Confessions of a First Daughter (17 page)

It was going to be okay, the look said. We were going to get through this. He smiled at me.

I returned the smile and fought a quivery feeling.

As I tried to get my heart to beat normally again, I heard a familiar high-pitched voice, whining a little distance away from me.

“What
is
this? Paper plates? Plastic forks? I thought I was going to the White House for dinner, not charity time at the soup kitchen. Ugh, I hope I don’t get a communicable disease.”

Brittany Whittaker. Cripes
.

And like the spoiled brat that she was, she never shut up. “Ew, that man over there has no front teeth! This place stinks and I think I saw a cockroach. God, I can’t believe I’m going to be late for homecoming because of this. You owe me big time, Daddy.”

“Simmer down, sugar.” Congressman Whittaker turned a shade of cooked salmon when he realized I’d overheard his daughter’s griping. He laughed uncomfortably. “Heh, that’s teenage girls for you, eh, Madam President? They think the world revolves around them. I’m sure you understand, given that you have a daughter the same age as my Brittany.”

I probably should have smiled and agreed with Congressman Whittaker. Yesiree, looking back on the moment, I should have kept it zipped and maybe everything would have turned out differently.

But instead I said, “Well, Chet, my daughter, Morgan, might be the same age as Brits, but she wouldn’t dream of insulting her hosts with an inflated sense of entitlement.”

Brittany’s mouth hung open wide enough to expose the piece of gum she’d been smacking. Congressman Whittaker’s brows rose up to meet the front of his hairpiece. “Brits?” he said.

Uh-oh…

I tried to cover. “Yes, isn’t that your nickname in school, Brittany? At least that’s what my daughter calls you. She talks about you all the time.”

“She does?” Brittany’s face brightened as she flashed her signature suck-up smile. “Morgan talks about me? With
you?”

“She says she really admires your…political skills,” I fibbed.

I glanced around desperately and caught Humberto’s eye.
Help
!

He hurried over. “Important phone call for you, Madam President. You should take it immediately.”

I gave the Whittakers an apologetic smile. “Duty calls,” I said, and got the heck out of there.

“Thanks, Humberto.” I sighed in relief.

“Yeah, yeah.” But he grinned at me.

Max approached in the quick-casual way that Secret Service agents train for six months in order to perfect. I didn’t like the look on his face. “Foxfire’s detail just called.”

Foxfire. Mom’s Secret Service code name.

“The talks went on longer than expected,” Max said, listening carefully into his earpiece. “They’ve left Camp David but they’re running late.”

“Well, that’s a good sign, isn’t it?” Elation raced through me. Mom was going to pull off the biggest challenge of her administration.
GO, MOM
!

Humberto and Max exchanged glances. “It means that you’re going to have to deliver the press briefing,” Humberto said.

“You’re kidding, right?” I kept waiting for Max to say, “Yeah, just kidding.”

But he didn’t.

I rubbed my left ear, Mom-style. “Did anyone see the white-chocolate gingersnaps?” I asked, changing the subject.

“You’ve certainly perfected your impersonation of the president,” Humberto remarked wryly, handing me a BlackBerry with some notes for the press conference.

“I sure hope so,” I muttered.

“I brought someone in to help you,” Max said. “We need her expertise if this is to be successful.”

I turned. “Hannah!” I cried, about to throw my arms around her, but then I remembered who I was impersonating. I extended my hand instead.

“Hey, now!” Hannah shook my hand all formal-like. “I heard someone’s going to give a press conference to be broadcast from coast to coast. I’ll get you camera ready.”

“Thanks, Hannah. I know you’re missing out on the homecoming dance.”

“Pfft. Don’t worry about it. That’s what friends are for.”

Over Hannah’s shoulder, I saw Brittany Whittaker eyeing the two of us suspiciously. Then she started toward us.

Without thinking, I shrank behind the buffet table.

Big. Mistake.

In all the excitement, I’d forgotten to tell Humberto to get rid of the lily displays. Immediately, itchiness prickled my eyes and my nose started running like crazy. Oh geez, this was the last thing I needed right now!

“What the—” Hannah flinched as I blasted a sneeze.

A couple of shelter residents inched away.

“Hannah—help!” I felt my eye makeup running down my cheeks. Another violent sneeze, and the jig would be up.

“Bathroom.” Hannah firmly steered me away from the buffet.

Through the watery haze of my allergy-induced tears, I caught sight of Brittany watching us.

Chapter Twenty-three

Panic exploded through me while Max
, under Hannah’s direction, cleared the shelter’s closetlike (and let’s be honest, smelly) bathroom for presidential use. He set the Secret Service detail to guard the door while he fetched Hannah’s makeup kit.

“Brittany knows I’m not the president.” I mopped my nose with a wad of industrial-grade toilet paper. “She
knows
!”

“Morgan, maintain.” Hannah took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. “Brittany Whittaker doesn’t know jack. Her teeny tiny mind can’t handle anything more complicated than gossip and brownnosing.”

“Yeah, but being evil is second nature to her. She knows I’m the one allergic to lilies, not my mom.”

“She’s not going to put two and two together. And if she did, she’d come up with five.”

I spluttered out a reluctant laugh.

“Even if she did figure it out,” Hannah went on, “what’s she going to do? Who’d believe her? She’d look like an idiot if she ran around claiming that you were impersonating your mother. I’m in on the secret, and I don’t even believe it sometimes.”

I began to calm down. Hannah made perfect sense. Right. Who would believe Brittany anyway?

A few seconds later, Max arrived with Hannah’s makeup kit. “The press conference is set,” he said through the cracked door. “We’re just waiting for the president.”

“Tell them I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Mentally I shoved Brittany out of my head and reviewed the talking points Humberto had given me, thankful that I’d gotten used to memorizing lines on the fly from drama class.
Concentrate, Morgan!
I needed to pull off this press briefing and the biggest role of my life. So much was at stake: my mom’s secret peace mission; our swapped identities; a chance to breathe life into Mom’s micro-loan initiative, which would give Trisha Jackson the tools to help those who needed it most.

It all hinged on this press conference.

It all hinged on the Tornado.

I emerged from the bathroom, freshly made up.

Humberto met me at the door. “Don’t forget to link the micro-loan program to your mom’s domestic platform.”

“Okay—”

“Try to get a mention in about urban health-care centers.”

“Got it.”

“Close with your mom’s slogan.”

“Check.”

I headed to my Secret Service detail, waiting to lead me to the stage.

“And don’t forget to breathe!” Humberto hissed after me.

At his prompting, I took a big breath. Feverishly, I reviewed the talking points one more time and tried not to remember the disaster I made of my last big speech in front of the senior class. Wig on tight. Smile of confidence plastered on my face. Heart pounding like a drum. Check, check, and check.

The back half of the shelter had been roped off for the press briefing. A small stage complete with flags and a podium stood under the glare of temporary stage lights. Chairs for the press lined the floor in front of the stage, but the banquet guests—rich and poor alike—gathered around to hear “my” speech.

Led by Max, a team of Secret Service agents cleared a path through the gathering for my entrance.

Adrenaline gushed through me as I took the stage.

Like Mom says: showtime
.

“Thank you all,” I said once the applause died down. I remembered to cock my head to the side.

“You may have wondered about the change in venue for the White House’s annual tribute to the American Business Leadership Council.”

My eyes swept the crowd. Heads nodded. Some vigorously. Some really vigorously.

Over by stage left, Humberto uncharacteristically chewed at a thumbnail.

“Sometimes seeing is believing,” I continued. “And I believe we’ve neglected to see what has been right under our noses. Homelessness. Hunger. Right here in the richest nation on earth, and in the shadow of political power.

“I’ve been trying to address the inequalities in our great nation. Micro-loan programs, grants for children in poverty, urban health-care centers, these initiatives have long been the cornerstone of my administration. But the other day, someone opened my eyes to the fact that I haven’t been doing enough.”

I let the moment hang.

“Trisha Jackson, the director of this amazing program, and countless other unsung heroes, have shown that it isn’t enough to propose solutions, and I hope that others will agree. Solutions take action. And solutions take partnerships with people who can help. That’s why you’re here today.”

The audience went really quiet. I prayed that was a good sign.

“I hope now that you’ve met some of the residents of this shelter, you see that people are as great an investment as a stock IPO or a takeover buyout.”

I lifted my right hand and stabbed the air in front to me to make my point. It was totally a Mom thing to do.

“My motto has always been that change starts with one person, and one person only. Today, change starts with you. I hope you will join me in transforming our country. For the better.”

Sweat tickled under my wig. No one was saying anything. Maybe they’d seen through my disguise. Maybe I’d given myself away somehow.

A crash of applause made me jump out of my skin. In amazement I watched as crusty reporters took notes feverishly. The guests behind them were applauding. Trisha Jackson held a tissue to her nose while Tobias patted her shoulder.

Hannah was doing a happy dance over by the buffet table. I glanced at Humberto. He was nodding, pleased. Thankfully, the queasy expression on his face had vanished.

Max. My eyes found his.

The smile he gave me rocked me down to my socks.

I remembered Dad’s rule: Leave them wanting more. I stepped away from the podium—
phew
!—and hurried into the protective cocoon of my Secret Service detail, leaving Humberto to field more questions from journalists. The detail whisked me away from the stage.

I wasn’t really sure where we were going. The adrenaline had worn off, and I started trembling. Blindly I let the detail, headed up by Max, guide me to the next staging area.

Which was…the stinky bathroom again.

A homeless person in a rank trench coat and floppy hat slouched against the door.

“Excuse us,” Max said firmly. “We need to secure the area.”

The homeless person raised her head.

“Mom!”

“Shhhh, honey. Let’s step inside where we’ll have some privacy. Agent Jackson will make sure no one disturbs us.” Mom nodded at Max, who ushered us both inside the bathroom.

I wanted another one of Max’s rare smiles, but he’d gone all hard-core agent again, stern expression and hard eyes. Maybe I’d imagined that awesome look he’d given me at the end of my speech.

Once inside the bathroom, Mom hugged me hard. “You were wonderful, Morgan. I think you’ve given the best speech of my administration.”

“Really?” A glow of pride lit me up.

“Hijacking a presidential banquet and moving it to a homeless shelter is not the way I would have handled it, but your crazy plan may have just saved my micro-loan initiative. After tonight’s news cycle, Congress would be foolish not to sign the micro-loan legislation. How did all this happen, anyway?”

“It’s a long story. Let’s just say the Tornado strikes again.” I pulled off the wig and Mom rumpled my hair.

“Morgan Abbott, politics might be in your future. After all, we’re cut from the same cloth.”

“Awww, thanks, Mom.” We beamed at each other. “How’d the peace talks go?”

“Really well. Not only did General Mfuso agree to deliver the yellowcake uranium to the U.N.’s International Atomic Energy Agency, they’re also one step closer to holding democratic elections. I’ll have another important announcement to make. Might as well do it now, since the press is already here.” Mom began unbuttoning the trench coat. “Ready to become Morgan Abbott again?”

“So ready.” I did a double take when Mom shrugged out of the coat. “Is that Mimi’s purple silk mini?” I gasped.

“Sure is. I thought since we’re swapping, you should get ready for your homecoming dance.”

“But I thought—”

“You’ll have time to make it, sweetie. We’ll get the sirens and flashing lights going on the motorcade so you’re not stuck in traffic.”

“Mom! Isn’t that taking presidential prerogatives too far? You always said we should be careful not to throw our weight around this town.”

“I think you’ve earned a little weight-throwing tonight.” Mom slipped into her suit and fluffed her hair. “I’ll send for Hannah. You two stay here and get ready for the dance. Humberto is arranging for additional time with the press outside the shelter so I can announce the African peace deal. It’ll be a perfect time for you two to sneak away.”

She encircled me in another a big hug. “I’m really proud of you, Morgan.”

I hugged her back. We
did
make a good team.

“Back at ya, Mom.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Hannah snuck into the bathroom
under Secret Service cover, and she and I got ready for the homecoming dance. By the time she threaded neon-pink hair extensions into my flattened hair, I began to feel like myself again. The violet silk mini also worked wonders.