The President's Daughter (25 page)

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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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The desk was the famous
HMS Resolute
—the same desk John F. Kennedy Jr. had played inside in a photo she'd seen about a million times—and it was made of dark, gleaming oak. Her mother had a complicated telephone system on it, a leather blotter and fountain pen
set that had belonged to her father, a primitive clay paperweight—it was supposed to be a cat—that Meg had made when she was nine, and an ashtray that Steven had done as an art project—not that anyone in the family smoked—except for Trudy, who generally only did it furtively. Her mother used the ashtray for paper clips and things like that.
“What about me?” Neal had asked, and she had shown him the framed drawing that was going up on the wall to the left of her desk.
“What about me?” Meg's father asked, and her mother had grinned at him. Her parents might be under a lot of pressure lately, but other than a few snappish exchanges here and there, they sure seemed to be getting a kick out of each other. Thank God.
There were photos of everyone—including Kirby and the cats—on the table behind the desk and the tall, black executive chair. It was Meg's opinion that the school pictures of her brothers and the one of her were absolutely horrendous. Her mother liked them.
“How come there's one of everyone but you?” Steven asked her, studying the pictures and laughing uproariously at the one of Meg with prominent braces.
“I know what I look like,” her mother said. “I want to feel as if you all are keeping me company all day.”
Which was probably true, but her mother almost certainly meant figurative company, not literal companionship, so Meg decided to go upstairs. She found Steven and Neal in the solarium, drinking Coke, eating brownies, and watching a
Brady Bunch
DVD. Their aunt had given them the entire
series
, because she had said that it was one of her favorites when she was growing up, and even though the clothes were really stupid and mod, Meg and her brothers loved it, too, and had seen every episode at least twice.
Anyway, it was so refreshingly normal to see them lying around like that—despite the soaring view out the windows—that Meg flopped down on the couch next to them.
“How was school for you guys?” she asked.
Steven belched.
Meg nodded. “Me, too. How about you, Neal?”
Neal tried to burp, and made a noise that was more like a squeak.
“Absolutely,” Meg said. “Same for me.” She looked at the television. “Which one is this?”
“Jan gets glasses,” Neal said.
Oh, good. Jan-centric episodes were always a goof.
Steven held out the back of his right hand for her to examine.
She frowned. “What am I looking at?”
He sighed deeply, and indicated the bruised knuckle.
What, and she had gotten a lecture just for pointing out the inequities of the American education system? “Oh, God, Steven,” she said, “what did you do?”
“Some guy said I looked totally retarded in my tie.” Steven grinned. “Guess
he
won't be bugging me anymore.”
Great. “Steven, you can't go around hitting everyone who makes you mad,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked. “Gets 'em off me.”
“Yeah, but—” Meg stopped, not having any good way to contradict that. “What did your agents do?”
Steven shrugged. “Broke it up and yelled at us.”
“Did you get in trouble?” she asked.
“Nah, no teachers around.” He put most of a brownie in his mouth. “Kid's a nice guy. Said he plays baseball, and can probably get me hooked up with his team and all.”
Meg looked at Neal. “What about you? Did you hit anyone?”
Neal laughed, and shook his head.
“Girl tried to kiss him,” Steven said.
“Really?” Meg looked at her little brother—possibly in an entirely new, post-latency period, light. “What did you do?”
“Let her,” Steven said. “What else?”
Neal giggled. “On the lips.”
“Said she was pretty.” Steven gave Kirby half a brownie, Kirby thumping his tail and going under the coffee table to eat it.
Neal nodded, giggling some more.
Great. She was sitting with a brawler—and a heart-breaker.
“The guys at your school all think you were ugly and stuff?” Steven asked.
With her luck, yeah.
“But, you're not,” Neal said.
So speaketh the Heart-Breaker. Meg smiled at him. “Is that an expert opinion?” Then, she gestured towards the television. “Which one are we watching next?”
Steven pulled over the box, and looked at the list of episodes. “Maybe when Peter's voice changes?”
“Great,” Meg said, took a brownie, and put her legs up on the coffee table. “I love that one.”
 
DURING THE NEXT week or so, it began to seem as though school wasn't working out to be quite as bad as she had anticipated. She didn't
love
it—but, she wasn't miserable, either. In a couple of classes, like French and chemistry, she was ahead; in the others, she was just about even. Her computer programming class was incredibly boring, but she had to take an elective, and it fit into her schedule. She had some catch-up reading to do in English, and her new Calculus and Linear Algebra book was sort of confusing, but she figured she would just put extra time into those two subjects for a while.
Most of the people in her classes were either still intimidated, or asking constant questions. And girls were being very possessive with their boyfriends. It didn't look as though she was going to be making any female friends anytime soon.
Adam, on the other hand, was very attentive. Sometimes, she had the uneasy feeling that he had staked her out, and that it was more of a prestige thing than anything else, but since she had a pretty irreversible
crush on him, she pushed away any suspicions, easily convincing herself that they would be a perfect couple.
Now, all she had to do was convince
him.
Then, finally, he asked her out. It was a Tuesday, and he wanted to know if she could go to a movie or something on Friday.
“Um, yeah,” she said, trying not to sound as delighted as she felt. “That would be nice.”
“How's it work?” He glanced back at Barry, who was just down the hall.
“I'm not sure,” she said. “I think they have to follow me in other cars.”
Adam frowned. “Do they come inside the movie theater and everything?”
Well,
yeah,
presumably. “I think they have to,” she said. “I mean—well, you know.” Security issues, and all.
“What happens if we go somewhere after?” he asked.
She shrugged, since she hadn't exactly spent a lot of time talking to the agents on her detail about
dating
. “Um, I guess they have to sit at another table, maybe.”
Adam didn't say anything.
Swell. “Hey, we don't have to go at all, if you don't want to,” she said.
“It's not that.” He shifted his weight. “I don't know. It's just kind of weird.”
Yeah, but it wasn't like she had any
choice
in the matter. “I can't help it,” she said.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He kicked at the floor with one Nike, hands sulkly moving into his pockets.
He wasn't going to turn out to be a jerk. No way.
“It's just—” He touched her shoulder, moving his hand down her arm, and she felt a warm tremor of excitement in her back, trying to suppress an instant stream of potentially graphic thoughts,
and making an effort
not
to move closer to him. “I wanted to be alone with you.”
He wasn't a jerk—she knew he wasn't a jerk. He
did
like her.
“Well, how do I pick you up?” he asked. “Will they let me in?”
She hadn't had any visitors yet, but that didn't mean that she couldn't—as far as she knew. “I think I just have to tell them what time you're coming.”
He nodded. “Okay. Seven-thirty sound good?”
Six in the morning would sound good. “Yeah,” she said. “It sounds fine.”
HER PARENTS DIDN'T react the way she expected. Her father—disappointingly—acted as though he wasn't sure that anyone was good enough to take out
his
daughter, and her mother looked worried, saying that she wasn't very happy about the idea, either. Meg found this incomprehensibly infuriating. She had been talking about him for days—where had they been?
“So, what am I supposed to do?” she asked her mother in the West Sitting Hall that night, after Steven and Neal had gone to bed. “Tell him I'm sorry, but my parents are prehistoric and won't let me go?”
Her mother lowered the papers she was studying. “I didn't say you couldn't go. I said that your father and I didn't like the idea of your going out with some boy we haven't met.”
Yeah, because her mother was
always
so hands-on. “What, like it's my fault you aren't going to be home?” Meg asked.
“The last I heard, you were coming to the play
with
us,” her mother said calmly.
“But, Adam asked me out. God.” Meg shook her head. “Don't you understand anything?”
Her mother nodded. “Probably more than you think.”
Yeah, right. Meg felt her teeth clench. “I didn't say I was definitely going to the play, I said maybe. Then, when he asked me, I forgot. Is that why you're mad?”
Her mother put the papers down. “There's a very simple solution to all of this. As I said before, invite him to dinner on Thursday, and that way, your father and I will get a chance to meet him before you go out.”
“I can't do that.” Meg sat down on the couch, very discouraged. She had expected her parents to be pleased and send her off with their blessing. It had never occurred to her that they might not let her go.
“Why not?” her mother asked.
“That might scare him off,” Meg said. “To have to come here and sit through dinner and everything.”
Her mother smiled. “What's wrong with us?”
And Beth complained about
her
mother? The next time they spoke, Meg was definitely going to offer to
swap
. Permanently. “Oh, forget it,” she said. “You don't understand anything.”
Now, her mother sighed. “Meg, I'm sure he's a perfectly nice boy, but there are a lot of strange people out there, you're in a very high-profile position, and can't you see why your father and I might be a little concerned?”
“I'm going to have a bunch of stupid agents with me,” Meg said. “How much safer can I get?”
“Granted, but—” Her mother rubbed her hand across her eyes, looking as though she had just gotten a very bad headache. “What can you tell me about him? The only thing we've heard is that he's handsome.”
Which was absolutely accurate. “I don't know,” Meg said. “He plays football.”
“That's it?” her mother said. “That's all you know? Where does he live? What do his parents do? Is he a good driver?”
“I, um, think his father works for the FCC,” Meg said uncertainly.
Her mother frowned.
What, was that an agency she disliked or something? “We don't talk about that kind of stuff,” Meg said, aware that she wasn't making a very good case for herself.
“What
do
you talk about?” her mother asked.
Hmmm. Well, okay, they didn't talk all that much; mostly, they
just
looked
at each other. Meg shrugged. “Sex, drugs, liquor. You know how it is.”
Her mother's eyes narrowed. “If you're trying to reassure me, it's not working.”
Had the Senator had a better sense of humor than the President did? Surely, she must have. Whereas, the President was a damn grouch. “What do you want to hear?” Meg asked. “My God, we're only going to a movie. I'm even going to have armed guards. How much trouble can I get into?”
“Probably not very much.” Her mother sighed again. “I'm afraid I still don't like the idea.”
Which meant that her position was starting to move, finally. “But, I can go?” Meg asked.
“I suppose so. I mean, I guess,” her mother picked up a delicate silver pen, toying with it, “that I should trust your judgment.”
Hell, yeah. Meg nodded. “Absolutely. And don't worry, he really is nice.”
“And handsome?” her mother asked wryly.
“
Very
handsome,” Meg said.
 
HER FATHER WASN'T happy that her mother had given in, saying that if Adam was really all right, he wouldn't mind putting it off until they could meet him, but Meg won him over with the agents-as-strict-chaperones logic. Needless to say, she didn't tell Adam how concerned they were about the whole thing.
Friday, in the locker-room after gym class, Alison MacGregor, the girl who reminded her of Annie Hall, came over to talk to her, both her expression and her voice hesitant.
“Hi,” she said, very distinctive in baggy pants, cowboy boots with skinny heels, and an oversized shirt with a man's tie for a belt.
“Hi,” Meg said, hoping that—for once—someone was going to treat her normally.
They looked at each other.
“I hate gym,” Alison said. “Don't you?”
Okay, so they would establish some common ground. “Yeah, really,” Meg said. And it was even true, since she only engaged in sports involving racquets or downhill skis. “How many times can you play volleyball?”
“Last fall, we did square dancing,” Alison said.
Oy vey. Meg managed not to shudder. “Sorry I missed it.”
“That's what you think.” Alison started to say something, then stopped. “I, uh—you look a lot like your mother.”
Yeah, so what else was new? Meg shrugged, pretty much losing interest in wherever this conversation was now going. “A little, I guess.”
“It's just—” Alison stopped again. “I mean—”
The bell rang, and they both automatically looked up at the clock.
“We'd better get to French,” Alison said.
Where a vocabulary quiz awaited them. “It's just what?” Meg asked.
Alison shook her head. “Nothing.”
Naturally. Meg adjusted her knapsack on her shoulder and started for the door.
Alison caught up to her. “Wait a minute.”
Meg paused.
“I was new last year,” Alison said.
Okay, that was potentially interesting—and certainly common ground. Meg looked over. “Oh, yeah?”
Alison nodded. “It takes people a while to loosen up.”
“How long?” Meg asked.
Alison laughed. “Is it really that bad?”
Unless one enjoyed being unpopular.
“I just meant that it would probably be easier if you looked like your father, instead,” Alison said.
“What—you mean, masculine?” Meg asked.
Alison grinned. “If you think that would work for you, sure.”
Well, it would certainly be a good way to torment Linda.
As they went out into the hall, she saw Adam coming towards them and moved her hair back over her shoulders, hoping that she looked fairly presentable. Unlike certain Leaders of the Free World, she didn't always remember to check mirrors whenever they were handy.
“Do you like him that much?” Alison asked.
Meg blushed. “He seems like a nice guy,” she said, trying not to stare as he ambled along in their direction. How could any human being be that incredibly good-looking? She glanced at Alison. “Don't you think so?”
“Yeah,” Alison said, although her voice sounded kind of—flat. “Sure.”
“Hi,” Adam said, nodding slightly at Alison and then grinning at her.
“Hi,” Meg said, flushing as he slid his arm around her waist. “Adam, come on.” She pushed at his hand. “Don't.”
He kept his arm right where it was. “Why not?”
“I guess I'll see you guys later,” Alison said, edging away.
“Well, wait—” Meg started, but Alison had already joined some other people from their gym class and was heading down the hall. She turned back to Adam, and he put his other hand on her shoulder. “Come on, don't,” she said, knowing that her arms wanted very much to go around his neck, and for him to kiss her—no matter
what
anyone else thought.
“How come?” he asked, leaning closer.
“Everyone's looking,” she said. Including, she assumed, the Secret Service.
He glanced around, grinning. “Yeah. So?”
“Just don't, okay?” She pulled free, very embarrassed.
He shrugged, put his arm back around her waist, and walked her towards their next class.
 
RIGHT BEFORE HER parents and brothers went off to the play that night—Steven complaining that there was
no way
he should have to go, if Meg got to skip it—her mother told her to be careful, still not looking happy about the situation, and her father warned her not to give her agents any trouble, and to be home by midnight. Steven had been doing things like trying to lose his agents lately, and her parents were really mad about it.
To say nothing of the agents.
She took a shower, then paced around her bedroom, trying to decide what to wear. Adam was the type who would show up in a jacket, maybe even a tie, so she ended up going with a skirt and the grey cashmere sweater she'd gotten for Christmas. She put on some perfume—too much?—grabbed her Bloomingdale's coat from the closet, and went downstairs to wait for him. He was supposed to be coming to the South Entrance, and she decided to wait in the Red Room, sitting on the American Empire sofa, which had legs in the shape of what Meg thought were very unattractive gold dolphins. She checked the clock above the mantelpiece several times, drumming on the red damask arm of the sofa with her right hand, getting more and more nervous about this date as it got closer.
She
didn't
really know him. They
hadn't
talked much. She had no idea what, if anything, they had in common—other than the fact that they went to the same school. And, worst of all, what if her parents were—
right
?
Which made her feel a little better, because there was
no way
that they were right; they were just being overprotective.
Promptly at seven-thirty, a butler appeared.
“Mr. Miller has arrived, Miss Powers,” he said. “Shall I show him upstairs?”
“Oh.” She stopped drumming. “No, thank you, I'll go right down.”
She took the elevator instead of the stairs, staring briefly at the mirror and deciding that she looked—not so hot. Maybe she should have worn something else. Beth had been full of suggestions—none of which she had taken, and now, that seemed like a really big mistake.
Adam was standing just inside the Diplomatic Reception Room, wearing, indeed, a jacket, with a tie underneath his sweater.
“Hi,” he said. “I mean, hello.” His eyes went down her outfit. “You look nice.”
And if she were less stubborn, she could probably have looked
nicer
. Damn it. “Thank you,” she said. “So do you.”
“Is your family here?” he asked, looking around.
She shook her head. “They went to the Kennedy Center.”
They stood awkwardly for a minute, not looking at each other.
“Guess we should probably be going,” he said.
Meg nodded, relieved that he hadn't asked her to take him on a tour or something. She'd feel like a jerk doing that, even though she could tell from his expression that he wanted one. “Uh, my parents are going to be home around eleven or so. Maybe after, you can come up and meet them. They were sorry they had to miss you.”
“Sounds good,” he said, immediately.
They didn't say anything else until they were in his car, with her agents in two other cars. He glanced over, now not shy about letting his eyes move.
“You look great,” he said.
She blushed, focusing out through the windshield.
“You sure this movie is okay with you?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. Lied, actually. When they had made the plans, he'd suggested going to one of those serial murderer movies Hollywood was always churning out. Since it had seemed like he wanted to see it, she had agreed without blinking, even though she
would have been much happier going to almost
anything
else. At dinner, her father had asked what movie they were going to see, and when she told him, he had frowned and exchanged glances with her mother, who asked if it had been her idea or Adam's. Meg feigned confusion and changed the subject by asking her to pass the salt.

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