Confessions of a First Daughter (2 page)

Omigod.

Brittany Whittaker had stolen my election platform.

Chapter Two

Of course! How could I have been such a moron?

The incident in AOP’s tech center yesterday flashed through my mind: Brittany and a trio of her minions knocking over my backpack; her insincere apologies while helping me pick up the mess. She’d even complimented my choice of T-shirt that day: Kung-Fu Hamster.

Hadn’t I learned from my mother to expect, even plan for, dirty tricks in politics? But there’s a difference between shady antics and outright theft.

I listened in horror to Brittany’s honey-glazed voice ooze all over
my
platform.

“My first Sweet Strategy—I call it the Godiva—is to lobby the school’s administration to offer more courses designed to improve SAT scores, which will carry more weight on college applications. Not everyone is Ivy League material. They need all the help they can get.” Here she glanced over to where I sat, frozen, and gave me a pitying look through her perfectly Maybellined lashes.

Out in the audience, I saw Hannah’s jaw sag. Even she couldn’t believe Brittany’s blatant thievery, and Hannah was the one who called Brittany the evil love child of Lord Voldemort and June Cleaver.

Mentally, I IM’ed her:

CookieMonster:
OMGAAAWD!!! Whatamigonna do?

Fashionista:
Dunno. U got more notecards?

Obviously, the answer was a big fat NO.

Brittany sailed on. “Our school environment is also important. Security is
such
a concern these days. And in Washington, D.C., it’s true that certain
special people
have their own Secret Service agent. But ordinary people like
you
and
me
have the right to safety that’s not at the expense of the taxpayer.”

Over on stage left, Denny adjusted his earpiece. I doubted he realized he was about to become a major obstacle to my election to class president.

Numb, I listened to Brittany finish delivering my platform to the entire senior class, even down to the World Cultures Celebration Day. Mrs. Hsu beamed at her and Brittany blushed when the auditorium erupted into applause and whistles. Her bubblegum posse chanted her name and then tossed Hershey’s Kisses in the air to renewed cheers.

You know that moment when you realize that everything in your life has been leading to one point? A point at which you could either blow it big-time or rise to the challenge? This was my moment:

Class president or class dork.

Gracefully, Brittany sat down next to me and demurely folded her manicured hands together.

“Top that, fat ass,” she hissed. “Not even Mommy President can save you now.”

My scathing comeback to Brittany would have to wait. Brits had just given me an idea. Think: WWPAD—What Would President Abbott Do? I rose and approached the lectern. Mrs. Hsu was having a tough time getting the room to settle down, but the Hershey’s Kisses helped as people started to stuff their faces.

I set my notecards on the podium, unclipped the mic, and moved to the edge of the stage. I’d watched my mom do this hundreds of times. Talk to people like they are your friends. Talk
with
them, not
at
them. And
open with a joke
…

“Let’s give Brittany a round of applause for bringing the treats, folks. I know the chicken parm served in the cafeteria today skirted the line between food and science experiment.”

Laughter, a scattering of claps.

I took a deep breath. “Look, you and I know the deal. You’re expecting me to stand up here and give you a bunch of campaign promises that have been focus-grouped to find out which ones will gain the maximum support. Getting chicken parm off the menu would yield votes from the anti-chicken-slash-vegetarian-slash-easily-nauseated demographic.”

More laughs. I felt my muscles loosen.

“But I’m not going to do that. You know why?”

I let the moment hang. Just like Mom would.

“Because we all know you can’t trust politicians.”

The room had gone quiet. I had their attention now.

“We all want a better life. We want tasty cafeteria food, more social activities, and an opportunity to do good in the world. We want a chance to get into the college of our choice. But you know what?”

Silence.

“No one can promise to give that to you, least of all a politician. You have to get it yourself.”

I cocked my head to one side and raised my free hand. This was more than WWPAD. I was really hitting my stride. I was Morgan Abbott, daughter of President Sara Abbott, the first female, and youngest-elected, president in American history. I was one of a long line of women who defied the odds. My mother’s campaign slogan came to my lips.

“Change starts with one person and one person only: you.”

All eyes were glued on me, and for once I didn’t feel weird. I felt great. Like I’d found my calling.

“I’ll only make one promise to you. That you’ll have a memorable senior year. And if you honor me by electing me your senior class president, we’ll figure out how to make that happen together.”

It was so quiet, you could hear the air conditioner hum. For one awful second, I thought I might have bored them into a coma. Then Hannah punched the air and started clapping, and a groundswell of applause rose and filled the auditorium. Soon everyone was standing. Well, except for Brittany’s pink witches cabal. They looked like they were about to retch up the toadstools they’d had for lunch. I saw Brittany wrinkle her nose as if she’d stepped in dog poo.

I felt a flush creep up my cheeks. Maybe I had pulled this off after all.

I reclipped the microphone, then picked up my useless notecards and shoved them hard into the waistband of my skirt.

Big mistake.

The notecards went in and the pin I’d used to hold up my skirt popped open, stabbing me in my waist. I clutched my side, trying to hold back a wail of pain, but at the same time I noticed that I’d started peeing notecards. They dribbled to my feet, where I promptly slipped on them. As I went down, I grabbed for the podium, which left my skirt free to puddle around my ankles…and it did just that, while the glass of water on the podium tipped over onto the front of my blouse.

Applause turned to laughter.

“Classic Abbott!” someone yelled.

Great. Leave it to me to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory.

Agonized, I glanced at Hannah. She stared at me in horror.

Then I remembered another rule of Mom’s: When there’s disaster looming, step in front of the speeding train, wave a warning, and do your best to avert a wreck. If you’re lucky, you can prevent the train from derailing. Or if all else fails, at least you’ll die trying.

I kicked out of my limp skirt, grateful that I’d followed through on Plan B and worn my gym shorts, leaned into the mic, and raised my voice over the hysterical laughter pinging around the auditorium.

“You’ve got two clear choices this election, my fellow seniors. Candy kisses and sugar-coated promises, or unpredictability. What’s more fun? Vote for me, and I can guarantee one thing. Your senior year won’t be boring.”

I picked my skirt up off the floor and twirled it over my head. More laughs, but this time they seemed a little friendlier. Or maybe I just wanted them to seem that way.

Tears began to sting my eyes as I gritted my teeth and smiled at my classmates. For all my advance planning, I’d still managed to achieve utter humiliation. Amazing.

Brittany joined me at the front of the stage. Her sugary voice cooed in my ear while she graciously acknowledged the applause for us both: “Becoming class president will be easier than I thought. Thanks, sweetie.”

If I killed her right now, do you think my mom would stay my execution?

Dad said my senior year in high school would be the time of my life. Yeah, right. I wondered if I could go on sabbatical. Check back in when I was, like, forty-seven.

I left the auditorium and ducked into the bathroom in the math hallway. When Hannah burst in I was busy drying the front of my blouse under the hand dryer.

“That was some speech,” she said, giving me a quick hug. “I went to your locker and got the spare clothes you keep for emergencies. We’ll fix you up in a jiff.”

“Thanks, Hannah,” I said, changing into my new outfit.

Hannah dug into her massive Baby Phat handbag and pulled out scarves, a tangled mass of necklaces and bangles, and her makeup brushes. Not for the first time I felt thankful my BFF wanted to major in theater makeup and costume design.

I let Hannah fuss over me while I tried my dad’s tai chi mental relaxation techniques. Unfortunately, Brittany Whittaker’s smirking face kept floating before me, ruining the tranquil waterfall I was trying to visualize.

“There. Looking sharp now, Morg, if I do say so myself.”

I gazed at myself in the mirror. “You’re a genius, Hannah.”

“I know,” she said without a trace of modesty.

I heaved a big sigh. “Guess I can’t hide in here all day.”

“Nope. We might as well head to play rehearsal. We’ve pretty much missed calculus.”

“Calculus—crap.” I was already on shaky ground with Mr. Parmentaviswala. Somehow he wasn’t impressed with my solid D average.

“Well, here goes nothing.” I lifted my head, exited the bathroom, and rammed right into someone blocking the way. “Denny!”

My Secret Service agent had stationed himself at the bathroom door, arms folded like a bouncer. He might as well have erected a flashing neon sign:
President’s Daughter Having Nervous Breakdown Inside
.

“You okay, Morgan?” Real concern reflected in his eyes, and I swallowed the annoyed remark sparking on the tip of my tongue.

“I’m fine,” I said. I knew Denny was just doing his job, but did he always have to get in the way? He was about as subtle as a chin mole with a big black hair sticking out of it.

The final bell rang and students poured into the halls. As Hannah and I made our way back to the auditorium, I got a few friendly nods and high fives.

Hannah nudged me. “See? Even all wet you can outshine Brit-Brit.”

“Or maybe they’re just glad I provided another freak show for them to yak about.”

“No one’s gonna remember this tomorrow, Morgan. You’re too hard on yourself.”

Before I could share my fear that my performance was already on YouTube, an arm snaked around my midsection and squeezed.

“Hey, babe!” Konner whirled me around and kissed me. “You rocked it today.”

“You think so?” I felt breathless, as I always did when Konner showed me a little PDA. “Even when my skirt fell down?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that was hot.” He frowned.

Obviously, the puzzled wrinkle over Konner’s brow meant he hadn’t paid any attention to my speech, but for once I was glad.

Behind him Hannah rolled her eyes. Then she stiffened. “Uh, Morgan—”

“Hey, Davis, can’t you give us some privacy?” Konner turned me toward the lockers and leaned in close. “I don’t like an audience.”

Over Konner’s shoulder, my BFF was making a series of cryptic motions with her hands. I realized too late that it was a warning.

Chapter Three

Ms. Gibson, AOP’s guidance counselor
, appeared at my side. She was about twenty-five years old and looked like Angelina Jolie—not U.N. Ambassador Jolie, all friendly and helpful, but
Tomb Raider
Jolie, the one who would kick anyone’s ass for fun.

“Morgan Abbott! Konner Tippington! You know the rules about inappropriate behavior in school.”

Konner and I sprang apart. “Sure, Ms. Gibson,” Konner said easily. “I was just congratulating Morgan on her speech.”

“See to it that’s all you do during school hours.” Ms. Gibson’s glare could cut glass. “Morgan, I need to speak with you. In. My. Office.”

I shot Hannah a resigned look and waved good-bye to Konner. I glumly followed Gibson into the part of the Academy that was built during the nineteenth century. I’m talking oak paneling with portraits of stodgy old men lining the walls. We eventually arrived at the guidance counselor’s office.

“Your grades stink, Morgan,” she said after she settled behind her desk.

One has to appreciate Ms. Gibson’s candor.

“Four Ds, an A-minus in
drama
—” Ms. Gibson barely restrained a snort of derision. “And two Cs. I’ve always taken you for a smart girl, Morgan, despite your poor academic record. So you tell me how you’re going to be admitted to a community college, let alone a respectable university, with grades like these.”

“Uh…I think you might have mistaken my impish charm for intelligence.”

Did Gibson’s lips twitch in amusement? Impossible.

Then her gaze grew steelier. “Let’s put all the cards on the table. You don’t get a pass here just because you’re the president’s daughter. Or the daughter of Sam Abbott, who single-handedly made Wi-Fi available to the entire planet at a reasonable cost. You are responsible for you. And
you
are in danger of flunking out of AOP.”

My mouth went dry. This was getting serious.

“If you don’t get these grades up, Morgan, you will be banned from any—and I mean
any
—extracurricular activities.”

“But—”

“That means no more drama productions, including the upcoming musical, no team sports or field trips, no student council.
Nada
.”

“That’s
so
unfair,” I said lamely. My parents’ art of persuasion had clearly skipped a generation.

“If that’s what it takes to get you to focus, Morgan, the school has no choice. You know we can’t give you any special treatment.”

I slouched in my chair. “I know.”

“Change starts with one person: you.”

Ouch. She
would
throw that back in my face.

Why was it I had to practically set my brain on fire studying to accomplish those Cs when Mom and Dad came out of the womb as geniuses?

“I’ll do better, Ms. Gibson. I promise.”