a little grimly. “So, you’ll pretend he’s their dad then, eh?”
“Oscar,” Leo speaks up, “you know I’d never—”
“You’re missing the point, ” Ellen interrupts.
“It could help your approval ratings,” he says. “Mine are quite high, El. Higher than yours ever were in the House.”
“Here we go,” Alex says to Leo next to him, whose face remains pleasantly neutral.
“We’ve done studies, Oscar! Okay?” Ellen’s voice has risen in volume and pitch, her palms planted flat on the table. “Thedata shows, I track worse with undecided voters when they’re reminded of the divorce!”
“People know you’re divorced!”
“Alex’s numbers are high!” she shouts, and Alex and June both wince. “June’s numbers are high!”
“They’re not numbers !”
“Fuck off, I know that,” she spits, “I never said they were!”
“You think sometimes you use them like they are?”
“How dare you, when you don’t seem to have any problem trotting them out every time you’re up for reelection!” she says, slicing one hand through the air beside her. “Maybe if they were just Claremonts, you wouldn’t have so much luck. It’d sure as hell be less confusing—it’s the name everybody knows them by anyway!”
“Nobody’s taking any of our names!” June jumps in, her voice high.
“June,” Ellen says.
Their dad pushes on. “I’m trying to help you, Ellen!”
“I don’t need your help to win an election, Oscar!” she says, hitting the table so hard with her open palm that the dishes rattle. “I didn’t need it when I was in Congress, and I didn’t need it to become president the first time, and I don’t need it now!”
“You need to get serious about what you’re up against! You think the other side is going to play fair this time? Eight years of Obama, and now you? They’re angry, Ellen, and Richards is out for blood! You need to be ready!”
“I will be! You think I don’t have a team on all this shit already? I’m the President of the United fucking States! I don’t need you to come here and—and—”
“Mansplain?” Zahra offers.
“Mansplain!” Ellen shouts, jabbing a finger across the table at Oscar, eyes wide. “This presidential race to me!”
Oscar throws his napkin down. “You’re still so fucking stubborn!”
“Fuck you!”
“Mom!” June says sharply.
“Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?” Alex hears himself shout before he even consciously decides to say it. “Can we not be civil for one fucking meal? It’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake. Aren’t y’all supposed to be running the country? Get your shit together.”
He pushes his chair back and stalks out of the dining room, knowing he’s being a dramatic asshole and not really caring. He slams his bedroom door behind him, and his stupid sweater plays a few depressingly off-key notes when he yanks it off and throws it at the wall.
It’s not that he doesn’t lose his temper often, it’s just … he doesn’t usually lose it with his family. Mostly because he doesn’t usually deal with his family.
He digs an old lacrosse T-shirt out of his dresser, and when he turns and catches his reflection in the mirror by the closet, he’s right back in his teens, caring too much about his parents and helpless to change his situation. Except now he doesn’t have any AP classes to enroll in as a distraction.
His hand twitches for his phone. His brain is a two-passenger minimum ride as far as he’s concerned—alone and busy or thinking with company.
But Nora’s doing Hanukkah in Vermont, and he doesn’t want to annoy her, and his best friend from high school, Liam, has barely spoken to him since he moved to DC.
Which leaves …
“What could I possibly have done to have brought this upon myself now?” says Henry’s voice, low and sleepy. It sounds like “Good King Wenceslas” is playing in the background
“Hey, um, sorry. I know it’s late, and it’s Christmas Eve and
“Oscar,” Leo speaks up, “you know I’d never—”
“You’re missing the point, ” Ellen interrupts.
“It could help your approval ratings,” he says. “Mine are quite high, El. Higher than yours ever were in the House.”
“Here we go,” Alex says to Leo next to him, whose face remains pleasantly neutral.
“We’ve done studies, Oscar! Okay?” Ellen’s voice has risen in volume and pitch, her palms planted flat on the table. “Thedata shows, I track worse with undecided voters when they’re reminded of the divorce!”
“People know you’re divorced!”
“Alex’s numbers are high!” she shouts, and Alex and June both wince. “June’s numbers are high!”
“They’re not numbers !”
“Fuck off, I know that,” she spits, “I never said they were!”
“You think sometimes you use them like they are?”
“How dare you, when you don’t seem to have any problem trotting them out every time you’re up for reelection!” she says, slicing one hand through the air beside her. “Maybe if they were just Claremonts, you wouldn’t have so much luck. It’d sure as hell be less confusing—it’s the name everybody knows them by anyway!”
“Nobody’s taking any of our names!” June jumps in, her voice high.
“June,” Ellen says.
Their dad pushes on. “I’m trying to help you, Ellen!”
“I don’t need your help to win an election, Oscar!” she says, hitting the table so hard with her open palm that the dishes rattle. “I didn’t need it when I was in Congress, and I didn’t need it to become president the first time, and I don’t need it now!”
“You need to get serious about what you’re up against! You think the other side is going to play fair this time? Eight years of Obama, and now you? They’re angry, Ellen, and Richards is out for blood! You need to be ready!”
“I will be! You think I don’t have a team on all this shit already? I’m the President of the United fucking States! I don’t need you to come here and—and—”
“Mansplain?” Zahra offers.
“Mansplain!” Ellen shouts, jabbing a finger across the table at Oscar, eyes wide. “This presidential race to me!”
Oscar throws his napkin down. “You’re still so fucking stubborn!”
“Fuck you!”
“Mom!” June says sharply.
“Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?” Alex hears himself shout before he even consciously decides to say it. “Can we not be civil for one fucking meal? It’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake. Aren’t y’all supposed to be running the country? Get your shit together.”
He pushes his chair back and stalks out of the dining room, knowing he’s being a dramatic asshole and not really caring. He slams his bedroom door behind him, and his stupid sweater plays a few depressingly off-key notes when he yanks it off and throws it at the wall.
It’s not that he doesn’t lose his temper often, it’s just … he doesn’t usually lose it with his family. Mostly because he doesn’t usually deal with his family.
He digs an old lacrosse T-shirt out of his dresser, and when he turns and catches his reflection in the mirror by the closet, he’s right back in his teens, caring too much about his parents and helpless to change his situation. Except now he doesn’t have any AP classes to enroll in as a distraction.
His hand twitches for his phone. His brain is a two-passenger minimum ride as far as he’s concerned—alone and busy or thinking with company.
But Nora’s doing Hanukkah in Vermont, and he doesn’t want to annoy her, and his best friend from high school, Liam, has barely spoken to him since he moved to DC.
Which leaves …
“What could I possibly have done to have brought this upon myself now?” says Henry’s voice, low and sleepy. It sounds like “Good King Wenceslas” is playing in the background
“Hey, um, sorry. I know it’s late, and it’s Christmas Eve and
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