The State of Us by Shaun David Hutchinson Page 0,1
songs with a whisk while making pancakes, was afraid of lizards, forced me to attend ridiculous political events when I had better things to do, and had gone from Dad of the Year to Dad Who? in the span of an election cycle.
“This will get easier, Dre.”
“You mean when you’re president and we have Secret Service agents controlling our every move, and we have to be doubly concerned about the press examining the minute details of our private lives and roasting us for every fumble and fuckup?”
“Language, Dre,” my mom said from where she was standing with Jose Calderon, my father’s dictatorial campaign manager, pretending not to listen in.
Dad chuckled. “It won’t be that bad.”
“It’s already that bad.”
“Then at least it can’t get much worse.” My dad slung his arm around me and pulled me into a hug. I caught Dean watching us, and he quickly turned away like the affection embarrassed him. I figured his parents probably thought there was something unmanly about a father hugging his son. Dean and his dad probably exchanged firm handshakes and the occasional nod.
“Besides,” my dad went on. “I might not even win.”
“What do you think I wish for every night before I go to sleep?”
“Andre?” Jose was waving for my attention. “The photographer wants a couple with just the children.”
“I’m seventeen, so, not a child.”
“Do it for me,” Dad said.
“Not a chance,” I replied, but my dad was already pushing me toward Dean, who was standing in front of a tall American flag.
“I know you hate this, Dre, but it’s important to me, okay?”
I shook my head. “Whatever. But you owe me so big. Like, maybe it’s finally time to buy me a car big.”
Dad clapped me on the shoulder. “Not a chance. Have fun!”
Fun. Sure. I couldn’t imagine any world where spending a single second with Dean Arnault would be considered fun, but I trudged toward him anyway because that was the sacrifice I was willing to make to help my father become president of the United States.
Dean
THE PHOTOGRAPHER WAVED at me. “Move in a little closer. I’m sure he won’t bite.” I threw a glance at my mother, who was clustered off to the side with the Rosarios, laughing at something someone had said, though I couldn’t imagine what anyone could possibly find amusing about this situation.
“He’s wrong, you know,” Andre said quietly as I scooted closer to him. “I do bite.”
Andre had huge eyes that were an algae green, framed by long eyelashes. His dark hair was wavy, hung down over his forehead, and it managed to look like he spent a lot of time styling it and also like he rolled out of bed with it looking that way. I admit to being jealous. I’d had the same haircut my entire life, and I doubted Nora, my mom’s campaign manager, would have allowed me to change it without first polling potential voters.
I threw my arm around Andre’s shoulders and put on my most winning smile to prove to him that he couldn’t get to me.
“That’s it!” the photographer said, and started snapping away.
This wasn’t the first time I’d met Andre Rosario. Our parents’ campaigns crossed paths more often than people might expect. I also knew him from Dreadful Dressup, the website where he and his partner, Mel, posted photos and videos of monster makeup tutorials. Before Mr. Rosario had won the Democratic Party’s nomination, more people had recognized Andre’s name than his father’s. But this was the first time we’d said more than five words to one another, and I honestly wasn’t yet sure whether to treat him as friend or foe.
“I didn’t pick them out,” I said, trying to make conversation while the photographer moved us into different positions.
“What?”
“The socks.” I raised my pant leg to reveal one of the socks, which were gray with bright cartoon bumblebees on them. They didn’t really match the suit. “A stylist chose them for me.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“How so?”
Andre mugged for the camera a few more times before the photographer finally declared we were done. My parents had drifted down the hallway, and I was turning to join them when Andre said, “I’d been telling Mel, she’s my best friend, that you usually dress like you’re heading to a funeral, which I guess is appropriate tonight since my dad’s here to bury your mom, but then I saw the socks and thought I’d misjudged you a tiny bit, only I guess I hadn’t.”