really good or really bad ways).
5. Acquaint yourself with your surroundings ASAP.
6. Dress in a way that isn't flashy, fashionable, ugly, or obscene.
7. Hiding is for amateurs.
"This is…wow," Bex said ten minutes after we'd arrived at the park … or what I think was supposed to be a park.
A long grassy promenade covered at least two city blocks. Beautiful historic buildings lined the space, but at the far end, someone had erected a stage. Bleachers circled behind it, facing the lawn, and from where Bex and I stood it seemed like half of Ohio had come out to see Macey's triumphant return.
Over the loudspeakers I heard a local politician trying to make the people on the bleachers behind him chant "Winters" while the people on the grass in front of the stage were told to yell "McHenry."
"Are American politics always so…crazy?" my best friend whispered.
I wanted to tell her that this was nothing compared to the insanity of the convention (because, for example, I hadn't seen anyone with hats shaped like produce…yet), but somehow bringing up Boston didn't seem like a good idea, so instead I just nodded and tried to squeeze through the crowds.
A massive banner (that I'm fairly sure was also bulletproof) circled the stage, reading walk the walk. I turned and scanned the long stretch of barricades that ran through the center of the crowd. A huge tour bus turned onto the street and stopped at the end of the alleyway that cut through the audience. Its doors swung open, and somewhere in the distance, the Tri-County High School Marching Band started to play as Governor Winters and The Senator stepped out and started down the long promenade full of hands to shake and babies to kiss—two thousand screaming people, any one of whom could have given me the bump on my head.
In my ear I heard a steady stream of unfamiliar voices.
"Sir, could you remove your hands from your pockets, please?" a tall Secret Service agent asked the man behind me.
"Delta team, I don't like the looks of the guy on the library steps. I repeat, the library steps."
Instantly, I felt the entire junior CoveOps class from the
Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women pivot to see a guy in a trench coat approach a man in a plaid shirt and block his view of the candidates, who were passing in the street below them.
A group of women were waving a sign that read god bless you, macey and preston, and as if on cue, Preston ran toward the women and hugged them while, twenty feet away, CNN carried the whole scene live and in color.
But Macey didn't run anywhere. Or hug anyone (which is totally in character anyway—kidnapping attempt or not). Instead she held her father's hand. She waved. She smiled.
"We have to be perfect every second of every day, ladies." I've heard Joe Solomon say some pretty heady stuff in the past two years, but I don't think I'd ever heard him sound more solemn than when he said, "The bad guys just have to get lucky…once."
And then I couldn't help it. I thought about Boston, I thought about luck. I thought about how close we came to having a very bad ending to our summer vacation.
"I don't know if any of you will go into protection services someday or not, ladies, but if you do…" Mr. Solomon's voice was soft in my ear, steady against the din of Secret Service orders, "This is your worst nightmare."
At that moment, I'm pretty sure Bex wanted to drag our roommate into the nearest bulletproof automobile and drive back to Roseville as quickly as humanly possible. But that wasn't going to happen because 1) the real Secret Service might shoot us if we tried, 2) the CNN correspondents might have some interesting questions if Bex took out Senator McHenry's body men with two well-placed kicks, and 3) our midterm grades were probably riding on doing exactly not that, and as if we needed reminding, our teacher's voice was a constant in our ears.
"Given the wind velocity and direction, the greatest threat from sniper assault is where, Ms. Morrison?"
Bex and I looked at each other and mouthed, "The church steeple," just as Mick said those very words.
"Four members of the Secret Service have infiltrated the protesters across the street, Ms. Fetterman," Mr. Solomon asked again. "Identify the agents."