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“Why did y’all let me run for president?” she says, tappingtoo forcefully at her phone’s keyboard in little staccato stabs. She kicks off her heels into the corner, throwing her phone after them.
“Because we all knew better than to try to stop you,” Leo’s voice says. He peeks his bearded, bespectacled head out and adds, “And because the world would fall apart without you, my radiant orchid.”
His mother rolls her eyes but smiles. It’s always been like that with them, ever since they first met at a charity event when Alex was fourteen. She was the Speaker of the House, and he was a genius with a dozen patents and money to burn on women’s health initiatives. Now, she’s the president, and he’s sold his companies to spend his time fulfilling First Gentleman duties.
Ellen releases two inches of zipper on the back of her skirt, the sign she’s officially done for the day, and scoops up a slice.
“All right,” she says. She does a scrubbing gesture in the air in front of her face—president face off, mom face on. “Hi, babies.”
“’Lo,” Alex and June mumble in unison through mouthfuls of food.
Ellen sighs and looks over at Leo. “I did that, didn’t I? No goddamn manners. Like a couple of little opossums. This is why they say women can’t have it all.”
“They are masterpieces,” Leo says.
“One good thing, one bad thing,” she says. “Let’s do this.”
It’s her lifelong system for catching up on their days when she’s at her busiest. Alex grew up with a mother who was a sometimes baffling combination of intensely organized and committed to lines of emotional communication, like an overly invested life coach. When he got his first girlfriend, she made a PowerPoint presentation.
“Mmm.” June swallows a bite. “Good thing. Oh! Oh my God. Ronan Farrow tweeted about my essay forNew Yorkmagazine,and we totally engaged in witty Twitter repartee. Part one of my long game to force him to be my friend is underway.”
“Don’t act like this isn’t all part of your extra-long game of abusing your position to murder Woody Allen and make it look like an accident,” Alex says.
“He’s just so frail; it’d only take one good push—”
“How many timesdo I have to tell y’all not to discuss your murder plots in front of a sitting president?” their mother interrupts. “Plausible deniability.Come on.”
“Anyway,” June says. “One bad thing would be, uh… well, Woody Allen’s still alive. Your turn, Alex.”
“Good thing,” Alex says, “I filibustered one of my professors into agreeing a question on our last exam was misleading so I would get full credit for my answer, which was correct.” He takes a swig of beer. “Bad thing—Mom, I saw the new art in the hall on the second floor, and I need to know why you allowed a George W. Bush terrier painting in our home.”
“It’s a bipartisan gesture,” Ellen says. “People find them endearing.”
“I have to walk past it whenever I go to my room,” Alex says. “Its beady little eyes follow me everywhere.”
“It’s staying.”
Alex sighs. “Fine.”
Leo goes next—as usual, his bad thing is somehow also a good thing—and then Ellen’s up.
“Well, my UN ambassador fucked up hisone joband said something idiotic about Israel, and now I have to call Netanyahu and personally apologize. But the good thing is it’s twoin the morning in Tel Aviv, so I can put it off until tomorrow and have dinner with you two instead.”
Alex smiles at her. He’s still in awe, sometimes, of hearing her talk about presidential pains in the ass, even three years in. They lapse into idle conversation, little barbs and inside jokes, and these nights may be rare, but they’re still nice.
“So,” Ellen says, starting on another slice crust-first. “I ever tell you I used to hustle pool at my mom’s bar?”
June stops short, her beer halfway to her mouth. “You did what now?”
“Yep,” she tells them. Alex exchanges an incredulous look with June. “Momma managed this shitty bar when I was sixteen. The Tipsy Grackle. She’d let me come in after school and do my homework at the bar, had a bouncer friend make sure none of the old drunks hit on me. I got pretty good at pool after a few months and started betting the regulars I could beat them, except I’d play dumb. Hold the stick the wrong way, pretend to forget if I was stripes or solid. I’d lose one game, then take them double or nothing and get twice the payout.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Alex says, except he can totally picture it. She has always been scary-good at pool and even better at strategy.
“All true,” Leo says. “How do you think she learned to get what she wants from strung-out old white men? The most important skill of an effective politician.”
Alex’s mother accepts a kiss to the side of her square jaw from Leo as she passes by, like a queen gliding through a crowd of admirers. She sets her half-eaten slice down on a paper towel and selects a cue stick from the rack.
“Anyway,” she says. “The point is, you’re never too young to figure out your skills and use them to get shit accomplished.”
