The Hopefuls(40)

“Stella and Dot,” she said, and I nodded. “I’ve heard of it,” I told her.

I’d seen the company name pop up all over Facebook in the past couple of years, mostly from my friends who’d had babies and were looking for part-time jobs. I’d even been invited to some of the trunk shows, which were really just new versions of Tupperware parties. And once I’d been contacted about “joining the team” by this girl Janie Jenkins, who grew up next door to me in Madison and babysat for me as a teenager. “You seem like the perfect fit,” she said to me. “I’m working on growing my team and I thought of you immediately. I’m so excited to be a part of the Stella and Dot family.”

Janie had been part of a cult for a few months after college, so I politely declined. I wasn’t going to be convinced to join anything by a former cult member, thank you very much. (Apparently, the cult was quite peaceful and mostly just focused on organic farming, but I mean, still.)

At worst, this jewelry company seemed like a pyramid scheme and at best it was a reason to drink wine with a group of women and buy costume jewelry that you’d never wear. But if Ash had any idea that this was anything less than a great opportunity, she didn’t show it. She was enthusiastic and excited as she talked about it. “It’s flexible hours and it just really seems like the perfect thing for me,” she said. (What she needed flexible hours for, she didn’t say.) She was smiling widely, and in that moment I felt very protective of her.

“It sounds great,” I told her, and she immediately asked if I’d host her first party for her.

“Of course,” I answered. Because really, what else could I say?

—

The morning of July 4, Matt got a phone call. It was the person he’d interviewed with at the Presidential Personnel Office, telling him that he’d gotten the liaison job, that he’d be receiving a formal offer on Tuesday.

“Why did they call you today?” I asked.

“He said he knew I was anxious to hear,” Matt said. “That he thought it would be nice for me to know so I could enjoy the Fourth. Now I don’t have to worry about it, don’t have to spend the day thinking about it.”

And talking about it, I thought. But I just gave him a huge hug and said, “That’s so great.” Matt was beaming as he hugged me back and said, “I know.”

—

We got to the South Lawn around 4:00 and set up a large quilt that the Dillons had brought, and it wasn’t long before we were surrounded by Matt and Jimmy’s co-workers, spreading out their own blankets to claim a spot. The Fourth was a great event at the White House, my favorite event actually—they served wine and beer and cotton candy and popcorn, and kids got their faces painted and ran around with ice cream sandwiches, while everyone posed for selfies in front of the White House.

Ash and I walked around a little bit, then sat and shared a bag of popcorn. Matt and Jimmy stood at the end of the quilt, talking to everyone who walked by. The current White House liaison at DOE came over to say congratulations to Matt (while it was still unofficial, it seemed that everyone knew about his job), and I could hear Matt asking him a few questions. I noticed that Jimmy stood there proudly, truly happy for Matt, smiling like he was the one who’d gotten a new job, which made me feel silly for ever doubting the basis of their friendship.

When it finally started to get dark, Matt and Jimmy sat down on the blanket with us. I could feel Matt’s good mood radiating from him, and I leaned back against him as the Killers started to play on a stage to the right of us. I felt all at once lucky to be there and surprised to feel that way. It was possible that Ash was rubbing off on me. There wasn’t one thing about the day that I would have changed. It was perfect. The Killers played their final song just as the fireworks started, and Matt leaned forward and whispered into my ear, “You have to admit, this is pretty great.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s not bad at all.”





Washington, DC


2012





What Washington needs is adult supervision.


—BARACK OBAMA





Chapter 10


The first time I dreamt about Mitt Romney was in June, not long after he’d clinched the nomination. It wasn’t a particularly scary dream—he was riding a bike around me in circles, demanding that I help him make spaghetti for dinner—but I woke up with a start and, in the process, woke up Matt too.

“Are you okay?” he said groggily. My right arm had hit the mattress next to him as I shot up.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said. My heart was racing and I waited a moment for my mind to wake up before telling him about my dream.

“No more falling asleep to MSNBC,” he said, patting my arm, his eyes already closing.

“Deal,” I said. He fell back to sleep immediately, but I lay there for a while in the dark, thinking about my dream, shivering at how shiny Mitt’s hair had been as he circled around me.

—

The next morning, Matt was already dressed in his suit and eating cereal at the table when I finally managed to come downstairs, still in my pajamas. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat across from him while he gave me a sympathetic look.

“Did you get any sleep?” he asked.

“I think an hour or two,” I said, yawning, as if just talking about it made it worse. After the Mitt-on-a-bike dream, I’d tossed and turned, falling asleep to more creepy Romney dreams that were equally bizarre.