The Wrong Side of Right (33 page)

EPILOGUE

Friday, March 24

A Perfectly Ordinary Day

140 DAYS SINCE
THE CAMPAIGN ENDED

“So you’re telling me you don’t want to meet the Prime
Minister of England.”

I laughed, shouldering my backpack. “Yes, Andy, I want to meet the Prime Minister of the
United Kingdom
—”

“See? This is why I need you.”

“But I’m not sure it’s—”

“It’s not like you haven’t been to the White House before.”

“This is different.” I shook my head. “That was your living room. This is a
state dinner
. It’s a . . . big public thing.”

“And?” He smiled, teasing.

“And . . . I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay out so late the night before a calculus test.”

He opened the door for me and we emerged onto the gleaming front lawn of Farnwell Prep, its borders bright with the spring’s first tentative blooms.

“Such a goody-goody.” He slung his arm around me. “You know the rest of the year doesn’t matter, right? You’ve already sent in your application. And you’re Mark Cooper’s kid. Legacy goldmine.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Well.” He grinned. “I didn’t say I was worried about
my
chances either.”

“Yes.” I turned to face him, spotting the limo rounding the long circular drive to the school, a small presidential seal emblazoned on its side. “I’ll come to the dinner.”

“Dress sharp.” Andy squinted in mock-concern and I swatted him away, but he caught my wrist and pulled me in for a kiss. The bite of the wind vanished as I nestled into him, feeling one of his hands steady against my waist, the other tracing my arm. I could have stayed like that forever, but behind us, Jake Spinnaker led a group of onlookers in a round of wolf whistles and we broke apart, blushing.

Andy pointed at me. “See you Sunday, Quinn.”

I drove home in my trusty old Buick with the windows down, euphoria dampened by the dread I felt at the prospect of bringing up Andy’s invitation. Never mind that it came from Andy, still not exactly their top choice of boyfriend material for me, even after five months of on-the-record dating.
This was an invitation to a state dinner. At the White House. Where we didn’t live. I’d have to play this one very carefully.

When I pulled up at our actual, perfectly lovely house, Meg was standing in the doorway. I was surprised to see her—since she’d started at Georgetown, she’d been pretty much locked in her office making up for lost academic time. I hoped nothing was wrong.

Shutting off the car, I hurried to greet her. Her face was serious.

“Your father needs to talk to you.”

My heart thudded. With his name on three pieces of legislation going to the Senate floor next week, he was meant to be pounding the pavement in DC today, drumming up as much support as possible. “What’s happened?”

“I’m going to let him tell you.”

He was waiting for me in the study. As I stepped into the room, he stood, his expression grave.

“What’s up?” I glanced behind me, hearing Gracie and Gabe scurrying in behind me. Whatever had happened, the whole family was concerned about it. And he still hadn’t said anything. I stomped my foot. “Tell me!”

His face melted into a smile and we all held our breath. This was not the old, TV-ready, Cooper for President grin. It was a much rarer thing these days—a crinkly smile that flickered, wavered, didn’t quite beam. It fought to appear and never stayed as long as we hoped it would. But it was his real smile, the authentic face of Mark Cooper, who didn’t know who he was anymore, or where he was going. My father—sad, disillusioned, finding his footing a little more every day.

I loved this smile. And it was still on his face when he pulled an envelope from behind him.

It said Harvard. It was thick.

“Open it!” He tossed it at me, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “I’m dying here!”

I tore open the top, trembling, and peeked at the cover letter before glancing up again with flushed cheeks. “I’m in.”

The room erupted in cheers, but before my father could dance me all the way around the room, I moved away, arms crossed. This was too golden an opportunity to pass up.

“Now I just have to hear back from all the other schools, and I’ll make my decision.”

His face clouded like a puppy whose treat has been taken away. “What other schools? We’re talking about
Harvard
here! My alma mater!”

“And I’ll give it serious consideration.”

I couldn’t hold a straight face, and besides, Meg was already groaning.

“Mark, she’s giving you a hard time . . .”

“I guess we’re not grilling tonight in celebration, then,”
he said over her, and the twins let out shouts of protest. This was the warmest day of the year so far, and they were delirious with cabin fever.

“Light the grill,” I announced. “I’m going to Harvard!”

Upstairs, I changed out of my school clothes and glanced around my room. The ballroom-gowned granddame had been taken down at my request, replaced by the painting that Mr. Diaz had sent me as a very belated birthday gift.

“He wanted to give it to you in LA,” Penny had explained to me. “But that day got complicated.”

The understatement of the year.

I gazed at it now, the long road disappearing into the horizon. In this room, it was placed so that sunlight reached it from the bay window, making it seem cheerier, more optimistic. I liked it better than ever.

On another wall, I’d framed a collection of sketches by my genius brother, Gabe, as well as a couple of photos from the campaign summer. And on my bedside table, I’d placed a photo of my mom.

This shot was taken only a few months before the accident. The light was dusty around her, another arid day at the food bank. Here it made her glow, that beatific look that saints had in religious paintings. But if you looked closer, you could see that her shirt was dirty, some errant stain from a spilled lunch that was captured and memorialized forever. It was perfect. It was exactly the mother I knew.

I wished she were staring back at me from inside the frame, that she could see the home I’d made here, the people I had all around me. I wished she knew that I was okay, happy even. That I’d found out, and that I didn’t judge her or blame her, but loved her even more somehow. And that I missed her, too. That I’d never stop missing her.

Outside, the twins were yelling, and the smell of smoke told me that my dad had lit the grill.

I gave my mom one more smile and went downstairs to join my family.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My name might be on the cover, but this book truly belongs to the friends, family, and colleagues whose generosity, perceptiveness and overall dazzling brilliance brought this story and its characters to life.

First, to my wonderful agent, Katelyn Detweiler, who honored me beyond words by choosing me as her very first client, then promptly blew me away with her editorial skills, daily kindnesses, and business know-how. I’m glad to have you as a coconspirator and career guide—you’ve made me a cheerful and extremely grateful author. Thanks to Jill Grinberg and Cheryl Pientka as well, for their unwavering enthusiasm, support, and astute notes, along with Samantha Brody, Lindsay Sugarman, and Ellie Jurchisin, whose input helped whip this story into shape.

To my exceptional editor, Jessica Garrison—it’s been so fun and fulfilling to live in this book world with you, to talk about the characters as if they were real and draw them more fully onto the page. Your editorial expertise and insights into human behavior have improved both my writing and this book immeasurably. Thank you for believing in a debut author, for caring about this book as much as I do, and for being a friend through the whole process.

My enormous appreciation to the whole team at Dial and Penguin Books for Young Readers, especially Lauri Hornik, Liz Waniewski, Dana Chidiac, and Namrata Tripathi, for their invaluable feedback at
various stages of the book’s life; to Heather Alexander for her above-and-beyond support; to Regina Castillo, copy editor extraordinaire, master logician, and wrangler of unruly calendars; and to the talented Jason Henry and Lindsey Andrews for so perfectly capturing the spirit of the book in their book and jacket design.

Lots of love to Donna Gordon, Charlotte Jones, and Pamela Thorne, my three moms, earliest draft readers, and biggest cheerleaders. Affection and appreciation as well to Emily Derr, Lexi Beach, and Adrienne Harris for being my best supporters, inspirations, and friends for the past . . . hrrmverylongtime.

Thank you Susan Johnston and the Wednesday Ladies for fueling my momentum every week from that sunny bungalow in Santa Monica when I first started on this path to writing—and for introducing me to my husband, as well! That was an excellent bonus. Thanks also to the online WriteStuffExtreme crew for your guidance and encouragement from the earliest germ of an idea and scraps of chapters, especially Mary Baader Kaley and Mary Frame, who read my first solid draft and managed to bolster my confidence even as they provided wonderful notes for improvement.

I am grateful to the amazing debut groups that have generously welcomed me into their ranks: OneFour KidLit, The Fearless Fifteeners, and—especially—the incredible ladies of the Freshman Fifteen, who have provided me lively entertainment, free therapy and boundless encouragement throughout the publishing process. (Buy their books next. They are fantastic!) Thanks and kisses to my boys, Oliver and Henry, the best distractions in the world, to my dog, Molly, for always looking interested when I read her passages out loud, and to my husband, Rob—thank you for taking this journey with me, from the moment we met and I declared myself a writer to the millions of little moments when you
insisted I make good on that promise. I love you madly and I’m grateful beyond measure.

And lastly, a special thank-you to the wonderful Elise Rainville, who left this world much too young. Without her loving child-care and good company, this book would not have been possible. We will miss you forever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jenn Marie Thorne graduated from NYU-Tisch with a BFA in drama and quickly realized she was having more fun
writing
plays than actually performing in them. Then when a flurry of political scandals hit the news, Jenn wondered what the kids at the center of the media’s attention must be going through, and so began
The Wrong Side of Right
, her debut novel. Jenn lives and writes in beautiful Gulfport, Florida, alongside her husband, two sons, and hound dog Molly.