2/4
The Next Day
A small motorcade, Will discovered to his dismay as he waited under the canopy,
consisted of only ten vehicles and three dozen armed guards. He tried to imagine
what a huge motorcade might be - a dozen hummers and the 82nd Airborne as
backup, perhaps - but gave up after a few moments. "Where's Toby?" he asked as
Charlie came up to finalize some details with Ron Butterfield.
"He said to tell you he can't make it. You're flying solo. Or, rather, you're
riding solo."
"Alone?"
Charlie smirked. "That's usually what solo means, only in this case 'solo' means
the only person from the Communications Department. And no CJ this time."
Will's stomach lurched. "Okay, can I just say that this is really bad?"
"You're traveled with the President before," Charlie said, amusement taking the
edge off his voice. "That's no reason to come unhinged."
"Okay, what's a good reason to come unhinged?"
"How about this: Zoey wants you to write a few remarks for her, in case press
gets to her. She'll be out in a minute." His grin widened. "Riding with Zoey and
torturing you. I can't wait for this trip."
"I can," Will called after him as Charlie found Ron in the crowd and began to
talk to him.
Only a few seconds passed before Zoey was standing next to him. "We can talk in
the car," she said as half a dozen agents took their places alongside the huge
limousine.
"Oh, yes. Absolutely." Will turned toward the White House, wondering whether
Toby had X-ray vision and, if so, whether he was laughing his ass off right now.
"Don't worry about traveling with my dad." Zoey straightened her skirt and
smiled at Will. "You'll do fine. There's no way you could screw up a press event
the way Sam did that time."
"How did Sam--" The door opened and Charlie peered in.
"The three of us are going together - the President needs to have a private
telephone conversation with President Chigorin so he's going in Ron's car."
Charlie got into the limousine and sat next to Zoey. Not touching her, Will
noticed, but definitely protective. Zoey's agents sat on either side of Will,
and one was in the front seat with the driver. The extra security had Will
enough on edge that the sudden shriek of sirens made him jump. "You're going to
be fine, Will," Charlie said.
"I was just telling him that," Zoey chirped, sounding far too cheerful. "I was
going to tell him a story, too. The one about Sam and the press thing."
"Oh, God," Charlie sighed, chuckling as he leaned back into the seat. "That's
the best Sam story. It's priceless."
"It's also a secret from me," Will complained, "and I could use a priceless Sam
story right about now, so..."
***
April, 2001
Charlie hated it when he had to tell the President something that would make him
absolutely crazy. He sucked in a long breath, held it for a few seconds. Please,
God, let him not be in a mood. Amen.
As Charlie walked into the Oval Office, Bartlet looked up at him over his
glasses. "Could you please remind me why I bother going to budget meetings for
which people are so ill-informed that I'm in charge not because I was duly
elected but because I can pull statistics out of thin air?"
He was in a mood. Oh, great.
"Because--"
"It was a rhetorical question, Charlie," the President said with a sigh, waving
him to come up to the desk. "What's next?"
"Well, sir, there's supposed to be a photo op with a delegation from
Mississippi, but they're being put off until later today. Something's come up,
sir."
Bartlet leaned back in his chair. "Any task that gets me out of a photo op
sounds like a good thing. Is this a good thing?"
"That would depend on who you ask, sir."
Eyes narrowing, Bartlet looked up at Charlie. "Who would tell me that this is a
good thing?"
How did he paint himself into these corners? "There are members of the press who
might think that it was a very good thing, indeed."
"Anything to keep the Fourth Estate happy. Which, by the way, was what Sam was
supposed to be doing this afternoon. How'd that go?"
"Funny you should mention that," Charlie said. "Sam's standing in the hallway
outside Mrs. Landingham's office."
"He's back?" As Charlie was about to open his mouth, Bartlet waved him to
silence. "Never mind, if he's standing in her office--"
"Outside her office--"
"--then he's obviously back. Send him in."
"I can't, sir."
Bartlet's mouth turned down at the corners. "You can't?"
"No, sir."
"Why can't Sam come in?"
Here comes the tricky part, Charlie thought.
"He's wet, sir."
Bartlet turned to face the windows. "Do I get my own personal weather, or is it
a very nice day outside?"
"It is a beautiful spring afternoon, sir."
"Then why is Sam...oh, God, it was the press thing, wasn't it?"
Before Charlie could answer, Bartlet was on his feet, marching out the door
while straightening his tie. Without a word to Mrs. Landingham, he walked past
her desk and over to where Sam was standing on the hardwood floor. More
precisely, Sam was standing on the first two sections of the Wall Street
Journal, whose ink was running from the water dripping from his leg.
"Mr. President," Sam began, but Bartlet cut him off.
"We thought it would be a good idea if the press saw you guys outside of the
place where, as they put it, you 'so zealously guard the nation's progress.' We
thought Toby would scare them, CJ would mock them, and Josh would just annoy the
living hell out of them, so we chose you. We chose you to take a few of the
press corps on a jaunt doing something you love, like sailing. How am I doing so
far?"
Charlie looked at Sam and hoped he conveyed more pity than amusement.
Sam shifted from one foot to the other, his shoes making a faint sloshing sound
as he did so. "You're right on the money, Mr. President," he said, looking as
earnest as he could, given that his hair was sticking up in six directions.
"I've been on all sorts of boats, Sam - yachts, navy cruisers, and even
sailboats. Not once have I come home looking the way you do. Is it possible,
then, that you managed to fall off the boat?"
"I didn't so much fall off as...well, yes, sir, I fell off the boat."
"Were you," Bartlet inquired with his eyebrows raised, "the only one to fall off
the boat, or did you take other people with you, such as members of the press?"
Sam leaned backwards a little. "It was the last thing. Other...and members of
the press."
Bartlet closed his eyes and shook his head. "You capsized the boat, didn't you?"
When Sam didn't answer, he opened his eyes again and stared at the hapless,
embarrassed man. "You did some dumbass thing or another and turned over a boat
full of press who are already convinced that the members of the Senior Staff
have no skills other than political ones, thereby ensuring that the
misconception will be spread to the far corners of the land, complete with
photographic evidence."
"There won't be any pictures, sir," Charlie said, hoping to deflect the
President. Sam turned his face heavenward.
"Why won't there be any pictures?" Bartlet asked.
"Because all the cameras fell into the water along with Sam and, you know, the
boat."
The silence was unbearable.
Finally, Bartlet spoke again, his tone carefully measured. "That's the good
news?"
"I'm sorry to say that it is, sir," Sam murmured. At that moment two of the
press corps members walked by. escorted by a smirking Carol acting as both
escort and towel bearer. Mike's suit jacket was shrinking, the sleeves halfway
up his forearms. Chris, walking by his side, was also suffering from wet
clothes. Her permed hair was so frizzy that it looked like an afro from the
1970s, which Charlie felt might explain the murderous glare she gave Sam as she
passed him.
"Well, thank God there were no cameras," Bartlet said with a sigh. "I suppose
they're billing us--"
"I'll take care of it, Mr. President," Sam said immediately.
"See that you do." Bartlet turned away as he said it, but Charlie could see the
blossoming of a smile. "Charlie, have someone get Sam some towels and a change
of clothes. And a hot cup of tea with a shot of whiskey in it."
Charlie looked back at Sam, who was still dripping on the newspaper, and gave
him a thumbs-up sign.
***
"So no matter how much you screw up, at least you won't be dripping on a West
Wing floor," Zoey said brightly.
"I can't tell you how much better that makes me feel," Will moaned, looking at
his clasped hands.
"Then our job here is done," Charlie said. He had inched closer to Zoey as he
told the story, and now they were sitting so close that they were almost
touching. "How about yours, Will?"
"My what?" Will asked, pushing up his glasses.
"Talking to Zoey about Students Against Drunk Driving?" Charlie clarified.
Will lifted his head, nodded, and reached into his breast pocket for his
notebook and pen. "What can you tell me about your interest, Zoey?"
Her whole body tightened, coiled as if for flight, and the light dimmed in her
eyes. "I want to be more visible," she said slowly. "I don't want any other
young people to go through a nightmarish experience. Maybe the two, together,
might..." She trailed off and bit down on her lower lip. Will thought he saw a
tear running down her face, but she quickly brushed it away.
"You don't have to do it," Charlie said to her, almost whispering the words.
"You don't have to do anything, not even get out of the car, if you don't think
you can."
"I'm sorry." Zoey's words came out as a hitching sob. She swallowed hard and
looked over at Will. Her pain was like a knife to the gut. "I don't know why I
dry up around you. I don't know why it happened at the Fourth of July thing, and
I don't know why it's happening now. Just, please, don't tell my dad."
"Of course not," Will assured her, a lump rising in his throat as he watched
Charlie try in vain to comfort her with words spoken too softly even for Will to
hear. Even when the car was parked by the school and more agents came guard
Zoey's exit, she still seemed so fragile that anything could break her.
Charlie helped Zoey out, then got out and stood by the door, his shoulders
hunched. "I just wanted her to get away from Jean-Paul. I never wanted this."
"We know." Will put his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "No one thinks that. No one
could possibly think that."
Flashing a tight smile, Charlie nodded and took a step away from Will. Without
looking back at him, he said, "I guess this is a case of being careful what you
wish for."
Will walked a few steps behind Charlie, trying not to look at the snipers on the
roof or the crowd of students still having their bags searched before going
through the borrowed metal detectors. No matter how many times he went to an
event with the President, he could never shake the feeling that something
terrible was about to happen.
Will's somber mood was perfect for the event - a staging of the aftermath of a
car crash, meant to bring home to high school students the horror that could
accompany the combination of alcohol and automobiles. A badly crushed car sat in
the middle of the gymnasium. Beside it was a lectern with a microphone, and
beyond the roped-off area sat a sea of high schoolers and teachers, mostly
wearing black. They seemed nervous, skittish, which was no surprise considering
the security precautions and armed guards throughout the gymnasium. Around the
perimeter were dozens of teenagers wearing black shirts, their faces painted
white, sitting in absolute silence. He shuddered as he walked behind the
display, where the Presidential entourage was waiting.
"Who's putting this together?" Bartlet asked the principal after they had shaken
hands.
"The members of SADD picked some kids from the drama department to play the
victims. The parents are really the parents," the principal told him. She was a
short blonde woman, dressed in a somber black suit, and her expression was one
of pride. "We've had a drastic drop in student alcohol use over the four years
we've done the 'Shattered Dreams' program. It's the parents being there that
makes it so real."
"I can imagine," Bartlet said, and Will flinched at the pain in his voice.
"Of course you can, Mr. President. I can't tell you how grateful I am that
you're...oh, sorry, they're signalling us. Will you excuse me?"
The principal went to the microphone and the crowd. "I'm sorry to announce that
there was a car accident last night. Jorge Renteria was driving Rochelle Baker
home from the fall dance. He had a beer with his friends in the parking lot -
nothing much, right? But he couldn't react quickly enough when a child ran out
into the street, and he lost control of the car. His arm was badly broken.
Rochelle...died on the scene."
A boy got out of the driver's seat of the car. His head was bandaged and his
left arm was in a sling. A boy dressed as a police officer took him by the good
shoulder and led him to the lectern.
"It was just a couple of beers," the boy said, looking dazedly into the
audience. "Rochelle was taking a long time in the bathroom, and I was bored with
waiting, so I went out. It was just a couple of beers. I don't know how it
happened." Tears filled his eyes and his whole body was shaking - Will thought
the kid was a remarkably good actor. "Mom...Dad...I'm so sorry. I don't remember
anything except how much my arm hurt. I didn't even ask about Rochelle. Not
until I was in the ambulance. They told me she was dead. And I killed her. And
now I'm going to jail, probably for a long time, and everything you wanted for
me is...gone."
The boy's parents watched in silence as the police officer took their son into a
dressing room. Nothing else happened for a minute or two. Some of the students
in the bleachers began to talk amongst themselves and others shifted restlessly,
waiting for something.
The passenger side door of the car opened and a girl got out. Her curly brown
hair almost obscured the white greasepaint on her face. She staggered toward the
lectern, almost tripping over her ruined, blood-stained prom dress. "Mom?" she
asked, her gaze searching the crowd. "Daddy? What's happened to me? Where am I?
Jorge was taking me home...there was a little boy..." Her eyes were light green,
shimmering with tears. "I want to graduate. I want to go to college and be an
actress or a writer. I want to get married and have children and take them to
the park. Why can't I do all those things? I didn't do anything wrong - how did
this happen to me?"
Her parents came to stand on either side of the lectern. They did not look at
her, did not embrace her, did not break her fall as she slumped to the floor. A
boy costumed as a paramedic picked up her limp body and carried it toward the
dressing room. In spite of the practiced theatricality, Will found that his eyes
were stinging as the "dead" girl was taken away and her parents unfolded a piece
of paper.
"We thought we couldn't have children," the mother began. The resemblance was so
striking that Will could tell what the girl would look like when she grew up.
"We had almost given up when you came along. We had so many hopes for you, so
many dreams. But God gives, and God takes away."
Bartlet's face remained set in its caring, concerned expression, but Zoey began
to tremble all over. Will nudged Charlie, who quietly asked a teacher if Zoey
could go into the dressing room for a while.
So intent was Will on the parents and their words of love and loss that he
hadn't noticed Zoey's hand around his wrist, squeezing tightly. He moved his
arm, putting her hand in the crook of his elbow, and walked with her to where
Charlie held the door open.
Like all locker rooms in all high schools, this one was messy and the air was
permeated with the smell of sweaty socks and adolescent hormones. The agents had
cleared the area except for the "dead" girl, who sat quietly on one of the
benches, trying to appear nonchalant at the appearance of Zoey Bartlet, in
tears, ten feet away from her.
Zoey let Charlie put his arms around her while she regained her composure. She
slipped one hand into Will's, holding it gently. Her palm was cold and damp. She
took a step away from Charlie and gazed up at Will, her eyes veiled and sad.
"You wrote one of those for my father, didn't you? Just in case?"
He thought about deflecting the question. Why add to her suffering? But Charlie
nodded gravely at him, so he answered. "I did. Toby and I both worked on it. It
was hard." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "It was the hardest thing I've
ever written in my life," he admitted. "I just thank God we never had to use
it."
Zoey astonished him by breaking free of Charlie's embrace and throwing her arms
around Will's neck. She stood on tiptoe, pressing her cheek against his. "Thank
you," she whispered, then as if she suddenly remembered where she was, she
backed away again. Turning around to face the teenager who was trying not to
stare, she flashed a grin. "Hi," she said, indicating to her agents that she
wanted to get closer.
The girl rose, tottering in broken high heels. "I'm not supposed to talk to
anybody," she said, her voice cracking with nervousness. "I'm dead. I
mean...well, you know. But thank you so much for coming. It must've been very
hard for you."
"I cover it well, though," Zoey joked. She shook the girl's hand. "I usually
don't look like this."
"Neither do I," replied the girl, indicating her tattered, stained dress. "My
name's Rochelle Baker, by the way."
"I'm Zoey Bartlet. But you probably knew that."
"I figured."
"This is Charlie Young, my father's aide, and this is Will Bailey. He's the one
who wrote the speech."
"Hi. Thanks for coming." Rochelle looked down and away, blushing. "I'm sorry,
I'm really nervous. I can't believe you're actually standing right in front of
me."
"Don't be nervous. You were great. When you were up there, that's when I started
crying." Zoey dabbed at her eyes. "Do you really want to be an actress?"
"I'd rather direct," Rochelle replied. Will fought back a smile. "I'm good at
organizing things. When you were...gone...I led prayer vigils for you. Every
night after practice, or after homework, we'd get together at my church and pray
that you'd be okay."
Zoey put one hand over her heart and the other on Rochelle's shoulder. "I don't
know what to say, or how to thank you." She turned her head. "Charlie? Do you
have the thing?"
Will couldn't resist the smile this time. The word "thing," used by anyone at
the White House, could convey any meaning from a paper clip to state secrets.
Whatever this "thing" was, Charlie seemed hesitant to produce it. "I'm not sure
it's a good idea."
"Oh, come on, she's a drama student and she's in SADD." Zoey turned back to
Rochelle, whose face was white with fear. "I'm trying to get Charlie to give you
a card. It has my e-mail address. I'd like you to write to me, to tell me what's
going on at your school and with you."
Rochelle was obviously trying to keep her game face on. She looked one of the
agents squarely in the eye. "I don't drink, smoke, do drugs, or plot to
overthrow the government. I have perfect attendance except for when I had my
wisdom teeth out, and I'd have a 4.0 average only I suck at organic chemistry."
The agent's face relaxed a little and he looked at Will. Will thought about it
for a moment. Zoey was more animated now than she'd been all day. And something
in Rochelle's eyes was so guileless, so affectionate...
He nodded at Charlie, who produced a card and handed it to Rochelle. The girl
ran her fingers over the lettering, eyes wide open. "I won't let anybody know,"
she said through trembling lips. "Thank you." There was a roar of applause, and
she put her hand over her mouth. "Oh, no, we've missed your father's speech!"
"Don't worry," Zoey said. "I'll e-mail it to you. We've got to go, Charlie,
let's get moving. Nice to meet you!" she called as the agents swept up behind
her and guided her to the exit. Charlie was beaming as he followed her.
Will smiled at Rochelle. "It was nice to meet you," he reiterated. "And thank
you."
Rochelle looked at him quizzically for a moment, and he could almost hear her
thinking, replaying the time between when Zoey had entered in tears and when she
had left, tall and proud and happy. "Does she mean it, Mr. Bailey?" she asked,
indicating the card. "I don't want to impose if she was just being polite."
Will smiled at her. "She means it. And so do I. You've done a wonderful thing,
Rochelle, not only for the kids in your school but also for her. Write her when
you come back to the land of the living."
One of the agents opened the back door. "The motorcade's ready."
"I'm coming," Will said as he sprinted toward the exit. He looked back and saw
Rochelle standing stock-still in the middle of the locker room, the card pressed
to her heart.
***
Part 3
The Next Day
A small motorcade, Will discovered to his dismay as he waited under the canopy,
consisted of only ten vehicles and three dozen armed guards. He tried to imagine
what a huge motorcade might be - a dozen hummers and the 82nd Airborne as
backup, perhaps - but gave up after a few moments. "Where's Toby?" he asked as
Charlie came up to finalize some details with Ron Butterfield.
"He said to tell you he can't make it. You're flying solo. Or, rather, you're
riding solo."
"Alone?"
Charlie smirked. "That's usually what solo means, only in this case 'solo' means
the only person from the Communications Department. And no CJ this time."
Will's stomach lurched. "Okay, can I just say that this is really bad?"
"You're traveled with the President before," Charlie said, amusement taking the
edge off his voice. "That's no reason to come unhinged."
"Okay, what's a good reason to come unhinged?"
"How about this: Zoey wants you to write a few remarks for her, in case press
gets to her. She'll be out in a minute." His grin widened. "Riding with Zoey and
torturing you. I can't wait for this trip."
"I can," Will called after him as Charlie found Ron in the crowd and began to
talk to him.
Only a few seconds passed before Zoey was standing next to him. "We can talk in
the car," she said as half a dozen agents took their places alongside the huge
limousine.
"Oh, yes. Absolutely." Will turned toward the White House, wondering whether
Toby had X-ray vision and, if so, whether he was laughing his ass off right now.
"Don't worry about traveling with my dad." Zoey straightened her skirt and
smiled at Will. "You'll do fine. There's no way you could screw up a press event
the way Sam did that time."
"How did Sam--" The door opened and Charlie peered in.
"The three of us are going together - the President needs to have a private
telephone conversation with President Chigorin so he's going in Ron's car."
Charlie got into the limousine and sat next to Zoey. Not touching her, Will
noticed, but definitely protective. Zoey's agents sat on either side of Will,
and one was in the front seat with the driver. The extra security had Will
enough on edge that the sudden shriek of sirens made him jump. "You're going to
be fine, Will," Charlie said.
"I was just telling him that," Zoey chirped, sounding far too cheerful. "I was
going to tell him a story, too. The one about Sam and the press thing."
"Oh, God," Charlie sighed, chuckling as he leaned back into the seat. "That's
the best Sam story. It's priceless."
"It's also a secret from me," Will complained, "and I could use a priceless Sam
story right about now, so..."
***
April, 2001
Charlie hated it when he had to tell the President something that would make him
absolutely crazy. He sucked in a long breath, held it for a few seconds. Please,
God, let him not be in a mood. Amen.
As Charlie walked into the Oval Office, Bartlet looked up at him over his
glasses. "Could you please remind me why I bother going to budget meetings for
which people are so ill-informed that I'm in charge not because I was duly
elected but because I can pull statistics out of thin air?"
He was in a mood. Oh, great.
"Because--"
"It was a rhetorical question, Charlie," the President said with a sigh, waving
him to come up to the desk. "What's next?"
"Well, sir, there's supposed to be a photo op with a delegation from
Mississippi, but they're being put off until later today. Something's come up,
sir."
Bartlet leaned back in his chair. "Any task that gets me out of a photo op
sounds like a good thing. Is this a good thing?"
"That would depend on who you ask, sir."
Eyes narrowing, Bartlet looked up at Charlie. "Who would tell me that this is a
good thing?"
How did he paint himself into these corners? "There are members of the press who
might think that it was a very good thing, indeed."
"Anything to keep the Fourth Estate happy. Which, by the way, was what Sam was
supposed to be doing this afternoon. How'd that go?"
"Funny you should mention that," Charlie said. "Sam's standing in the hallway
outside Mrs. Landingham's office."
"He's back?" As Charlie was about to open his mouth, Bartlet waved him to
silence. "Never mind, if he's standing in her office--"
"Outside her office--"
"--then he's obviously back. Send him in."
"I can't, sir."
Bartlet's mouth turned down at the corners. "You can't?"
"No, sir."
"Why can't Sam come in?"
Here comes the tricky part, Charlie thought.
"He's wet, sir."
Bartlet turned to face the windows. "Do I get my own personal weather, or is it
a very nice day outside?"
"It is a beautiful spring afternoon, sir."
"Then why is Sam...oh, God, it was the press thing, wasn't it?"
Before Charlie could answer, Bartlet was on his feet, marching out the door
while straightening his tie. Without a word to Mrs. Landingham, he walked past
her desk and over to where Sam was standing on the hardwood floor. More
precisely, Sam was standing on the first two sections of the Wall Street
Journal, whose ink was running from the water dripping from his leg.
"Mr. President," Sam began, but Bartlet cut him off.
"We thought it would be a good idea if the press saw you guys outside of the
place where, as they put it, you 'so zealously guard the nation's progress.' We
thought Toby would scare them, CJ would mock them, and Josh would just annoy the
living hell out of them, so we chose you. We chose you to take a few of the
press corps on a jaunt doing something you love, like sailing. How am I doing so
far?"
Charlie looked at Sam and hoped he conveyed more pity than amusement.
Sam shifted from one foot to the other, his shoes making a faint sloshing sound
as he did so. "You're right on the money, Mr. President," he said, looking as
earnest as he could, given that his hair was sticking up in six directions.
"I've been on all sorts of boats, Sam - yachts, navy cruisers, and even
sailboats. Not once have I come home looking the way you do. Is it possible,
then, that you managed to fall off the boat?"
"I didn't so much fall off as...well, yes, sir, I fell off the boat."
"Were you," Bartlet inquired with his eyebrows raised, "the only one to fall off
the boat, or did you take other people with you, such as members of the press?"
Sam leaned backwards a little. "It was the last thing. Other...and members of
the press."
Bartlet closed his eyes and shook his head. "You capsized the boat, didn't you?"
When Sam didn't answer, he opened his eyes again and stared at the hapless,
embarrassed man. "You did some dumbass thing or another and turned over a boat
full of press who are already convinced that the members of the Senior Staff
have no skills other than political ones, thereby ensuring that the
misconception will be spread to the far corners of the land, complete with
photographic evidence."
"There won't be any pictures, sir," Charlie said, hoping to deflect the
President. Sam turned his face heavenward.
"Why won't there be any pictures?" Bartlet asked.
"Because all the cameras fell into the water along with Sam and, you know, the
boat."
The silence was unbearable.
Finally, Bartlet spoke again, his tone carefully measured. "That's the good
news?"
"I'm sorry to say that it is, sir," Sam murmured. At that moment two of the
press corps members walked by. escorted by a smirking Carol acting as both
escort and towel bearer. Mike's suit jacket was shrinking, the sleeves halfway
up his forearms. Chris, walking by his side, was also suffering from wet
clothes. Her permed hair was so frizzy that it looked like an afro from the
1970s, which Charlie felt might explain the murderous glare she gave Sam as she
passed him.
"Well, thank God there were no cameras," Bartlet said with a sigh. "I suppose
they're billing us--"
"I'll take care of it, Mr. President," Sam said immediately.
"See that you do." Bartlet turned away as he said it, but Charlie could see the
blossoming of a smile. "Charlie, have someone get Sam some towels and a change
of clothes. And a hot cup of tea with a shot of whiskey in it."
Charlie looked back at Sam, who was still dripping on the newspaper, and gave
him a thumbs-up sign.
***
"So no matter how much you screw up, at least you won't be dripping on a West
Wing floor," Zoey said brightly.
"I can't tell you how much better that makes me feel," Will moaned, looking at
his clasped hands.
"Then our job here is done," Charlie said. He had inched closer to Zoey as he
told the story, and now they were sitting so close that they were almost
touching. "How about yours, Will?"
"My what?" Will asked, pushing up his glasses.
"Talking to Zoey about Students Against Drunk Driving?" Charlie clarified.
Will lifted his head, nodded, and reached into his breast pocket for his
notebook and pen. "What can you tell me about your interest, Zoey?"
Her whole body tightened, coiled as if for flight, and the light dimmed in her
eyes. "I want to be more visible," she said slowly. "I don't want any other
young people to go through a nightmarish experience. Maybe the two, together,
might..." She trailed off and bit down on her lower lip. Will thought he saw a
tear running down her face, but she quickly brushed it away.
"You don't have to do it," Charlie said to her, almost whispering the words.
"You don't have to do anything, not even get out of the car, if you don't think
you can."
"I'm sorry." Zoey's words came out as a hitching sob. She swallowed hard and
looked over at Will. Her pain was like a knife to the gut. "I don't know why I
dry up around you. I don't know why it happened at the Fourth of July thing, and
I don't know why it's happening now. Just, please, don't tell my dad."
"Of course not," Will assured her, a lump rising in his throat as he watched
Charlie try in vain to comfort her with words spoken too softly even for Will to
hear. Even when the car was parked by the school and more agents came guard
Zoey's exit, she still seemed so fragile that anything could break her.
Charlie helped Zoey out, then got out and stood by the door, his shoulders
hunched. "I just wanted her to get away from Jean-Paul. I never wanted this."
"We know." Will put his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "No one thinks that. No one
could possibly think that."
Flashing a tight smile, Charlie nodded and took a step away from Will. Without
looking back at him, he said, "I guess this is a case of being careful what you
wish for."
Will walked a few steps behind Charlie, trying not to look at the snipers on the
roof or the crowd of students still having their bags searched before going
through the borrowed metal detectors. No matter how many times he went to an
event with the President, he could never shake the feeling that something
terrible was about to happen.
Will's somber mood was perfect for the event - a staging of the aftermath of a
car crash, meant to bring home to high school students the horror that could
accompany the combination of alcohol and automobiles. A badly crushed car sat in
the middle of the gymnasium. Beside it was a lectern with a microphone, and
beyond the roped-off area sat a sea of high schoolers and teachers, mostly
wearing black. They seemed nervous, skittish, which was no surprise considering
the security precautions and armed guards throughout the gymnasium. Around the
perimeter were dozens of teenagers wearing black shirts, their faces painted
white, sitting in absolute silence. He shuddered as he walked behind the
display, where the Presidential entourage was waiting.
"Who's putting this together?" Bartlet asked the principal after they had shaken
hands.
"The members of SADD picked some kids from the drama department to play the
victims. The parents are really the parents," the principal told him. She was a
short blonde woman, dressed in a somber black suit, and her expression was one
of pride. "We've had a drastic drop in student alcohol use over the four years
we've done the 'Shattered Dreams' program. It's the parents being there that
makes it so real."
"I can imagine," Bartlet said, and Will flinched at the pain in his voice.
"Of course you can, Mr. President. I can't tell you how grateful I am that
you're...oh, sorry, they're signalling us. Will you excuse me?"
The principal went to the microphone and the crowd. "I'm sorry to announce that
there was a car accident last night. Jorge Renteria was driving Rochelle Baker
home from the fall dance. He had a beer with his friends in the parking lot -
nothing much, right? But he couldn't react quickly enough when a child ran out
into the street, and he lost control of the car. His arm was badly broken.
Rochelle...died on the scene."
A boy got out of the driver's seat of the car. His head was bandaged and his
left arm was in a sling. A boy dressed as a police officer took him by the good
shoulder and led him to the lectern.
"It was just a couple of beers," the boy said, looking dazedly into the
audience. "Rochelle was taking a long time in the bathroom, and I was bored with
waiting, so I went out. It was just a couple of beers. I don't know how it
happened." Tears filled his eyes and his whole body was shaking - Will thought
the kid was a remarkably good actor. "Mom...Dad...I'm so sorry. I don't remember
anything except how much my arm hurt. I didn't even ask about Rochelle. Not
until I was in the ambulance. They told me she was dead. And I killed her. And
now I'm going to jail, probably for a long time, and everything you wanted for
me is...gone."
The boy's parents watched in silence as the police officer took their son into a
dressing room. Nothing else happened for a minute or two. Some of the students
in the bleachers began to talk amongst themselves and others shifted restlessly,
waiting for something.
The passenger side door of the car opened and a girl got out. Her curly brown
hair almost obscured the white greasepaint on her face. She staggered toward the
lectern, almost tripping over her ruined, blood-stained prom dress. "Mom?" she
asked, her gaze searching the crowd. "Daddy? What's happened to me? Where am I?
Jorge was taking me home...there was a little boy..." Her eyes were light green,
shimmering with tears. "I want to graduate. I want to go to college and be an
actress or a writer. I want to get married and have children and take them to
the park. Why can't I do all those things? I didn't do anything wrong - how did
this happen to me?"
Her parents came to stand on either side of the lectern. They did not look at
her, did not embrace her, did not break her fall as she slumped to the floor. A
boy costumed as a paramedic picked up her limp body and carried it toward the
dressing room. In spite of the practiced theatricality, Will found that his eyes
were stinging as the "dead" girl was taken away and her parents unfolded a piece
of paper.
"We thought we couldn't have children," the mother began. The resemblance was so
striking that Will could tell what the girl would look like when she grew up.
"We had almost given up when you came along. We had so many hopes for you, so
many dreams. But God gives, and God takes away."
Bartlet's face remained set in its caring, concerned expression, but Zoey began
to tremble all over. Will nudged Charlie, who quietly asked a teacher if Zoey
could go into the dressing room for a while.
So intent was Will on the parents and their words of love and loss that he
hadn't noticed Zoey's hand around his wrist, squeezing tightly. He moved his
arm, putting her hand in the crook of his elbow, and walked with her to where
Charlie held the door open.
Like all locker rooms in all high schools, this one was messy and the air was
permeated with the smell of sweaty socks and adolescent hormones. The agents had
cleared the area except for the "dead" girl, who sat quietly on one of the
benches, trying to appear nonchalant at the appearance of Zoey Bartlet, in
tears, ten feet away from her.
Zoey let Charlie put his arms around her while she regained her composure. She
slipped one hand into Will's, holding it gently. Her palm was cold and damp. She
took a step away from Charlie and gazed up at Will, her eyes veiled and sad.
"You wrote one of those for my father, didn't you? Just in case?"
He thought about deflecting the question. Why add to her suffering? But Charlie
nodded gravely at him, so he answered. "I did. Toby and I both worked on it. It
was hard." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "It was the hardest thing I've
ever written in my life," he admitted. "I just thank God we never had to use
it."
Zoey astonished him by breaking free of Charlie's embrace and throwing her arms
around Will's neck. She stood on tiptoe, pressing her cheek against his. "Thank
you," she whispered, then as if she suddenly remembered where she was, she
backed away again. Turning around to face the teenager who was trying not to
stare, she flashed a grin. "Hi," she said, indicating to her agents that she
wanted to get closer.
The girl rose, tottering in broken high heels. "I'm not supposed to talk to
anybody," she said, her voice cracking with nervousness. "I'm dead. I
mean...well, you know. But thank you so much for coming. It must've been very
hard for you."
"I cover it well, though," Zoey joked. She shook the girl's hand. "I usually
don't look like this."
"Neither do I," replied the girl, indicating her tattered, stained dress. "My
name's Rochelle Baker, by the way."
"I'm Zoey Bartlet. But you probably knew that."
"I figured."
"This is Charlie Young, my father's aide, and this is Will Bailey. He's the one
who wrote the speech."
"Hi. Thanks for coming." Rochelle looked down and away, blushing. "I'm sorry,
I'm really nervous. I can't believe you're actually standing right in front of
me."
"Don't be nervous. You were great. When you were up there, that's when I started
crying." Zoey dabbed at her eyes. "Do you really want to be an actress?"
"I'd rather direct," Rochelle replied. Will fought back a smile. "I'm good at
organizing things. When you were...gone...I led prayer vigils for you. Every
night after practice, or after homework, we'd get together at my church and pray
that you'd be okay."
Zoey put one hand over her heart and the other on Rochelle's shoulder. "I don't
know what to say, or how to thank you." She turned her head. "Charlie? Do you
have the thing?"
Will couldn't resist the smile this time. The word "thing," used by anyone at
the White House, could convey any meaning from a paper clip to state secrets.
Whatever this "thing" was, Charlie seemed hesitant to produce it. "I'm not sure
it's a good idea."
"Oh, come on, she's a drama student and she's in SADD." Zoey turned back to
Rochelle, whose face was white with fear. "I'm trying to get Charlie to give you
a card. It has my e-mail address. I'd like you to write to me, to tell me what's
going on at your school and with you."
Rochelle was obviously trying to keep her game face on. She looked one of the
agents squarely in the eye. "I don't drink, smoke, do drugs, or plot to
overthrow the government. I have perfect attendance except for when I had my
wisdom teeth out, and I'd have a 4.0 average only I suck at organic chemistry."
The agent's face relaxed a little and he looked at Will. Will thought about it
for a moment. Zoey was more animated now than she'd been all day. And something
in Rochelle's eyes was so guileless, so affectionate...
He nodded at Charlie, who produced a card and handed it to Rochelle. The girl
ran her fingers over the lettering, eyes wide open. "I won't let anybody know,"
she said through trembling lips. "Thank you." There was a roar of applause, and
she put her hand over her mouth. "Oh, no, we've missed your father's speech!"
"Don't worry," Zoey said. "I'll e-mail it to you. We've got to go, Charlie,
let's get moving. Nice to meet you!" she called as the agents swept up behind
her and guided her to the exit. Charlie was beaming as he followed her.
Will smiled at Rochelle. "It was nice to meet you," he reiterated. "And thank
you."
Rochelle looked at him quizzically for a moment, and he could almost hear her
thinking, replaying the time between when Zoey had entered in tears and when she
had left, tall and proud and happy. "Does she mean it, Mr. Bailey?" she asked,
indicating the card. "I don't want to impose if she was just being polite."
Will smiled at her. "She means it. And so do I. You've done a wonderful thing,
Rochelle, not only for the kids in your school but also for her. Write her when
you come back to the land of the living."
One of the agents opened the back door. "The motorcade's ready."
"I'm coming," Will said as he sprinted toward the exit. He looked back and saw
Rochelle standing stock-still in the middle of the locker room, the card pressed
to her heart.
***
Part 3