Confessions of a First Daughter (3 page)

I slunk out of there as fast as I could.

Getting metaphorically walloped upside the head by Ms. Gibson was never a pleasant experience, but today’s session really shook me up.

Everyone thought I had it soooo easy as First Daughter. How could I tell Ms. Gibson…or anyone for that matter…that being the president’s daughter wasn’t all state dinners, Easter egg hunts on the White House lawn, and trips to Africa during school breaks? The pressure of it sat on my shoulders like a lead-lined parka. Be perfect. Don’t screw up. Everyone’s watching you.

And when you do mess up, it’s a double whammy. Not only are you an idiot, but you’re the idiot who happens to be the
president’s daughter
. My lousy grades reflect badly on the leader of the free world. Seriously, who can live with that kind of pressure?

I heard puffing behind me. Denny trotted at my heels. Sweat beaded around his receding hairline and he looked like he needed another macchiato. “Morgan, hey, hold up,” he wheezed.

“I’m late for rehearsal, Denny.”

“You haven’t told me where you and the Tippington boy are going out to dinner tonight.”

“Do you really need to know?”

“I need to send out an advance team to sweep the place first. You know that.”

“Yeah. But the problem is, so does the entire world. We’ll have the paparazzi swarming all over Augustino’s before we even get there.”

“Augustino’s. Check.”

“Denny! I said
don’t
send the advance team to Augustino’s. Konner and I want privacy tonight.”

Denny gave me one of his looks—the sympathetic executioner. “Rules are rules, Morgan.”

I was getting soooooo sick of this.

“Denny, I’m tired of being watched every minute. I can’t even go to the bathroom without everyone knowing because you’re practically standing outside the stall. Can I just pretend to be a normal person for one afternoon?”

A weird expression crossed his face—a combination of pity and exhaustion.

“Okay, Morgan,” he said. “I’ll give you some space this afternoon, as long as you don’t do anything crazy.”

I couldn’t even muster up the grace to thank him. I needed to get moving.

Dress rehearsal had already started when I arrived at the auditorium. Finally, after three years of badgering, I convinced the drama teacher that we could handle the musical
Rent
. Well, it was my convincing paired with the fact that a school edition of the production just came out—and Konner’s parents forked over the money for the royalty payment.

Up on the stage, Konner, who’d won the role of Benny the slumlord, was belting out his number in a killer three-piece suit. I paused for a moment, dazzled by his charisma and good looks. Whether on the basketball court or the stage, Konner commanded everyone’s attention. Geez.

Hannah appeared at my elbow. “You survived Gibson?”

“Barely.”

“Come on, I’ve got to get you into your costume before Escobedo throws one of his screaming hissy fits. We’re behind schedule as it is.”

“So, what am I wearing? Something outrageous, I hope.” I’d been cast as Maureen, the bisexual performance artist. The role was as far as possible from my normal personality, which was why I loved it.

“Outrageous? It’s interplanetary!” Hannah dragged me backstage. She was the production’s wardrobe and makeup artist, and getting into full diva mode about it.

Ten minutes later, I was gazing at my reflection in the full-length mirror in the girls’ dressing room. Hannah had poured me into skintight black PVC hot pants and a matching bustier.

“I’ll tell you what’s interplanetary. My boobs.” I tugged at the gel cleavage enhancers Hannah had thrust down the front of the bustier, which gave my two flat pancakes a serious lift.

“You’re welcome. Now shut up while I do your makeup.”

Hannah applied slabs of blue eye shadow that contrasted nicely with my brown eyes, and found some purple-black lipstick for my lips. Then she swiped sparkly blush over my cheeks, which I had to admit really brought out my cheekbones.

The sour feeling left by Ms. Gibson was easing away. I loved all this: performing, getting into a role, and most of all, having a great excuse to forget about being Morgan Abbott, the president’s daughter, for just a little while.

My entrance onstage caused a stir.

“Holy moley!” Jeong Nguyn said, pulling down the glasses he had to wear for the role of Mark Cohen, the Jewish mensch. “Is that you, Morgan?”

“For real.” I slammed a pop ’n’ lock move, which cracked everyone up.

Konner made a beeline for me. “Looking good, babe,” he said, his eyes glued to my mounded breasts.

I resisted the urge to cover them with my hands. Brittany Whittaker drifted past. She’d badgered Escobedo into being his director’s assistant, perfect for a control freak like her. “Making yourself a little more user-friendly, I see. How sluttastic for you, Morgan.”

“Who peed in your cornflakes this morning, Brit?” Jeong remarked.

Hannah spoke up. “She’s just jealous because Morgan kicked her butt at the class president speeches.”

“At least I don’t have to strip for votes,” Brittany replied snottily.

I felt myself growing hot with anger. “Because that would be so much worse than stealing someone else’s platform,
word for word
, right?”

Brittany’s pink-frosted mouth thinned into a vicious line.

Konner yawned. “Yeesh. I hate it when girls fight,” he said to Jeong.

“Speak for yourself,” Jeong replied with an exaggerated leer. “I kinda like it.”

Hannah smacked the back of his head. “Pervert. This is serious.”

Brittany and I glared at each other. IT. WAS. ON.

Mr. Escobedo bounded onstage, stopping things from getting ugly. “Everyone take five,” he shouted, even though we were standing right next to him. “We’ve got a problem with the lighting that needs to be fixed before we can continue rehearsal. Don’t wander away!”

Immediately, everyone began wandering away.

Konner whispered in my ear. “You look amazing, Morgan.”

Tingles shot through me. “So do you,” I murmured, allowing my eyes to slide appreciatively over his six-foot-two-inch frame lovingly tucked inside that smokin’ three-piece suit.

“Come on.” He tugged my hand and I willingly followed him into the prop room, which was filled with a jumble of rejects from past drama productions.

I ignored the smell of mold and plastic, then forgot about it altogether when Konner drew me close. “Wow, Morgan,” he said, giving my boobs another long look before lowering his face to mine. “Wow.”

Konner, it must be said, kissed like the babe-magnet he was. I tried not to think about all the girls he’d practiced on before me, but still, I appreciated their unspoken service.

That is, until I felt his breathing change.

His hands, which had been running up and down my back, now wandered to the front of my bustier, and the lack of oxygen from his increasingly hard kisses made my head spin.

I broke the kiss. “Konner. Wait—”

“Come on, babe.” He started gnawing on the side of my neck. His teeth felt sharp and his hand squeezed my gel enhancers.

“Konner! I said stop—”

Suddenly the door of the prop room burst open.

“Freeze right there! Step away from the president’s daughter.”

In horror, I looked over Konner’s shoulder and saw not only Denny, my Secret Service agent, but a
team
of agents.

He called in the perimeter detail? Unbelievable.

And behind them, Brittany and AOP’s entire drama class craned to get a gander at us.

The only thing missing from this freak show was the popcorn.

Chapter Four

“Denny! What’s going on?” I yelled.

By now Konner had been wrestled away from me by a couple of agents and was being frisked. The expression on Konner’s face was something I wouldn’t soon forget: one part humiliation and ten parts pissed off. “Morgan! Call off your goons, will ya?”

“Denny!”

“He’s clean,” said one of the agents who was keeping a tight grip on Konner’s shoulder.

“Of course he’s clean; he’s my boyfriend,” I told him angrily.

“Probably not after this,” I heard Brittany say snidely. The agents were communicating with devices implanted in their earpieces. “Yep, false alarm—
again
,” I heard one say.

Mr. Escobedo quickly herded the drama class away from the prop room, but that didn’t spare me the sight of Brittany’s satisfied smirk.

I rounded on Denny. “I demand an explanation.”

Denny pocketed his portable GPS tracking device—the one where I was the little red flashing dot. “Simple, Morgan. Through window surveillance, one of the perimeter team agents saw you being shoved into a closet. When he called me for clarification, I had to tell him I didn’t know where you were.”

“Does that mean barging in, guns blazing?”

“You broke The Bubble, Morgan. I had to act.”

The Bubble. Agent-speak for the zone of protection around the president and her family.

“You told me you wouldn’t do anything stupid,” Denny continued.

“Correction. I told you I wouldn’t do anything crazy. Because stupid’s something I’ve got a lock on.

As furious as I was, I really couldn’t blame Denny for doing his job. To be honest, beneath my shock and embarrassment, I was a little relieved. Konner and his wandering hands had gone too far, and I had a real moment of doubt that I could get him to back off.

Speaking of Konner—

“Hey, bro. Could you let me go?” Konner twitched under the perimeter agent’s special restraining grip. “Morgan?”

Denny nodded to the agent, who gave Konner a don’t-give-me-any-b.s. scowl before releasing him.

“Watch the threads, dude.” Konner smoothed the lapels of his suit before heading to the auditorium door.

“Text me later,” I called after him.

“Yeah, whatever,” he replied sullenly.

A second perimeter agent approached Denny. “POTUS is in the hold,” he told him.

POTUS. President of the United States. “The hold” was the Oval Office.

“Your mom is waiting for us,” Denny said. I had to admit, he kept a pretty good game face on, considering he was about to get reamed for this. “Get the motorcade ready and let’s roll.”

I glanced down at my skimpy costume. My gel enhancers had gone wonky due to Konner’s roving hands. “Can you at least let me change and talk to Mr. Escobado before you bring the Baby Beast limo around?”

“No. Mr. Escobado has been informed.” Denny had kicked into full-on official Secret Service mode. There’d be no more negotiating with him today. Or until my mom’s term in office expired, probably.

I sighed. I wasn’t real eager to see my mom right now. She wasn’t going to be happy about being interrupted over another one of “Morgan’s little episodes.”

Man, how I wished I could stay out of trouble for just one day.

A delegation of Japanese dignitaries was giving a press conference in front of the North Portico, my usual entry into the White House. Media presence would be intense, so Denny had the team drive me to the West Wing entry, which I usually avoided because it swarmed with Cabinet appointees, D.C. powerbrokers, diplomats, an army of staff members, and the press. From there, I’d meet my mom in the Oval Office.

As I got out of the motorcade, I clutched the trench coat that I’d pilfered from the prop room to my throat. Underneath the coat, my PVC hot pants chafed and crept up into all the wrong places. I’d managed to remove most of Hannah’s pancake makeup in the limo, but now my face somehow felt both naked and smudgy. I kept my head down and walked quickly toward the door, flanked by agents.

I scooted by one of the marines guarding the entry and nearly bumped into a massive vase full of white lilies—Mom’s favorite flower—sitting smack-dab on the Madison-era hall table. My nose began its telltale tingle and I sneezed. Gah, I’m beyond allergic to lilies. Mom reminded her staff about it, but fawning diplomats kept sending them anyway. I sneezed again.

Julia, one of Mom’s deputy chiefs of staff, was power walking by, arms loaded with files. “Bless you, Madam President,” she said cheerily.

I raised my head, sniffling like a spaniel puppy. Julia checked her step and flushed. “Goodness, Morgan! I took you for your mother. Wow, you’re the spitting image of her. When did you get to be such a big girl?”

Appalled, I stared at her. I didn’t know which insulted me more: the fact that she thought I was a
big
girl now, or that I looked so much like my mother. Despite being in her early forties and blessed with preternaturally youthful skin, Mom didn’t believe in chasing trends or wearing shoes with anything resembling a heel. I guess the unlimited power of the presidency drains a person of all sense of style. The media said her style was classic; I thought her style was just plain old-fashioned. And
that
was what I looked like?

Reluctantly, I conceded that it wasn’t Julia’s fault that she’d misidentified me. I
was
wrapped in the trench coat, plus with my hair being a bit longer than normal and without its usual streaks of neon hair color, I had somehow ended up with something approaching my mom’s hairstyle. Arg!

Julia’s eyes swept over my smudged lips and raccoon eyes. “Maybe I should call my optometrist and make an appointment,” she muttered.

Denny asserted himself. He was clearly ready to get this over with. “Morgan’s expected in the Oval Office,” he told Julia. She got the hint and resumed her power-walk down the corridor.

Padma, Mom’s private secretary, did a double take when I entered her office in the executive suite, but she recovered quickly. “Go right in. The president had to step away for an emergency meeting, but she won’t be long.” Padma’d gotten used to my unique fashion sense and flare for total catastrophe over the year she’d been Mom’s gatekeeper, and she smiled at me sympathetically.

“Thanks, Pads. Got any toffees left? I’m starved.”

“You know where to find them. Help yourself.” Padma kept a stash of candy imported from her hometown of Mumbai on a shelf next to her desk. I took a couple. These toffees rocked. The boiled chocolate limes—not so much.