Say You'll Remember Me. Katie McGarryЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Ellison

      “No more bringing animals home,” Mom says in front of an entire room of people, and it takes an amazing amount of self-control to not let my face show how mortified I am by her public admonishment. We’re in a private room at the conference center, and the clock ticks down for Dad’s press conference.

      “The dog you brought home yesterday made a mess in the laundry room. There was mud everywhere, and it growled at me. How could you bring home something dangerous?”

      “He didn’t growl with me.”

      “He was feral.”

      “He was lost.” Annoyance thickens my tone. “Someone needed to help him.”

      “That someone isn’t you. I’m serious. No more. I’m tired of coming home and wondering if there’s going to be some rabid beast waiting to eat me when I open my front door.”

      The poor thing had curled up with me. I fed him, gave him a bath in my tub, fed him again and then he rested his head on my lap and eventually closed his eyes. I loved him from the moment his dark, scared eyes first looked in my direction. “You probably spooked him when you opened the door to my room. He wasn’t alone in there but for three minutes.”

      “Elle,” Dad says my name with finality. He’s lectured me easily a hundred times: no more bringing animals home, no more talking back to my mother, no more arguing. Just do what I’m told.

      “Can everyone give us a few minutes?” my dad asks the room. “Elle, you can stay.” Very rarely does my father ask me to leave, since my parents love to keep a close eye on me.

      In the mirror, my eyes meet Andrew’s, and I try to gauge if he became a tattletale. Andrew is twenty-two, is royalty in this state, and his family and my family are good friends. His grandfather is the current and retiring US Senator. While his grandfather is well loved and respected, Andrew is sought-after, and I understand why. He’s gorgeous with his blond hair, green eyes and built body. Plus, he stands to inherit a fortune.

      But Andrew and I are complicated. Not only am I the “little sister burden,” but at thirteen I confessed my undying love for him. He laughed, I cried and, since then, there’s been a sense of embarrassment that includes my face morphing into crimson when I spot his amusement.

      Today, I’m able to keep my embarrassment in check. Andrew’s been gone a year to study abroad in Europe, and the break has helped me realize he was mean to laugh at a thirteen-year-old. It also made ditching him earlier much easier than expected.

      Andrew smirks as he walks over to me, and I immediately pull my gaze away and pretend to smooth out my dress. He presses a hand to the small of my back as he leans in. Years ago, my heart would have leaped at his touch and at how incredibly close his lips are to my ear, but now all I can think is...jerk.

      “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I didn’t tell.”

      My eyes dart to his in the mirror again, and he waggles his eyebrows. Andrew, even after a year, still finds me amusing.

      “I’m assuming you’re waiting for me to say thank you.”

      “Why the bitterness? You used to love it when I babysat you.”

      Babysat. He needs to be in pain. I check the mirror to see if my parents notice us talking and discover my mother watching us with rapt and joyous attention. Kneeing Andrew in the groin wouldn’t meet her approval.

      “I’m a big girl,” I say under my breath, “and I don’t need you anymore.”

      Full smile with straight teeth. “Been gone a year and I guess you’re all grown up, Ellie.”

      “Guess so. And so you know, I go by Elle. Have now for a few years.”

      He chuckles and finally removes his hand. “See you later, Ellie.”

      Andrew bids goodbye to my mother and father, then leaves.

      I pivot to confirm my sundress isn’t riding too high in the back. It’s beautiful, it’s purple, thick-strapped with no scoop, made of material that feels like I’m being wrapped in soft feathers, and tailored just for me. But sundress does not mean serious. It means pretty, it means fun and this means I will once again smile for the camera and remain silent.

      My mother still watches me. Today she slicked back her blond hair and pulled it into a bun at the nape of her neck. She’s stylish in her white blouse and blue pencil skirt. People say we look alike, but other than hair and eye coloring, I don’t know if we do. She’s so poised, and I’m so different from her. She’s ladylike, reserved and calm, and I’m...not.

      “You look beautiful, Elle.” Mom smiles in approval.

      “Thank you.” The response is so automatic I barely register it.

      Mom’s spent much of the past three years grooming me and teaching me how to react to people. As it’s been explained to me thousands of times, someone is always watching. The media, my father’s critics, current and future voters. What I do or don’t do is forever a reflection upon my mother and my father.

      Perfection. It’s what the world expects of anyone in the limelight, especially from our leaders. Absolutely no pressure.

      Speaking of zero room for error—there’s a piece of paper in my bag of tricks that needs a parental signature: the permission slip to enter the final stage of the internship competition.

      Success, at least in my parents’ eyes in regard to me, is elusive. I have two left feet, I have no rhythm, no coordination and no athletic grace. I’m smart, I do well at school, but I’m not the kid who can rattle off the capitals of all the nations in the world, or has pi memorized past the sixth decimal place, or cares why I should have pi past the sixth decimal place memorized.

      Sometimes it’s tough to be the daughter of two extraordinary people and not be nearly as successful as them. While other people my age have found their passion and are on track to whatever greatness they’re destined for, I have yet to figure out who I am and who I’m meant to be. But this internship is going to change that; I can feel it down to the marrow in my bones.

      I inhale deeply and press my practiced smile on to my face. As I’m about to turn to gain their attention, Mom says, “Elle, come sit. We need to talk.”

      A hiccup is created in my brain because that was not part of my plan, yet I slip into a seat at the small table and take comfort in the quiet and closeness of my family.

      My dad is in a white dress shirt, and his tie is undone. Dad loathes dress clothes. He’s more relaxed in jeans and T-shirts, but people aren’t fond of politicians in dress-down clothes. When Dad practiced medicine, he said his patients weren’t particularly thrilled with the relaxed look either.

      What I adore about Dad is how he gazes at Mom—like he’s still one hundred percent puppy dog in love as when they met in college.

      “Everything okay?” I ask. T-minus ten minutes to a press conference. Not typical heart-to-heart time.

      Mom and Dad do that thing where they share hours’ worth of conversation in a single glance. Someday, I want that special connection, but I’m not naïve. Their relationship is rare.

      “Elle.”