Chapter 2
Raya
“I hope that attitude of yours changes before the event tonight.”
I glance at my mother's reflection behind me as I face the mirror.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “Too much sun today on the beach.”
“I told you it was a bad idea before we allowed you to go,” my mother says.
Allowed.
It's not just a turn of phrase. I literally had to have permission to spend an hour on the beach today. I wasn’t even alone.
The two guys hired to protect me against known and unknown threats are never far away.
I’ve gotten used to them by now, but it’s still annoying that I can’t even be trusted to visit a beach without supervision.
My life isn't my own.
Every interaction, every second of every day, is orchestrated, scheduled for them. I should be used to it by now, but I'm not. I don't know if I ever will be. I can smile and play nice and tell people what they want to hear.
I can behave like a Southern lady is supposed to. I have been trained to do just that.
You see, my father is a Texas senator, and in less than six months, according to nationwide polls, he will be the president of the United States.
He will be the most powerful man in the world.
I'm not on this earth because two loving parents wanted a piece of each of them in one person.
They haven't said as much, but I'm smart enough to read the context clues.
I know that my mother's pregnancy just happened to coincide with a time in my father's political career when there was chatter, whispers, and news stories that he was cold and indifferent.
That he didn't care about the people that he promised to serve.
Having a baby fixed that. Having a baby turned him into a family man. Having a baby made him more relatable to the constituents in the state. They no longer saw him as a man with no roots. They no longer saw him as a man with nothing to fight for other than power and fame.
I haven't been abused. I haven't been mistreated.
But I also haven't had loving, doting parents, either.
I've been told you need to smile more so many times I lost track of how often by the time I was five years old.
“The public is always watching,” my mother would warn. “Make sure you have that pretty smile on your face at all times. Be polite. Be nice.”
Be accessible without being attainable. That's what they expect from me.
Everything I've done, every concession that has been made, has been for them. I was homeschooled, so I wouldn't be stuck to a strict regimented schedule that public or even private education required.
My college degree in political science was obtained strictly online, other than a handful of times I was required to be on campus, and even those were scheduled according to my father’s plans, not the school’s.
It gave me the ability to be available to travel with my father and mother for various political requirements for his career.
I knew at an early age not to hope for a life of my own. I knew that a degree in political science wouldn't go any further despite most political science majors going to law school after they graduated with their undergraduate degree.
I'm expected to go to college, but I'm not expected to be a smart woman.
I'm expected to marry well, and that, of course, will just be another staged event for my father's political career.
I'm supposed to date but not fall in love. I'm meant to marry a man of my parents’ choosing, in a world of growth and opportunity for others.
Long ago, I stopped voicing my opinions.
I stopped asking for things that I needed or wanted.
It always fell on deaf ears. It was never good for my father or it was never the right time for his career for any of those things.
I date, or should I say, I’m seen dating, because I'm supposed to, because I'm told to.
Because it would be weird for a twenty-two-year-old woman not to be seen out in public with a man.
That would make people talk. That would draw focus away from my father's political career, and heaven forbid other people live their own lives.
I have no doubt that's how I managed to get one hell of a crush on a professor despite only having met him once in person.
That wasn't sanctioned either.
I’m not gonna say I haven't gone through a rebellious stage. My freshman year in college was the wildest I've ever been.
If you can even call sneaking out a few times to meet the professor who returned the feelings that I felt. That situation had the potential to turn into a scandal, but my parents caught on very quickly. The man was paid off and instructed never to contact me again, and he hasn't.
It wasn't the first time I've realized that my father had power over every single second, every single situation in my life, but it was the time it cut the deepest.
Finding out that someone you cared deeply for was only in it for the thrills of sleeping with a student has the power to affect a girl. It has the power to demoralize her.
I guess most would dig their feet in. They'd fight for change, to insist on being able to make their own decisions.
They'd ask for more, but I'm not allowed. My father would have a coronary if I voiced a different opinion than the one he gave to me.
I shake my head at my reflection. I’m just in one of my moods. Another thing my mother never falters at pointing out. I guess I should just be glad that she hasn’t traveled down that path of complaints yet today.
It's not all bad. I have the material things that I want. I have some acquaintances that I don't just completely despise. There are people in my life I don't mind spending time with.
It doesn’t negate the fact that every decision I make has to be carefully analyzed.
I've gotten very good at assessing a situation. I'm quick to determine whether it would be something that my parents approved of, or something that could be construed in a poor way by any news outlet.
“This is why I didn't want you to go,” my mother says, pointing out the redness on my shoulders. “You know how that's gonna look in pictures, and tonight is a big deal for your father. Tonight is very important.”
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “I understand, Mother.”
She nods, knowing that I'm trained well enough not to argue or fight back. I know not to give an opinion.
I'm like a puppet, and she and my father control the strings. She's so sure of my behavior, so sure of my responses, that she doesn't even notice the sarcastic way I've been calling her mother instead of mom for the last couple of years.
Raya isn't allowed an opinion.
Raya is a good girl.
Raya does what she's told.
Raya thinks of her family above all others.
And I do.
I think that I would be the same even if this wasn't the life that I've been told I'm going to lead.
I'm a nice person.
I'm a kind person.
I do care about the welfare of others.
The unfortunate thing about all of this is that it doesn't seem like there's anyone out there who cares about me, other than how I can help, how I can benefit someone else's career.
It's not only love that keeps me obeying. It's the hope that after my father makes it into the White House, he'll have what he wants.
I have no ideas of grandeur.
I know that he's going to make a run for reelection four years later, but I also know that most all presidents are hardly ever in the news after they leave office.
I can give it eight more years. I've given it twenty-two already.
Women these days aren't getting married or having children or serious relationships until their thirties. I can be just like one of them. I still have time to have a life after my father’s political career comes to an end.
I refuse to think of some of his plans I overheard—how my husband will be selected for their own political trajectory. He envisions my husband also becoming president, and if he chooses right, he’ll have even more time in the White House.
Mother walks across the room, her fingers skating over the row of clothes brought in for tonight's event.
“I was thinking about the black one,” I tell her, trying to shift her attention away from the mistake she feels I made by spending a little time with my toes in the sand earlier today.
“The venue is open air to the beach. I'll wear that cute, lacy, black shawl on my shoulders and no one will be the wiser.”
Mother nods in acceptance.
“And by the time we're in Houston on Tuesday, the redness will be gone.”
“Don't forget,” she says as she crosses the room to the door that joins mine and my parents’ suite. “Jackson Smith will be there tonight to meet you.”
I drop my eyes to my feet, not wanting her to read the irritation in my eyes. It would only end with her complaining about my attitude once again.
“I look forward to meeting him,” I tell her, lifting my head and giving her the same practiced smile I give everyone.
She’s either tired or a little off her game tonight because normally, she would never miss an opportunity to chastise me for something else before walking away. It doesn’t mean she won’t, eventually. It just means I’ll get twice as much of a lecture at another time.
***
“I've already taken up too much of your time,” I say with a gentle smile as I touch Emily's arm. “I'll let you get to the rest of the party.”
I don't give her a chance to make an excuse. I don't give her the opportunity to tell me that it's fine that she’d like to continue talking to me. I don't have time.
I saw the look in my father's eyes and knew exactly what it meant.
Jackson Smith is my focus tonight. Jackson Smith's parents are rich, so wealthy, it’s beyond comprehension of many people.
His family is a prime donor for my father's political campaign, and despite having millions of dollars in donations already, there's no such thing as too much money.
I cross the room, full glass of champagne in hand, smiling and nodding as I pass others in attendance. I get stopped several times before I can close the distance between myself and my parents.