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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: The President's Daughter
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In those days, she never understood what was going on if she got
up early on a Saturday morning to watch television, and found her father asleep on the couch. It just seemed weird. She remembered how unhappy her parents had been, and the extra-hard hugs she got from them separately. The low angry voices in the kitchen, then the back door slamming and her father not coming back until almost too late to say good night to them. Once, coming into the dining room, she found her mother crying, and had been terrified, because parents weren't supposed to do that. Then, during the week, when her mother wasn't there, her father would be quiet and sad, getting furious if she and Steven did something like spill milk, and then being sad again and grabbing them in the very hard hugs. It had been scary because Meg couldn't understand what was going on, and no one ever talked about it. At any rate, not to her.
Sometimes she heard things, though. Her mother sounding very bitter once and saying to her father, “See you at Christmas,” as she left for Washington. Which had completely spooked her, because it was July. “We've done separation,” her father had said another time. “Maybe we should have a trial ‘togetherness.'” That time, her mother had slammed the back door. Steven was too young to pay much attention, but Meg had friends at school whose parents had gotten divorced, and they would all talk about how their fathers didn't live at their houses anymore, and Meg had worried that that might happen to them, which would mean that she and Steven would be all alone.
One day, her father
did
leave, and Trudy took care of them. He came back after what seemed like years, but was probably only three or four days. He took her and Steven out to this really neat hamburger restaurant, and told them they were all moving to Washington. They went to a little house in Virginia, where about half of the kids in her new elementary school had a parent—usually a father—who worked on Capitol Hill with her mother.
It was kind of funny—funny-strange, as opposed to funny-amusing—because right after they moved down, her mother was
getting sick a lot and would go to bed early. She was also getting fat. Her parents explained about this new little brother or sister that neither she nor Steven were too excited about, and sometimes Meg would put her hand on her mother's stomach to feel it kick. It kicked
hard
. And suddenly, her father was helping her mother around, and bringing her special things they never bought, like potato chips.
When the baby came, she and Steven decided that it was very ugly. They began to like it, especially when it smiled, and they got used to calling it Neal. As he got older, he wasn't as red and ugly anymore, and she and Steven decided that he was very beautiful. Her parents had always thought he was beautiful. And Neal was such a damn
happy
baby, that having him around made the house feel much more relaxed.
About a year later, they moved back to Massachusetts, and her father was made a full partner at his law firm. In Washington, he had worked at home mostly, flying back to Boston usually only one day a week. Trudy had lived in a small apartment above the garage while they were in Virginia, and Meg sometimes wondered whether part of the reason they went back to Boston so soon was because
Trudy
had been more homesick than anyone—and her parents couldn't afford to lose her. Meg, personally, was glad to go back, and be at her old school, with her old friends again.
Her parents still fought pretty often—and if she or her brothers ever asked them if they thought they might get divorced, her mother would invariably pause and say something like, “Well, not so far today,” and her father would say, “Don't be so hasty, Kate, it's still early.” And then—most of the time, luckily—her parents seemed to be amused by that. Anyway, her father was much more cheerful, and her mother's face lost the dark circles under her eyes that even make-up had never really been able to hide. Meg still got all hung up if they argued about
anything,
but now it was usually just squabbling and snapping, instead of outright warfare.
Too tired to read any more, Meg dropped the mystery next to
her bed and turned her light off. It was good to hear her father still talking downstairs—that meant that things were okay. Win or lose, a Presidential campaign couldn't be all that great for a marriage. Especially when the
last
time her mother had tried for a more responsible political position—except, she wouldn't worry about that right now. Not with her father's tone sounding so light and stress-free.
She was pretty sure that if her mother lost the nomination, things would be just fine. And—well, she would never admit it aloud—but, she sort of hoped that it would work out that way.
Okay, she
definitely
hoped that it would work out that way.
FRIDAY NIGHT, ONE of the seniors on the tennis team, Monica Jacobs, had a party. Definitely the social event of the season. Meg was glad that her father was in Iowa—he would have asked a lot of questions about whether parents were going to be there, if there would be alcohol, and that kind of stuff. Trudy's questions tended to be less demanding, although she did want to know who was driving, and told Meg to stay out of cars with young men. Meg said she would do her best.
She got a ride with Ann Mason, who was also a senior, and had her license. Beth came too, along with three other juniors they knew. Meg was never sure what she thought about these parties, which were always a lot more wild than she expected. She couldn't decide if her parents let her go because they didn't know what the parties were like, or because they trusted her. Both were possible. One thing, she always made sure she rode with someone like Ann, who she knew wasn't going to get drunk or anything if she had to drive. Massachusetts driving laws were
strict,
and Ann, fortunately, was the responsible type.
“I have to get the car back by one,” Ann said, parking in front of Monica's house. “So, don't anyone go off with anyone. Or,” she corrected herself, “if you do, be back by twelve-thirty.”
“Watch yourself,” Beth said out of the corner of her mouth.
“Yeah,” Meg said. “You should talk.” Meg, always afraid of publicity, had never gone off with anyone, except at a dance once. Beth was more inclined towards the occasional casual fling.
They had arrived fashionably late, and the party was already crowded and very noisy, music blasting. Meg unzipped her ski
jacket, looking around at the darkened entrance hall and living room, lots of people shouting, some of them dancing, and a few already making out in corners. She could hear somewhat drunken male laughter, and figured that the football team was out in full force.
“Let's get rid of our coats,” Beth said, and Meg followed her.
The coatroom was almost always the parents' bedroom, unless there were siblings. In this case, it was the little sister, and the room was so pink and adorable that it actually seemed to
smell
like bubble gum.
Before dropping her jacket on the bed, Beth took out a package of cigarettes. She always held a cigarette at parties. Marlboro Lights.
“Wow,” Meg said. “You are so cool.”
“I know.” Beth released a slow stream of smoke. “It's a lot for you to live up to.”
“It's a lot for me to live
down
,” Meg said.
“Ha.” Beth glanced in the white plastic mirror to adjust her hat. It was grey felt with a small red feather. Very stylish. Meg would never have the chutzpah to wear a hat.
They went out to the kitchen, each taking a Budweiser from the refrigerator. Usually, Meg had one beer—she had never actually gotten drunk, or even, really, come close to it. Partly because her father trusted her not to, but also because she wasn't sure how it would affect her. Lots of times at these things, people got sick—especially sophomore girls—and Meg couldn't stand the thought of that kind of public humiliation. Besides, paranoid or not, she always worried about the possibility of publicity. If she were getting drunk at parties, it would be bound to show up in the tabloids or on the Internet. At the very least, her mother's
constituents
might find out.
“Oooh,” Fred, one of the captains of the wrestling team, said as he came in to get more beer. “Big bad sophomores.” He nudged Meg. “What would Mom say?”
Beth shrugged. “That she should have Heineken.”
“Yeah, well,” Fred took out two beers, draining one of them in one long gulp, “think I'll go call the news stations, get them out here.”
“Hell,” another guy from the wrestling team said, yanking out his cell phone. “Let's just upload it ourselves.”
He was probably kidding, but she put the beer down and got a small bottle of water, instead. Better safe than sorry.
“Give her a break,” the boy behind them, Greg Knable, said.
Meg blushed. Greg always intimidated her. Not only was he tall and handsome, but he was president of the South Senate, was on the cross-country, basketball,
and
baseball teams, and participated in about six thousand other extracurricular activities. He also got good grades. The really intimidating part, though, was that his father—a wealthy, successful businessman, in every clichéd sense of the phrase—was vehemently, publicly,
constantly
against everything her mother did or said, and always worked actively for any candidate who tried to run against her. It was even stupider because if she was with either parent, and they ran into Mr. Knable at the club or someplace, everyone would be sickeningly polite. Her mother said it was civilized. Meg thought it was hypocritical.
At any rate, she was never quite sure how to act around Greg. Her friends usually made cracks, but he seemed pretty embarrassed about the whole thing, too. Usually, if she was around him, neither of them brought up politics at all—and, in fact, rarely did more than say hello, and then hurry off in opposite directions.
“So.” Greg opened a can of beer. “How's it going?”
She looked around, saw that Beth was giving someone a cigarette, Fred was trying to pick up this girl from her honors English class, and that Greg was definitely talking to her. “Not bad. How's it going with you?”
“It's cool,” he said, then gestured towards her water bottle. “You don't have to drink that—Sam was only kidding.”
Maybe, maybe not. “I heard you got into Princeton early decision,” Meg said. “That's really good.”
“Yeah. I was pretty happy. My father went there and everything, so he's”—he stopped—“um, pleased.”
Meg nodded. “He must be. It's excellent.”
“Yeah.” Greg blinked, and concentrated on his beer.
“Hey, everybody, look!” Fred said. “A peace treaty! Historical moment here!” He put a heavy arm around Meg's shoulders. “Think your parents'll ground you for talking to him?”
“Fred, shut up, okay?” Greg said.
“Anything you say, Romeo.” Fred winked at him, and opened another beer.
Meg kept her eyes on her hands, too shy to check Greg's expression.
“I, uh, I told someone in the living room that I'd kind of be right back,” she said.
He nodded. “Yeah. Good talking to you.”
She looked up, saw that he was also red, and hurried out to the living room.
“Hey.” Beth caught up to her. “Were they being jerks to you?”
Meg shook her head. “No. Just stupid Fred.”
“Don't even listen to him,” Beth said.
“Yeah, I know.” Meg gestured across the room towards some people from their class. “Sophomores.”
“Let's go,” Beth said, heading over.
The party got better as the night went along—more crowded, more noisy, and more interesting. She was in the middle of an argument—well, more like a friendly, but intense, discussion—with Isaac Pechman, who didn't like the Patriots, when she caught sight of his watch and realized that it was past eleven-fifteen.
There was a news special on about the Iowa Caucus at eleven-thirty, and she wanted to watch at least the first few minutes. Her mother had done really well in the debate, which had been on Wednesday, and the polls had been going up ever since.
So, when Isaac decided he wanted another beer, Meg went to find Monica, who was pretty drunk and having a marvelous time at her party. After being told that there were two televisions upstairs that Monica was perfectly happy to have her “check” for a minute, Meg decided that she would just tune in for the beginning, and then go back downstairs.
“Where you going?” Some guy who must have crashed the party tried to grab her as she went by. “Keep me company, babe.”
“Excuse me,” she said, continuing past and hoping that he wasn't drunk enough to follow her. Once upstairs, she found a television in Monica's parents' bedroom and flipped to the right channel.
The door opened as the commentators of the special were introducing each other and outlining the format and content of the show.
“Sorry,” a guy said. “I thought this was the bathroom.”
“I think it's down to the right.” Then Meg blushed, realizing it was Greg.
“Hey, what are you doing?” He came all the way in. “You a television addict or something?”
“Despite Senator Powers' strong performance in Wednesday's debate,” the main commentator was saying, “Iowa is expected to go with the more conservative Hawley, or possibly Governor—”
“Oh,” Greg said.
Meg nodded sheepishly.
“You, uh,” his hands went into his pockets, “want me to leave?”
“I'm only going to watch for a minute,” she said. “I just thought I'd, um—”
He shrugged, sitting down on the bed next to her. “Of course you're watching. Hell, I know I would.”
A film clip came on showing Senator Hawley earlier that day.
“Do you have any predictions about the outcome of next week's caucus?” a reporter was asking.
“These are serious times, and our nation is facing some real
challenges,” Senator Hawley—tall, slightly balding, and very tough—said firmly. Or maybe even
grimly
. “I'm confident that the voters will make the right choice.”
Naturally, the reporter didn't give up that easily. “Do you think Mrs. Powers' victory in the debate will have an effect—”
“The voters understand what's at stake here,” he said. “We need a strong leader, not the flavor-of-the-month. But I know that the voters here in Iowa will rise to the challenge, and vote responsibly.”
Ouch. Not exactly subtle.
Senator Hawley was being ushered away by his campaign staff and Secret Service agents—full protection for all Presidential candidates had just started earlier that week, and obviously, there were agents posted at her house, and around the neighborhood, but since she hadn't actually seen her mother in person, Meg hadn't let herself do much thinking about what that actually
meant
.
And she didn't feel like thinking about it right now, either.
A film of her mother flashed onto the screen, and Meg saw her parents—along with her mother's retinue of aides and agents—leaving what appeared be a local ice cream shop, everyone looking quite cheerful and relaxed in comparison with the Hawley contingent.
But, Christ, why was
that
her clip-of-the-day? Senator Hawley had been shown in front of an army ammunition factory—a location almost certainly chosen with very great care by his staff—and even though her mother's daily schedule indicated that, among other things, she'd given a speech to a group of Iowa National Guard members, and made an appearance at a John Deere manufacturing plant, the network had decided to go with the damn
ice cream
excursion? A frivolous snack? By comparison, Hawley might as well have been wearing a pair of six-irons—and a codpiece.
On top of which, Governor Kruger had recently gone pheasant and quail hunting, striding around through the underbrush with a bunch of burly Iowans, and the images had gotten—and were still
getting—a lot of air-play, and Internet coverage. And, cynically, she was almost surprised that the news editors hadn't promptly gone out of their way to show lengthy footage of her mother forcefully wielding a blow-dryer, or something.
“Senator Powers, how do you feel about the caucus?” a reporter asked.
Her mother grinned. “Oh, my level of excitement is such that I can scarcely begin to describe it.”
Everyone nearby laughed.
“All kidding aside,” she said. “I actually think that we're blessed to have the opportunity to watch democracy unfold right in front of our very eyes. It should be a very interesting evening.”
“Do you think you're going to win?” someone else asked.
“I wouldn't presume to predict,” her mother said. “What do
you
think?”
People laughed again, and the clip ended, going back to the commentators, who were smiling, too.
“Well,” one of them said. “Two very different candidates.”
And how.
Senator Hawley had been pounding the word “serious” for weeks. Strong. Right. Confident. Responsible. Fun stuff like that. Whereas, her mother usually seemed to be going for inclusiveness, although she might have been sending an “I'm not
quite
as secular as you may fear” message this time by throwing the word “blessed” in there, too.
Meg glanced at Greg to see his reaction.
BOOK: The President's Daughter
10.29Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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