Chapter Fourteen

I stand on stage, scanning the crowd as my father, candidate Sloane, works the room like a seasoned pro. His charisma is palpable, drawing people in like a magnet. I watch, a mix of admiration and unease swirling in my chest.

As he shakes hands and kisses babies, his eyes lock onto mine, and he flashes a warm smile. I force one back, feeling like a prop in his political theater. The campaign slogans and posters surrounding us seem to close in, a constant reminder of the role I'm expected to play.

He never smiles at me like that at home.

The crowd erupts into cheers and chants as he takes the microphone. I tune out his speech, having heard it all before. The promises, the platitudes, the carefully crafted sound bites. My mind wanders to Lizzie, wondering if she's here, watching me from the shadows.

My father's voice booms through the speakers, echoing off the buildings. "We need change, my friends! We need a leader who will fight for you, who will stand up to the status quo! Introduce new businesses and opportunities!"

The crowd roars, and I join in, applauding on cue. My father's gaze lingers on me, a hint of fake pride in his eyes. I feel like a puppet on strings, dancing to his tune.

As the rally wraps up, my father makes his way toward me, a throng of supporters in tow. "Jasher, my boy!" he exclaims, clapping me on the back. "What did you think? Wasn't that a great speech?"

I nod, pasting on a smile. "Yeah, Dad. You killed it."

He beams, basking in the adoration of the crowd. I feel a pang of resentment, tired of being relegated to the sidelines.

As we make our way through the sea of faces, I catch glimpses of familiar faces – supporters, volunteers, and even a few of my classmates. I wonder if they see the real me, or just the carefully crafted image my father has created.

The rest of the evening blurs together – handshakes, photos, and small talk. I play the part of the dutiful son, all the while feeling like I'm suffocating under the weight of my father's ambition.

As the crowd disperses, my father turns to me, his expression serious. "Jasher, I need to talk to you about something."

My heart sinks, sensing a lecture or worse. "What is it, Dad?"

But he just nods toward the campaign bus, already moving toward it. "Let's talk on the way to the next stop."

I follow, feeling like I'm trapped in a never-ending cycle of politics and deception. The bus doors close behind us, and we're enveloped in a bubble of strategists, advisors, and aides.

My father launches into a discussion about polling numbers and campaign strategy, his words blurring together. I zone out, lost in my own thoughts.

As the bus rumbles on, the landscape outside becomes a blur. I feel like I'm losing myself in this endless campaign, like I'm just a tiny cog in a giant machine.

The bus finally stops at the dingy elderly home and we disembark, stretching our legs. My father pulls me aside, his voice low. "Jasher, I know this isn't easy for you, but I need you to be on board. We're getting close, and I need my team behind me. This is not the time to be a wimp. You need to think of strategies to help me win with that useless brain of yours."

I nod, feeling like I'm being pulled under. "I'm trying, Dad."

He claps me on the back again. "I know you are, son. Let's get through this, and then we'll regroup, okay?"

I nod again, feeling like I'm drowning in his ambition.