The President's Daughter (28 page)

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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

BOOK: The President's Daughter
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Probably, yeah. She sat down next to him. “It's like it was during the primaries. I don't know what to do about it.”
“It's also for a lot of the same reasons,” he said. “She pushes herself too hard, and then doesn't have enough energy left for anything else. It's not that she's mad at you—or at any of us, for that matter—but, when she gets this exhausted, she knows she has a tendency to start arguments, so she makes an effort to avoid controversial situations.”
In other words, avoid
her
.
“Give her some time, Meg,” he said. “She has so much going on that she—I think the best thing we can all do right now is give her as much room as she needs.”
Did that mean that her parents were fighting, too? They were so incredibly private, that she sometimes couldn't tell. Meg slouched into her turtleneck. “Why's she always so quick to think I hate her?”
Her father sighed, and put his book down on the coffee table, out of reach. “Why do you ask such complicated questions?”
“Well,” she frowned, “is it my fault?”
“Sure, sometimes. There are a lot of reasons, though.” He fingered the gold ring on his left hand, and she wondered if he even knew that he was doing it. “A lot of it is that she hates
her
mother.”
Which made no sense at all. “But, she never really had one,” Meg said.
“That's why she hates her.” He let his hand fall. “Oh, hate's a strong word—it's not that simple. But, her feelings toward her mother have a lot to do with the way she sees yours.”
Did that mean that they weren't ever going to be able to resolve it? “But—” Meg said.
“I know you don't.” He half-smiled. “I just can't always convince her.”
“What am I supposed to do,” Meg asked, “tell her I love her or something?”
Her father nodded. “It might be nice.”
“But,” she twisted uncomfortably, “I don't tell
you
.”
“I don't need to hear it,” he said.
She slouched lower, folding her arms across her chest.
He picked his book back up, but after reading for a minute, he stopped. “Meg?”
She kept slouching. “What.”
“Do you?” he asked.
She tilted her head, not sure what he meant. “Do I what?”
“I don't know,” he said. “Like me?”
She shrugged, blushed, and then nodded.
“Do you,” he carefully smoothed the binding of his book, “like me a lot?”
She blushed more, but nodded.
“Do you,” he put the book down again, “maybe even love me?”
She blew out an irritated and embarrassed breath. “Yes, okay?”
“Just wanted to make sure.” He picked up his book and cheerfully resumed reading.
Hell,
that
wasn't fair. She looked at him accusingly. “Well?”
“Well, what?” he asked.
Did he really need a road map? “Aren't you going to say that you like me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Are you sure I do?”
Mostly, she thought he was funny—but, not always.
He laughed, reaching over to hug her. “Yes, I like you.” He kissed the top of her head three times. “And yes, I even love you.”
Hmmm. Maybe she should press her advantage, then. “Does that mean I'm not grounded?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Okay.” She pulled out of the hug, arms going back across her chest. “Maybe I don't love you after all.”
“God, you're a brat.” He ruffled up her hair. “Okay, you're paroled.”
She grinned, leaning up to give him a kiss on the cheek.
“This is not a precedent,” he said.
She just grinned.
 
IT WAS PAST midnight, and she was in bed, scrunched up on her side, patting Vanessa and trying to fall asleep. The door slid open, and she smelled perfume, but she stayed huddled on her side, not sure whether she should pretend to be asleep. The gentle perfume was closer, and she felt her blankets being adjusted, then the soft warmth of the quilt from the bottom of the bed being spread out over her. There was a tiny sound—maybe just a breath, maybe a light sigh—and she felt a different kind of warmth, that of her mother's hand on her forehead, then on her cheek, before pulling away, the perfume fading.
“Mom?” she said. “Um, I'm awake.”
“So, I gather,” her mother said, her voice over near the door.
Meg sat up and turned on the light, Vanessa giving her a good paw smack in protest. “Um, did you get a lot of work done?”
“I don't know.” Her mother dragged a tired hand through her hair—which, for once,
wasn't
perfectly combed. “Not really, I guess.”
“You've been working really hard lately,” Meg said.
“I know.” Her mother sighed. “The harder I work, the more there seems to be to do.”
She already knew the answer, but–“Are you tired?” Meg asked.
“I think it's a permanent condition,” her mother said.
“Oh.” Meg idly tugged at a loose piece of wool in her quilt—which she was going to have to have Trudy fix, as soon as she came to visit. “I thought we could maybe talk for a minute.”
Her mother promptly sat down on the bottom of the bed.
“You're so tired you fall down?” Meg said.
“It only feels that way,” her mother said, and Meg could hear the laugh in her voice. “How are you liking the drama club?”
Which wasn't really her thing, but she had joined, because—well,
there was nothing wrong with trying something new. Meg shrugged. “It's okay. They mostly just have me working on the sets, a little.”
“I'm looking forward to meeting your friend Alison,” her mother said.
Who had come over two days earlier, and even though Steven had been grumping around for some reason or other, and being pretty annoying, she had seemed to have a nice time just hanging out. “Yeah,” Meg said. “Beth wants to come down during spring break, and maybe by then I'll know enough people to invite some over.”
Her mother nodded. “I would expect so. Is Sarah going to come, too?”
Unlike Beth, Sarah seemed to be having some trouble taking the notion of having a friend who lived in the White House in stride, so they weren't in touch as often these days. Emails, mostly—and not even many of those. “I don't know. I hope so.” Meg stopped pulling at her quilt, since she didn't want to unravel it completely. “Um, anyway, I wanted to ask you if you're still speaking at the women's leadership conference this week.”
Her mother nodded.
“Be, uh, kind of a big deal if you sold them on the humanitarian deployment,” Meg said. Which had been all over the news, because even though it was potentially fraught with far too many perils, the President had made it very clear that she thought that the situation was gravely deteriorating and bordering on genocide—and that they were
compelled
to respond, swiftly, with something more than financial aid.
Her mother glanced over, Meg grinning shyly at her.
“Indeed it would,” her mother said.
“Can I come watch?” Meg asked. “I'd like to.”
“Really?” Her mother looked very pleased. “It's not going to be very exciting, I'm afraid.”
“I'd still like to,” Meg said. “Can you write me a note to get dismissed early?”
“Sure.” Her mother frowned. “That is, if you think you can miss class.”
Obviously, there were few things she enjoyed more than missing classes. “It's only gym. But, um”—somehow, she felt shy again—“can you write the note yourself? I mean, you know, in handwriting?”
“Sure,” her mother said. “I'd like that.”
“HI,” JOSH SAID, when he passed her locker the next morning. “H-how was your weekend?”
He really was kind of cute. Shy as hell, but at least with enough nerve to be persistent.
Con
sistent, anyway. “Not bad,” she said. “How was yours?”
“Fine.” He nodded. “Yeah. Fine.”
Jesus. “Are you always so nervous?” she asked.
“Who, me?” He coughed. “No, not always.”
“When
aren't
you?” she asked.
“Um, well,” he coughed again, “sometimes I sleep.”
She laughed, and he allowed himself a small grin.
“You have a very nice smile,” he said.
Upon which, she felt herself turn into the shy one.
“You really do,” he said.
“Oh, I don't think—” She noticed Adam swaggering down the hall with some of his friends, and pretended to be busy with something inside her locker.
“You might as well give up, Feldman,” Adam said. “She doesn't talk to guys.”
“Look, Miller,” Josh said. “Why don't you—”
“Watch out for your glasses,” Adam said, shoving him and continuing down the hall.
Josh recovered his balance, very red, and took off his glasses, shining them with his shirt. He looked different without them. Younger? Less anxious?
“He's really a jerk,” she said.
“Yeah.” He cleaned his glasses harder.
“If you hate them so much, why don't you get contacts?” she asked. Or that eye surgery, even.
“I don't know. Guess I should.” He studied his frames. “Guess these are kind of a turn-off, hunh?”
“Some people look good in them.” Meg noticed that he was taller than she'd thought, and that she had to look up to see his eyes.
“Yeah.” He put them on. “Men with greying temples. Or women who wear them on top of their heads.” He paused. “You really do have a nice smile.”
“Thank you.” She went back to feeling shy. “But, I don't think—”
They both looked up as the warning bell rang.
“May I carry your books?” he asked. “Or were you brought up to carry boys' books?”
She grinned, and took his knapsack—which was actually heavy as hell.
“Thanks, they weigh a lot.” He put his hands in his pockets. “And I'm very weak.”
“You don't look it,” she said, and he really
didn't
, she decided, studying his deceptively muscled build. Alison had told her that he was on the baseball team, and he also looked like the kind of guy who maybe played lacrosse or something.
“Brought up to be a diplomat, too, hunh?” He took his knapsack—and hers. “Come on.”
He was cute. She wasn't interested—no
way
was she interested—but, he was cute. Very cute.
 
SCHOOL FELT MUCH better. Or else,
she
felt better, maybe. The novelty of being the President's daughter was wearing off, and she could open her lunch bag without everyone wanting to see what she had in there. She could make a joke without people either staring—or laughing much harder than necessary. Best of all, she bumped into some guy in the hall—a senior, she thought—and he said, “Christ,
will you look where you're going?” instead of falling all over himself apologizing. Sure, some people were still treating her like a being from Oz, but life was unquestionably improving. She was going to play tennis on Thursday with Alison—whose parents belonged to an indoor club—a couple of people had wanted to see her homework before class, she got reprimanded in French for talking—it was almost like being at home. And Josh was turning out to be very nice. She wasn't interested in him—but, he was nice. One of these days, she might even have a couple of graphic thoughts.
Maybe.
“Are you still coming tomorrow?” her mother asked, the night before the leadership conference speech.
“Maybe,” Meg said in her if-you're-lucky voice. “Are you still thinking of writing me a note?”
“Maybe.” Her mother had an even better if-you're-lucky voice, and Meg laughed.
So, the next morning, Meg carried in her little note on official White House stationery. It was in two envelopes and everything—her mother was being pretty funny, signing the polite request for her to be dismissed early with a large, dramatic “Katharine Vaughn Powers.”
Josh noticed the envelope when he paused by her locker before home-room, an action that had become a habit. “What's that?”
She put her knapsack and the note in his arms, and stuffed her jacket into her locker. “I have to get out early today, so my mother wrote me a note.”
“Yeah?” He touched the envelope with an exaggeratedly reverent hand. “Is this kind of like kissing the Pope's ring?”
“Skip right past the Pope, and go straight up to
God,
” Meg said.
Josh laughed—quite hard—and then bowed in front of her. “May I have the honor of escorting you to homeroom, Miss Powers?”
“Well, I don't know.” She looked him over. “Jeffrey, darling?”
Her Secret Service agent, who was standing just down the hall, grinned. “What?”
“Do something with this young man, will you?” She brushed Josh away as if he were a small, annoying fly. “I cawn't seem to get rid of him.”
“Talk about Boston accents,” Josh said.
She shrugged. “I can only assume that you're jealous.”
“In your dreams, kid,” he said.
“No,” she shook her head, “I have to have my dreams screened before I can have them.”
Jeff laughed, but Josh just looked at her, his expression—what? Intent? Interested? Attracted. Very, very attracted.
So
attracted, that she blushed in confusion, adjusting the collar of her shirt, which didn't need it.
The warning bell rang, and she headed down the hall, Josh next to her, neither of them speaking.
“Um, here you go,” he said, at the door of her homeroom, handing her her knapsack.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her eyes down.
He started to walk away, and then came back. “Meg?”
She stopped, too. “What?”
“I, uh—” He seemed to change his mind about whatever he had been going to say. “S-see you in English.”
She nodded. “See you there.”
 
AT ONE-THIRTY, SHE was driven back to the White House to go to the speech with her mother. She changed into a skirt and sweater, then they went out to the motorcade that was waiting on the South Grounds, her mother pausing to banter with the clearly delighted press for a couple of minutes.
Once they were inside the limousine, Meg looked around.
“I almost never get to ride up here,” she said. “How come Winnie or Glen isn't in here briefing you?”
“Because I sometimes get tired of being treated as though I'm scarcely capable of speaking my native language,” her mother said,
flipping through a small stack of index cards covered with handwritten notes.
Woe to anyone who tried to tell the not-ego-free President what to do.
Meg leaned over to try and read the notes, but her mother pointed sternly at her seatbelt, and she sat back, putting it on.
“What are you going to say?” she asked.
Her mother shrugged. “I don't know. I'd like to do a good job, though—I always feel as though I owe women's groups something extra.”
Which didn't seem fair. “Haven't you done enough?” Meg asked.
“It just makes them expect more,” her mother said.
At the hotel where the convention was being held, she and her mother sat quietly in the holding room for a few minutes. Then, after taking a couple of calls from the White House, her mother drank three shots of espresso in rapid succession, then used some breath spray, and one of Linda's aides walked Meg out to the huge reception hall to her seat in the front row.
She looked over her shoulder at the packed room. Christ, she would be petrified to speak in front of that many people—how did her mother do it? The audience was very excited. In fact, they had even been excited to see
her
. Indicating—to Meg, anyway—that they were pretty hard up.
Everyone turned to watch the door suddenly, and Meg saw her mother, surrounded by Secret Service agents, being ushered to the stage.
After being introduced to great applause, her mother stepped up to the podium, and the applause turned into a standing ovation.
Which the President seemed to enjoy, frankly.
The audience was very receptive, laughing and/or cheering at almost everything her mother said. Including—to some degree—the artfully phrased news-bite about the upcoming military deployment she was proposing, which seemed to be given some cautious acceptance, although not outright
enthusiasm
. But, the entire press pool instantly perked up, and she saw notebooks fly open and pens start
writing like crazy. So, at the very worst, her mother had accomplished the lesser goal of feeding the press a nice tasty morsel—a tactic that was almost always beneficial in the long run.
At one point, her mother took off her blazer, which she dryly described as “abandoning male trappings,” and got the biggest laugh of all. She winked at Meg, throwing the blazer out to her, and Meg caught it, wondering how the hell her mother even managed to make
being goofy
seem Presidential.
She held the blazer in her lap, smelling the vitality and elegance of the perfume, and it occurred to her that the Leader of the Free World almost
never
wore blazers—but must have specifically chosen to do so today, just to get the big laugh. Which was cocky as hell, but also pretty funny.
She didn't really listen to the speech, just watched the audience's reactions: clapping, laughing, communal nodding. Meg kind of got the feeling that they all thought that her mother really
had
met God. Of course, knowing her mother, that was probably the case. Maybe she'd spent a weekend in Heaven campaigning.
She watched her finish the speech, wondering if her mother ever actually relaxed. Sometimes, Meg thought she looked much happier holding Neal on her lap or sitting with Steven, than she ever did doing political stuff. And lots of times with her father. She had probably never seen her mother as happy as the day she caught the two of them dancing.
Now, the applause was another standing ovation, and her mother looked pleasant enough, but maybe it was the difference between happiness—and joy. Her mother didn't seem to get any
joy
out of this. But, she was winking again, and—only a little embarrassed—Meg winked back.
Sometimes, she thought the President was a pretty soft touch.
 
WHEN THE APPLAUSE finally died down, there was a reception in one of the hotel ballrooms. No one could say that her mother wasn't
a friendly President—nor could they accuse her of ducking out after speaking engagements, although Meg saw Winnie, the deputy chief of staff, whisper into her ear a couple of times, and a tiny look of concern flash across her mother's face once.
Meg made a half-hearted attempt to go over to her, but the crowd was so big, that she decided it wasn't worth the trouble. But, her mother was clearly looking for
her,
and Meg waved, her mother smiling and waving back, most of the women gathered around her smiling, too.
That taken care of, Meg wandered over to one of the tables to check out the food. Steven and Neal were going to be mad that they hadn't come—there were platters of frosted pastries, whipped cream puffing up all over the place. Maybe she could steal them some.
Feeling a little bored and a little bratty, she decided to make her agents nervous and eat a few. They had a poison fixation, always watching everything she put into her mouth. It was enough to make her want to stuff her face.
She ate a couple, then got a paper plate to take some home. The chairwoman of the conference, who was coming over to say hello, saw the pastry-laden plate and looked very surprised—perhaps at the thought that she had such a monster appetite.
Meg blushed. “I was sort of taking them for my brothers. Is that okay? If you want, I can put them back.”
The woman laughed. “That's great. That's really great.”
Meg reddened more, and covered the plate with a napkin. A lot of other people started coming up to talk to her, which was awkward, when she was standing there with a bunch of stolen pastries.
“Barry, can you hold these?” she whispered.

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