The Chosen One Read online

  Susie flashed a malicious grin as she passed, snapping a photo of me on her iPhone. “Well, well, well, Piglet,” she said. “I would say congrats, but I don’t like to encourage cheaters.”

  “How does knowing the answers equate to cheating? You passed as well. Does that mean you cheated?” I asked, ignoring the nickname I’d earned at sixteen in an incident that irrevocably shaped my opinion on trusting girls, even childhood friends.

  Susie put a finger to her chin and cocked her head. “Please, we both know who’s smarter. And your family history screams the truth. Carmichaels love to discover the questions ahead of time. Like mother, like daughter.”

  “I didn’t know the questions were available.” I sensed my face was starting to match my hair. Reggie Quillian had accused my mother of cheating during the senatorial debates by bribing people for the questions ahead of time.

  “Yeah, right. You Carmichaels are all alike.” She triumphantly sashayed out, her hips swaying from side to side. I had to admit she had a nice ass. Not that I would ever pursue such an evil bitch, not even for an imagined romance.

  Aghast by her accusation, I fumed silently. The only person within hearing distance was Maya, and she was lost in her note-taking. Her pen never stilled during the brief confrontation. Was she deaf? No, that couldn’t be; she had raised her hand when prompted. Maybe she had a photographic memory and was literally transcribing the PowerPoint slides. Was this part of her study routine? Repetition?

  I pretended to peruse my cell phone for e-mails, stalling to catch one more glimpse of those eyes. Soon, it was just the two of us in the room. I cleared my throat, but Maya continued to scribble even as students for the next class filtered in.

  It was probably for the best, anyway. It wasn’t like I would consider dropping my no-girls rule, not even for Gray Eyes.

  Chapter Two

  I wandered to the coffee shop in the student union and logged into my student account on my iPad. I hadn’t checked my university account yet, so I was curious to see whether Dr. Gingas was fibbing. Sure enough, there was the syllabus and the pop quiz warning, along with all the questions. My next class wasn’t until eleven, so I opened up the syllabus and scanned the breakdown of assignments.

  My eyes zeroed in on the words “group project.” Just great. Every such project I had worked on in high school had been a complete failure. Not that I failed. No, I did all the work, and everyone received an A due to my diligence.

  I checked my e-mail and saw one from Mother. The subject line read, “What’s the nickname of Massachusetts?”

  I dashed out of the building. She answered on the first ring, laughing.

  “You knew?” I asked.

  “You still haven’t answered. What’s the nickname?”

  “The Bay State,” I said through gritted teeth. “Or the Baked Bean State.”

  She stopped laughing briefly. “Don’t forget the Old Colony State and the Pilgrim State.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  My mother, the senator, knew every history and political science professor at Whitlock.

  “Now that would be cheating. I believe today’s lesson is ‘always be prepared, even when you don’t think you need to be.’” I could feel her slimy politician smile over the phone. “What’s the first rule in politics?”

  “Know your adversary.” I grunted.

  I could hear someone talking to her, and the rustle of her hand covering the phone’s speaker. And then she was back. “If I’m not mistaken, your next class is at eleven. I hope you’re prepared this time.” She ended the call.

  My next class was an introduction to Shakespeare, and I knew full well she didn’t know the professor. Mom was purposefully trying to scare me, and it wasn’t working. Not completely.

  Chapter Three

  Around five, I finished up my final class for the day. I packed classes in on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, leaving Tuesdays and Thursdays to continue my volunteer and political work. This semester, I was to intern for Paulette Murray, a member of the Massachusetts senate, every Tuesday. On Thursdays, I was scheduled to help out at a homeless shelter for teens and a community center. My cousins teased that I was a do-gooder poser, which was better than what my peers said. Most accused me of wanting to pad my resume solely to get elected in the future. Volunteering was never an option in my family, but unlike most of my family members, I actually enjoyed community work. Making a difference in the lives of ordinary folks was hard to explain, except to say that it powered me through the rest of my obligations. Yes, my ultimate drive was to be president, but I wanted to be a president who would help change the lives of those in need. My motto was “Be like Abe.” He abolished slavery. I wanted to be as transformative, if not more.

  I walked through Harvard Square to meet my cousin Fiona for dinner. Several street musicians were camped out, guitar cases open for collecting tips. University students, tourists, and locals crammed the sidewalks, making it difficult to walk without bumping into someone or something.

  A thin woman in her twenties placed a paper in my palm. “Read,” she instructed. I couldn’t stop staring at her frizzy hair and bugged-out eyes. The crazy person tapped the paper again. “You must read.”

  “Me?” I tapped my chest.

  “It’s for you. Read,” she commanded.

  I held it up and read aloud, “‘The winds and waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators.’” I glanced up. “What the?” But the woman was gone. My eyes searched for her to no avail; the crowd gobbled her up, denying me a chance to ask questions. “Freak,” I muttered under my breath, tucking the paper into my bag.

  Twenty feet away I spied a girl in a black T-shirt and jeans rounding the corner of Brattle Street toward Mt. Auburn Street. She disappeared quickly, and I wasn’t entirely certain it was Gray Eyes, but my body was tingling like it had earlier. All thoughts of the mad woman who had accosted me seconds before faded from my brain.

  I wavered, trying to decide whether to head in the opposite direction to the restaurant so I wouldn’t be late meeting Fiona, or to chase after some girl who might not even be the mysterious Maya the Gray. Even if it was her, what was my plan? Slam her against a wall, say, “Hey, we’re going to be friends whether you want to or not,” and follow up by tossing an arm around her shoulder?

  Why the compulsion to chase after a girl I had no intention of seeking a relationship with?

  Screw it. I chased after Maya. If I found her, I’d go from there. I was fairly sure my initial plan would only get me arrested. I needed to channel suaveness. Think JFK.

  The black shirt disappeared into a trendy Parisian café called La Creperie. Perfect. I texted my cousin to meet me there, claiming I was in dire need of a caffeine fix and I’d heard through the family grapevine that this joint had the best java and crepes. As Fiona was a coffee junkie, I knew she wouldn’t complain.

  I stalled outside, scanning articles on HuffPo and praying Gray Eyes wasn’t getting her order to go. I glanced at my watch. Six minutes had passed. Surely she’d already ordered, and it was safe for me to venture inside.

  Think JFK.

  I opened the door.

  Maya stood to the side of the register, waiting.

  I strode to the counter like I owned the place. “Hi! Was your day as long as mine?” I asked the female employee, who sported nose, eyebrow, and lip piercings. Yikes. She would never be elected to any office with those, not even dogcatcher. I dropped my school bag down on the tiled floor.

  The woman behind the counter stared at me like I was the biggest fool in the world. Of course her day had been long; she’d probably manned the counter for hours, on her feet, making thin pancakes and fancy cups of coffee for spoiled brats who considered a full day of classes backbreaking work.

  I worried the heat emanating from my cheeks would set off the fire alarm. Instead of JFK, I’d come across as a grade-A jackass.

  “What can I get you?” the woman said with as much cheer as poss
ible, considering she looked like she wanted to tell me to go eff myself.

  I couldn’t blame her. “Coffee, please.” I really wanted something with a wow factor, but I could feel Maya studying me, and I didn’t think ordering a froufrou drink would impress her at all.

  “For here or to go?”

  I wasn’t positive, but it sounded like the pierced woman stressed the words to go, implying I wasn’t welcome to stay.

  “Here, please,” I responded cheerily. “I’m meeting someone.” I better justify why I wasn’t taking her not-so-subtle hint.

  “Right.” The woman stared off to my right as if she thought I was the type to have imaginary friends. I didn’t, of course, just imaginary sex flings, but it was probably best to keep that to myself.

  Luckily, Fiona, who lived a few blocks from the restaurant, rushed in at that point. “Ainsley, darling!” she squealed as if it had been years since we’d seen each other. In actuality, it had only been a couple of days, and we had spent the entire summer together at the Cape. Fiona wrapped her arms around me. “I’ve missed you.” She planted a sloppy kiss on each cheek.

  We looked like lovers, not cousins. It was the first time she had ever greeted me in this fashion, and talk about awful timing‌—‌worse than awful.

  It dawned on me that my mouth was open in shock. “I-I missed you too,” I stammered.

  Not noticing my discomfort, Fiona spun around to order. This couldn’t have gone any worse if I had planned it. Maya was still waiting for her order with an expression that was hard to read: amusement or disgust? Maybe both.

  Shit! Do something, Ainsley.

  “Uh, you’re in my class, aren’t you?”

  “Your class?” Maya quirked an eyebrow. Her sultry voice matched my Rosario Dawson Rent imaginings. Va-va-voom!

  “History of Massachusetts,” I clarified, trying to ignore the sensation zipping through my body while worrying I was grinning like a fool.

  “Yes, I’m in that class.” Her eyes pulled me in.

  I put a hand out. “I’m Ainsley.”

  “Maya.” Several rough calluses pressed into my palm. After one resolute up-and-down motion she broke contact, leaving me wanting more.

  Fiona draped an arm around my shoulders. “So, do you feel like a woman now?”

  I nearly dropped my coffee cup. “W-what?”

  Maya the Gray tilted her head ever so slightly, as if curious, but it was hard to read her thoughts. She’d give Dr. Gingas a run for her money in the poker-face department.

  “Now that you’re officially a college student, of course. What did you think I meant?” Fiona’s towering, broad-shouldered frame stepped in front of me, and she bent her head over mine, as if she couldn’t hear little me standing there at five three. “Did you finally pop‌—‌?”

  I cut her off. “No! Of course not!”

  Feet shuffled behind us, and I was absolutely mortified that Maya had overheard Fee asking whether I was still a virgin. How could I explain my countless imaginary conquests?

  Fiona laughed her boisterous laugh, which always reminded me of Teddy Roosevelt, and I half-expected her to belt out, “Dee-lighted!”

  Gray Eyes finally received her savory crepe. It smelled of cheese and ham, and she moved to the back of the shop to sit at a secluded table mostly hidden by a column covered in vintage French movie posters. Thank God for her need for privacy; who knew what calamity would strike next?

  “Your drink.” Pierced-girl half-heartedly motioned to Fee’s latte. We took a seat near the counter. My eyes searched for Maya, but the column kept her out of sight, although obviously not out of mind. What was wrong with me today?

  “So tell me. How was your day?” Fiona asked.

  “Fine,” I muttered, sipping at my lackluster coffee. I hated to admit it, but I was the type who needed coffee with frills or an abundance of flavor‌—‌preferably both.

  Fiona eyed me over her hazelnut latte. “What’s up your bum?”

  “Nothing. Why?” I stared intently at the place where Maya’s head would be, even though all I could see was a poster of Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire in Drôle de Frimousse.

  “Because you’re acting like a spoiled brat. What gives?”

  “Guess who’s in my Mass history class?”

  “Roughly forty Massholes.”

  “True. But also the biggest Masshole: Susie Quillian.”

  “Really?” Fee’s voice was operatic. “How is Bottlenose?” Fiona’s nickname for Susie referred to bottlenose dolphins, one of the cutest but deadliest of animals. It wasn’t unusual for them to kill another porpoise just to play with the lifeless body.

  “She accused me of cheating on today’s pop quiz.”

  Fee smiled. “So, just as deadly.” She tapped her cell phone. “Or not. No story about you on her blog today, just another condemnation of Obamacare.”

  “Oh please! Susie wouldn’t know the truth if it bit her in that perfectly round caboose.”

  “Ainsley Carmichael!” Fee slapped the top of the table. “Do you have the hots for Susie Q?” She waggled her strawberry blonde eyebrows and leaned closer. “Scandalous! You two could be like the married Democratic commentator James Carville and Republican consultant Mary Matalin. Grandmother would blow her stack!”

  “What? No. Not a chance in hell!” I sat back in my chair.

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. And I wouldn’t fault you. I’d sleep with her.” Fiona waved a hand.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” I rubbed my face with a palm. “Must erase that image from my mind!”

  She laughed. “Seriously, what’s bugging you? I don’t believe Susie Q is the source, unless she really does get you all hot and bothered. There’s a first time for everything, my dear cousin.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Google ‘uptight asexual girl excessively focused on her future political career’ and your pic pops up.”

  “That’s not true.” Fee knew me better than most, but even she didn’t know about the racy lesbian romance novels I devoured nightly.

  “Yeah?” Fiona punched some keys on her phone before handing it over to me.

  Right there on Susie Q’s blog was an article about me titled “The Sexless Ice Princess.”

  “When did she publish this?”

  “Right before your high school graduation.”

  “That bitch! And after the Cassidy situation‌—‌how could she?” I continued to scrutinize Fee’s phone as if I was expecting the truth to magically appear.

  “Please. You aren’t suggesting Susie is rational or sticks to one narrative, are you? Ains, you know better than most that media hacks will write anything and everything to keep their name in the who’s who. Besides, scandals are short-lived for most involved.”

  “Not for Grandmother. She never forgets.” I set the phone, screen side down, on the tabletop. Out of sight but not out of mind.

  “True.”

  “What else has she said about my sex life?”

  Fee crossed her arms. “I wasn’t aware you had one.”

  I glared as she mimed fanning flames.

  “So sensitive!” Fee said. “She also claims you’re a repressed lesbian.”

  “I am not!”

  “Lesbian or repressed?” Fiona cackled.

  “I’m out and proud! Marched in the parade last year.” I thumped the table. When I was fifteen, I’d come out to my mother and grandmother. The news was treated like every other milestone in the family. A conference of the Carmichael brain trust was called to determine whether I should stay in the closet or announce it to all the world. Grandmother’s minions polled millennials to determine my lesbian fate: be out and proud or keep it under wraps. Turned out, people my age didn’t care about sexuality, so we decided to embrace it from the outset, otherwise I would risk being viewed as a flip-flopper‌—‌deadly for politicians, just ask failed presidential wannabe Mitt Romney.

  “Prove it! Kiss a girl. One measly kiss. Come
on, baby, step your way out of the sexually repressed darkness and into the mind-blowing light that only happens via fornication.” Fee nearly glowed.

  “Via fornication.” I had to chuckle. She was so passionate about it that I feared I’d blab about the stirrings Gray Eyes caused. “I… oh, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Not all experiences will end up like‌—‌”

  I cleared my throat. “Let’s not talk about her. She’s dead to me.”

  “Not true. Cassidy is alive and well on Susie’s Tattler. I love that Susie has die-hard goons dedicated to her cause. Look out Roger Ailes and Rupert Murdoch.” Fiona’s smile dared me to take the bait.

  In my junior year, I had momentarily let my guard down and attempted to date a lesbian named Cassidy, who also happened to be on Susie Q’s payroll. I was still reeling from the fallout. The humiliation solidified one thing: my desire to become president. It seemed a more obtainable goal than finding someone I could trust completely. The Cassidy Incident made it even more obvious that we Carmichaels had a target on our backs in today’s media environment.

  “Wait.” I remembered the weird quote, pulled it out of my bag, and flattened the crumpled flyer. “Read this.”

  Fee scanned it, scrunching her face. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Some lunatic handed it to me on my way here.”

  “The crazies keep on getting crazier. Such a random quote to hand out.” She set the crinkled paper on the table.

  I tapped it with my forefinger. “Here’s the thing. I didn’t see her with a stack of papers. She only handed this to me.”

  Fee scratched the tip of her nose. “Susie accused you of cheating today?”

  “Yeah, but how does that relate to this?” I wasn’t liking where this was heading.

  “How does she think you cheated?” Fee sipped her drink.

  “Knowing the questions to a pop quiz ahead of time.”

  “It kinda fits. You navigated your way to an A.” Fiona’s squished face implied it was a stretch at best.

  “I didn’t cheat!” I slapped the tabletop.