“I bagged out on your mom. Well, mostly on Clay. I called and quit. Now I need to get my shit from the office and I need a shield. A—how much do you weigh?—one-hundred-ten-pound shield.”

“One twelve,” I correct. “I don’t even think Clay’s there. He and my mom were doing some factory thing.”

Tim knocks a Marlboro out of the pack stored in the sun visor, sticking it into the corner of his mouth. “I know. I know his schedule.” He taps a finger against his temple. “Maybe I just need you along so I’ll actually do this and not turn chickenshit at the last minute. Maybe I need you to give me a shove in—and out—the door. You gonna help me out?”

I nod. “Sure. But if you’re looking for a shield, Jase is a lot bigger than I am.”

“Yeah, yeah. But lover boy’s busy today, as I’m sure you know.”

I’m not about to admit that I do. Instead I tug my hair out of its braid.

“Man, you’re such a babe.” Tim shakes his head. “Why do all the hot girls want the jocks and the good boys? We losers are the ones who need you.”

I check his expression warily. I’ve never before had any impression Tim was attracted to me. Maybe my new non-virgin state shows. Maybe I radiate smokin’ sex now. Somehow I doubt this, especially in my fetching crested lifeguard jacket and navy spandex skirt.

“Don’t stress.” Tim finally lights the dangling cigarette. “I don’t wanna be that lame guy who comes on to the girl he can’t have. I’m just sayin’.” He makes a wide—and illegal—U-turn to go more quickly in the direction of Mom’s local office. “Wanna smoke?” He drops the Marlboros in my lap.

“I don’t. You know that, Tim.”

“What do you do with your time—with your hands—that’s the thing I can’t figure out.” Tim takes one hand off of the wheel and shakes it at me vigorously, as though he has an uncontrollable twitch. “What do you hold on to?”

I feel my face heat.

Tim smirks at me. “Oh, riiight. I forgot. Besides lover boy and his—”

I hold up my hand in a stop motion, changing the subject before he can finish his sentence. “Is it still hard, Tim, not drinking and stuff? It’s been, what, a month?”

“Thirty-three days. Not that I’m counting. And yeah, of course it’s frickin’ hard. Things only come easy to people like you and Mr. Perfect. For me, it’s like every day—a million times a day—I want to get back together with that scorchin’ girl, aka the quart of Bacardi or the bag of coke or whatever, even though I know she’s only going to screw me over again.”

“Tim, you’ve got to get over this ‘everything’s easy for everyone else’ stuff. It’s not true and it makes you boring.”

Tim whistles. “Channeling Jase, are you?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s just…It’s just watching you and Nan…” I trail off. Is there any point to telling him I know he used her work? What does it matter now? He got expelled. Nan got the awards.

“Watching Nan do what?” Tim asks, picking up on the way my voice wobbles when I say her name. He tosses the butt of the first cigarette out the window, reaching for another.

I hedge. “She’s so stressed out, this summer, already, about colleges.…”

“Yeah, well, we Masons do obsession and compulsion well.” Tim snorts. “I generally stick to compulsion and let Nano handle the obsession, but sometimes we swap. I love my sister, but there’s no rest for either of us. I’m always there to provide her with an object lesson of how much it sucks to screw up, and she’s always there to remind me how miserable she is looking perfect. And, speaking of miserable, here we are.”

He wheels into the parking lot by Mom’s office.

Even though Mom’s schedule is jam-packed, I’m somehow still surprised to find the office is full of people, in assembly lines, folding pamphlets, putting them in envelopes and putting on labels and stamps. People really believe in her, enough to sit in stuffy offices doing boring tasks during the most beautiful days of Connecticut’s all-too-short summer.

As we walk in, two older women at a big central table look up and give Tim broad, motherly smiles.

“We heard a rumor you were quitting on us, but we knew that couldn’t be true,” the taller, thinner one says. “Grab a chair, Timothy dear.”

Tim puts his arm around her bony shoulder. “Sorry, Dottie. The rumor is reality. I’m leaving to spend more time with my family.” He says the last in his Moviefone voice.

“And this is…” The other woman squints at me. “Ah! The senator’s daughter.” She cuts her eyes to him. “And your—girlfriend? She’s very pretty.”

“No, alas, she belongs to another, Dottie. I just pine for her from afar.”

He starts cramming papers and—I notice—office supplies into his backpack. I roam around the office, picking up brochures and buttons advertising Mom, then putting them back down. Finally, I wander into her quiet office.

Mom likes her comforts. Her office chair is top-of-the-line ergonomic, fine leather. The desk is no gray metal one from office supply but a rich carved oak antique. There’s a vase of red roses and a picture of Mom with me and Tracy in matching satin-and-velvet Christmas outfits.

There’s also a big basket of gardening tools, gift-wrapped in shiny green cellophane, with a note saying We at Riggio’s Quality Lawns are Grateful for your support.

A couple of tickets to a Broadway show thumbtacked to the corkboard: Allow us to treat you to some quality entertainment in thanks for all you do, from some people named Bob and Marge Considine.

A business card saying Thanks for giving our bid serious consideration, from Carlyle Contracting.

I don’t know campaign rules, but all this doesn’t seem right to me. I’m standing there, with a sick feeling in my stomach, when Tim strolls in, backpack hitched onto one shoulder, cardboard box in hand. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get ghost before we have to deal with your ma or Clay. Word is they’re on their way here now. Being on the side of the Morally Superior is new to me, and I might screw up my lines.”

Once we’re outside, Tim throws his box of stuff and backpack into the backseat of the Jetta, then flips the passenger seat forward so I can climb in.

“How bad is Clay?” I ask quietly. “I mean, is he a sleaze for real?”

“I did Google him,” Tim admits. “Helluva impressive resume for a guy who’s only thirty-six.”

Thirty-six? Mom’s forty-six. So he’s young. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s bad. Mom listens to him like he’s the one true frequency, but that doesn’t mean he’s bad either. But…but what’s up with the double agent? This is a tiny race in Connecticut, not the Cold War.

“How do you think he got so high up so fast?” I ask Tim. “I mean, really—thirty-six? And if he’s this big star in the Republican firmament, why is he taking the time to help out this dinky state senatorial race? That’s got to be a blip on the radar.”

“I don’t know, kid. He sure loves this stuff, though. The other day this commercial ran for some race in Rhode Island, and Clay’s all over it, calling the office up there to tell them what’s wrong with their message. Maybe it’s his idea of a vacation helping out your ma.” He shoots a look at me, then smirks. “A vacation with a few extra benefits.”

“Would those be from my mom? Or that brunette you talked about?”

Tim folds himself into the driver’s seat, turning the ignition and punching in the lighter simultaneously. “I don’t know what’s up with that. He’s flirty with her, but those Southern guys are like that. He certainly is all over your ma.”

Ick. I know this, but don’t want to think about it.

“But luckily it’s not my problem anymore.”

“It doesn’t go away because it’s not your problem.”

“Yes, Mother. Listen, Clay cuts corners and is all about politics. That’s working out just fine for him, Samantha. Why should he change? No incentive. No payback. In my brief shining moments as a political animal, that’s one thing I’ve learned. It’s all about incentive, payback, and how it all looks. Being a politician is a lot like being an alcoholic in denial.”