"Are American politics always so…crazy?" my best friend whispered.
I wanted to tell her that this was nothing compared to the insanity of the convention (because, for example, I hadn't seen anyone with hats shaped like produce…yet), but somehow bringing up Boston didn't seem like a good idea, so instead I just nodded and tried to squeeze through the crowds.
A massive banner (that I'm fairly sure was also bulletproof) circled the stage, reading walk the walk. I turned and scanned the long stretch of barricades that ran through the center of the crowd. A huge tour bus turned onto the street and stopped at the end of the alleyway that cut through the audience. Its doors swung open, and somewhere in the distance, the Tri-County High School Marching Band started to play as Governor Winters and The Senator stepped out and started down the long promenade full of hands to shake and babies to kiss—two thousand screaming people, any one of whom could have given me the bump on my head.
In my ear I heard a steady stream of unfamiliar voices.
"Sir, could you remove your hands from your pockets, please?" a tall Secret Service agent asked the man behind me.
"Delta team, I don't like the looks of the guy on the library steps. I repeat, the library steps."
Instantly, I felt the entire junior CoveOps class from the
Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women pivot to see a guy in a trench coat approach a man in a plaid shirt and block his view of the candidates, who were passing in the street below them.
A group of women were waving a sign that read god bless you, macey and preston, and as if on cue, Preston ran toward the women and hugged them while, twenty feet away, CNN carried the whole scene live and in color.
But Macey didn't run anywhere. Or hug anyone (which is totally in character anyway—kidnapping attempt or not). Instead she held her father's hand. She waved. She smiled.
"We have to be perfect every second of every day, ladies." I've heard Joe Solomon say some pretty heady stuff in the past two years, but I don't think I'd ever heard him sound more solemn than when he said, "The bad guys just have to get lucky…once."
And then I couldn't help it. I thought about Boston, I thought about luck. I thought about how close we came to having a very bad ending to our summer vacation.
"I don't know if any of you will go into protection services someday or not, ladies, but if you do…" Mr. Solomon's voice was soft in my ear, steady against the din of Secret Service orders, "This is your worst nightmare."
At that moment, I'm pretty sure Bex wanted to drag our roommate into the nearest bulletproof automobile and drive back to Roseville as quickly as humanly possible. But that wasn't going to happen because 1) the real Secret Service might shoot us if we tried, 2) the CNN correspondents might have some interesting questions if Bex took out Senator McHenry's body men with two well-placed kicks, and 3) our midterm grades were probably riding on doing exactly not that, and as if we needed reminding, our teacher's voice was a constant in our ears.
"Given the wind velocity and direction, the greatest threat from sniper assault is where, Ms. Morrison?"
Bex and I looked at each other and mouthed, "The church steeple," just as Mick said those very words.
"Four members of the Secret Service have infiltrated the protesters across the street, Ms. Fetterman," Mr. Solomon asked again. "Identify the agents."
"Uh …" Anna started while, on the street in front of us, Aunt Abby and Macey were walking by. "Red backpack," Anna answered. "Lady in the blue bandanna. The man in the yellow T-shirt, and…" She trailed off.
"Anyone?" Mr. Solomon asked.
"The guy with the long red beard," I found myself saying. I wasn't sure when I'd even seen him, but as soon as I said the words I knew they were true.
"Why?" Mr. Solomon questioned.
"The static," I said. "Two and a half minutes ago there was a burst of static on the Secret Service frequency. He flinched."
Somewhere in the crowd of bodies, I could have sworn I felt Joe Solomon smile.
I used to wonder if Secret Service Agents ever got tired of hearing the same speeches from the same people a dozen times a day every day until someone either has to give a speech that says they won or give a speech that says they lost. But after that day I started wondering if the security team even heard the speeches at all.
"Beta team, protesters stay in Level Two. I repeat, protesters stay in Level Two," one of the anonymous voices said.
"Charlie team, we have unusual movement in a window in the City National Bank building," another voice said, and in a flash, all the blinds on the fourth floor of the building across the street were pulled down.
And then … a voice I recognized. "Peacock is stage- ready and moving."
"Aunt Abby," I whispered to Bex.
"Peacock?" she whispered back.
Onstage, The Senator was sweeping out his hand and saying, "Family. I don't have to tell the Buckeye state how much family means to me."
The crowd cheered wildly for a few minutes, but when Macey replaced her father at the microphone, a hush fell so completely over the Ohio swing voters that I could have sworn someone or something had turned the volume down.
"It's great being here today." Macey looked out over the crowd. She looked lost for a moment—dazed. But then I could have sworn her gaze fell on Bex and me. A new light seemed to fill her eyes as she looked at us and added, "With my family." At this point Senator McHenry put his arm around his wife, and I couldn't help thinking about Clipboard Lady's direction of "spontaneous hugging."