Authors: Ellen Emerson White

The President's Daughter (22 page)

BOOK: The President's Daughter

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They walked across the Mall to the Natural History Museumâdelighting still more touristsâand Meg kind of wished she could
have a copy of one of the many pictures being taken, since the image of nervous-looking, well-dressed men walking along with three kids in ski jackets and jeans was probably an hysterically funny sight. She had been told that their agents were going to try to dress more casually, to fit in better, but so far, she hadn't seen that in action.

The Natural History Museum was more to Meg's tastes, although taxidermy always made her think of the movie
Psycho
. Steven and Neal made a bit of a ruckus, calling each other wombats and ring-tailed lemurs and that sort of thing, Steven yelling, “Yo, it's Meg!” in front of the Dogs of the World exhibit. None of them was too enthralled by rocks, but they went to the mineral and gem section to look at the Hope Diamond, Steven making a lot of loud remarks about how they were going to steal it, and that the agents were their gang. Meg thought he was pretty funny, but most of the people around them didn't seem to be sure that he was kidding.

In the Museum of American History, they looked at some old trains and automobiles, but then went to the part devoted to the history of the political processâ
definitely
Meg's scene. She wasn't into the idea of running for officeâprobablyâbut, she kind of had a feeling she would probably end up going into the family business in
some
form. Maybe she could be a learned pundit or, at least, an
opinionated
and very verbal one. It might be fun to be a pundit.

There was a special exhibit focusing on the President, mostly a pictorial history of her life and careerâincluding a photo Meg had never seen of her mother riding a tricycle in what appeared to be Central Park. There was lots of campaign memorabilia, dating back to her first Congressional campaign, with buttons, bumper stickers, and posters, and lots of more recent shots, including a huge blow-up of her accepting the Democratic nomination. Meg was surprised to see
herself
in two of themâtoddling around on the floor of the House in one, and then, with the whole family at Stowe, which was the same picture the
Times Magazine
had used, and made them look incredibly tanned, All-Americanâand a tiny bit elitist. She and
Steven both had snow in their hair, and she vaguely remembered their having had a fight right before the photograph was taken.

The only thing funnier than that section of the museum was the area devoted to First Ladies. This part had reproductions of rooms in the White House during various points of historyâlike the Red Room, as it was in 1870âand mannequins of all of the First Ladies in their Inaugural gowns. In the room that had all of the most recent First Ladies, starting with Mrs. Reagan, there was a little empty space at the end, and a white card that said: “COMING SOON: RUSSELL JAMES POWERS.” They laughed for about ten minutes, attracting many stares, as Meg pictured a tall, broad-shouldered model of their father in white tie and tails. She only hoped that they would remember to include his silk hat. Oh, and the cape. It wouldn't be the same without his cape.

Since nothing could top “COMING SOON: RUSSELL JAMES POWERS,” they left the museum, fighting about where they were going to go next. The FBI Building was closed for tours, so Steven said they should go to the Pentagon, an idea Meg immediately rejectedâeven as Neal was saying, “Yeah! Cool!” They ended up going to get ice cream at a place in Foggy Bottom that one of their agents recommended, although they had to get back into the car with their cones, because so many people were looking at them. It was completely weird to be recognized, but the agents were a dead giveaway.

It was starting to get dark, and they drove over to the Vietnam Veterans Memorialâwhich was quiet and solemn in the dusk, and then walked up to the Lincoln Memorial from there. It was large and square, supported by marble columns, and as stately and dignified as a piece of architecture could be. The kind of place where people automatically spoke in hushed voices. They walked up the long flights of stone steps, where the massive statue of a serious, but benevolent, Lincoln was framed between the two middle columns. Meg felt sort of as though she were approaching the gates of heaven, the statue lit
up in the darkness, looking as if it were sitting in judgment. She could have stayed there all night, but Neal decided that he was scared, Steven was getting hungry again, and their agents pointed out that they should probably go homeâ
home?
âfor dinner.

They took the scenic route back, swinging out past the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Memorial, and then Jeff, who was driving, slowed down near the Washington Monument so that they could stare up at the Mall, at the Capitol Dome, all of the monuments lit up and looking golden against the winter sky.

“Wow,” Steven said.

“Wow,” Neal said, also whispering, and Meg felt the same mingled pride and fear, thinking about how incredibly importantâhow utterly vital to the entire
world
âit was to be the President.

They drove around the outside of the South Lawn of the White House, which was also bright with spotlights, the fountain spraying into the night. Once they had pulled up in front of the South Entrance, they got out of the car, thanked their agents, and went upstairs, none of them talking much.

“That was really something,” Meg said, finally.

“
All
of this is really something,” Steven said, and Meg and Neal nodded; the three of them stepping very carefully and quietly on the marble stairs.

BY SUNDAY NIGHT, all of the company was gone, and her mother had come upstairs from the West Wing, and they spent the evening together in the nest in the West Sitting Hall, sprawling on the couch and chairs from home. Meg had been trying to read
The Making of the President: 1960
, but gave up, taking a cream puff from the coffee tableâFirst Family refreshmentsâand killing a little time by trying to eat it without making a mess.

Finished with that, she looked around the room. Her mother was sitting with Neal on her lap, the two of them smiling and talking softly. Neal was lucky to be youngâit seemed to make everything so much less complicated. At any rate, except for his very occasional flurries of tears, he and her mother rarely argued at all, as far as she knew. But, she couldn't help thinking of the military aide nearbyâprobably on the Stair Landing outside the Center Hall, who was holding the notorious black bagâknown as “the football”âwhich had to be close to the President twenty-four hours a day, in case she needed to make an immediate decision about nuclear war. Meg didn't quite understand the logistics of it all, but the controls and authorizations were supposed to be inside that briefcase. Walking to breakfast that morning, she had seen one of the other aides sitting in a straight chair, silent and expressionless in his uniform. There were five aides, one from each branch of the military, who rotated shifts carrying the bag, and she had only seen one female one, so far. Even though nuclear war didn't seem to be the biggest threat facing the country right now, the potential that it
might
be someday was pretty scary.

Steven was sitting on the floor with Kirby, stuffing his face with
pastries. Did he think about stuff like war? Other than in video games? Probably not. But, it was hard to tellâhe was always so reserved. No, “restrained” might be a better word.
Con
strained. Controlled. Very, very controlled. As always, his mother's child.

Sometimesâsometimes, she just felt like grabbing him when he walked by, giving him a big hug, and saying, “You know what? I love you.” But, he would probably hit her. Or pretend to throw up. There wasn't a single member of her familyâexcept for Neal, maybeâwho wouldn't think she was really weird if she walked up and hugged them. She was maybe a little on the constrained side herself.

She leaned forward to get another pastry, and Steven grinned up at her, showing her a mouthful of mashed cupcake. Nice. Definite charm school graduate. She sat back, eating the raspberry tart she'd chosen. But, when he glanced up a minute later, she opened her mouth for an equally disgusting demonstration of masticated raspberry tart. They both laughed, and she had to grab her Coke and gulp down half of it to keep from choking. Her father looked over his reading glasses at them, and they gave him angelic smiles. Proper Presidential children. Yeah, right.

Her father had been sitting at the other end of the couch reading First Gentleman briefing and protocol books all night. Hard to believe there was such a thing. He was going to have to give speeches and do good works and all of that, and Meg figured he would concentrate on global warming and building affordable housing, since they were two of his top political interests. As far as she could tell, the idea that he could accomplish things, too, made him feel better about being the First Gentleman. At least, he seemed pretty secure lately.

Neal went to bed early, her mother disappearing with him; then Steven went in around ten, and her mother left again so that she could say good-night to himâand probably to make sure he turned his computer
off
. It was strange to have her mother home, and able to say good-night in person. In spite of the fact that she was
President, they were seeing more of her than they ever had. Kind of ironic.

Alone with her father, Meg put her book down. “Dad?”

He took off his glasses, blinking to focus. “What?”

“I'm kind of”âshe kept her hand in the book so she wouldn't lose her place, then just closed it altogetherâ“scared about school tomorrow.”

“Well, that's normal,” he said.

She brought her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. “What if they hate me? They'll all already have friends, so no one'll talk to me, and because of the Secret Service, they won't talk to me even more.”

“Of course they will.” He moved over next to her. “Just be nice and friendly.”

Neither of which necessarily came naturally to her.

“Say hello to people, to break the ice,” he said. “And don't worry about your agentsâthey'll stay out of your way. Besides, a lot of people at your school will be government kids, so it won't seem strange to them. Just be yourself.”

“What if they hate myself?” she asked.

He smiled. “They won't.”

Yeah, right.

“You're going to end up being the most popular person there,” he said.

Not bloody likely. She shook her head. “You're only saying that because you're my father.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You accuse the First Gentleman of lying?”

Meg nodded.

“Not only,” he said, “are you going to be the most popular, but every boy in that school is going to ask you outâI guarantee it.”

Would it upset the country to find out that the First Gentleman was severely delusional? “What about reporters?” she asked.

“Well, I'm hoping
none
of them ask you out,” he said, “but given what I heard from Maureen about the brunch yesterday, yes, I'm a little concerned about the possibility.”

That was funnyâbut, she had actually been asking a serious question.

“I'm afraid there
will
be some interest, because it's your first day,” he admitted. “But, once you're inside, they won't be able to bother you. I have Preston and the others working very hard to try and figure out ways to help the three of you keep as much privacy as possible.”

In a world where total strangers asked them what flavors of
ice cream
they had just ordered?

“Look,” her father said. “It's not too late for me to come with youâyou can just go in a little later, after I take Neal and Steven.”

It was a tempting offer, but Meg shook her head. “Thanks, but I can do it myself.”

“I know you
can,
” he said, “butâ”

But, it would make her look like a kidâwhich would suck. “I'd really rather go by myself,” she said. “I'll be fine.”

“Well, just don't forget that the offer's there.” He turned over her book, reading the title. “Don't you ever read anything for fun anymore?”

“Wellâ” Meg grinned sheepishly. “It's sort of interesting. I mean, like, we're supposed to know stuff.”

He grinned back. “You don't enjoy it or anything, right?”

Hell, no.

Her mother was coming back, and she stood up, figuring that her parents might want to be alone for a while. “Well, back later maybe.” She passed her mother on her way to her still-pink room. “Hi.”

Her mother nodded. “Hi. Was it something I said?”

“What?” Meg tilted her head, not getting it. “Oh. No, it wasn't.”

“Going to bed?” her mother asked.

“Not yet,” Meg said. “I'm justâyou know.”

Her mother nodded, and Meg continued to her room. Once inside, she opened the closet, trying to figure out what she was going to wear. She'd asked Beth on the phone earlier, who had suggested that she go with her tweedsâwhich was lots of help. She should probably pick out a skirt, though. But, if she looked too dressy, they would all think she was some rich jerk. And if she dressed down, she would look like a rich jerk who didn't give a damn.

Instead of being considered just an
ordinary
jerk, which was probably closer to the truth.

Although she definitely had to allow for the press. Pictures of her first day of school could show up anywhereâtelevision, newspapers, magazines, the Internet. So, she had to be smart and avoid controversy.

Maybe she could arrange to be tutored at home.

“Having trouble deciding what to wear?” her mother asked.

“Hunh?” She turned and flushed, putting the clothes on her bed aside as if she were just doing inventory. “No. No, I'm all set.”

“Oh.” Her mother leaned against the doorjamb. “What are you wearing?”

Meg shrugged, and began putting things back in the closet.

“A skirt might be a good idea,” her mother said.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Meg hung up an armload of shirts more violently than necessary. “Don't worry. I'm not going to embarrass you or anything.”

Her mother sighed. “I didn't say that.”

Maybe not directly. Meg shut the closet door, hard. “You were going to.”

Her mother's gaze sharpened, but she came all the way into the room. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

Meg shook her head.

“Not at all?” her mother asked.

“Nope,” Meg said.

“Oh.” Her mother leaned against the Early American desk, which was still empty, other than Meg's computer. “Well, I would be.”

Meg was going to say, “Yeah, well, I'm not you,” but that seemed unnecessarily provocative. “I don't know, maybe I am. It's not important.”

“I think it is,” her mother said.

Yeah. Sure. Meg shrugged and patted Vanessa, who was lying on her pillow.

It was quiet for a minute. Painfully so.

“You know,” her mother said, “I feel as if we haven't talked to each other for months.”

Well, that was probably because, for the most part, they
hadn't
.

“Are you still angry at me because of that night before we came down here?” her mother asked.

It certainly didn't rank as her favorite conversation of all time. “I'm not angry at you.” Or, anyway, not
much
. Meg looked at her. “I'm justâI don't know.”

Her mother came over to the bed, sitting somewhat hesitantly at the bottom. “I gather you and Beth had a pretty long talk today.”

Information which must have come from her father. Meg shrugged again. “Yeah, kind of.” A rather mopey conversation, in fact.

“She and Sarah can come down here during their vacation,” her mother said.

Meg nodded, and then, it was quiet again.

“Are you sure you aren't angry at me?” her mother asked.

Meg shook her head. “I said I wasn't.”

Her mother moved her jaw. “Okay. Maybe it's my imagination. But, you seem a littleâbrusque.”

“Good word,” Meg said.

“Thank you.” Her mother reached out, tentatively, to pat Vanessaâwho hissed at her, and leapt off the bed.

A pretty clear statement on Vanessa's part, at least.

“You know, you make me hate myself,” her mother said.

Were they doomed to have nothing
but
nightmare conversations from now on? “Why?” Meg asked, stiffly. “For bringing me into the world?”

Her mother shook her head. “Because you're such a nice kid, and you have this defensive chip on your shoulder all the time.”

“I do not!” Meg said.

“What would you call that reaction?” her mother asked.

Hmmm. Meg frowned.

“Exactly.” Her mother leaned over to squeeze her shoulder. “I keep trying to take it off, and you put it back on, and I take it off, and you put it back onâ” She paused. “Having a laugh at my expense, are you?”

Meg just grinned.

“I rather thought so.” Her mother smiled, too. “Could you do me a favor?”

“What?” Meg asked, not committing herself, just in case.

“Tell me how you feel about something,” her mother said.

Meg looked at her blankly. “About what?”

“About anything,” her mother said. “Just tell me how you
really
feel about something.”

“I'm in favor of the separation between church and state,” Meg said.

Her mother smiled, but in a faintly exasperated way. “How about something a little more personal?”

“I don't like olives,” Meg said.

Her mother shook her head. “Even more personal than that.”

“Yeah?” Meg glanced at her. “Can I say what I really think?”

Her mother nodded. “I'd like that very much.”