I run back to the phone and once again call the operator. She tells me my message was sent to Trey. He still hasn't responded. They must be starting. "Nora, get up!" I shout, rushing to her side. I grab her by her wrists and try to pull her to her feet. She won't help; she just sits there. "C'mon!" I yell, pulling harder. "Get up!" She still won't budge.
Circling around to the back of the scorekeeper's seat, I throw my tie over my shoulder, slide my arms under her armpits, and when I have her in full Heimlich, I lift as hard as I can. She's all deadweight. There's a sharp pop in my back, but I ignore it. Sure, I'm tempted to just leave her and let her hang--fourteen strikes and you're out. The thing is, if I don't get her on this show . . . Shit. Sometimes I hate myself in this place. It's a damn TV show. All this bullshit for a TV show. "Nora, for Godssakes, stand up!"
With one final yank, she's up and out. We can still make it, I tell myself, but the second I get her upright, her legs give out under her. We tumble forward, completely off-balance. With a thud, she's back on the floor--both of us flat on our asses.
As I watch her, we're both breathing heavily. However we got here, our chests rise and fall at the exact same pace. Searching for distinction, I slow my breathing and break away. For the next thirty seconds, I keep her sitting upright, watching the color come back to her face. I don't have a choice--if we want to get out of here, she needs a minute. Slowly, she picks her head up. "I mean it, Michael--I didn't mean to break my promise to you."
"So this just happened by itself?"
"You don't understand."
"I don't understand? You're the one who--"
Before I can finish, the door to the bowling alley swings open and Trey steps in carrying a compact and a blush brush. I'm tempted to be relieved--until I see who's following him. Susan Hartson. Despite the atomic hairspray, her light brown hair bobs angrily against her shoulders, and in the fluorescent light of the bowling alley, her facecake of makeup no longer hides her sharp features. Refusing to touch anything, she steps into the room like a mother stepping into a fraternity house.
"Can she make it?" she barks.
"They just hit the intro," Trey tells me, rushing forward. "We've got three minutes."
I pull Nora to her feet, but she's still off-balance. Catching her, I let her take a second. She's propped against my shoulder with her arms hooked around my neck. It takes her a moment, and she's still leaning, but she quickly wins the battle to stand up straight.
At the same time, the First Lady fights her way past Trey, stepping forward until she's face-to-face with her daughter. And me. Without a word, Mrs. Hartson licks her thumb and angrily spit-shines the last remnants of blood from Nora's nose.
"Sorry, Mom," Nora says. "I didn't mean to--"
"Shut up. Not now."
I feel Nora tense up. Within a breath, she's standing on her own. She lifts her chin and looks her mother in the eye. "Ready to go, Mom."
Following the acidic smell, the First Lady glares down at the vomit on my shirt, then, without moving her head, lifts her steady gaze to look me straight in the eyes. I'm not sure if she's blaming me or just studying my face. Eventually, she blurts, "Think she can do it?"
"She's been doing it for years," I shoot back.
"Mrs. Hartson," Trey jumps in, "we can still--"
"Tell them we're on our way," the First Lady says, her eyes never leaving me.
Trey darts for the exit. Turning back to her daughter, the First Lady grasps Nora's arm and pulls her toward the door. There's no time for goodbyes. Nora leaves first and Mrs. Hartson follows. I just stand there.
When they're gone, I look over my shoulder and see Nora's purse on the scorekeeper's table. So damn stupid. Shoving the keys and tissues back inside, I notice the silver metal tube that looks like lipstick. If I leave it out, someone'll find it. Good--maybe that's the best way to help her. For a full minute, I don't move, my mind playing through the consequences. This isn't a rumor about a backseat in Princeton. This would be drugs in the White House. My eyes focus on the shiny metal tube, watching it gleam as the ceiling lights bounce off it. It's so polished, so perfect--in its convex curve, I see a warped version of myself. Me. It's all up to me. All I have to do is hurt her.
Right.
Like a little kid playing jacks, I scoop up Nora's tube, grip it in my fist, and with a short prayer, shove it deep down in my pants pocket, praying this isn't the moment I'll forever look back on with regret.
* * *
A quick stop in the men's room sends the rest of Nora's Special K down the sink before I finally head back to my office. For the next hour, my eyes are glued to my small TV. Hartson's schmoozing must've worked--Stulberg's opening ran over by a solid two minutes, giving Nora just enough time to change into a new dress and put some blush on her cheeks.
As expected, most of the questions go to the President, but Stulberg's no dummy. America loves the family--which is why the sixth question goes to Nora. And the seventh. And the tenth. And the eleventh. And the twelfth. With each one, I hold my breath. But whatever she's asked, whether it's about her indecisive post-graduation plans, or what it's like moving back into the White House, Nora takes it in. Sometimes she stutters, sometimes she tucks her hair behind her ear, but for every answer, she's all poise and smiles--never an argument. She even gets in a joke about being called the First Freeloader, a subtle moment of humility that'll have the Sunday talk show pundits gushing over themselves with praise.
At nine o'clock it's over, and I'm honestly amazed. Somehow, as always, Nora pulled it off--which means any minute now, someone's going to . . .
"What kind of medal do I get?" Trey asks as my office door swings open. "Purple Heart? Medal of Honor? Red Badge of Courage?"
"What's the one for when you take it in the gut?"
"Purple Heart's for when you're wounded."
"Then that's the one you get."
"Fine. Thank you. You get one too." Reaching my sofa, Trey collapses in it. We're both deathly silent. Neither of us has to say a word.
Eventually, though, I give in. "Did the First Lady say anything to you?"
Trey shakes his head. "Like it never happened."
"What about Nora?"
"She mouthed a thank you on the way out." Sitting up straight, he adds, "Let me tell you something, my friend--that girl is Queen of the Psychos, know what I'm saying?"
"I don't want to get into it."
"Why? You're suddenly so busy?"
There's a loud knock on my door.
I glance over at Trey. "Who is it?" I call out.
The door opens and a familiar figure steps inside. My mouth goes dry.
Reading my expression, Trey looks over his shoulder. "Hey, Pam," he says nonchalantly.
"Nice job on the interview," she replies. "They're still celebrating in the Dip Room. Even Hartson looked relaxed."
Trey can't help but beam. My eyes stay locked on Pam. I can read it in her smile. She has no idea what we've seen. Or what we know.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"Nothing," she replies. "Meanwhile, did you see the online poll NBC did with the Herald? After the interview, they asked one hundred fifth-graders if they wanted to be Nora Hartson. Nineteen said yes because they could get away with whatever they wanted. Eighty-one said no because it wasn't worth the headache. And they say our education policy is having no effect? Please--eighty-one of them are Einsteins."