Page 99 of See You Next Tuesday

Gabe [10:51pm]: Ok can’t talk getting in the car now

Anya [10:51pm]: Lol

Anya [10:51pm]: I love you, travel safe

Gabe [10:51pm]: You too, on both counts

Gabe [10:51pm]: I can’t wait to see you

“Simone, where are we on field organizers?” Kira asked. “I want to sign leases on ten new offices in Iowa and New Hampshire, but it’ll be a waste of money unless we have organizers to staff them. And does anyone know when the crew breaks for lunch? I can’t take this noise.”

Sessego “headquarters”—such as it was—was on the third floor of a building in southeastern DC under active construction, meaning the team was constantly besieged by clouds of dust and a cacophony of saws and hammers. Every time Anya went into the office, she was newly grateful she got to spend most of her time outside it.

“Hiring’s been tough,” Simone said. “Most of the best field organizers already have jobs this cycle.”

“Do they know we’re offering health benefits?” Anya asked. “We’ve got to be the only campaign that’s doing that.”

“Wait—are we really?” Preethi asked. She’d stepped into Gabe’s shoes as the communications director for this race, and she was kicking ass. “We can do press on that.”

“Hell yes.” Kira grinned. “What’s the strategy?”

“Okay, thinking out loud.” Preethi twirled one of her long curls around her fingers. “It’d be something like, we’re the only campaign living our values? And more than that…we’re keeping our promise to deliver healthcare to all Americans before we’ve even been elected. How can Americans trust the other candidates to get healthcare for them when they won’t even do it for their own campaign workers?”

“That’s brilliant,” Anya said. “We can emphasize how much more money Wheeler has than we do—but he won’t ever spend it on healthcare for his workers. Instead he’s blowing his budget on overpriced media consultants and TV ads.”

Anya felt a momentary twist of guilt—she knew about Wheeler’s consultants because Gabe was always complaining about them. Still, all that was publicly available information; it wasn’t like she was betraying Gabe’s trust to use that against Wheeler.

“I love this,” Kira said. “We can even make this one of the questions Jo asks Wheeler at the debate.”

“I’ll bring it up with her this afternoon,” Anya said, making a note.

They were only two weeks out from the first debate of the cycle, and prep was intense. They knew this could be a make-or-break moment for their campaign: A star-making performance could send Jo on a meteoric ride all the way to the nomination, but if Jo was just another dull and forgettable member of the field, they could very well stay relegated to the third- or fourth-place position where they currently sat.

“Speaking of the debate, did you guys see that new rule on podium order from the DNC?” Simone asked. “It’s bullshit. Is there anything we can do about it?”

“Oh!” Anya lit up. “I actually had an idea about that.”

“Gabe, thanks for being with us today.”

“My pleasure, Ruth.” Gabe smiled into the camera and pretended he could see the face of CNN’s evening anchor instead of a dull black lens. This was his last interview of the day; he waited for the red “recording” light to turn off before he unclipped his lapel mic. He’d never done this many media appearances for any race, but it had become clear to him almost instantly upon taking this job that when the Wheeler camp said they wanted “a more youthful face” for the campaign, the face they were referring to was Gabe’s. Luckily, Wheeler’s campaign office was outfitted with its own satellite TV studio, so Gabe’s press hits were rarely more than an elevator ride away. Gabe didn’t know what he hated most: all the time he was forced to spend away from his actual work, the frequency with which reporters gleefully encouraged him to trash his former boss (and, by extension, his girlfriend and best friends), or the fact that now, for the first time in his life, he had to wear a boring-ass suit and tie to work every day.

At least the suits made Wheeler’s army of media consultants take him slightly more seriously—though not much. They all made easily six times Gabe’s salary, and most were ten or twenty years his senior; they treated him with attendant disregard. It made Gabe think of that first day Anya showed up in Ohio, the way he’d snickered at her, like he was so much cooler than some DC suit. Now Gabe was that suit—and despite the happy face he always wore on television, he was miserable.

“You’re late. The media team is already in the conference room.” Gabe’s assistant, Hannah, was waiting for him the second the elevator doors slid open.

“Again?” Gabe gave her a pained look. “Didn’t I already see them today?”

“You did, but they have new ads to screen. Don’t be cranky, I got you a boba.”

She held out a bubble tea, and Gabe gratefully took it and drank. “You’re an angel sent from heaven and I’ve done nothing to deserve you. What did I miss while I was on TV?”

“The state directors are freaking out because our best field organizers are quitting in droves to go work for Sessego. Did you hear she’s giving them healthcare?”

“It was on the front page of the Des Moines Register,” Gabe grumbled. “Shouldn’t my field director be handling problems with field organizers?”

Gabe’s field director—like all his senior staff—was inherited from the previous campaign manager, and he was none too happy to have Gabe as his new boss. Gabe had lobbied hard to clean house and bring in his own people, but the consultants thought that would make the campaign look too unstable. Gabe’s predecessor was the sacrificial lamb; the rest of the team needed to remain in place.

“Your field director says he doesn’t control the budget, you do.”