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few more in the living room with the skyline and sunset framed in the window behind you,” the staff photographer suggests, collapsing his tripod, “and then we’ll call it a night.”
    Congressman Garvey Quinn looks questioningly at his wife, who shakes her blond head wearily. Like their two teenage daughters, Marin is accustomed to the PR machine that accompanies a campaign. But it’s far more intense now that Garvey’s set his sights on a gubernatorial nomination, with still greater aspirations beyond that. Marin’s clearly had her fill of the spotlight already, and the primary is still almost two months away.
    “Can’t we call it a night right now?” sixteen-year-old Caroline protests. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
    “Like what? Go on Facebook and write snotty stuff about your so-called friends?”
    Caroline’s wide-set black eyes—identical to her father’s—glare at her younger sister Annie, who merely smiles with satisfaction.
    “I do not write snotty stuff on Facebook.”
    “Yes you do, and you’re going to lose Dad a bunch of votes that way,” Annie retorts with a toss of her blond hair.
    “My friends aren’t old enough to vote yet.”
    “Well, their parents are, and they won’t vote for Dad when they figure out what a CB you are.”
    “Oh my God, are you for real? I am so not a CB.”
    “What,” Marin Quinn asks her daughters, “is a CB?”
    Garvey takes it upon himself to answer: “Cyber bully.”
    He’s been reading up on the topic of Internet safety, among countless others, in preparation for the upcoming primaries. He intends to arm himself with everything there is to know about every potential issue facing the people of New York State—a daunting task, to say the least.
    “I’m not a cyber bully, Dad.”
    “Of course you’re not,” he tells Caroline, and shoots Annie a warning glance when she opens her mouth again.
    “I told Sharon I don’t want the two of you on Facebook all summer.” Marin shakes her head. “That’s how you talked me into hiring a summer nanny in the first place, Garvey. To keep the girls occupied while you and I are campaigning.”
    Yes, though it hadn’t exactly been his idea; it had come from his campaign staff. Specifically, Beverly. Her cousin Sharon—whom she described as a “delightful, all- American blonde”—had just gotten out of college in the Midwest and wanted to move to New York.
    Garvey was agreeable. He didn’t want the girls at loose ends all summer long. He convinced his daughters that it would be like having a big-sister-slash-cruisedirector—someone who would plan fun outings and keep an eye on them.
    Marin—who prided herself on being a hands-on mom—was reluctant, but eventually gave in, realizing her place would be on the campaign trail in the months ahead.
    And so Sharon was hired.
    What Beverly had failed to mention was that her cousin hadn’t graduated; she had flunked out of college—community college. Within five minutes of meeting Sharon, Garvey concluded she was the kind of girl who gave stunning blondes their dim-witted reputation.
    In the month she had been working for the Quinns, Marin had grown increasingly frustrated; sweet-natured Annie had taken to calling Sharon “the Bubblehead” behind her back; and just yesterday, Caroline had said, “Daddy, can we please get rid of her? She’s useless.”
    That did it. Garvey will have to get rid of her. Beverly won’t be pleased, but too bad. His daughters’ needs come first.
    “Mr. Quinn? We’re losing light,” the photographer nudges from the next room.
    “Come on, girls. Just a few more pictures.” Garvey puts a hand on both their shoulders and leads them out of the kitchen, where they just staged yet another happy family scene for the camera.
    The takeout containers are buried in the trash; though Garvey’s pretty sure the photographer couldn’t care less that the “homemade” potatoes in the rarely used six-hundred-dollar skillet actually came from