That afternoon Risa says her good-bye, and Audrey insists on stocking Risa up with supplies and money and a sturdy new backpack that has neither hearts nor pandas.
“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you,” Audrey says, just before she leaves.
“Tell me what?”
“It was just on the news. They announced that your friend Connor is still alive.”
It’s the best news Risa’s gotten in a long time . . . but then she quickly comes to realize the announcement is not a good thing at all. Now that the Juvenile Authority knows he’s alive, they’ll be beating every bush for him.
“Do they have any idea where he is?” Risa asks.
Audrey shakes her head. “No clue. In fact, they think he’s with you.”
If only that were true. But even when Connor shows up in her dreams, he’s not with her. He’s running. He’s always running.
29 • Cam
Lunch with the general and the senator is in the dark recesses of the Wrangler’s Club—perhaps the most expensive, most exclusive restaurant in Washington, DC. Secluded leather booths, each in its own pool of light, and a complete lack of windows gives the illusion that time has been stopped by the importance of one’s conversation. The outside world doesn’t exist when one dines in the Wrangler’s Club.
As Cam and Roberta are walked in by the hostess, he spots faces he thinks he recognizes. Senators or congressmen, perhaps. People he’s seen at the various high-profile galas he’s attended. Or maybe it’s just his imagination. These self-important folk, wheeling and dealing, all begin to look alike after a while. He suspects that the ones he doesn’t recognize are the real power brokers. That’s the way it always is. Lobbyists for surreptitious special interests he couldn’t begin to guess at. Proactive Citizenry does not have a monopoly on secret influence.
“Best foot forward,” Roberta tells Cam as they are led to their booth.
“And which one is that?” he asks. “You’d know better than me.”
She doesn’t respond to his barb. “Just remember that what happens today could define your future.”
“And yours,” Cam points out.
Roberta sighs. “Yes. And mine.”
General Bodeker and Senator Cobb are already at the table. The general rises to meet them, and the senator also tries to slide out of the booth, but he’s foiled by his copious gut.
“Please, don’t get up,” says Roberta.
He gives up. “The burgers win every time,” he says.
They all settle in, share obligatory handshakes and obsequious niceties. They discuss the unpredictable weather, raining one minute, sunny the next. The senator sings the praises of the pan-seared scallops, which is today’s special.
“Anaphylactic,” Cam blurts out. “That is, I mean, I’m allergic to scallops. At least my shoulders and upper arms are. I get the worst rash.”
The general is intrigued. “Really. But just there?”
“And I’ll bet he can’t do any brown-nosing on account of his nose is allergic to chocolate,” says Senator Cobb, and guffaws so loudly it rattles the water glasses.
They order, and once the appetizers arrive, the two men finally get down to the business at hand.
“We see you as a military man, Cam,” says the general, “and Proactive Citizenry agrees.”
Cam moves his fork around in his endive salad. “You want to make me into a boeuf.”
General Bodeker bristles. “That’s an unfair characterization of young people who are military minded.”
Senator Cobb waves his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, we all know the official military opinion of the word—but that’s not what we’re saying Cam. You’d bypass traditional training and go straight into the officer program—and on the fast track, to boot!”
“I can offer you any branch of the military you like,” Bodeker says.
“Let it be the Marines,” Roberta says, and when Cam looks at her, she says, “Well, I know you had that in mind—and they have the crispest uniforms.”
The senator puts out his hand, as if chopping wood. “The point is, you would float through the program, learn what you need to learn lickety-split, and emerge as an official spokesperson for the military, with all the perks that come with it.”
“You’d be a model for young people everywhere,” adds Bodeker.
“And for your kind,” adds Cobb.
Cam looks up at that. “I don’t have a ‘kind,’ ” he tells them, which makes the two men look to Roberta.
She puts down her fork and composes her response carefully. “You once described yourself as a ‘concept car,’ Cam. Well, what the good senator and general are saying is that they like the concept.”
“I see.”
The main course arrives. Cam ordered the prime rib—a favorite of someone or another in his head. The first taste brings him back to a sister’s wedding. He has no idea where, or who the sister is. She had blond hair, but her face did not make the cut into his brain. He wonders if that kid—if any kid inside him—would have ever been offered a crisp uniform. He knows the answer is no, and he feels insulted for them.
Brakes in the rain. He must apply them slowly, so as not to set this meeting fishtailing out of control. “It’s a very generous offer,” Cam says. “And I’m honored to be considered.” He clears his throat. “And I know you all have my best interests at heart.” He meets eyes with the general, then with the senator. “But it’s not something I want to do at this”—he searches for a suitably Washingtonian word—“at this juncture.”
The senator just stares at him, all jovialness gone from his voice. “Not something you want to do at this juncture . . . ,” he repeats.