“You went off script.”
The adrenaline coursing through her body and the memory of the cheering crowd, the way their applause had echoed off the walls, the way they’d looked at her like she really was a person who could make their lives better, made it easier for Charlotte to defend herself against Josh’s irritation. Her team was gathered in the boys’ locker room, the only private place for a quick postmortem of the speech. They had thirty minutes before the next gym class came barging in. She breathed and laughed through the smell of boy funk that bleach could never erase.
Roz interrupted them, her voice big and brawny and full of pride. “Our girl did good. Slaughter wouldn’t have anticipated an attack like that from a female opponent. Not out of the gate. It was perfect.”
Charlotte expected Josh to disagree, imagined him roaring at Roz to get the hell out of the locker room. Instead he leaned his forehead against the pale-green metal locker for a minute before turning to face them. “You did do good.”
His compliment came with a begrudging lesson in political maneuvering. “Making an enemy of Slaughter is a good thing. Having an enemy gives your supporters a reason to be energized. A bitter race brings in more voters. Gets more attention. Raises more money. Most politicians want to be loved by everyone, but smart politicians know that it’s just as important to be hated. Just tell me before you go off script next time. And be careful. Edgy won’t play well for you anywhere but ten blocks in Center City, Philadelphia.”
Charlotte sipped a cup of warm water with lemon, her voice hoarse.
“Thank you,” she mouthed. “Any sign of Max?” It had yet to fully set in that her husband had abandoned her during one of the most important moments of her career. She knew she’d eventually feel sadness, anger, even rage, but for now she was able to tuck those emotions away.
“I can’t find him.” Leila’s cringe crinkled the lines in between her eyebrows, expressing frustration on Charlotte’s behalf.
“Where are the big girls?”
“Kara took the twins home.” Leila played with Annie’s hair as the girl sat on the floor in between her legs. “You look great right now. Happy.”
Lulu chimed in, “Totally great. Hold on a sec. I’m going to Snap you.”
“Now? We’re in a locker room. There are toilets behind me.”
“So real! So au naturel. Smile.”
The muscles supporting Charlotte’s cheeks ached from all the smiling.
“Instant gratification!” Lulu dropped down next to her on a bench, handed her an iPad, and scrolled through her Twitter mentions, each of them heavy with undeserved significance. “Here’s one hashtag: ‘#SLAUGHTERLIES.’ Ooooh, I love this tweet: ‘Charlotte Walsh is my Beyoncé!’ That one came from Jasmine, that actress on that zombie show. You know which one. Also, you’re a meme.” There was a GIF of Charlotte riding a tiger beneath the words Charlotte Walsh Is My Spirit Animal. It felt impossible to remember a time when this wasn’t how she consumed her information.
“And you’ve been trolled.” Charlotte gagged at the next tweet—a picture of her head Photoshopped onto the body of a pig. @PatriotMan: Look at that bitch squeal.
She kept going.
@AmericaTheBrave1776: Charlotte Walsh is a threat to America.
@ProudBoy20: Our women need to stay home and make more babies. Charlotte Walsh is a shitlib bitch marginalizing men. Must b stoped.
@ImperialDaddyHorseface: Walsh hates the hardworking men of PA
@DeplorableMac: Soon the truth will come out about who Charlotte Walsh really is.
“Who do they think I really am?” she asked out loud. And what do they know?
“Don’t be triggered into showing emotion. First rule of dealing with trolls,” Josh said, his lips set in a grim line.
“You can’t live in FOMT.” Lulu patted her on the shoulder.
“In what?”
“Fear of Mean Tweets.”
“That’s not a thing people say.”
“It is now,” the girl said with authority.
Charlotte continued to scroll.
“Are those my feet?” She looked down at her shoes and back to the picture on the screen. There was no mistaking her slightly pigeon-toed feet, bony ankles sheathed in Roz’s panty hose. Why would someone tweet a photograph of my shoes?
@Politibabe: What’s up with these nun shoes on C. Walsh. Gross!
@MomsForPAPols: She couldn’t even get dressed up for her first big day at work. Can’t take her seriously.
@America4FREE: Hey @CharlotteWalsh real women know how to run in heels.
@Jenny5: My new superhero @CharlotteWalsh don’t take no shit from anyone in those badass shoes.
@FashionGurl: Luv the flat action on @CharlotteWalsh. Screw heels.
@PinkPussyBrigade: Sensible shoes for the win @CharlotteWalsh
“My shoes? Nothing about policy? No substance?” She looked up at Josh.
“Excuse me, Charlotte?” The reporter from Teen Vogue pushed open the heavy oak doors from the gymnasium with both of her hands.
Josh tried to stop her. “Sorry, Carly, we’re done with questions for the day. Shoot me an email and we’ll get you what you need.”
“Just one more. My editor texted and I need to ask about the candidate’s shoes?”
“No, you don’t,” Josh said.
Charlotte stood and sucked in a deep breath, then another, smiled, and willed herself to be pleasant. “It’s cool. Hi, Carly. What do you need to know?”
“This is a real statement?”
“What’s a real statement?”
“Your decision to wear flats?”
“It’s a statement?” I haven’t worn a pair of high heels since before you sent your first tweet. I’m five eleven in flats and heels turn me into a monster. I have freakishly large size-twelve feet. I have three children under six, and the idea of teetering on something the size of a pencil makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a stiletto. I’ve had bunions since I gave birth to twins. Wearing flats is a professional calculation. Because I’m usually the boss of all the men in a room and it’s easier if I don’t make myself more intimidating.
Charlotte snuck a glance at the girl’s feet and saw they were covered in dove-gray suede ankle booties with a three-inch heel and tassels on the side.
“Everyone on social wants to know why you didn’t wear high heels. Is it a feminist statement?” Carly repeated.
It wasn’t easy for Charlotte to hold back a snort. More reporters appeared behind Carly, forming a scrum around the two women, holding phones and cameras high, urinals and shower stalls prominently in the background of this intense conversation about footwear. Breathe. Speak in sound bites. Charlotte felt something click in her brain. “I wore the first shoes I pulled out of the closet this morning. What does Ted Slaughter have on his feet right now? Do you know? Let’s find out. Because I’m pretty sure he didn’t wake up this morning and decide he should be wearing heels. But if he did, I would certainly applaud that decision. Thank you, everyone. I’m looking forward to seeing much more of all of you.”
Smile. Smile again. Wave. Exit gracefully. Josh grabbed Annie from Leila and handed her to Charlotte. The child blew kisses to the reporters.
“Awwwwwwwww.” The crowd made the right sounds at the baby and moved easily out of her way. One of Charlotte’s hands clutched the back of Annie’s soft head, the other her sweaty back, allowing the child to become a shield in her arms.
*
It was Paul who found Max slumped in a bathroom stall outside of the auditorium. He texted Charlotte: “I just saved your husband’s life,” and congratulated himself for being a good Samaritan with a fifth of whiskey.
“I’m sick. I’ve got what the girls had,” her husband whispered hours later as he lay in their bed.
Charlotte’s guilt over jumping to the worst possible conclusion about Max’s whereabouts that morning made her overcompensate in her efforts as nursemaid, stroking his feverish forehead and preparing his favorite comfort food—grilled cheese with cut-up hot dogs in it. She was often at her best in their marriage when she knew he needed her.
“I watched your speech on YouTube. You can win this thing, Charlie-bird,” Max said, his eyes half-closed.
It surprised her how good praise from him could make her feel. Before deciding to run, she’d read the studies about how narcissism runs rampant in politics: Those seeking office have a lust for power, prestige, status, and authority, the desire to be an object of admiration. Political office provides evidence to confirm a sense of superiority to others. Now, more than ever in her life, she wanted to feel admired, particularly by this man.
“The crowd loved you. You’re a natural.”
Her arms found their way around her own shoulders. She hugged herself and closed her eyes.
“You really believe that?”
“I do, baby. I really do.”
“Could I have done anything better?” When he didn’t answer, Charlotte realized he’d fallen asleep.
Downstairs, Kara put on Moana for the girls. God bless you, Kara.
“Where’s Paul?”
“In the garage, I think.”
“Doing what?”
“Dunno. Said something about lookin’ for an air conditioner.”
The garage—or carport, as Marty Walsh always called it—was a separate structure from the house, built by Marty himself to protect the family’s one car, a thirdhand Buick, from harsh Elk Hollow winters, with enough room for a punching bag, with which he’d taught her to throw a left hook. “You never know when you’ll need it, Charlie,” he’d warned her. “Remember what Tyson said before that fight back in eighty-four: ‘They all have a plan until I punch them out once and then the plan is out the window.’ You never know when the plan will go out the window.”
The carport was just up the hill behind the house. She knew Kara had moved some furniture and family keepsakes—old trophies, pictures, art projects, and yearbooks—in there when she cleaned the place out for renters. It wouldn’t have surprised Charlotte if Paul kept his stash of weed or pills or whatever he was on these days out there, far away from his own house but still easily accessible.
If Charlotte went upstairs now, she could avoid having to deal with Paul when he came back in, half-lit and overly confident that she should give him some money for rescuing her husband. She kissed Kara good night and told her to let herself out.
With her family occupied for at least the next fifteen minutes, Charlotte felt justified in running a hot bath. She dropped a few dabs of lavender oil into the water before reading the rest of the speech coverage on her phone from the tub.
In the hour she’d been away from a screen, Slaughter’s campaign had issued a statement standing behind their earlier “facts” about Charlotte providing abortions for her employees. “That’s what we were told,” Slaughter’s campaign manager, Annabel Gest, said with a straight face. Gest, a sixtysomething woman with bright green contact lenses and an astronaut’s helmet of white-blond hair, next branded Charlotte a California hippie billionaire out to hoodwink the voters of Pennsylvania to advance a nefarious West Coast agenda. She let the word agenda hang in the air like a puff of smoke. The way she’d said it, you could be compelled to believe West Coast was shorthand for “hell.”
In some places, Charlotte’s speech was praised by pundits, both professional and amateur, as solid and brave, but any serious analysis was eclipsed by Charlotte’s footwear.
#Heelgate: The Senate Candidate Who Refused to Put on High Heels
BY CARLY MEEKS
You’ve probably heard of Charlotte Walsh. She’s the badass Silicon Valley exec who shook up the tech patriarchy by giving her female employees actual benefits and real time off to start their families. But did you know she’s running for Senate?
Here’s what you need to know: Charlotte Walsh officially kicked off her campaign this morning against incumbent senator Ted Slaughter (if you’re not familiar with him, he’s the thrice-married old guy who has dominated Pennsylvania politics since before you were born. Check out this video of him mansplaining how your vagina works). Walsh has a warm presence and a sharp wit off camera. You’d like her if you met her at Starbucks, and she’d probably let you cut in front of her in line if you were in a rush. She has sweet freckles, good bone structure, very Julianne Moore, Tom Ford muse.
She announced her campaign wearing a chic pair of Tory Burch flats Monday morning. But it turns out not everyone was in love with Walsh’s choice of footwear. Slaughter’s campaign manager, Annabel Gest, derided Walsh for wearing “her bedroom slippers” to speak to Pennsylvania voters. It was a real sign of disrespect. “Dress like a grown-up if you want to be taken seriously.”
Conservative pundit Kris Krispman took to cable news to ask whether Walsh was a closet lesbian. “Not that I care if she is. But you’d just think a woman like that would want to wear a nice pair of high heels on one of the biggest days of her career. I feel bad for her husband.”
Walsh addressed her sartorial decision to Teen Vogue just moments after her speech (watch the video below and vote to tell us what you think). “I wore the first shoes I pulled out of the closet this morning. What does Ted Slaughter have on his feet right now? Do you know? Let’s find out. Because I’m pretty sure he didn’t wake up this morning and decide he should be wearing heels. But if he did, I would certainly applaud that decision.”
The shoes have since sold out on the Tory Burch website. Young women across the country are now Instagramming their own photos of sensible shoes in Walsh’s defense using the hashtags #HeelGate and #RealWomenWearFlats.
Charlotte had prepared to be excoriated for her policies, her positions, and even some of her personal choices, but she hadn’t expected this. She sank under the water, holding the air in her lungs until she could no longer stand it, the physical pain a relief from her rushing thoughts.
Her phone dinged insistently from the ledge on the back of the toilet. She stepped out of the bath, put on Max’s robe, and wiped her hands in its folds so she could answer it.
Josh’s voice was labored with excitement. He sounded practically giddy. “Vanity Fair called. They want to do a shoot with you and the family. They assigned Julia Schulz-Davies. She’s perfect for it.”
When Charlotte didn’t respond right away, he brought his voice up an octave.
“This is a big fucking deal, Charlotte. To get a glossy profile with a Pulitzer Prize winner for a goddamned Senate race. It means the campaign has taken on national importance and we haven’t even gotten started yet.”
“It’s really great,” Charlotte agreed and tried to focus, already wondering how hard-hitting a profile Julia Schulz-Davies planned to do, how much she’d dig into the past. “When?”
“Next month. It’ll run in June.”
“And they want Max and the girls, too?”
“They want the whole family. That okay? You need to ask Max?”
Of course she’d have to ask him, but he wouldn’t say no. She shoved a lock of wet hair out of her eyes. “He’ll be fine. This is amazing, but what do we do until then? When will we get poll numbers?”
“Soon. FiveThirtyEight might have something by the end of the week. I think we’ll be pleasantly surprised. In the meantime, I need you to get out there and kiss some rich ass. We’re out of cash.”