Long May She Reign (23 page)

“So,” Beth said, when she picked up. “
You
were all over the news. And what pretty earrings you had on.”

Meg laughed, lifting her leg onto the bed and moving a pillow underneath it from force of habit. Also, because it was throbbing like crazy. “Yeah, I figured you'd notice.”

“Instantly,” Beth said.

The angle of the pillow made her leg feel worse, and Meg adjusted it.

“So, have you met people yet?” Beth asked. “Are they nice?”

“Well, they seem okay.” Meg looked at the half-open door to make sure that no one was within earshot. “It's kind of weird—there's like,
girl stuff
in the bathroom. I mean—I don't know, it seems strange. And it's really loud, hearing voices all over the place.”

“Have you told your doctors about these voices?” Beth asked.

Meg decided she was too tired to find that funny. “You know what I mean. I mean,
girls
everywhere.”

Beth sighed long-sufferingly. “No one's given you the ‘now we're in college, now we're women' speech?”

“No,” Meg said. Thank God.

“Besides,” Beth went on, “when you get right down to it, Meg, except for your mother and me, how many women do you actually know? I mean, like, to spend time with.”

Not too many, now that she thought about it. Or even, any. These days. “Well, Trudy,” Meg said uncertainly.

Beth sighed, more deeply.

“Okay, I guess I'm used to mostly men being around,” Meg said. Or maybe it was because almost all of the women she knew were so unusually self-confident and overachieving.

“It'll probably do you good,” Beth said. “You know, being forced to deal with them for once in your life.”

Something about the way that sounded made her want to shudder. “Yeah,” Meg said. Fun. “I guess.”

Beth laughed. “The next thing you know, you'll be transferring to Smith.”

Never happen. “Well, I'll keep you apprised,” Meg said. “Anyway, what's going on with you?”

“Well, gosh.” Beth paused to think. “The same constant stream of excitement and success.”

“How nice for you,” Meg said.

After they hung up, her parents called, too, but it made her too homesick to talk to them, so the conversation was rather abbreviated. Yes, they had a good flight home; yes, her dinner was fine; no, her knee was okay, in spite of the snow, and so forth.

It was only nine-thirty.

Maybe she should call Beth back.

No, that would be dumb. Although dumb was something she did very well. Did the
most
, anyway.

She could try lying down, maybe. Take out a couple of the advance-team-procured ice packs, and watch some ESPN or C-Span. Or, maybe—a girl wearing a bright, almost glowing, green Gore-tex jacket swung into the room, supporting her weight by hanging on to the doorjamb with one hand.

“Hi!” she said, like Meg knew her or something. “I'm Juliana.”

If she left her door very slightly cracked open, she couldn't expect people to knock. Maybe. “Uh, hi,” Meg said.

“I live next door,” Juliana said, tossing long blond hair back over her shoulders. “I'm very noisy. I
never
study.” She tugged a guy with rumpled brown hair and a sparse mustache into the room. “This is Mark.” She pushed him back out. “See you around!” she said, and they disappeared into the room next to hers, Mark giving her a vague wave. Within seconds, some kind of techno-rock came blaring out into the hall, competing with numerous other thumping bass lines—and someone's mournful female folk singer drifting over from the Sage D entry.

“Nice to have met you,” Meg said, even though Juliana had long since left. But, the encounter improved her mood, and she limped over to a box full of books and a few DVDs to continue unpacking.

She was organizing the top drawer of her desk, with the astonishing plethora of stationary supplies she'd received for Christmas—and looking, wistfully, at her father's Swiss Army knife, when there was a light knock on the door. Not, she was guessing, Juliana this time.

“You busy?” Susan asked.

Meg shook her head, and closed the drawer. “Not really.”

Susan motioned towards the screeching music. “You meet Juliana?”

Meg grinned. “Yeah.”

Susan grinned, too. “Every dorm needs one.” Then, she tapped the orientation packet, which was still sitting on top of the desk, untouched. “You go through any of that stuff yet?”

Date rate and bulimia. Also, condoms. Meg nodded, although, of course, she hadn't.

Susan shrugged. “Some of it's worthwhile, some of it isn't.”

Which she had figured out already, without even opening it.

“I'm guessing you're extra-informed on the various—social ills,” Susan said.

And had even gone on-the-record with a number of them. Meg nodded.

Susan returned the nod, then put her hands in her pockets. “You'd be surprised by some of the things even smart people don't know. I think the school just wants to be sure its bases are covered.”

Litigiously speaking, no doubt.

Susan, who seemed almost as uncomfortable as she was, leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “You're all set for classes?”

Thanks to the White House minions. They had even gone ahead and purchased all of the textbooks she was going to need. Without having been requested to do so, of course. Meg nodded.

“Your advisor's name is in your packet somewhere,” Susan said. “You should stop by to see him or her tomorrow, go over things. And you'll have to take the Quantitative Studies exam, and maybe some of the placement exams, if you want.”

Meg nodded—since it seemed to be the only thing she still remembered how to do. For the time being, the college had waived her mandatory swim test, at least. Her advisor was someone in the English department. A woman, which was unsurprising, considering her recent negative encounters with male medical personnel, about which one and all would have been briefed. “Does it matter if it's not something I'm going to major in?”

Susan shook her head. “The assignments are pretty random. They figure everyone's going to change majors a few times, before they settle down.”

“Did you?” Meg asked.

Susan nodded. “God, yes. Right now, I'm double-majoring in English and history, but I went through drama, political science, classics, and even psychology for a while.” She paused. “I still sometimes think about going back to drama.”

“So, that's normal?” Meg asked, tentatively.

“If it isn't, I'm in trouble,” Susan said. She started to unfold her arms, hesitated, and refolded them. “What are you going to be taking?”

Which seemed awfully personal. “Do you have to approve it?” Meg asked.

Susan laughed. “No, I was just curious. You don't have to tell me.”

Oh. Well, there wasn't really any good reason to keep it a secret, since Ginette was probably going to release some of the details to the press tomorrow. “Well, intro things,” Meg said. Should she be more specific? Probably. “Uh, psychology, the political science one about democracy, Shakespeare, philosophy—you know. Basic stuff.”

Susan nodded. “That sounds good. How early do you have to get up?”

“Well, political science is at eight-thirty,” Meg said.

Susan winced.

She was having her own doubts about the wisdom of having signed up for a course about the three branches of government and policy-making, but she didn't want someone else to
share
them. “Why, is that bad?” she asked, worried.

“No,” Susan said. “It's just—early.”

Hard to argue with that, yeah.

Susan nodded towards the remaining boxes. “You need help unpacking?”

A genuine offer, or was she fishing for something? Trying to curry favor? Meg frowned. “No, I—” Christ, she was just trying to be
nice
. Hospitable. Neighborly, even. “Thanks, but I'm all set.”

“Okay.” Susan straightened up, her hands going into her pockets again. “It's none of my business, but do they bother you? The press, I mean. Or are you used to it?”

Meg shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

“You have to wonder,” Susan said, sounding almost as though she were talking to herself, “about the kind of person who would
want
to do that for a living. There's something very—savage—about it.”

“I guess Woodward and Bernstein went to everyone's heads, back in the day,” Meg said, grimly. “And, hey, the whole world wants to be famous, right?” God only knew why.

Susan nodded, looking preoccupied. “Seems that way, yeah.”

Hmmm. There was something else going on here, but Meg couldn't figure out what it was.

“Anyway,” Susan said. “Anything you want to ask? Or, I don't know? Talk about?”

It must suck to have to serve as an officially designated friend. “Are people going to hate me?” Meg asked, taking a guess about what might be bothering her—and was probably
infuriating
Mary Elizabeth. “Because of all the reporters and the disruption and everything?”

Susan shook her head. “Some of them have preconceptions, that's all. About what you're going to be like.”

Status quo, then. “Do you?” Meg asked.

Susan blushed. “Yeah. But I'm trying to rise above them.”

Okay. That was honest. She might as well be equally direct. “Am I living up to the preconceptions?” Meg asked.

“Well—my father would say you're a cool customer,” Susan said.

Ouch. Meg narrowed her eyes. “What would he mean by that, exactly?”

Susan considered that. “I'm not really sure, when you get right down to it.”

Still, it probably wasn't praise. “He seems really nice.” Meg glanced at the hallway to make sure no one was out there within listening distance. “But what about Dirk? Does he always make you do all of the work?”

Susan smiled, and Meg suddenly wondered if she seemed familiar because she had something of a political smile, which didn't always make it up to her eyes. “Truth?” she asked.

Well, that wasn't exactly a political strategy. Meg nodded, uneasily.

“He was sort of intimidated, because you look even more like her in person,” Susan said. “And he's shy sometimes, anyway.”

An odd trait in a JA, but okay. And she
wasn't
so damn sure she looked that much like her mother, either. Certainly, she hadn't inherited the sense of style, or the élan.

The techno-rock stopped playing, and Juliana replaced it with a monotonous dance mix.

“She's happy to turn it down, if you ask,” Susan said. “I mean, if it drives you crazy.”

Meg shrugged. “My brother listens to rap and heavy metal most of the time—this seems pretty benign.” Often, for multiple stereo effect, Steven would play the same song that was also being shown on MTV, both at top volume. When he couldn't get them synchronized right, which was almost always the case, it was very irritating. Especially to her father.

“Well, if it bothers you, don't be shy about telling her,” Susan said. “Juliana is impossible to offend.”

Suggesting that someone—or maybe,
many
someones—had tried. Meg nodded.

It was quiet.

“Are you a breakfast person?” Susan asked.

Meg shook her head. Never had been, never would be.

“Well—I'm not, either,” Susan said. “But if you're up, and looking for someone to go with, come down and knock on my door.”

An extremely unlikely scenario. Except, she
hated
that god-damn word. The guy had used it—“Worst scenario, I start
liking
you,” the night they got drunk together—and ever since then, hearing it, or even thinking it, was—“Great,” Meg said. “If I'm up, I'll do that. Thanks.”

Susan must have picked up on the tension in her voice, because she retreated towards the door. “Okay, good. I'll, uh, maybe I'll see you later, then.”

Meg nodded, aware that her face had started perspiring, and trying to repress the massive wave of fear she had just inflicted upon herself.

After Susan had—rather hastily—left, she stuck it out for another couple of hours, aimlessly unpacking and icing her knee and hand, until it seemed late enough for her to get away with turning her light off for the night. She felt shy about venturing out to the bathroom, especially since everyone else seemed to have visitors wandering in and out of their rooms, and to be having fun being back at school.

She was so tired that her toothbrush felt heavy. She'd stuck her tiny stash of remaining prescription painkillers in her knapsack, and she popped one while she was in the bathroom, hoping to hell that it was going to work. Quickly. She might have been lonely at home, but Christ, at least she'd had something resembling
privacy
.

Making her way over to the door was improbably exhausting, and she kept her eyes down, not wanting to have to talk to anyone, or—worse—meet anyone new.

Tammy was on her way in, but she stopped to look at her. “Are you all right?”

Did she fucking look all right? She wanted to be alone. She wanted to be
home
. “I'm fine, thank you,” Meg said, and limped past her, having to use the wall as a guide, since she hadn't had enough energy to bring her cane along.

“D-do you need help?” Tammy asked.

“No. Thanks,” Meg said, went into her room, and closed the door. Almost slammed it.

This stupid place was unbelievably noisy. She was surrounded by strangers. Everything hurt like hell. And if she were home, she would—absolutely, positively, without any doubt—be sobbing right now.

*   *   *

SHE LAY IN
the dark, trying to sleep, for a very long time. Missing her family. Missing her
cat
. Even in its new position, she hated this bed. It felt—horribly familiar. The frame, the not very good mattress, the slightly dusty smell, all of it. When they had been on the phone, her mother had suggested that they arrange to have a new replacement bed delivered, and she wanted to say yes, but was afraid it would make her seem too much like the damn Princess and the Pea to the rest of the dorm. No point in measuring up to their worst expectations, if she could avoid it.