Long May She Reign (20 page)

“It's something,” Preston said to her. “Watching a fellow who's so handy.”

As it happened, her father
was
quite handy, but Preston had explained to her more than once—at length—that in his worldview, reality and amusement rarely ought to be allowed to interfere with one another.

When her father was finally finished, and Neal had gone out to explore the hallway and bathroom, there didn't seem to be much left to say.

“So.” Her father tucked his Swiss Army knife—which she knew he treasured—into the top drawer of her desk. “Would you like to—”

What she would like, would be not to have such a prolonged good-bye. “You guys should get going, maybe,” she said. “So you can get back.”

“Okay. You're probably right.” Her father stuck his head out into the hall. “Neal, come on, let's get a move on.”

“They seem really nice,” Neal said, when he came in. “All those girls.”

“What, did you go and meet everyone?” Meg asked.

Neal nodded. “There's lots of people around.”

Lots of total strangers. And it was kind of demoralizing that her ten-year-old little brother was more socially adept than she was.

“Well, we're going to say good-bye now, okay?” their father said.

Neal nodded, and gave her a big hug. “Steven says we can call you up? When we want? And send lots of email?”

Neal loved email so much that he usually sent her several notes almost every day—despite the fact that his room was maybe forty feet away from hers. “Yeah,” Meg said, her throat feeling constricted. “I hope you do.”

Preston hugged her, too. “Don't
you
be afraid to call.”

She nodded, although she probably would be.

He stepped back to look at her. “Take care of yourself, okay, Meg?”

She nodded again, keeping her eyes down, in case she was going to cry.

Then, Preston took Neal out to the hall, and she was alone with her father. Now, she
really
wanted to cry—and also wished harder than ever that she'd let her mother talk her way into coming along, after all.

“You sure you're going to be all right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Well, you just do what you can do,” he said. “Don't worry about trying to impress anyone else. If you need to—”

She interrupted him before he could say “come home.” “No problem,” she said. “I'm sure it's going to be great.” Except that she really was going to cry, and she rubbed her hand across her eyes. “Don't worry.”

He hugged her almost as tightly as her mother had. “If you're in any pain,” he said, when he finally let go, “or it's too much—”

“I will,” she said quickly.

He reached out to touch her face for a second. “Your mother and I love you very much.”

Meg nodded, swallowing. He was about to leave, and she wanted, desperately, to go with him. To forget this whole stupid college idea. To go back where she would be safe, and protected, and—“You don't want to be late,” she said, her voice trembling more than ever.

“Okay.” He hugged her again. “I love you.”

She went out to the hall with him, to wave good-bye like she was a normal, happy freshman, looking forward to the future. Then, when they were gone, she went back into the room, closed the door, and leaned against it.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it,
damn
it.

She took a few deep breaths, to make absolutely sure that she wasn't going to burst into tears, then stared at her new prison cell of a room, all of the furniture plain and generic and impersonal. And out there, beyond the door, on this huge snow-covered campus, were hundreds and hundreds of people she didn't know. Strangers who were going to be watching her every second, waiting for her to—but, she
absolutely couldn't
cry, because if she did, her eyes would get red, and everyone would be able to tell that she had fallen apart.

So she opened her knapsack, and pulled out the framed pictures she'd brought along. The photographs were mostly candids, although a couple of them had also been used for press releases. Steven, intent in his uniform, playing baseball. Neal and Kirby on the South Lawn, near the Children's Garden. Her mother throwing out the first pitch, somewhat ineptly, at Fenway Park. Her father in his East Wing office with Preston, both of them with their feet up on the desk, grinning. Her father again, hammering this time, at a housing project, wearing a flannel shirt, a tool belt, and a truly disgracefully ragged pair of jeans. Trudy, in their kitchen in Massachusetts, gesturing emphatically at the camera with a wooden spoon. Beth, wearing—big surprise—a flamboyant hat. Her mother and Neal—quite possibly the best picture ever taken of either of them, which was saying a lot, since they were by far the most photogenic members of the family—in the private study off the Oval Office, her mother working at her desk, Neal pointing at something he was apparently watching on television, the two of them smiling at each other and looking happy as hell. A shot of Sidney, Adlai and Humphrey, curled up asleep in the Lincoln Bedroom. Vanessa, sitting by her window in the sunshine, washing herself. Vanessa, sprawled across her pillow. Vanessa, lying on her computer keyboard. And, finally, a picture—an old one—of her whole family, near the gondola at Stowe.

She arranged the photos neatly on top of the scarred wooden desk, bookcase, and MicroFridge, then studied them, feeling very homesick. Even for the White House.

There was a knock on the door, and although she wanted to be alone, she limped over and opened it to find Susan standing there.

“Hi,” she said. “Your family get off okay?”

Which made it sound as though they'd slipped out in the dark of night, as opposed to having their every step recorded by half the free press. “Yes,” Meg said. “Thank you.”

Susan noticed the pictures, and smiled. “First thing I did my freshman year, too.”

Meg felt her cheeks redden. “Oh, yeah?” she said somewhat stiffly.

Susan nodded. “I was homesick before we even left my apartment.”

“Oh, yeah?” It was important to be polite, and make a good impression, so Meg smiled back. Stiffly. “Where are you from?”

“Boston,” Susan said.

Which was probably why she seemed familiar, since on further reflection, she had a certain kind of Boston Irish look. “Really?” Meg asked, interested in spite of herself. “Where?”

“Right in the city,” Susan said.

Since people often said they were from Boston—and were actually from Methuen, or Waltham, or someplace. “Where'd you go to school?” Meg asked.

“Well, surprisingly enough,
Boston
,” Susan said.

Which made sense. Feeling a little more relaxed, Meg leaned against her desk, so she could subtly prop her bad leg up on the chair. “I haven't been up there for a long time. I kind of miss it.”
Kind of?

Susan nodded, her expression hard to interpret.

“I mean, you know, like when the Red Sox come to Baltimore, we go there, and—well, we did last spring, anyway, and—” Meg stopped, feeling very dumb. She was sort of—babbling, here. “I guess I just mean I'd like to go to Boston again, sometime. Um, anyway,” she looked in the direction of the hall. “I'm sorry about having so many agents. I know they're going to be in everyone's way.”

Susan shrugged. “It'll be the safest dorm on campus.”

Or the most dangerous, depending upon how one looked at it. “Well, I'm sorry they have to be here,” Meg said.

Susan shrugged again. “They've been around for a while, so everyone's used to it.”

She was probably just being kind, but Meg nodded.

“Dinner starts in about half an hour,” Susan said. “Why don't you walk over with some of us?”

Meg shook her head more vigorously than she'd intended. “No, I—we had a late lunch.” On Air Force One. With the President. Jesus.

“So, you can just have a salad or something,” Susan said.

Meg could already feel her heart beating faster at the thought of having to go outside. Of having to leave the
room
. “I—I have a lot of unpacking to do.”

Susan leaned back against the doorjamb, folding her arms. “The first time's the hardest. Once you get it out of the way, it'll be easier.”

The hell did
she
know about it? In lieu of scowling at her, Meg concentrated on a rip in her jeans, up near the top of the brace.

“Look, I know it's a little more complicated for you,” Susan said.

A
little
? Meg looked up just long enough to cock an eyebrow at her.

Susan nodded. “I know, but you also feel like every other freshman feels the first day. And in a lot of ways, I'm guessing you're better equipped to handle it.”

If this girl thought that, then she must not look like quite as much of a basket case as she was afraid she did. “Well, I think it's probably just complicated,” Meg said, aware that her voice was as cool and dismissive as it was when she spoke to reporters. And that wasn't fair—after all, it was this person's job to be friendly to her. “I mean, I appreciate your offering. Thanks.”

Susan looked at her for a minute, then nodded. “It
is
complicated,” she said. “If you were one of the other freshmen, I'd bully you into it.”

Well, that was straightforward. “So, you're not going to bully me?” Meg asked.

“I thought I might—wheedle,” Susan said.

Cajole. Placate. Coax. Meg grinned, pulling at the little tear in her jeans.

“Tell you what,” Susan said. “We'll be by to get you for dinner. Got it?”

Which sounded altogether too much like an order. And—
we
? Meg frowned.

“I'm guessing you won't say no if there's a group,” Susan said.

Good guess. Meg sighed. “Okay.”

“Okay, then.” Susan pushed away from the door. “See you in a while.”

Meg nodded, and turned to open one of her few unpacked boxes. Then, it occurred to her that she'd better let her agents know that she would be going out, and just generally review the basic procedures with them again. On Sunday, she and her parents had had a long meeting with Mr. Gabler, who was the Special Agent in charge of the entire White House Presidential Protective Detail, and the main thrust of her new security seemed to be that everyone who came into the dorm would have to have their IDs checked at the first-floor guard post, and then
double
-checked, if they came up to her part of the third floor. There were also video cameras, built-in alarms, anti-bugging devices, and God only knew what else. Weapons caches, escape routes, safe rooms, and emergency contingency plans, probably.

Not much fun for the people who lived in her entry, who—no matter what Susan had said—must completely resent her.

The Secret Service room was next door, to her left, and two of her agents, Larry and Ed, were standing there, talking. When they saw her, they stopped and looked alert.

“Uh, hi,” she said. “Is it okay if I—” No, that was the wrong way to start. “I mean, I guess they're going to dinner in a while, and Susan said for me to come, too.”

“Sure thing,” Larry said, and picked up his phone, presumably to let Garth, along with whichever agents were posted downstairs, know.

“Is it the same as it used to be?” Meg asked. Seemed like centuries ago. “I try to let you know as soon as
I
know I'm going somewhere?”

They both nodded.

Not that she was expecting to be doing much of anything, beyond the very basics of going to classes, physical therapy, and maybe the occasional meal.

“Okay.” She felt so damned awkward around her agents now. “I mean, I will.”

Larry and Ed nodded. Big, bulky guys, per usual, differentiated mainly by the fact that Ed had a mustache, and Larry looked as though he had gotten his nose broken a couple of times.

Not that she was one to talk, when it came to the latter.

Christ, she was pretty much going to be
living
with these people now, instead of being able to leave them downstairs and escape to the safety of the second floor of the Residence. She definitely didn't want to make friends with any of them, but it was going to be unpleasant for everyone concerned if she couldn't figure out a way to feel slightly at ease in their presence.

And vice versa.

“Your father showed you where your panic button is?” Ed asked.

Meg nodded. It had been wired into her room, and the cord was long enough so that she could either put it on her desk, or next to her bed, depending. As opposed to the portable one she was required to carry
with
her, at all times.

Unless, of course, it was forcibly torn away from her by—but, she wasn't going to think about that. And now, instead of having an unknown GPS microchip embedded in the back molar that had ended up being ripped right out of her mouth, along with two other teeth, she had some kind of high-tech tracking device implanted just under the skin on her left upper arm, and presumably, next time, terrorists would use knives or razors to slice it out of her, and then—

“There's one in the bathroom, too,” Larry said. “Just above the sinks, on the left side.”

Meg nodded. Another carefree reminder for the other people who lived on the floor.

“For the time being, your windows have been sealed,” Ed said—meaning, Meg knew, bullet-proofed—“but when the weather gets warm, we'll see about making some other arrangements. If it gets too hot in there, let us know.”

She liked fresh air, but she had gotten used to not having much in the White House. Whenever any of them felt like they couldn't breathe—which was a regular complaint of her father's, in particular—they would have to go out to the Truman Balcony for a while, or up to the more private area on the roof outside the Solarium.