My mind snaps back when Kelby’s voice wails on.
“El-La, don’t you get it?” she brays. “They will never let me bring Harris to the White House, and he’ll be pissed at me if he can’t come. Like, what the fuck am I supposed to tell him that won’t feel like I’m pulling off his dick with my tweezers?”
Hmm, the image of that certainly gives me a chuckle. Harris is Kelby’s professor-slash-lover, and it’s not going over very well with my parents. They consider it highly undesirable for Kelby to be dating someone related to the university, and they refuse to acknowledge the relationship. In fact, the university has already censured Harris for taking up with a student. They both insist that because Kelby is of legal age of consent, there is no conflict of university policy but that’s not completely true. Harris is crossing the line and no one is fooled that the attraction is strictly due to Kelby’s charming personality and intellectual prowess.
Hardly!
He thinks she’s hot, and she’s the daughter of the vice president and he’s ready for his fifteen minutes to start ticking.
Unfortunately for all of us, Kelby doesn’t quite get this yet and she’s doing all she can to insert him into our family landscape like a thorny rose bush.
Sweet Jesus. Like I need this now.
The call turns out to be much more complicated than I had hoped, leaving me no easy way to get out of this without tackling it head on. I remind Kelby that we are advised not to bring guests to White House events and she can easily blame it on protocol.
Kelby is usually able to weed through the wannabes who sniff around her like horny giggling hyenas, but for some reason Harris has her fooled. Even Kass hasn’t been able to unlock the strange hold he has over her, not that she’s more apt to listen to him over me. We both know Kass likes just about everyone. You have to be a serial killer, child molester, or a left tackle that can’t block for him not to give you the benefit of the doubt. My parents are no help either. By not approving, they’ve pretty much given her a green light to enter the rabbit hole that is paved with velvet. She just can’t help but slide right down into the abyss.
Kelby is giving me good practice for the day, if it ever comes, when I have to deal with a petulant child who is always one “no” away from a meltdown. Chances are my uterus will be nuked dry by my impending radiation. My kids could come out with one eye and three arms. Truth is, they probably won’t come out at all.
I move on to try a new tactic with my persistent sister. I remind her that Harris is under administrative watch and he really shouldn’t be flaunting their relationship. I spin it to make the point that it is for Harris’ own professional good to stay away. Not that Kelby gives too much thought to what’s best for someone else, but at least she may take a bit of responsibility for helping him keep his job. If Harris went from simply being unsavory in the eyes of my family, to downright unemployable, well then she’d have no choice but to cut him loose.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It just sucks that this has to be so hard for me. I mean seriously, El-La. Kass can show up with whatever skank he’s banging at the time. Tell me how that’s fair? Not that you can relate, when was the last time you even had a date?”
Kelby flows into personal insult territory as swiftly as she glides into her white Mercedes. There is virtually no change in the tone of her voice, so you almost have no way to prepare for the hit. I deflect the question to which there is no easy answer and bring the conversation back around to her, which is how we both prefer it, really.
“Kel, if Harris is really the great guy you think he is, he’ll understand. Otherwise, I just don’t see how you could pull it off. Maybe if you guys stay together for awhile, Mom and Dad will come around. Look, I gotta go. I’m flying out…”
Oh shit, I think, as I pull back the words that almost tumble right out of my mouth. Maybe it’s a stray cancer cell infiltrating itself into the part of my brain that controls verbal stupidity.
Sure as a cold sore on your wedding day, Kelby pounces.
“What did you just say?” she barks. “Flying out of what? Where do you think you’re going, El-La, and why don’t I know about it?” Then she goes in for the TKO. “Does Mother know you’re going somewhere? Are you taking a commercial airline?” She says it like she has rotten mustard on her tongue. I quickly scan my options, realizing there are few that can level out this mountain of crap I’ve just stacked up for myself. I just don’t have access to a bulldozer at the moment. I’m on my own.
“Look, Kelby,” I begin, “it’s no big deal. I’m heading to L.A. for a couple of days to visit Lauren.” I pray silently in my head she’ll accept this and shut up. The less she knows about this trip the better. She goes fishing for more.
“El-La, really…AGAIN? Haven’t you pushed her far enough, and shouldn’t you tell someone when you’ll be leaving? You know Mom will have to inform the flight crew if you’re going commercial. El-La, you can’t not tell her.”
Technically, Kelby’s right and I’ve violated the rule the most. We’ve all been reminded time and time again to clear our commercial itineraries with our mother’s office. The fact that Kelby is now sitting on this golden nugget of a secret could be a disaster. All it will take is a phone call to our mother for the whole trip to sink, and I’ll be given yet another lecture about presidential protocol, and my personal responsibility to myself and my nation. My mother is forever worried about us being used to inflict greater damage on the country. That’s why our flights must be cleared individually from the gate, and then monitored on White House radar from takeoff to landing. That’s also why we are forced to use these ridiculous encrypted cell phones to call each other. She has no patience with us when we attempt to skirt our way around the rules.
As much as they have told us our whole lives that we are just like everybody else, no special treatment, in reality we are not like anybody else and special treatment now dictates our every move.
Without even trying, I add yet another dilemma to my quickly crumbling life.
How in the world can I get to L.A. without my mother alerting the National Guard?
Chapter 5: Dezi
From my office, I make arrangements to overnight my lighting equipment the day before I fly out to L.A. I connect with Time’s West Coast editor several times, exchanging emails and ideas on how to make sure the shoot goes flawlessly. The senator also emails me to discuss the day, and we work out the location details and wardrobe. Even though I spend hours planning each shoot in my head, I never share my exact vision with my clients, preferring them to be pleasantly surprised with what we end up with.
Damn, I’m good. With the touch of a button, I can enhance a shade of pink to either side of the color wheel. I can pump it up to a color that borders freshly drawn blood, or blush it down so gently it’s soft enough to wrap around a newborn baby. I love that alone time, when I’m inside my dark studio playing on my computer with the edge of an eyebrow, or the shadow that falls along the side of the mountain. The tricky part is keeping the subject real, while enhancing its deepest elements. I see it behind my closed eyes before I lay it out in final print. I memorize the tone and texture and wait for the moment of impact when I know it’s just...about...perfect.
Some of my absolute coolest shots have come when the NFL commissions me for a game. This is typically when the Giants or Jets are home and I’m listed as a good local contact. Given my vast knowledge of the game, and my fantasy football expectations, I have to remind myself to stay focused on the players and not the game itself. Not easy. These days football is larger and more violent than even I can remember. Guys seem to be bigger, and I mean that both in size and personality. Gone are the gentle end zone dances, or harmless spikes into the turf. Now, they prance in from the five-yard line, teeth bared, ink blazing on each exposed arm, even in sub-freezing temperatures. I especially dig the huge tangle of dreadlocks some of them are sporting now, long rows of black syrup that fly in the wind and give me the most insane shots. On a good day I can grab the exact moment