“Yeah, that’s Ambassador Rothschild’s kid, good luck trying to get him to move.” Marty gives Chase a fist bump, letting him know he’s gotta get to class; he and Mackenzie walk away. The bell rings. Bunny and Stan leap from the bench.
“Sorry, can’t help ya there,” Bunny says, scurrying back up the stone steps and off to class.
The two secret service men are left standing there, abandoned by a lack of intimidation. The school flag whips through the icy wind behind them; it reads: KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Winners’ Room at the National Press Club is a private room with wall-to-wall blue and gold carpet, several mahogany bookshelves, and photographs of journalism royalty: Bob Woodward, William F. Buckley Jr., Walter Cronkite. General Montgomery’s celebratory luncheon is full of Pentagon officials and VIP members of the press club.
Billy sits uncomfortably in between a general he’s never met before and his father. He picks at his chicken marsala, the brown sauce oozing into his green salad, thinking about Audrey Banks and wishing he were with his friends at school, feeling excluded from the haunting drama, this day that no one will ever forget. But he keeps her death to himself; he knows better than to drag the attention elsewhere. Things seem to be changing at an ever-escalating pace—a windmill of anxiety spins inside him. And he tries not to keep looking at his phone, knowing he’ll be scolded for it. He was raised to always show the highest form of respect at whatever cost to military personnel, particularly those who have worked closely with his father—put their lives on the line for him, for their love of country, for their love of God. He feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. It takes all of his resistance not to answer it.
“William—” says the general sitting next to him.
“Oh, you can call me Billy,” he replies before the man can finish. Billy feels his father threatening him with a forbidding look; never interrupt someone of higher rank.
“Billy,” the man says, picking up his knife and fork, cutting into the overcooked chicken, “you must be proud of your old man.”
Aware that his father is listening, Billy takes a discreet breath, swallows. “Yes, sir, very proud.…” He forces a smile that feels uncomfortable but looks legitimate.
“Next in line?” the general says, nudging his knuckle bearing a custom-made military ring with an emerald into the side of Billy’s arm.
“Well, sir, I could never be my father even if I tried, the man’s a legend.” Billy chuckles nervously, then looks to his father for validation. General Montgomery wipes the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, says nothing.
The messages Billy receives in what his father does not say often drive him to the edge of his insecurity, convinced that his father is unceasingly displeased. Billy can’t seem to escape any adult conversation without feeling he could somehow have done it better.
“You’re not going into the military?” the general asks, taking Billy’s attempt at self-deprecation literally.
“Oh, no, sir, I mean—I’m, well…” He stumbles, searching for the courage to say the thing he wishes he never had to say: that he will be attending the academy whether he likes it or not—
Just like his father’s father’s father, his father’s father, his father…
“I haven’t heard back yet from the academy,” Billy says, skirting the question.
“Well, let me fill you in on a top secret, son—you’ll get in.” The general winks and puts his knife stabbed with chicken in his mouth.
Billy chuckles, then furrows his brow and looks down at his untouched plate searching for something to say, to appease his father’s silence, to make it go away. He looks up at the eager-to-be-friendly general. “Thank you, sir.”
“So what do you like to do in your free time, Billy?” the general asks. Before Billy can answer, he notices a member of the security team walk over and whisper something in his father’s ear, drawing his attention away. Billy feels a moment of relief despite wanting nothing more than for this afternoon to just end.
“Uh, my free time? I, uh, well, I…”
“Hobbies—do you have any hobbies, Billy? It’s important for a man in the military to have hobbies, for dealing with… stress.”
Billy momentarily mistakes this question as an invitation for shared honesty and possible commonality rather than a test of one’s endurance or tenacity—a trick question only in hindsight. “I love to play music, sir.”
The general raises an eyebrow, perks up with surprise. “Ah, music?”
“The ukulele. I taught myself how to play it on a YouTube channel.”
“A YouTube channel…” The general looks confused.
Billy’s father finishes talking to the security officer and places his napkin on the table to express that he is finished. Billy glances down and over at the napkin as evidence, acutely aware of its position on the plate, the movement of his father’s hands, and the impossibility of navigating the end of this conversation.
“Um, yes, sir, there are channels and lessons on YouTube you can find.…” He’s searching for a way out, trying to make it sound better than the words he hears coming out of his mouth, revealing the duality of who he really is versus who he has to be. “It’s… they’re free. It’s really great that we have all of this free access to information now… in a way… for things, you know, like hobbies, other hobbies we might want to learn in our free time.”
The overly friendly general isn’t exuding eagerness anymore, and Billy cringes inwardly at his misjudgment of the conversation.
“Enough,” his father says, but whether out of cruelty or genuine mortification (which he thinks he probably deserves), Billy can’t tell.
The general leans over to General Montgomery, quick to ease the tension, “Gen Z, General—what are we going to do with
