briefing my mother on the latest news or poll or scandal that might affect the election.
Observing my mother while she worked felt like sitting inside the eye of a hurricane, watching the mayhem swirl. It was intoxicating; I loved every second of it. This was the room where ideas were born. This was the room where policies were drafted. This was where people like my mother and her advisors made decisions that could affect hundreds of millions of people, and there was no one I trusted more than my mother to make those decisions. At the same time, watching my mother made me wonder if this was how I wanted to spend my life. I believed if I remained on the path I was following, I could be a good or even a great lawyer, and that I could follow my mother into politics, but I wasn’t certain I wanted to. Some of my favorite moments in debate weren’t when I won; they were when teammates I’d helped and encouraged won. Their successes meant more to me than my own. I loved studying new ideas and strategies and then explaining them to others. I wasn’t sure how to explain that to my mother or that she would have even understood.
“What’re you daydreaming about over there, Dean?” My mother tossed her tablet aside and sat on the sofa across from me, kicking off her shoes and resting her feet on the coffee table. “Did you forget to take your pills?”
I had the inattentive variant of ADD, therefore, instead of being hyper, my mind had a tendency to wander. Sometimes I could stare into space and lose track of an hour without realizing it. Medication didn’t fix the problem, but it got me halfway there. The rest required hard work and diligence, both of which I enjoyed.
“I took them.” The lines around my mother’s eyes were deeper and the bags under them were darker. “Rough day?”
“Jackson McMann is handing us our asses.”
“He’s a fad, Mom.”
“He was a fad. Now he’s a contender.” My mother’s frown betrayed her worry in a way I rarely saw. “The CPD’s added him to the next debate.”
“Seriously? The debate commission really let him in?”
She nodded soberly. “Nora’s been fighting it. She even reached out to her counterpart in the Rosario campaign to enlist his help, but McMann’s polling over fifteen percent and the commission will not be swayed.”
“Could you threaten to pull out?”
“And risk giving Rosario and McMann unchallenged airtime?” She waved me off like it was the silliest suggestion she had ever heard. “There is truly only one solution,” she said. “I’m going to have to assassinate him.”
“Mom!”
“I’m kidding, Dean,” she said. “Mostly.”
If my mother hadn’t been capable of taking out McMann herself, with or without a gun, I might have laughed, but she had been at least as fierce a soldier as she was a presidential candidate. Though she hadn’t been able to serve in a combat role while she’d served in the army, she had been part of a mission that had become stranded in unfriendly territory. Her commanding officer was gravely wounded, so my mother took command and led the survivors to safety, despite being injured herself. She had received the Medal of Honor and had captured the attention of a number of powerful people, many of whom eventually became instrumental in helping her begin her political career.
“You’ll have to settle for destroying him during the debate.”
My mother nodded, but she looked a bit frustrated by the notion that she couldn’t actually murder McMann. “Tell me about Belle Rose,” she said, changing the subject. “How did that go?”
This was the first time we’d had more than five minutes to talk since I had volunteered with Dre. Nora had been pleased with how well I’d done, and it had kept the news talking about us rather than Jackson McMann for nearly an entire day.
“It was fine.”
“Just fine?”
“We spent most of our time painting, and Dre isn’t so bad once you get to know him.”
My mother arched an eyebrow at me. “Dre?”
“He prefers it over Andre.”
“I see,” she said. “What was with that ridiculous outfit he was wearing? Did you forget to tell him he was going to be on TV?”
I suppressed a laugh, but couldn’t prevent the smile. “Oh, he knew.”
My mother pursed her lips, looking like she’d eaten a lemon. “Well, I’m certainly glad he’s not my problem.”
“Problem?”
“I’m sure he’s a nice boy, but I won the jackpot with you, though you could