The Measure(83)

All Jack had to do today was stand in a corner of the stage and act supportive. But he had another plan.

Jack knew that whatever he did now wouldn’t negate his selfish motives for proposing the switch back in June, that whatever words he spoke tonight wouldn’t erase his months of silence. But maybe it would still be enough to fulfill his promise to Javier.

A tall security guard in sunglasses poked his head inside the room. “Mr. Hunter, Jack, they’re ready for you both.”

Jack’s father stood up from his chair. “How’s my suit?” he asked Jack. “Any wrinkles?”

“No, sir,” Jack said, and the pleasure he derived from hearing his father ask for his help, no matter how insignificant, almost made Jack question his plan, knowing that some of the blame might land on his dad. But he had come too far to back down.

In the elevator, Jack thought of the demonstrators outside the hotel, still chanting even now. He thought of the rally in August, where a man named Hank had laid down his life during the protest. And he thought of Javier’s own inescapable death, as the soldier that he was always meant to be and yet was almost barred from becoming. Someday that would be an act of protest, too.

Jack had been given a long string, much longer than Hank’s or Javier’s. The least he could do was join them now. To see something wrong and refuse to look away. Like that woman, Lea, had told him. He had been so consumed by his fight with Javi that he hadn’t seen beyond it. But the battle was bigger than Anthony, or Jack, or Javier, or Hank, or the man with the clipboard, or the boys in New York. It was bigger than all of them now.

Jack and his father stepped out of the elevator to join the awaiting stage manager, and Jack slipped his fingers into his pocket, furtively pulling out a small gold pin with two interlocked threads. He flipped it around in his sweaty palm as he followed the stage manager down the hall, finally pressing it onto his lapel just as the glaring lights of the stage overtook his vision.



Anthony was mere minutes into his stump speech when it happened.

Jack lunged forward, grabbing the microphone out of his uncle’s hands, shocking everyone onstage and in the audience, even surprising himself a little. Once the microphone was in his grip, everything froze for an instant, two seconds of exquisite tension, of gasps swallowed by bated breath, in which the whole room waited and watched.

Anthony, too, seemed to be waiting. He and Katherine and Jack’s father were all suspended in confusion, unsure how to react. And while their brains tried to process the action unfolding before them, Jack began to speak.

“I’m Anthony’s nephew,” he said. “The soldier with the short string that he told you all about.”

Jack’s sentences were tumbling rapidly out of his mouth, as he tried to cram in as many words as possible before someone inevitably shut him up. Anthony and Katherine were still staring at him, speechless. Perhaps they hoped to avoid a humiliating scene by letting him speak for just a minute, pretending that this wasn’t a spontaneous coup.

“But the truth is that my uncle doesn’t really care about me, or any of the short-stringers!” Jack said. “And it’s time we were brave enough to stand up to him! Nobody is any different because of their string. Nobody’s life matters less. We’re all human, aren’t we?” Jack was practically pleading into the mic. “But Anthony Rollins only cares about winning! Don’t let him scare you anymore! Don’t let him corrupt—”

Jack’s body was jerked away from the microphone stand, his arms practically ripped from their sockets, as a bodyguard pulled him offstage, while an oppressive hush hung over the audience, only broken by the squeaking of Jack’s patent-leather shoes as they dragged across the polished floor.



Twenty minutes later, Jack was sitting in a chair backstage, guarded by two members of Anthony’s security team, like a child in detention.

On the monitor overhead, Jack had watched Anthony apologize for the interruption and finish his speech, then walk off the stage alongside his wife, mouthing, Thank you, to the audience.

Leaning sideways in his chair, Jack spotted his aunt and uncle arriving backstage, before they could see him. Jack’s father trailed behind them.

Anthony’s campaign manager greeted them with a strained smile. “You both looked great out there. The speech sounded great. You handled everything like a pro.”

But as soon as Anthony had stepped away from the cameras, his face curled into a livid grimace. “Where the fuck is he?”

“We kept him backstage,” said the manager.

Anthony turned sharply toward Katherine and his brother-in-law. “Did either of you know about this?”

“No, of course not!” Katherine protested. Jack’s father shook his head vigorously.

“Is he out of his goddamn mind?” Anthony shouted.

“I don’t, I don’t know,” Katherine stammered. “Maybe he just meant it as a way to identify with other short-stringers.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed, and then he headed for Jack, with Katherine, Jack’s father, and the campaign manager walking hurriedly to keep up.

Seeing his uncle approach, Jack stood up from his chair, the gold pin on his jacket glinting under the backstage lights.

Anthony beelined over to Jack, grabbed him by his lapel, and shook him violently. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he screamed, spraying spit across Jack’s face.