Disclaimer: She's still mine, the rest are still not, despite my most fervent wishes on birthday candles and stars and white horses pulling hay on the opposite side of the street.
Author's Note: Thank you reviewers, you're great people and I appreciate your pointers and encouragement:) I hope you like this one as much as you say you like the other three.
Turn-coat
By BJ Garrett
Mr. Ziegler is bent over the fourth and final page of my five-page homework assignment. I refuse to apologise for not spewing junk for another page. At least, I'm refusing until he asks me to. I see no reason not to maintain my fear of this dimunitive-yet-panic-inspiring man. If he makes my blood run cold, I wonder how I'll do if I ever meet the President. Not a reassuring prospect, surprisingly.
"Ms. Wright, I was under the impression that an Economics degree-holder would be able to count to five," he finally intones, looking up at me over the rims of his glasses.
That was low. "I--I'm sorry, sir."
"Why is it only four pages?" Mr. Ziegler asks me. This bears some consideration before answering.
I consider. "Well, sir, I couldn't think of anything else to say, for the most part."
He nods. "Nothing else to say."
"No, sir." I clasp my hands tightly to keep them from shaking. My stomach begins to rebel against last night's number 42.
He hmms for a few seconds. And nods again, placing my pages on his desk slowly. At least he didn't throw them. I begin rocking my feet back and forth gently, almost imperceptibly. "When you can't think of anything to say, stick a humourous story in, or a deep-slash-complex analogy. If you've read any of the President's work, take a cue from it. He's very good at extending."
"Okay, sir."
This isn't going as terribly as I thought it would. In fact, it's not going terribly at all.
He nods again and takes his glasses off, stuffing them in his jacket. It's only nine, so he hasn't flung it off in frustration yet, as I've heard tell of him doing. He picks up an unmarked folder and opens it. Then nods, saying, "Take this and do it. Get it to CJ Cregg by six tonight."
I grasp the proffered folder and back away. "Yes, sir."
Taking out his glasses again, he opens another folder and starts reading a paper from it. I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to be doing. Does he want me to work on it right here in his office?
He looks up at me for a long second. I guess I'm not getting the hint, because he says slowly, "You can go now."
"Yes, sir." I nod and scurry out, closing the door behind me.
As I pass his office on my way back to my cubicle, Sam calls something. I turn resignedly and poke my head through the door. "Yes?"
"How did it go?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in a now-familiar pose.
I smile ruefully. "Pretty good, I guess."
Chuckling, he nods. "I know how you feel. What did he give you to work on?"
"Just this folder. I don't know what it is yet," I reply, showing him the file.
"What did he say about your thing?" What thing? What is he talking about?
Oh, the pages. Of course. I think back, trying to remember what exactly he did say. "Well, nothing."
Sam's eyebrows go up. "Nothing?"
"Yes." He didn't say anything.
Shaking his head at the hunched figure in the next office, he says, "Typical."
Uncomfortable, I clear my throat. "He did give me some tips on extension. I only handed in four pages." Now that Mr. Ziegler doesn't necessarily want my head on a stake, I'm not scared to admit my failing to Sam.
"They must have been really great then," he says, surprising me. These people seem to like surprising me today.
"I guess."
"Can I see what you wrote?" he asks, looking at my hands as if I should have a copy ready for him.
"Mr. Ziegler's got the only hardcopy," I reply unapologetically. "He didn't give it back to me."
"Oh," Sam says. "Okay. I'll get it from him then."
"Okay."
"Okay." He sits up and grabs something important-looking. "We should get back to work."
Rolling my eyes, I reply, "Why not." I leave his office and enter my cubicle.
The folder contains two sheets of notes on the recent voting practises of one Senator Joseph Marles, Democratic, of Arizona. I skim the closely typed words and begin what I assume is supposed to be a press release. My 'Technical Writing for Dummies' book is open at my right hand for easy reference. I got it for $5.99 at Barnes & Noble on my way in this morning. I have a tendency to count my chickens before they hatch.
After typing a paragraph of the release, I stretch and look at the clock. 10:30. Break time. As I head down the hallway, I spy Patrice hovering at the entrance to Mr. Lyman's bullpen.
"What's up?" I ask as I pass her.
She grabs my arm and points inside the glass-and-wood enclosure. "He's finally gone over the edge, Annie." My gaze follows her shaking hand until it falls upon Mr. Lyman searching the soles of an aide's shoes on all fours. Upon finishing his inspection, he moves on to the next hapless employee, who dutifully lifts his feet one at a time.
"Do I want to know?" I inquire of Patrice, looking at her stricken face.
"I don't even know," she replies, letting go of me to cover her face with her hands.
Stifling a chuckle, I continue down the hall towards the staircase. Having missed breakfast, I'm looking forward to a hot crusty apple-cinnamon muffin from the mess, fat be damned. As I start down the stairs, Donna falls into step beside me.
Taking my arm, so recently relinquished by Patrice, she asks cheerily, "How's it going?"
Swallowing the last of my giggle, I shrug and say, "Pretty good. You might want to ask your boss the same question though."
Donna drops my arm and stops. "What? Tell me, Annie."
"I don't suppose there's a witty way to tell you that he's on all fours studying people's shoes?" I reply, continuing on.
Groaning, Donna turns and sprints up the stairs and around the corner.
Fifteen minutes later, as I stroll back down the hall past Mr. Lyman's bullpen, I am somehow sorry to see that all the aides are at their desks, shoes neatly tucked beneath them. Donna rushes past me, shaking her head. "You don't want to know!" she calls.
I re-enter the Communications area with a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
And walk right into Mr. Lyman, who is glowering and slinking out of Sam's office.
"Hello, sir," I say happily. "Good morning."
Raising his eyes from the papers he dropped during the collision, he says, "Hello...that's a word I've never liked. How can a word that's supposed to be a pleasant greeting have 'hell' in it? Why do people call me sir? It's not as though I have any particular power over anybody...it's not as though I want to. How is it a good morning? Thanks to some fear-mongering pee-on, Donna and the rest of this building think I'm insane. Why don't people ask before they go off assuming I'm doing something crazy? Well?"
I suppose he wants an answer. However, I have a strong suspicion that the pee-on he's talking about is me, so I shrug and grab his papers off the floor, stuffing them into his arms as I slip past.
"Sorry!" I say as an after-thought, taking refuge in my cubicle. I truly am sorry if I've caused him any trouble. Interesting to note, though, that he didn't recognise me either. Hmm.
But there is work to be done at the desk of Annie Wright, therefore all distracting and non-press-release-oriented thoughts must be put to the back of my head.
Fate seems to have other plans, though. Just as I set my hands on the keyboard, there is a knock, knock, knocking at my cubicle door. No easily-shot raven though, it's my sub-boss.
"Hi, Sam." I turn my nifty office chair as I greet him. He seems surprised that I knew who it was. "You have a very distinctive knock."
Smiling, he puts his hands in his pockets. "Thanks for noticing. It takes a lot of practise."
I'd like to sit around and trade nonsensical witticisms all day...in fact, I'd love to, but there is work to be done. "What can I do for you?"
"Toby let me see your pages."
Emotional cringe. "And?"
Wider smile, as if he knows how self-conscious I am. "Good stuff. He was right about the extension though. With another day or so, you probably could've made a great piece of that."
"Thank you?" No, wrong tone of voice. "Thank you." That's it, firm, confident. You knew it was good, you don't need anyone to tell you.
"He wouldn't tell me what you're doing now, though. Do you mind if I take a look?" He takes a step inside the cubicle, which makes it even more claustrophobic.
"Sure, go ahead, the notes are right there. I'll just go get a cup of coffee." I make my escape past him and beeline for the kitchenette, where Patrice is filling up three mugs.
"Donna and Mr. Lyman," she answers to my silent question. "Oh, and me."
As I nod and carefully select a mug from the fifty anonymous cups arrayed on the counter, she adds, "He's pretty ticked at you."
"I was under the impression he didn't know it was me. And why would he be ticked anyway? It's not like she wouldn't have come past eventually," I reply defensively, spooning sugar and creamer delicately into the empty mug. "And he was acting rather nutso, if you know what I mean."
Sighing, Patice says, "Of course I know what you mean. Nutso is a strong word, Annie. It conveys its meaning perfectly." She taps a miniscule amount of sugar into her coffee and places the mugs on a small tray emblazoned with the Presidential Seal. "He just, well, he doesn't know who exactly you are, but he resents the fact that now Donna is making him have an appointment with his shrink and everyone is talking about his latest eccentricity."
"What, he told you this?" I ask incredulously.
She looks at me and blushes. "The door was open."
"Oh, okay. I thought they'd actually invited you into a meeting," I say sarcastically.
Patrice looks wounded, picking up the tray and turning away. "Just because I don't have a title, Ms. Junior Speechwriter, doesn't mean the Chosen Ones don't trust me."
Angry at myself, I hug her quickly from behind. "I'm sorry. I think this place would fall apart without you."
I can hear the smile in her voice as she replies, "I know it would," and walks away.
Smiling again, I return to my cubicle to find Sam facing the opening, sitting ramrod-straight in my chair, the folder open on the keyboard behind him.
"Senator Marles," he says blankly.
Confused, I reply, "Yes," rather stupidly.
"His voting records have been turning decidedly Republican in the last two years, haven't they?"
"I suppose so. I didn't really have a chance to--"
"They have," he says shortly. "According to this folder, at least. According to Toby's sources."
After swallowing hard, I reply, "Voting records can't lie, Sam. Either he voted for or against a bill. Or he abstained, but he's never abstained."
"No, he never has."
I'm not quite certain how to deal with this. I'm glad that I'm the one standing up at least. I get to be the same height as him, rather than have him tower over me. I think I'm playing equaliser here, though. Just to get him out of my cubicle and talking to somebody who knows what's going on. "Well, it's probably not that big a deal, voting Republican once in a while. I mean, it's his job to vote how his constituents want, and if they want Republican..."
"They would have elected one," he finishes.
Not exactly what I was going to say. "Well, not necessarily. On those issues, perhaps they're more conservative than the White House would like."
He focuses on me, looks me right in the eye. "But it's not once in a while, Annie. It's every bill in the last two years. Every single one."
I guess I hadn't gotten to that part of the notes.
"And not only that, but even when it's a token vote, when ninety-percent of the Senate is in favour of the bill, he votes with the extreme right."
Okay. I can't argue with that. "That's not...I mean, he's a Democrat. Right?"
Sam holds up his hands. "Democrat," he echoes, making little quotation marks around the word.
"Well, if he's done this for two years, how come nobody noticed until now?" I ask, setting my coffee on my miniscule filing cabinet beside the spider plant.
Crossing his arms, he shrugs. "He's a pisspot little Senator from the Southwest. No controversy, no forward thinking. He's a backbencher, at the most. I suppose no one noticed him."
"But?" There's always a but in situations like these.
"I don't know," he replies. "Let's go find out."
I am, of course, perfectly willing to let him storm out and go on his way, but he did say 'let's', and he is taking me by the arm and dragging me along.
Mr. Ziegler's not in his office, thank goodness, but Sam's not satisfied to wait until he gets back, so he continues on down the hall. To Mr. Lyman's office. Oh, dear, dear me.
He opens the door summarily and steps in. "What the hell is going on with Senator Marles?" he demands.
Mr. Lyman and Donna look up from the paper they had been poring over until we--I mean he barged in. "Who?" Mr. Lyman asks confusedly.
"Joseph Marles, Democrat, Arizona," Sam elaborates, making those little thingies around Democrat again.
Donna straightens beside Mr. Lyman's desk and looks at me quizzically. I shrug, she shrugs, and leaves through the other door. Silently, I curse her and move so I'm standing beside Sam instead of behind him.
"YOU!" Mr. Lyman shouts, jumping up, pointing at me.
Startled, I put a hand to my throat and take a step back. "What?" I ask faintly.
"You told Donna I was crazy! You are Annie, right?"
Insanely, I want to giggle. Annie, right? Annie Wright. With a monumental effort, I quash the urge. Intelligence and clear thinking have sustained me these last six days. Brain, don't fail me now. "Yes, I am Annie Wright."
"You *did* tell Donna I was crazy!"
His logic escapes me. How does confirming that my name, is, in fact, Annie Wright, follow to an admission that I said he was crazy? Which I didn't.
Sam, I suppose, had been looking at us both like we were crazy, but now he steps in with calm gestures, urging Mr. Lyman back to his seat. "We're here to talk about Senator Marles, Josh."
"Didn't you?" Mr. Lyman asks, leaning around Sam to glare at me. "You did!"
Well, I cannot tell a lie. Good thing, because I don't have to. "No, actually, I didn't say you were crazy, Mr. Lyman. I said that you were examining the shoes of aides in your bullpen, sir. The word crazy was never uttered by me during the conversation."
"Donna said you said I was acting crazy," he insists.
"One could deduce from the situation that you were acting crazy, sir, although I said no such thing."
He seems almost satisfied. "Okay, but do you think I was acting crazy?"
Um. What does one say to that? "Sir, I couldn't honestly answer that unless I knew why you were...doing...what you were doing."
"I was looking for Janet Louis's contact lens. Is that so crazy?" he asks me, no longer leaning as Sam has retired from this discussion to observe us with detachment.
Nonplussed again, I'm pretty much not answering that one. Especially since I don't know who Janet Louis is.
"Actually, no," Mr. Lyman says suddenly, "I don't have to explain myself to you."
Well, then.
After a moment, I answer, "I'm sorry if Donna thinks I implied that you were crazy or acting crazy."
Loosening his tie another inch, Mr. Lyman inquires of the ceiling, "Why don't people ever ask why I'm doing what I'm doing before they assume I'm nuts? Huh?"
"Maybe because you are?" Sam interjects, coming away from the wall with a grin.
Smiling back, Mr. Lyman throws a wad of paper at him and seems to relax a great big deal. "What's all this about Senator Marles?"
Sobering, Sam gestures for me to take a seat. Mr. Lyman seems to have forgotten I'm here, so I oblige. "Annie here received the assignment to write a press release about his recent--try two years--voting practises. I'd like to know why this man has been voting Republican for two years and it hasn't come to our attention."
Tapping his hands on the arms of his chair, Mr. Lyman replies, "Maybe because no one's ever heard of the guy."
"Why now?"
"Why not?"
"What's he doing that would bring his questionable politics to our attention?"
"What's he not doing?"
"Why are you asking such stupid questions?"
"Why are you asking me questions I obviously don't know the answers to?"
Defeated, Sam crosses his arms and looks at his feet. "So you haven't heard about this?"
Mr. Lyman rolls his eyes at me. After a second, I smile tentatively, getting the joke. "No, Sam, I have not heard about this. You sure no one's awarded you the Nobel?"
Ignoring the comment, Sam paces once across the office behind me. He stops near the corner and crosses his arms. "So I should go ask somebody else?"
Rubbing his eyes frustratedly, Mr. Lyman replies, "Yes, Sam. Go. Take the girl with you."
Sam looks confused for a second, and then glances at me. "Oh, this is Annie."
"I know."
"She's the new junior speechwriter. I hired her on Friday."
Mr. Lyman nods at me. "Congratulations." Then he looks at Sam and continues, "I didn't know we had those."
Putting his hands on his hips, Sam says forcefully, "We do now. And Toby said she's good."
That shuts up Mr. Lyman fairly well. Sam heads for the door and I follow.
"Where are we going now? I do need to write that press release," I inquire as he leads me down the hall.
We're heading for Mr. Ziegler's office again. I suppose we're going to find out if he's back yet. He probably isn't. People who've survived as long as he has seem to possess an instinct for, well, getting out of the way when people who've been around as long as Sam has decide they want answers. Basically--
Wait a minute.
I stop Sam with an arm to the torso, halting our imminent trampling of a hapless office staffer with an armload of papers. "He said it was good?"
Sam looks across the intersection at a painting, then looks down at me. Painting. Me. Painting.
"Well, not in so many words--"
"What *did* he say?" I want to know. Tell me. I need to know.
The painting, which I don't consider to be the best of the dozens of fine pieces hanging in the White House, must hold some great fascination for Sam, the closet art connoisseur.
A long minute passes, in which I study his face diligently, hoping to squeeze some inkling of Mr. Ziegler's words out of his slightly apologetic, totally deer-in-the-headlights expression.
"Josh and I, we have a repartee. A unique repartee, in which we each attempt to shut the other up when we're not in the mood for the discussion. I may have manipulated..."
He's not getting away with semantics here. No way. "Don't go into speechwriter mode, Sam. Please. Don't."
So he stops talking and just looks at the painting. My arm drops from blocking him and he steps into the hallway, turning to face me.
I can't believe it. He lied about what Mr. Ziegler said about my pages. He lied.
"You lied?" I ask, aghast and disappointed.
"Well, yes. I mean, well, yes." He puts his hands in his pockets and looks down at me sadly. Sad, my ass.
I break eye contact and look at his tie. Red tie. That's pretty much all I can comprehend right now.
"You used me to shut him up because you can't accept that nobody noticed Senator Marles' was a turn-coat? I...holy cow, Sam, I just..." There really isn't anything else to say. "He didn't say anything, did he?"
Silence from above. I look up, tentative only in that I'm afraid I'll break his nose in a particularly painful way.
"Did he?"
He closes his eyes. I suppose know he understands that I actually *am* that idealistic. Idealistic enough to expect people to tell the truth, and not crush the hopes of others. I really wanted to impress Mr. Ziegler.
This is just too much. Angry, morose, and everything in between I walk brusquely past Sam, a hand up to fend off any parting words. The press release must be written. It's open on my keyboard and my computer screen, and I'd better get to it. The loss of confidence can be dealt with later.
Passing Mr. Ziegler's office on the way to my cubicle, I notice that he is in. I hope Sam gets the answers he wants, then. Mr. Ziegler is on the phone, and as I slink by the open door, I hear him say,
"--this junior speechwriter thing isn't so bad. She's pretty good, for a virgin. Wish it were my idea."
THE END
Author's Note: Thank you reviewers, you're great people and I appreciate your pointers and encouragement:) I hope you like this one as much as you say you like the other three.
Turn-coat
By BJ Garrett
Mr. Ziegler is bent over the fourth and final page of my five-page homework assignment. I refuse to apologise for not spewing junk for another page. At least, I'm refusing until he asks me to. I see no reason not to maintain my fear of this dimunitive-yet-panic-inspiring man. If he makes my blood run cold, I wonder how I'll do if I ever meet the President. Not a reassuring prospect, surprisingly.
"Ms. Wright, I was under the impression that an Economics degree-holder would be able to count to five," he finally intones, looking up at me over the rims of his glasses.
That was low. "I--I'm sorry, sir."
"Why is it only four pages?" Mr. Ziegler asks me. This bears some consideration before answering.
I consider. "Well, sir, I couldn't think of anything else to say, for the most part."
He nods. "Nothing else to say."
"No, sir." I clasp my hands tightly to keep them from shaking. My stomach begins to rebel against last night's number 42.
He hmms for a few seconds. And nods again, placing my pages on his desk slowly. At least he didn't throw them. I begin rocking my feet back and forth gently, almost imperceptibly. "When you can't think of anything to say, stick a humourous story in, or a deep-slash-complex analogy. If you've read any of the President's work, take a cue from it. He's very good at extending."
"Okay, sir."
This isn't going as terribly as I thought it would. In fact, it's not going terribly at all.
He nods again and takes his glasses off, stuffing them in his jacket. It's only nine, so he hasn't flung it off in frustration yet, as I've heard tell of him doing. He picks up an unmarked folder and opens it. Then nods, saying, "Take this and do it. Get it to CJ Cregg by six tonight."
I grasp the proffered folder and back away. "Yes, sir."
Taking out his glasses again, he opens another folder and starts reading a paper from it. I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to be doing. Does he want me to work on it right here in his office?
He looks up at me for a long second. I guess I'm not getting the hint, because he says slowly, "You can go now."
"Yes, sir." I nod and scurry out, closing the door behind me.
As I pass his office on my way back to my cubicle, Sam calls something. I turn resignedly and poke my head through the door. "Yes?"
"How did it go?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in a now-familiar pose.
I smile ruefully. "Pretty good, I guess."
Chuckling, he nods. "I know how you feel. What did he give you to work on?"
"Just this folder. I don't know what it is yet," I reply, showing him the file.
"What did he say about your thing?" What thing? What is he talking about?
Oh, the pages. Of course. I think back, trying to remember what exactly he did say. "Well, nothing."
Sam's eyebrows go up. "Nothing?"
"Yes." He didn't say anything.
Shaking his head at the hunched figure in the next office, he says, "Typical."
Uncomfortable, I clear my throat. "He did give me some tips on extension. I only handed in four pages." Now that Mr. Ziegler doesn't necessarily want my head on a stake, I'm not scared to admit my failing to Sam.
"They must have been really great then," he says, surprising me. These people seem to like surprising me today.
"I guess."
"Can I see what you wrote?" he asks, looking at my hands as if I should have a copy ready for him.
"Mr. Ziegler's got the only hardcopy," I reply unapologetically. "He didn't give it back to me."
"Oh," Sam says. "Okay. I'll get it from him then."
"Okay."
"Okay." He sits up and grabs something important-looking. "We should get back to work."
Rolling my eyes, I reply, "Why not." I leave his office and enter my cubicle.
The folder contains two sheets of notes on the recent voting practises of one Senator Joseph Marles, Democratic, of Arizona. I skim the closely typed words and begin what I assume is supposed to be a press release. My 'Technical Writing for Dummies' book is open at my right hand for easy reference. I got it for $5.99 at Barnes & Noble on my way in this morning. I have a tendency to count my chickens before they hatch.
After typing a paragraph of the release, I stretch and look at the clock. 10:30. Break time. As I head down the hallway, I spy Patrice hovering at the entrance to Mr. Lyman's bullpen.
"What's up?" I ask as I pass her.
She grabs my arm and points inside the glass-and-wood enclosure. "He's finally gone over the edge, Annie." My gaze follows her shaking hand until it falls upon Mr. Lyman searching the soles of an aide's shoes on all fours. Upon finishing his inspection, he moves on to the next hapless employee, who dutifully lifts his feet one at a time.
"Do I want to know?" I inquire of Patrice, looking at her stricken face.
"I don't even know," she replies, letting go of me to cover her face with her hands.
Stifling a chuckle, I continue down the hall towards the staircase. Having missed breakfast, I'm looking forward to a hot crusty apple-cinnamon muffin from the mess, fat be damned. As I start down the stairs, Donna falls into step beside me.
Taking my arm, so recently relinquished by Patrice, she asks cheerily, "How's it going?"
Swallowing the last of my giggle, I shrug and say, "Pretty good. You might want to ask your boss the same question though."
Donna drops my arm and stops. "What? Tell me, Annie."
"I don't suppose there's a witty way to tell you that he's on all fours studying people's shoes?" I reply, continuing on.
Groaning, Donna turns and sprints up the stairs and around the corner.
Fifteen minutes later, as I stroll back down the hall past Mr. Lyman's bullpen, I am somehow sorry to see that all the aides are at their desks, shoes neatly tucked beneath them. Donna rushes past me, shaking her head. "You don't want to know!" she calls.
I re-enter the Communications area with a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
And walk right into Mr. Lyman, who is glowering and slinking out of Sam's office.
"Hello, sir," I say happily. "Good morning."
Raising his eyes from the papers he dropped during the collision, he says, "Hello...that's a word I've never liked. How can a word that's supposed to be a pleasant greeting have 'hell' in it? Why do people call me sir? It's not as though I have any particular power over anybody...it's not as though I want to. How is it a good morning? Thanks to some fear-mongering pee-on, Donna and the rest of this building think I'm insane. Why don't people ask before they go off assuming I'm doing something crazy? Well?"
I suppose he wants an answer. However, I have a strong suspicion that the pee-on he's talking about is me, so I shrug and grab his papers off the floor, stuffing them into his arms as I slip past.
"Sorry!" I say as an after-thought, taking refuge in my cubicle. I truly am sorry if I've caused him any trouble. Interesting to note, though, that he didn't recognise me either. Hmm.
But there is work to be done at the desk of Annie Wright, therefore all distracting and non-press-release-oriented thoughts must be put to the back of my head.
Fate seems to have other plans, though. Just as I set my hands on the keyboard, there is a knock, knock, knocking at my cubicle door. No easily-shot raven though, it's my sub-boss.
"Hi, Sam." I turn my nifty office chair as I greet him. He seems surprised that I knew who it was. "You have a very distinctive knock."
Smiling, he puts his hands in his pockets. "Thanks for noticing. It takes a lot of practise."
I'd like to sit around and trade nonsensical witticisms all day...in fact, I'd love to, but there is work to be done. "What can I do for you?"
"Toby let me see your pages."
Emotional cringe. "And?"
Wider smile, as if he knows how self-conscious I am. "Good stuff. He was right about the extension though. With another day or so, you probably could've made a great piece of that."
"Thank you?" No, wrong tone of voice. "Thank you." That's it, firm, confident. You knew it was good, you don't need anyone to tell you.
"He wouldn't tell me what you're doing now, though. Do you mind if I take a look?" He takes a step inside the cubicle, which makes it even more claustrophobic.
"Sure, go ahead, the notes are right there. I'll just go get a cup of coffee." I make my escape past him and beeline for the kitchenette, where Patrice is filling up three mugs.
"Donna and Mr. Lyman," she answers to my silent question. "Oh, and me."
As I nod and carefully select a mug from the fifty anonymous cups arrayed on the counter, she adds, "He's pretty ticked at you."
"I was under the impression he didn't know it was me. And why would he be ticked anyway? It's not like she wouldn't have come past eventually," I reply defensively, spooning sugar and creamer delicately into the empty mug. "And he was acting rather nutso, if you know what I mean."
Sighing, Patice says, "Of course I know what you mean. Nutso is a strong word, Annie. It conveys its meaning perfectly." She taps a miniscule amount of sugar into her coffee and places the mugs on a small tray emblazoned with the Presidential Seal. "He just, well, he doesn't know who exactly you are, but he resents the fact that now Donna is making him have an appointment with his shrink and everyone is talking about his latest eccentricity."
"What, he told you this?" I ask incredulously.
She looks at me and blushes. "The door was open."
"Oh, okay. I thought they'd actually invited you into a meeting," I say sarcastically.
Patrice looks wounded, picking up the tray and turning away. "Just because I don't have a title, Ms. Junior Speechwriter, doesn't mean the Chosen Ones don't trust me."
Angry at myself, I hug her quickly from behind. "I'm sorry. I think this place would fall apart without you."
I can hear the smile in her voice as she replies, "I know it would," and walks away.
Smiling again, I return to my cubicle to find Sam facing the opening, sitting ramrod-straight in my chair, the folder open on the keyboard behind him.
"Senator Marles," he says blankly.
Confused, I reply, "Yes," rather stupidly.
"His voting records have been turning decidedly Republican in the last two years, haven't they?"
"I suppose so. I didn't really have a chance to--"
"They have," he says shortly. "According to this folder, at least. According to Toby's sources."
After swallowing hard, I reply, "Voting records can't lie, Sam. Either he voted for or against a bill. Or he abstained, but he's never abstained."
"No, he never has."
I'm not quite certain how to deal with this. I'm glad that I'm the one standing up at least. I get to be the same height as him, rather than have him tower over me. I think I'm playing equaliser here, though. Just to get him out of my cubicle and talking to somebody who knows what's going on. "Well, it's probably not that big a deal, voting Republican once in a while. I mean, it's his job to vote how his constituents want, and if they want Republican..."
"They would have elected one," he finishes.
Not exactly what I was going to say. "Well, not necessarily. On those issues, perhaps they're more conservative than the White House would like."
He focuses on me, looks me right in the eye. "But it's not once in a while, Annie. It's every bill in the last two years. Every single one."
I guess I hadn't gotten to that part of the notes.
"And not only that, but even when it's a token vote, when ninety-percent of the Senate is in favour of the bill, he votes with the extreme right."
Okay. I can't argue with that. "That's not...I mean, he's a Democrat. Right?"
Sam holds up his hands. "Democrat," he echoes, making little quotation marks around the word.
"Well, if he's done this for two years, how come nobody noticed until now?" I ask, setting my coffee on my miniscule filing cabinet beside the spider plant.
Crossing his arms, he shrugs. "He's a pisspot little Senator from the Southwest. No controversy, no forward thinking. He's a backbencher, at the most. I suppose no one noticed him."
"But?" There's always a but in situations like these.
"I don't know," he replies. "Let's go find out."
I am, of course, perfectly willing to let him storm out and go on his way, but he did say 'let's', and he is taking me by the arm and dragging me along.
Mr. Ziegler's not in his office, thank goodness, but Sam's not satisfied to wait until he gets back, so he continues on down the hall. To Mr. Lyman's office. Oh, dear, dear me.
He opens the door summarily and steps in. "What the hell is going on with Senator Marles?" he demands.
Mr. Lyman and Donna look up from the paper they had been poring over until we--I mean he barged in. "Who?" Mr. Lyman asks confusedly.
"Joseph Marles, Democrat, Arizona," Sam elaborates, making those little thingies around Democrat again.
Donna straightens beside Mr. Lyman's desk and looks at me quizzically. I shrug, she shrugs, and leaves through the other door. Silently, I curse her and move so I'm standing beside Sam instead of behind him.
"YOU!" Mr. Lyman shouts, jumping up, pointing at me.
Startled, I put a hand to my throat and take a step back. "What?" I ask faintly.
"You told Donna I was crazy! You are Annie, right?"
Insanely, I want to giggle. Annie, right? Annie Wright. With a monumental effort, I quash the urge. Intelligence and clear thinking have sustained me these last six days. Brain, don't fail me now. "Yes, I am Annie Wright."
"You *did* tell Donna I was crazy!"
His logic escapes me. How does confirming that my name, is, in fact, Annie Wright, follow to an admission that I said he was crazy? Which I didn't.
Sam, I suppose, had been looking at us both like we were crazy, but now he steps in with calm gestures, urging Mr. Lyman back to his seat. "We're here to talk about Senator Marles, Josh."
"Didn't you?" Mr. Lyman asks, leaning around Sam to glare at me. "You did!"
Well, I cannot tell a lie. Good thing, because I don't have to. "No, actually, I didn't say you were crazy, Mr. Lyman. I said that you were examining the shoes of aides in your bullpen, sir. The word crazy was never uttered by me during the conversation."
"Donna said you said I was acting crazy," he insists.
"One could deduce from the situation that you were acting crazy, sir, although I said no such thing."
He seems almost satisfied. "Okay, but do you think I was acting crazy?"
Um. What does one say to that? "Sir, I couldn't honestly answer that unless I knew why you were...doing...what you were doing."
"I was looking for Janet Louis's contact lens. Is that so crazy?" he asks me, no longer leaning as Sam has retired from this discussion to observe us with detachment.
Nonplussed again, I'm pretty much not answering that one. Especially since I don't know who Janet Louis is.
"Actually, no," Mr. Lyman says suddenly, "I don't have to explain myself to you."
Well, then.
After a moment, I answer, "I'm sorry if Donna thinks I implied that you were crazy or acting crazy."
Loosening his tie another inch, Mr. Lyman inquires of the ceiling, "Why don't people ever ask why I'm doing what I'm doing before they assume I'm nuts? Huh?"
"Maybe because you are?" Sam interjects, coming away from the wall with a grin.
Smiling back, Mr. Lyman throws a wad of paper at him and seems to relax a great big deal. "What's all this about Senator Marles?"
Sobering, Sam gestures for me to take a seat. Mr. Lyman seems to have forgotten I'm here, so I oblige. "Annie here received the assignment to write a press release about his recent--try two years--voting practises. I'd like to know why this man has been voting Republican for two years and it hasn't come to our attention."
Tapping his hands on the arms of his chair, Mr. Lyman replies, "Maybe because no one's ever heard of the guy."
"Why now?"
"Why not?"
"What's he doing that would bring his questionable politics to our attention?"
"What's he not doing?"
"Why are you asking such stupid questions?"
"Why are you asking me questions I obviously don't know the answers to?"
Defeated, Sam crosses his arms and looks at his feet. "So you haven't heard about this?"
Mr. Lyman rolls his eyes at me. After a second, I smile tentatively, getting the joke. "No, Sam, I have not heard about this. You sure no one's awarded you the Nobel?"
Ignoring the comment, Sam paces once across the office behind me. He stops near the corner and crosses his arms. "So I should go ask somebody else?"
Rubbing his eyes frustratedly, Mr. Lyman replies, "Yes, Sam. Go. Take the girl with you."
Sam looks confused for a second, and then glances at me. "Oh, this is Annie."
"I know."
"She's the new junior speechwriter. I hired her on Friday."
Mr. Lyman nods at me. "Congratulations." Then he looks at Sam and continues, "I didn't know we had those."
Putting his hands on his hips, Sam says forcefully, "We do now. And Toby said she's good."
That shuts up Mr. Lyman fairly well. Sam heads for the door and I follow.
"Where are we going now? I do need to write that press release," I inquire as he leads me down the hall.
We're heading for Mr. Ziegler's office again. I suppose we're going to find out if he's back yet. He probably isn't. People who've survived as long as he has seem to possess an instinct for, well, getting out of the way when people who've been around as long as Sam has decide they want answers. Basically--
Wait a minute.
I stop Sam with an arm to the torso, halting our imminent trampling of a hapless office staffer with an armload of papers. "He said it was good?"
Sam looks across the intersection at a painting, then looks down at me. Painting. Me. Painting.
"Well, not in so many words--"
"What *did* he say?" I want to know. Tell me. I need to know.
The painting, which I don't consider to be the best of the dozens of fine pieces hanging in the White House, must hold some great fascination for Sam, the closet art connoisseur.
A long minute passes, in which I study his face diligently, hoping to squeeze some inkling of Mr. Ziegler's words out of his slightly apologetic, totally deer-in-the-headlights expression.
"Josh and I, we have a repartee. A unique repartee, in which we each attempt to shut the other up when we're not in the mood for the discussion. I may have manipulated..."
He's not getting away with semantics here. No way. "Don't go into speechwriter mode, Sam. Please. Don't."
So he stops talking and just looks at the painting. My arm drops from blocking him and he steps into the hallway, turning to face me.
I can't believe it. He lied about what Mr. Ziegler said about my pages. He lied.
"You lied?" I ask, aghast and disappointed.
"Well, yes. I mean, well, yes." He puts his hands in his pockets and looks down at me sadly. Sad, my ass.
I break eye contact and look at his tie. Red tie. That's pretty much all I can comprehend right now.
"You used me to shut him up because you can't accept that nobody noticed Senator Marles' was a turn-coat? I...holy cow, Sam, I just..." There really isn't anything else to say. "He didn't say anything, did he?"
Silence from above. I look up, tentative only in that I'm afraid I'll break his nose in a particularly painful way.
"Did he?"
He closes his eyes. I suppose know he understands that I actually *am* that idealistic. Idealistic enough to expect people to tell the truth, and not crush the hopes of others. I really wanted to impress Mr. Ziegler.
This is just too much. Angry, morose, and everything in between I walk brusquely past Sam, a hand up to fend off any parting words. The press release must be written. It's open on my keyboard and my computer screen, and I'd better get to it. The loss of confidence can be dealt with later.
Passing Mr. Ziegler's office on the way to my cubicle, I notice that he is in. I hope Sam gets the answers he wants, then. Mr. Ziegler is on the phone, and as I slink by the open door, I hear him say,
"--this junior speechwriter thing isn't so bad. She's pretty good, for a virgin. Wish it were my idea."
THE END