Confessions of a First Daughter (10 page)

“Yeah. He says he’s sick of dating a girl who has to drag Secret Service agents everywhere.”

“He never seemed to have a problem with it before.”

I shrugged. “Then I made the mistake of watching
LateNight Skits
.”

“Humberto is already calling the head of the network.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I leaned into her, smelling her jasmine-scented lotion and feeling a lot better.

“Maybe I should send the CIA on a special mission to Konner’s house,” Mom said. “Operation Morgan’s Revenge. Atomic wedgies—Special Ops style.”

We giggled together.

“I think I still sorta like Konner,” I said reluctantly. “But I wouldn’t say no to the FBI sneaking glue into his bottle of hair gel.”

Mom honked in laughter, and I joined in.

Suddenly I realized that it was after eight a.m. “Shouldn’t you be at the office now?” I asked.

“I should. But I’ve had a cancellation. My schedule’s open for the next few hours.”

A cancellation? Who cancels on the president of the United States? “What’s really going on?”

When she hesitated, I pressed her. “You can trust me, Mom. Once your cleavage has been mocked on national TV, you can handle anything.”

“You’re right. You’re growing up so fast, sweetie. Sometimes I forget. Truth is, there’s been a setback in plans for the African peace accords. I won’t be going to Africa.”

“But you’ve been working on it for months. I thought there had been a breakthrough.”

“We did, too. But now the military juntas are making impossible demands. Last night the skirmishes broke out again, and the CIA says that the region is slipping back into chaos. The meetings have been canceled, mostly because the security situation is so fragile.”

“You mean the CIA and Secret Service won’t be able to protect you if you go.”

“Bingo.”

I gave my mom a hard hug. I never got used to the ever-present security threats surrounding her. Too many presidents have been assassinated for me not to take them seriously. “Then I’m glad you’re not going. I’m sorry for those people, but it’s too dangerous for you.”

“I know. But I’m frustrated that things are stalled. More lives will be lost. Years of economic progress down the drain. What a waste.”

“But you tried.”

“Trying’s not enough, sweetie. The president must show results. I’ve already been criticized for not being strong in foreign affairs, despite my lifelong training as a diplomat.”

True. Mom’s family, the Fortescues, had all become legendary diplomats. Great-grandpa Fortescue, Mom’s grandfather, had been instrumental in bringing Stalin and Roosevelt together at the end of World War II.

“I really wanted this peace initiative to work out,” Mom continued. “Then I could prove to the American people that I’m just as strong in foreign affairs as domestic. Plus, there’s…” Her voice trailed away.

A chill crawled up my spine. This Africa situation was way more serious than I thought. “What’s going on?”

Mom’s eyes refocused on me. She forced a smile as she touched my hair. “You’ve become a beautiful young woman, you know that? Everyone’s child should grow up in a peaceful country, not just my child.”

Now I was freaking out even more. Mom never talked like that. “Does this have something to do with the uranium that the
Washington Post
reporter was talking about at the press conference yesterday?”

“How did you—?”

“C’mon, Mom. My GPA may be a teeny bit on the low side, but I know how to put two and two together.”

She hesitated. Then she nodded. “It’s yellowcake uranium but that’s classified information, Morgan.”

I barely heard her. Even with my primitive grasp of chemistry, I knew that uranium was used to make nuclear bombs.

“I really needed this meeting with Mfuso and Welak to happen,” Mom went on. “If I could just get them in the same room, I know I could broker a peace deal and persuade Mfuso to hand over the yellowcake. He wants to deal with me and only me—not my secretary of state. I’m sure he thinks that negotiating with a woman will gain him more concessions.”

Part of my brain was thinking
Good luck with that, Mfuso
. Mom didn’t give away anything she didn’t want to. The other part was entertaining an impossible possibility….

“Now that the meeting’s been canceled, I’m twiddling my thumbs for the next few days. Damn!” Mom drove her fist in her palm.

Her disappointment and frustration were palpable. The idea forming in the back of my mind started to take shape. “So you have nothing public scheduled for the next few days?”

“Nope.”

“How long do you think you’d need to get General Mfuso and Bishop Welak together at the negotiating table?”

“A week, probably. Less, even, given the right incentives for Mfuso. And I know exactly what he wants. The tricky part is getting Bishop Welak to agree, but Welak doesn’t want a nuclear disaster on his hands any more than the rest of us do.”

“The situation is that serious?”

“It is.”

My heart began beating quickly. I could hardly believe what I was about to suggest. “Why don’t you let me stand in for you while you sneak away and have the meeting?”

“What are you talking about, sweetie?”

“I could pretend to be you, Mom. Your body double. Truman had one. So did Kennedy. Why not you?”

Chapter Thirteen

“Because it’ll never work,” Mom said
. “Truman and Kennedy didn’t live under the same media scrutiny that we do. You don’t even sound like me.”

“Oh yeah? Hand me your cell phone.”

“Come on, Morgan—”

“No, really. Let’s put it to the test.”

Mom shrugged and handed me her personal cell phone. I turned the volume up so Mom could hear the conversation, and hit the key to Dad’s mobile. It only rang once before Dad’s voice crackled through. “Everything all right, Sara?”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, careful to let my voice drop soothingly on the last syllable, like Mom would. “I just wanted to wish you a safe flight, and tell you I love you.” I grimaced over this last bit.

A pause. Uh-oh. Maybe I wasn’t as good at imitating Mom as I thought I was.

“Well, I love you, too, Sugarlips,” Dad replied. I cringed. He called her Sugarlips? Gag. “When I get back, maybe I’ll show you how much—”

I tried to cut him off before my ears were soiled any further. “That sounds fantastic—”

Mom, quivering with suppressed laughter, nudged me. She’d scribbled a word on a bubblegum wrapper and held it under my nose.

She can’t be serious
. “NO!” I mouthed to her.

“YES!” she mouthed back.

I made myself finish the sentence. “—Sweetcheeks.”

Another pause. I really thought the jig was up, but then Dad murmured: “It’s a date.”

I said good-bye quickly before I learned any more about my parents’ love life. No one needs to know that stuff. Ever.

“Sugarlips? Sweetcheeks? I think I’m gonna need therapy.”

Mom let loose. I’d never seen her laugh so hard. “Sorry, sweetie,” she said after she got a grip. “It’s a code your father and I came up with, to let each other know that everything’s okay.”

“I think I threw up a little in my mouth.”

“Try negotiating with the opposition party over environmental regulations. You’ll get used to the taste of vomit.” Mom’s tone changed. “You may be able to pull off sounding like me, but looking like me? No way.”

“Wanna bet?” I groped for my cell phone on my nightstand. Three seconds later: “Hey, Hannah. Mom and I have a national emergency we need your help with.” I explained that I needed her to bring her full makeup kit. “Can you come over right now?”

“And miss calculus? Hell, yeah! Mom’ll write me a note if I tell her the president needs me. Be there in thirty.”

She arrived in less than twenty, armed with her Louis Vuitton travel suitcase full of theater makeup, wigs, and prosthetics. “Max almost didn’t let me up until they sonogrammed everything, but I told him the president was waiting. That boy is by the book.”

“As he should be,” Mom said, peering into the suitcase. “Oh my gosh, Hannah! What happened here?”

“Oh no!” Hannah pulled out a molten sack of plastic. “The security machine melted my supply of gel enhancers!”

Mom and I exchanged looks. Then we busted up again.

While Hannah dumped the bag of plastic goo in the trash, she asked, “So what’s this national emergency?”

“I need you to make me look like my mom,” I told her.

Hannah gave me and my mom a critical once-over. “Should be no problem. But the right costume is crucial. Seventy-five percent of the illusion is in the clothing.”

“If I get one of her power suits on, no one will be able to tell us apart,” I said.

“Make sure you stick to the sensible pumps,” Hannah added, eyeing my bedhead. “And we’ll have to make sure your hair is perfect. A wig should do it—”

“Hold up,” Mom laughed. “You guys are really taking this seriously, aren’t you?”

We stared at her. “Performance art is a serious business, Mrs. Abbott,” Hannah said, well, seriously.

“Then we’d better go the whole way,” Mom answered. “To the walk-in.”

Mom and Dad’s room had been redecorated by one of the foremost designers in Washington, D.C. Which meant it was as boring as a mustard-only hot dog. The soothing earth tones were already putting me to sleep. But one thing that did rule was Mom’s amazing walk-in closet, complete with an automated clothing rack. Mom hit the button and hundreds of power suits whirred before us.

“Stop right there.” Hannah hauled out three suits: one in red, one herringbone, and one bright blue. She held the red one up to me. “Hm. This shade of tomato is too strong for your coloring.”

“Hey, that’s my favorite suit!” Mom exclaimed.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you it was ready for the Salvation Army, Mrs. Abbott,” Hannah replied. “With all due respect, it’s all wrong for you. Stick to rosy red instead. It’ll be much more flattering.”

While Mom gazed sadly at her tomato-colored suit, her private phone line rang. It was to be the first call of many. Mom must’ve blown off Padma, Humberto, and a couple of aides about seventeen times before they got the hint and stopped calling. Or maybe it was Mom’s crabby “I’ll be downstairs when I’m downstairs” remark that finally got them off our backs.

While Mom took her belated shower, Hannah began the transformation. I slipped into the herringbone suit, which was a little snug in the shoulders and loose in the caboose, but nothing to worry about. Hannah applied a sensible swipe of taupe eye shadow and a light coating of mascara on my eyes. Instead of erasing dark circles, she created them and the illusion of a few slight creases around the eyes. Over my head, she carefully eased a wig that mimicked Mom’s mahogany bob to perfection.

I stared at my reflection in Mom’s three-paneled vanity mirror. “Holy cow.”

Hannah gave herself a mock pat on the back. “Dum dum de dum,” she sang, imitating the “Hail to the Chief” tune. “All rise for President Sara Abbott.”

I really did look like my mother. The hair, the clothes. Even my clamped mouth (to keep me from screaming) echoed Mom when she was deep in thought. My reflection freaked me out a little.

Mom came out of the bathroom in a robe with her hair in a towel. “Oh. My. God,” she said.

The swap was complete.

I rose from the vanity. “My fellow Americans,” I intoned, cocking my head slightly to the right just like Mom did during her State of the Unions. I pointed my index finger to the heavens. “Change comes from one person, and one person only: you.”

I thought Mom’s eyes were going to bug out of her head. “It’s uncanny,” she breathed.

I started pacing the room with Mom’s rapid step. “Padma, take a memo,” I said to Hannah, who leaped up and grabbed a pretend notebook. “Send it to all media outlets. Starting next week, my administration will propose that (a) white-chocolate gingersnaps will be the official White House cookie; (b) that anyone violating my newly proposed cookie accord with Oreos or Nutty Bars will be in breach of Executive Order Number 25768; and (c) that the recipe for white-chocolate gingersnaps be available on our website at no charge so that the American people can freely support this initiative.”

Mom stepped forward and raised her hand. “Uh, Madam President, is it true that the white-chocolate gingersnap was in fact created by someone who is a British national? Therefore, isn’t the White House’s new cookie less than American both conceptually and in execution?”

I rubbed my ear just like Mom did when she was answering a tough question, and sidestepped it. “America is a melting pot of flavors. The white-chocolate gingersnap combines the sharp with the sweet—much like this fine nation. Our administration supports diversity and is committed to culinary equality.”

“Nicely handled.” Mom nodded approvingly. “But I don’t rub my ear like that during press conferences.”

Hannah and I exchanged looks and said, “Yes, you do!” in perfect unison.

There would be no convincing Mom unless she saw it with her own eyes, so I fired up her laptop and downloaded a YouTube clip of her latest press conference. Where she rubbed her ear about seven times in less than four minutes.

“Okay, okay. Point taken.” Mom was biting her lip now. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“No gain without risk,” I said. Another of Dad’s mottos.

“If things weren’t so dire in Africa, I’d never even contemplate it. I think I could clear my schedule so that you wouldn’t be thrown into any dicey situations beyond a brief appearance, but even with the best laid plans, things could go wrong.”

“I can handle it, Mom. It’s just for a day, right?”

“And I can make sure no one will ever know the difference between you two,” Hannah added.

Mom nibbled her lip again, then picked up her private line. For the first time ever, Mom called in sick. That’s when I knew she was taking this plan seriously.

She asked Humberto to send up several files, and she spent the rest of the morning coaching me on the intricacies of the U.S. presidency.

Chapter Fourteen