Buffalo West Wing (29 page)

When the White House PPD “strongly suggested” anything, you complied. I was losing ground here, and quickly. I had one more argument left and it was a doozy.

“The state dinner,” I said, as though that explained it all. It should have. “I need to be here. All day. This is a huge event and we can’t leave anything to chance.”

“You would only be gone for about two hours,” she said. “We expect to have you both back here by three-thirty at the latest. The state dinner isn’t scheduled until eight.” Valerie gestured toward Cyan. “As she said, you’ve already worked ahead. Knowing how well you’re organized, I bet you could easily leave the kitchen in your staff’s capable hands for two hours.”

I bit my lip. She’d effectively painted me into a corner. To argue now would be to claim that Bucky and Cyan couldn’t handle the extra work.

“This isn’t right,” I said in a last pathetic attempt to get out of it. “Josh will be very disappointed.”

“According to the First Lady, Josh originally asked for you because you were so nice to him the other day when he came down here.” Valerie smiled. “But because the state dinner was the same night, she knew you would be busy and she talked Josh into asking Virgil instead.”

Speechless, I could do nothing but acquiesce. “What time should I be ready?”

Valerie and Paul straightened and smiled. “A Secret Service agent will arrive here at one to escort you to the school,” she said. “Thank you, Olivia.”

She turned to leave and Paul leaned back to whisper, “I knew you’d come through for us, Ollie. You always do.”

The go-to girl. That’s me, all right.

When I turned to face Bucky and Cyan, they looked exactly the way I felt. “You tried,” Cyan said. “There was nothing else you could have done.”

Bucky scowled and returned to his pasta making. “You’re the executive chef. Not a babysitter. I wish more people around here would start realizing that.”

Coming from Bucky, that was remarkable moral support indeed.

 

At precisely 1 P.M., a female Secret Service agent arrived in the kitchen. “Ms. Paras?” she asked.

I had cleaned up, changed my tunic, and grabbed a fresh toque—I figured the kids wouldn’t actually believe I was a chef without the hat—and was ready to go. “Bucky, Cyan?”

“Go,” Cyan said. “You’ve been running nonstop all day. We’re in great shape now. Don’t worry about it.”

Bucky waved me off. “You’ll be back in a couple of hours. Heck, we’re so far ahead, maybe I’ll take a nap.”

“Ha, ha,” I said. “Okay, wish me luck.”

“Luck!” Cyan called.

The agent assigned to me introduced herself as Brenda Notewell. She was taller than me—although most people are—and slim. She wore a black leather jacket over her gray suit, and I wondered, idly, if every Secret Service agent shopped at the same store. They sure all dressed alike.

She escorted me through the Diplomatic Reception Room outside into the blustery February afternoon, where I ducked my head to keep the cold from nipping at my ears. The wind bit at my nose even on this quick walk to the waiting limousine. “Really?” I said, when she held the back door open for me. “I can’t imagine I necessitate this level of security.”

She smiled—unusual for an agent, so I figured she must be new—and climbed in next to me. “Things go more smoothly if we operate at a higher level than is required.”

I’d been in the backseat of government-issue limos a few times. Mostly under unpleasant circumstances. Our driver didn’t speak. Agent Notewell, in contrast, was positively chatty.

“Are you bringing me back, too?” I asked.

“I’m only your escort to the school. From there, you will be covered by the agents protecting Scamp—er—that is, Josh.”

“Scamp is a good name for him,” I said.

She smiled again. “I agree with you. Fits in with the rest. You’ve heard them all?”

I had. The Secret Service always came up with code names for the First Family. These nicknames no longer served as a function of security, but the tradition of naming the family members continued nonetheless. President Hyden was Scholar, his wife Symphony. Abigail was Sparkle and Grandma Marty was Sage.

We arrived at the school less than twenty minutes later. The stately brick structure, castlelike in appearance with turrets and tall peaked corners, sat deep behind giant trees. The school was completely fenced in by black wrought iron, looking more like a posh boarding school from 1800s England than a grammar school in the twenty-first century. I would bet that once the trees bloomed and the grass grew green again, this would be a most welcoming environment. Today, under the gray sky and with the wind whistling through the bare branches, it looked positively spooky.

The car slowed and the driver announced our arrival. I finished consulting the notes I’d prepared for my presentation, and shoved them into my pocket, next to my cell phone. With no need to bring a purse, I’d instead packed a bag of items to use as visual aids when talking to the kids: measuring cups and spoons, a few spatulas, examples of paperwork an executive chef might regularly handle. No knives. I also brought along one of my favorite easy recipes for chicken strips—and made enough copies for every kid in the class.

Brenda told me to wait a moment before getting out. She spoke briefly into a small microphone, listened for a response, then nodded. “Clear,” she said.

Two other agents emerged from the school and as they came through the front gates, Brenda finally let me get out. I shouldered my bag, tucked my hat under my arm, and followed her. She handed me over to the two agents, wished me luck, and returned to the limo.

The two agents, both male and young, kept their eyes on our surroundings as they shuttled me through the gate held open by a school security guard. This place was as tight as Fort Knox. Maybe tighter. The security guard welcomed me to Dolorosa Academy with a smile, then shut the massive iron gate behind us with a
clang.
I heard the solid
snick
of an automatic lock and turned to watch the guard amble over to a small windowed structure just inside the grounds.

“Are the two of you on duty here every day?” I asked.

The one on my left answered, “We rotate.”

Not that I expected a full-blown conversation, but I tried again as we headed up the stone steps. “How do the kids react to Secret Service always being around?”

The guy on my right shrugged. “We become part of the landscape,” he said. “That’s good.”

“Are there more agents inside?”

Lefty answered this time. “Scamp has a personal bodyguard who does not leave his side.”

Righty opened the school’s front door and nodded to me once we were inside. “Agent Johnston will take you to the classroom. I will remain here.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Agent Johnston checked his watch. “We are right on time,” he said.

The school’s exterior may have resembled a castle, but inside, I felt magically transported back in time. I knew we couldn’t be far from the gym—despite all the upgrades over the years, that peculiar aromatic combination of sneakers and sweat didn’t change. A wide corridor spread before us, its floor tiled in grammar-school green with a center ribbon of white. At the far end was a wide staircase backed by a wall of windows, which allowed in what little light the day had to offer. The entire area was quiet except for the squeak of our shoes against the tile and the occasional burst of young voices urging teachers to call on “Me, me.”

I felt small. Sure I probably wasn’t much taller than some of the fifth graders enrolled here, but I also worried about letting Josh down. Had he truly requested me first, or was Valerie just feeding me that line to encourage my participation? Either way, I hoped to make him glad to have me here.

Johnston came to a crisp stop outside the third door on the left. “The teacher’s name is Mrs. Fosco. She is expecting you.”

The closed door was an indecipherable red wood, alligatored by decades of varnish. An opaque window in the top half of the frame offered only indistinct shadows, and I could hear very little of what was being said. “I just go in?” I asked.

Johnston nodded and grabbed the doorknob.

“Hang on a minute.”

He waited while I placed my toque atop my head and took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said.

He opened the door. “Good luck.”

CHAPTER 25

TWENTY HEADS SWIVELED TO SEE WHO WAS coming in. Twenty pairs of eyes, bright with alert curiosity, watched as I nodded to the teacher and said hello.

Mrs. Fosco was a tiny woman of about fifty with a cheerful expression and powerful voice. “Welcome to our classroom, Ms. Paras,” she said, indicating that I should join Agent Nourie until she was finished with the current lesson. To Josh, Mrs. Fosco said, “Why don’t you take your guest’s coat and hang it up for her? You can help her get ready for the presentation.” Josh was up and out of his seat by the time I made it to the back of the room, where a whiteboard had been decorated for Valentine’s Day.

After assisting me with my coat, Josh returned to his desk. I joined Agent Nourie in the back corner where he maintained a view of the entire classroom, and stood within a three-step reach of Josh.

Nourie smiled and stepped aside to give me space in the crowded back corner. With the windows to our left and a row of computer terminals to our right just below the whiteboard, I again felt a rush of nostalgia.

“So Virgil called in sick, huh?” he whispered.

I nodded. Nourie shook his head, but said nothing further.

As I stood there, I became aware of the kids’ occasional glances my way. Pure curiosity. I’m sure it was the hat. Fortunately, less than five minutes after my arrival, Mrs. Fosco instructed all the children to put their math books away.

“Josh,” she said kindly as soon as the scuffling was over and the kids had quieted, “I think it’s time.”

Josh boosted himself from his desk and ran to the front of the room. I wasn’t sure if I should join him yet, but I didn’t have to worry long. He waved me forward right away. “Hi,” he said to the class as soon as I joined him. From up here, the kids all looked so small. So young.

“Today is my career day presentation,” Josh said. He stopped abruptly, ran back to his desk, and shuffled through his books. I waited up front with those twenty pairs of eyes fixed on me, looking as though they expected me to start tap dancing. “Okay,” Josh said, evidently finding whatever it was he was looking for. He proudly held up note cards and announced, “I almost forgot these.”

Back up front next to me, he held the cards in both hands and read from handwritten notes. “When I grow up I would like to be a chef. Not just somebody who makes food at a regular restaurant, but like a chef on television.” He looked up. “I want to be famous.”

I thought it was sweet that he seemed oblivious to the fact that he already was—and always would be—famous.

Continuing, he said, “I know that if I work hard and study, I can be anything I want to be. I have some experience in the kitchen already, but I still have a lot to learn. We have two main chefs at our White House and some extra assistants.”

Wouldn’t Cyan and Bucky be thrilled to hear themselves referred to as “extra assistants”? Still, I smiled. Little Josh was quite charming as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “The two main ones are Chef Virgil and Ollie.” He pointed to me. “This is Ollie.” Looking down, he read what his mother must have added, “Olivia Paras is the first female executive chef in the White House.” Looking up again, he added, “And she’s really nice and lets me help all the time. I’m even going to work on a big state dinner we’re having tonight.”

I caught Nourie’s amused look. That’s all we needed. Josh helping in the kitchen today, after my being gone for so many hours.

“Ollie is here today to tell us about being the executive chef and to talk about her career.”

Josh scampered back to his seat, then remembered the final part of his speech. “Thank you for joining us,” he said to me.

I placed my bag of props on the table the teacher had cleared up front. Taking a deep breath—I’d never really interacted with children that much and wasn’t quite sure how to get them to like me—I started with a question. “Who here likes food?”

All hands went up.

“Have any of you ever made any of your own lunches or dinners? How about breakfast?”

Some of the kids kept their hands raised. I invited a few of them to tell me what they’d made. Most of the children admitted to having professional cooks at home, and not really paying attention to where their meals came from. I talked a little about nutrition, farmers, and growing our own vegetables—I told them that Josh’s family had plans to start a big garden in the spring.

I held up my utensils and asked who knew what they were for—several of the kids had their hands up right away—and I passed out my recipe sheets to take home.