The State of Us by Shaun David Hutchinson Page 0,2
Andre’s smug attitude wouldn’t let me. “My mother’s campaign manager believed a whimsical addition to my outfit would help me appeal to average people.”
Andre cocked his head to the side. “Did you just call me average?”
“I’m sure I said no such thing.”
“Whatever. Why don’t you go plug yourself into a wall socket somewhere and recharge?”
“Oh,” I said. “Ha, ha. Because I’m a robot—”
“Programmed to do what your mommy tells you.”
“Funny,” I said. “Except for the part where it wasn’t.”
Andre stood with his arms folded across his chest. After a moment, he said, “Wait, was that your comeback?” He grimaced. “You obviously got your debating skills from your mom.”
“I would destroy you in a real debate.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
A loud crash ricocheted from down the hall. Someone screamed. Two agents in black suits materialized as if from the walls themselves and were suddenly herding Andre and me into the greenroom they had assigned my mother.
One of the agents, a serious woman with finger-length black hair, poked her head in and said, “Do not leave this room under any circumstances.” Her voice was stern and left no room for argument.
“What’s going on?” Andre called. “Where’re my parents? Is everyone okay—”
But the agent shut the door without answering either question, and when Andre tried to open it, he found that it was locked. He pounded on the door a few times before leaning with his back to it and sliding to the ground.
The whole thing had taken fifteen, maybe twenty seconds, and I wasn’t sure what had happened, therefore I had no idea whether this was a false alarm and that everything would be all right or if this was a real emergency and that I should be worried.
“Do you have your phone?” I asked.
Before I finished, Andre was digging into his pocket for his cell phone, tapping the screen. I did the same. I tried calling both my parents and Nora, but I couldn’t get a signal.
“Damn it!” Andre held his phone like he was about to throw it across the room, which likely wouldn’t have helped the situation. “Can’t get through.”
“Neither can I,” I said.
“I’m not surprised with that antique.” Andre’s voice was shaky. “Isn’t that model from like five years ago?”
Heat rose in my cheeks. “I have a tendency to lose things, so my parents see no sense in spending a lot of money on a new phone I’m likely to forget somewhere.”
Andre was quiet for a moment, probably doing whatever he could to avoid worrying about what might be happening on the other side of those doors. “It’s kind of reassuring to know you’re not perfect.”
“I never claimed to be perfect, Andre.”
“The news sure loves playing it like you are.” He looked up at me. “According to them, you’re Captain America, volunteering your time to teach underprivileged kids to read and build houses, while I basically murder puppies.”
I was scared, which made me want to fire back at Andre, but he was probably scared too. Instead, I grabbed a water from the table and brought it to him. “Here. The first rule of being on the campaign trail is to stay hydrated.”
“Thanks.” Andre took the water and twisted off the cap but didn’t drink. “And it’s Dre.”
“Pardon?”
“My name,” he said. “It’s Dre. Only my dad’s campaign manager calls me Andre. And my mom, but only if she’s really angry, and then she calls me ‘Andre Santiago Rosario,’ and it’s usually followed by some form of ‘What did you do?’ and a bit of mild profanity.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Good to know. And, hey, I’m certain Secret Service has everything under control. More than likely it’s a bomb threat or—”
Dre’s eyes popped. “You think there’s a bomb?!”
“I did not say that—”
“You know what? How about you don’t say anything at all, okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Fine by me.”
Dre
I STOOD WITH my ear pressed to the door, trying to hear what was going on in the hallway. It was eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that sent my mind spinning off in a thousand directions, imagining all the different potentially dangerous scenarios that could be playing out.
“Anything?” Dean asked.
“Nope. Not a sound.”
“That could be a good sign.”
“Or it could mean that some politician-hating dudes with guns are holding everyone hostage, including our parents, in some other wing of the school, and that they’re going to start shooting them at any moment.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Of course,” I said. “Your side practically worships guns, so I’m sure your parents aren’t in any real danger.”