White House Autumn (13 page)

Meg hunched into her shirt, feeling too guilty to say anything.

“You think I like having to pen all of you up in this place,” he gestured around the room and she could see his arms shaking, “because maybe,
maybe
it’s safe? Anyone in the country who wants to
hurt you can, and there’s nothing I can do about it! I was standing two feet away from your mother, and I still couldn’t—I—” He spun away, gripping the footboard of the bed, shaking visibly. “Please leave,” he said his voice thick and almost unfamiliar.

She hesitated. “Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Please get out!” he said.

Scared and guilty, she hurried out to the hall, hearing the door close behind her. She leaned against the small dining table in the West Sitting Hall, trembling.

“Meg?” Steven asked, just coming down the hall.

She jerked up. “What? What do you want?”

“You okay?” he asked.

No! “Yeah,” she said, and ran down to her room, slamming the door. She fell back against it, closing her eyes and trying to calm down. Bruce Sampson probably didn’t even know how many people he had hurt with his god-damn bullets. Or maybe he
did
know, and was happy about it. Steven was right to hate him—she hated him, too.

More than anything.

SHE STAYED ALONE
in her room for the rest of the night, crunched up in bed, reading
Sense and Sensibility
, and holding her cat. Sense and sensibility. Yeah, sure. She threw the book across the room and just held Vanessa.

Would someone really hurt her while she was playing tennis? If it was insane to hurt the President, it was even more insane to go after the President’s children. How could anyone be that sick?

Her stomach was killing her, and she held onto it, instead of Vanessa, thinking about the afternoons she and Steven and Neal sometimes spent in the Treaty Room, answering as many of their screened letters as they could, until they were too tired to keep going. Meg tried to get through at least two hundred a week, scrawling quick notes on White House stationary, or just signing her name at the bottom of pregenerated responses—which was less labor-intensive. Some letters were funny, some were sad or lonely, some—
a lot
, actually—criticized the way she talked or dressed or led her life. Other letters asked her to give her mother such and such advice, or wanted to be her pen pal, or requested autographed photos and stuff like that.

She tried not to think about the letters she and her brothers never saw. But now, everything seemed scary, and she had trouble sleeping, dreaming about people with guns firing at her family, people dressed as nurses and orderlies creeping into her mother’s room to hurt her—terrible dreams. She would wake up, out of breath, usually crying, and have to turn the light on, holding Vanessa until the fear subsided enough for her to try sleeping again.

And she wasn’t the only one who was afraid. Her family was,
naturally, and when she was being taken to the hospital from the car or vice versa, if someone slammed a car door or beeped a horn, she would see her agents tense, ready for action. Everyone seemed to flinch lately, waiting for something to happen, for someone to do something. She covered her face with her arm, trying to will her stomach to stop hurting.

There was a knock on the door and she jumped.

“May I come in?” her father asked.

She lowered her arm. “Uh, yeah. I mean, sure.”

He opened the door, and while his expression was composed, he seemed a little shaky and very sad. “I’m sorry I lost control,” he said.

“It’s okay.” Meg blushed, feeling as if she were giving absolution. “I mean, it’s probably good for you.”

He looked uncomfortable. “In any case, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I argued,” she said.

“Well, I didn’t expect you to be thrilled about the idea.” He put his hands in his pockets, looking old and hunched. “I wouldn’t do it, if I didn’t feel that it was necessary.”

“Have they, um, gotten any more threats?” Meg asked. “Like last summer?”

“No. Your mother and I just want to take as many precautions as we can.” He sighed. “I really am sorry. The last thing I want to do is hurt my children.”

“You aren’t hurting us,” she said.

“Well.” He shrugged dismissively. “I’m not helping very much, either.”

It was awkwardly silent.

“Well,” he said, and straightened up. “Good-night. Sleep well.”

How unlikely was
than
“Um, yeah,” Meg said. “You, too.”

SHE SKIPPED BREAKFAST
the next morning, staying in her room to fold and refold her tennis uniform, smoothing out all of the wrinkles, hoping that she was going to be able to get through the day.
Right now, she felt like going into her closet, shutting the door, and never coming out.

But, it was getting late, so she went down to the dining room to say good-bye. Her mother’s chair was very empty—instead of sitting there, Trudy had been using an extra chair on Meg’s side of the table.

“If you hurry,” Trudy said, “you have time for some cereal and juice.”

Meg shook her head. “No, thanks, I’m not all that hungry.”

Trudy frowned and poured her a glass of juice. “Please drink some of this. I really don’t want you going off this way.”

It was easier to gulp half the juice than to argue about it, even though her stomach rebelled against every swallow. “See you guys later.” She glanced at her father. “Tell Mom I said hi, and hope she’s feeling better and everything.”

He nodded, his eyes almost as tired as they had been the night before. “Have a nice day,” he said, either from force of habit, or to make it seem like a normal morning.

As though the matriarch wasn’t lying in a hospital bed, torn apart by bullets.

“Meg, wait!” Steven called after her. “Later,” he said to the others, his usual tough-kid good-bye.

Meg waited near the private staircase, reflecting briefly and bitterly on the fact that it was probably the first school day all year that she hadn’t had to bring her tennis bag. For once, everything would fit in her locker. Big deal.

“Um, look,” Steven said, his eyes on his high-tops as they walked downstairs. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?” she asked.

“Tennis,” he said. “You must feel pretty bad.”

Yeah. She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The season’s almost over, anyway. What’s the deal on basketball?”

Steven avoided her eyes. “It might be okay, because it’s indoors, and they can just, like put on extra guards.”

Oh. But she couldn’t sound jealous, because there was no point in making him feel lousy, too. “Well, that’s good,” she said. “I mean, I’m glad.”

“Are you, um,” he didn’t look up, “mad at me?”

Insanely jealous was more like it. She shook her head.

“Well, are you sure? I mean,” he blinked several times, “if you want, I’ll quit, too, so you’ll like, have company.”

What a nice guy. “No, don’t be dumb,” she said. “My season’s almost over, anyway. It really doesn’t matter.”

“You sure?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You don’t hate me?” he asked.

Instead of answering, she punched him in the ribs, and he grinned.

“Guess you don’t,” he said.

She nodded. “Come on, we’re late.”

There were many more reporters and cameras waiting outside on the South Grounds than usual, and for a second, Meg didn’t think she was going to be able to go out there. But, Maureen, her father’s deputy press secretary, was—politely—keeping them at bay, so they wouldn’t have to answer questions, and she assumed they weren’t expected to smile broadly, either. Or even at all.

She could tell that Steven was even more scared that she was, and walking him over to his car before going to hers gave her time to find enough courage to get back to
her
car and inside. Security was tighter than ever, and two extra cars were accompanying her regular detail.

She and her agents rode in complete silence, and she spent the time thinking about her mother. Wondering if she was up yet, what she was doing. If they were letting her eat regular food. If she hurt as much as she had yesterday. If the agents driving her father to the hospital would be able to protect him. If—they were at the school now, and she saw bunches of reporters outside, almost as many as had been there on her first day of school. Seeing the cars, they swarmed over in
her direction, still more agents and school security people blocking them back, and Ginette—one of the youngest of Preston’s many staffers—trying, and failing, to keep them under control.

Meg gripped her knapsack with her hands, afraid to get out of the car.

“You okay?” Wayne, one of her agents, asked.

She didn’t answer, staring at the crowd, the school looking completely unfamiliar. An agent from the car behind them had opened her door, and hesitantly, she climbed out. The cameras were rolling, reporters were shouting and shoving microphones at her—and she froze.

“How do you feel about—” one was saying.

“—afraid for your mother’s safety?” another asked.

“—true that you’re no longer allowed to play on the—” a third wanted to know.

“Come on,” Wayne said, in her ear. “Let’s get inside.”

“Miss Powers isn’t going to be addressing any questions,” Ginette was shouting, her voice a little too thin to be effective.

Meg still hung back against the car, and then agents had each of her arms, propelling her almost painfully through the crowd and inside.

The hall was also jammed, with students and a few teachers, all of whom were staring at her. She veered into the main office for a minute, but that seemed to be mobbed, too, so she went back out to the hall,
ordering
herself not to cry.

“Are you all right?” Gary, one of her other agents, asked quietly.

Oh, yeah. She was swell. She nodded, not looking up in case her eyes were red. “I have to see Mrs. Ferris.” Her tennis coach.

“We can have someone take care of that for you,” Gary said.

She shook her head, walking down the hall, people moving out of her way. No one said anything to her, and she was half-relieved, half-hurt, focusing on the floor.

Her coach, who was also a history teacher, was sitting behind the
desk in her classroom. Meg knocked on the door and Mrs. Ferris looked up, and then came out into the hall.

“It’s good to have you back,” she said. “How is everything?”

Everything sucked. “Fine, thank you.” Meg pulled her uniform out of her knapsack. “I, um—I mean, my father—” She stopped. “I’m really sorry, but I’m kind of not allowed to play anymore.”

Mrs. Ferris nodded. “Mr. Fielding spoke to me about it.”

Thank God, as ever, for Preston.

“I hope the President is okay,” Mrs. Ferris said. “We’re all praying for her.”

Meg nodded. “Thank you.” The White House had been releasing photos of the President holding staff meetings, looking vibrant and cheerful—which would have been all well and good, if it hadn’t been a complete sham. Make-up, strategically placed pillows to prop her up in the chair, clothes carefully pinned in place, artful and flattering lighting—the whole nine yards. Her mother actually
was
running meetings, but doing it while lying in bed, looking terrifyingly pale and exhausted.

“I’m very sorry about all of this,” Mrs. Ferris said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Meg shook her head. “Thank you, but it’s okay.” If walking away from tennis was her biggest problem, she would have counted herself lucky. Probably.

“We’re going to miss you on the team,” Mrs. Ferris said, “but obviously, everyone understands.”

Certainly, they would know that she would never leave the team by
choice
. “Would I, um—” Maybe she shouldn’t ask this, but she couldn’t help wanting to know. “How do you think I was going to do at the ISL?”

“I would have been stunned if you didn’t make the finals,” her coach said, without hesitating.

Which would have been nice. Meg swallowed, feeling tears, but suppressing them. “It would have been Kimberly Tseng, probably?”
Against her, in the finals to determine the top singles player in the league.

Mrs. Ferris nodded. “Odds are.”

Yeah. She had always considered Kimberly the one genuine threat in the league. “Do you think I could have beaten her?”

Mrs. Ferris nodded again. “As long as you didn’t lose patience with the dinking and dunking.”

Kimberly was a superb player, but—as opposed to Meg’s slashing, attacking, fast-paced game—her style resembled a relentless and infallible ball machine, and she was inclined to beat opponents with sheer, infuriating consistency.

It was too late now, of course, but it was nice to know that she
might
have won.

She made it to her locker, and then homeroom, without breaking down, but could tell from the trembling tension in her arms and legs that it was going to be a very difficult day. Especially since there was an Upper School-wide meeting for silent worship scheduled, which would obviously include a call for prayers for her mother, during which she would have to look game and grateful—and not cry.

As she walked into the room, people stopped whatever they were doing, awkward and uneasy. She saw Alison coming over and abruptly turned her back, making it clear that she didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Couldn’t
talk to anyone. She heard Alison hesitate, then move away.