Page 32 of Solo

“God, it was just…just dumb luck.” I shrug. “Remember when I came in with this cut on my forehead?” I ask, pointing in the general vicinity of the scab. “The one that was bleeding in class the other day? Well, I’d done it right before he offered me a ride and when I got inside his car, I just happened to pull down the visor so I could get a look at it in the mirror. I wanted to see if it was still bleeding. That’s when I found this little microphone attached there. The jackass was recording our conversation.” I shake my head, still in disbelief when I recall the events of that morning. “I felt like—I feel like such an idiot for trusting him. For getting into that car with him—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Markham says, holding up a hand to stop me before I continue. “This happened that day? The day you were late?”

I nod. Let’s see if Dr. Drew can put together two plus two.

“Is that why you were late? Because some reporter was holding you hostage in his car?”

And there it is. Four.

“Kinda,” I say, taking another spoonful of the soup so I don’t have to look at him.

“Did he hit you? Is that why you were bleeding? Is that why you thought I was going to hit you?” he asks, his tone turning angry now.

My head whips up.

“What? No. Well, I mean, it was his fault, but he didn’t do it, no.”

When he looks perplexed, I explain the circumstances leading up to me banging my head on the hood of the car.

“Did you catch his name?”

“Oh yeah. I got a good picture of him, too. Kevin something from the D.C. Courier.”

“Kilpatrick? Was his name Kevin Kilpatrick?” he asks me with sudden interest.

I shrug. “I don’t know, he didn’t give me his last name. Why? You know him?”

“Maybe,” he says distractedly, like he’s trying to piece something together.

“Yeah, well, anyway, he’s like the rest of them. Always trying to get me to say something inflammatory about my father. And when they realize that’s not going to work, they start digging around for skeletons in my closet.”

“And do you?” he asks mildly.

“Do I what? Have skeletons in my closet?” I chuckle. “Sure, if you call eating canned soup and ramen noodles skeletons.”

He smiles and, once again, it transforms his face.

“No, I meant, do you say inflammatory things about your father? Is that why they keep chasing you around campus?”

I’m mid-swallow when he asks this, so I wave my spoon around in a hold-on-a-sec gesture. “No, the opposite, actually. I refuse to comment on him or his politics or our relationship. So they keep coming back again and again.”

We’re quiet for a minute, sipping Stracciatella until my spoon hits the bottom of the bowl with a noisy clank.

“Here, let me get you some more,” he says, taking my bowl to give me a top-up. I don’t stop him. In fact, I’d chug this stuff if I thought I could get away with it.

“It isn’t that I agree with him.”

Where the hell did that come from? What do I care what he thinks about me or my father?

Markham sets the newly filled bowl in front of me and returns to his own.

“Your father?”

I nod. “I hate his politics. I hate his attitude. But, he’s my father, you know? How I feel about him is not for public consumption.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable,” he agrees.

“I think so. But the press doesn’t. And my classmates don’t,” I mumble and sip down some more soup. “Everyone assumes that if I’m not against him, I must be for him.”