Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(11)

She pauses, and it’s like her own facade breaks. “I’m not holding my breath, but it’s good to shoot for the stars.”

“Sal,” Mom says, “why don’t you set the table?”

I set all the fancy china out, crystal glasses, fabric napkins, the works. Apparently, all things Mom and Dad registered for, for their wedding. I sometimes wonder if bringing this out makes her sad, or if she likes to look back on this time. Going through catalogs with Dad and picking out the exact style of fork they thought represented their new home together.

It’s monotonous work, but there’s always a bit of comfort in seeing the table looking perfect and ready for company. While I set the table, I think of Betty, breaking character to make a joke about Ohio wine. As she stepped through the doorway, I could see the walls she’d built up for the public come tumbling down. In a way, I guess we all do that. I have guards up for my teachers, my parents, my friends. Everyone, it seems, but Gabe. I want to be more myself when I move to DC, but is that even possible? Won’t I have to present a certain way—less flamboyant? more serious?—there too?

We take our seats at the dinner table, and Mom brings out a salad tossed in a rustic wooden bowl. It doesn’t exactly go with the fancy china, but Mom sets her own rules here about what fits in, what feels right.

“You always set a lovely table,” Betty says. “Some days I’m so exhausted I can barely open whatever plastic container our takeout’s come in, let alone find a plate.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, and I get a slight nod from my mom.

Her guard may be down, but mine sure isn’t.

“Still on the ‘ma’am’ thing, huh? Well, I appreciate your commitment to flattery. With a cute face like that, a little bit of politeness goes a long way. As long as you don’t let anyone take advantage of you.”

Chills run down my spine, and I take a small bite of lettuce. The tang of the dressing hits my lips as I wonder what exactly she means.

“Oh, no, don’t mean to worry you. The high school program Senator Wright has set up, it’s very selective, very well done I think. We usually wait until kids are twenty, twenty-one before bringing them on for internships, and we only pick these poli-sci majors”—she looks to me—“political science, that is. And they all come in so bright-eyed and excited, drink the whole summer, then leave with five hundred business cards, and we never hear from them again. The experience isn’t engaging, you know?”

“I was thinking about studying political science,” I say after Mom gives me a look. “Maybe tacking on a minor in history.”

“I’m trying to get him to minor in communications,” Mom cuts in. “See, public relations applies broadly to every field; you never know what opportunities will come up.”

The congresswoman looks to both of us. “I do not miss being sixteen,” she finally says. “It’s good to think about all of this, of course. You have to. But, if I can be honest, do you know what I want to see in a future politician? Someone who’s clever and educated, sure, but I want to see someone with passions outside of politics. You should be invested in this field, but it can’t be everything. I want to see musicians or playwrights, geologists or biologists, environmentalists, waitresses, whoever. Give me someone who is fully in the world they want to change.”

I pause. We’ve had career and life conversations before, of course, but she’s never been so frank. Could I study something else, while still pursuing politics? And then the lingering idea claws at me—could I even decide not to go to college?

Mom sets down her fork, and the frustration sinks into her expression. “But politics is his passion. His only passion, as far as I’m concerned. It’s always been the case. We’ll just have to work on what’ll make his résumé stand out—this summer experience should certainly help.”

I go to object to the idea that politics is my only passion, but I can’t. I like to read, but I read political or historical biographies. If I can’t work in politics, what could I do? What would I even want to do? I’m not saying I need to be POTUS, but coming in as an outsider seems irresponsible.

“I enjoy French class?” I say, but it comes out as a question. “It’s interesting learning about new languages and cultures and all that.”

“Oh dear, you’ll be fine. You’re whip smart and tenacious—and a snappy dresser if I may say so—and if I still get to serve in Congress by the time you’re out of college, know I will do my best to make room for you. But you are so young, Sal, and I want you to know that while history and politics are important— In this world? Getting to connect with people, being an authentic and relatable person will always mean more than any of that.”

“When we were in college,” Mom jumps in, lightening the mood with a cheeky tone, “we had quite a few interests.”

“And speaking of,” Betty replies, “time for some wine?”

The conversation settles after that. And their topics of conversation drift from college to the boys they dated, the mistakes they made, and how important everything seemed when they were my age.

My mind keeps drifting to Gabe. Years from now, will I call him a mistake? The thought of our perfectly casual relationship falling apart over one summer has me paralyzed right now. But in the future, will it just be a joke between us? This feels important.