Confessions of a First Daughter (7 page)

I took a deep breath. “As everyone who participates in democracy knows, losing is sometimes part of the process. I wish my opponent every success, and I know she’ll make a fine senior class president.”

God, maybe I really was born to be a politician. Because I just told a whopper of a lie.

Max intervened with an air of someone who’d had his last nerve worn out. “We need to roll,” he told me, and shooed me into the car.

“Cute outfit today, Morgan!” the reporter called after me before Max shut the limo’s door.

The car swung away from the curb. Outside the gate, crews from nearly every news outlet had camped out. Paparazzi ran after the limo to fire off shots, but they wouldn’t get anything through the smoked glass windows.

I slouched into the leather seat, bone weary. Today had been another rough one.

As we approached the White House, Max’s wireless com chirped and Max instructed the Secret Service driver to pull around to the south entrance.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Unwanted media has camped by the north entrance,” Max answered. “They’re on the street with high-powered cameras trained on the driveway.”

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “Why?” Then I knew. They wanted another photo of me wearing a crazy outfit.

“Don’t worry,” Max answered shortly. “I know another way in.”

“You do?” But I didn’t have time for more questions. We quickly changed directions and pulled into the south entrance by the White House’s press briefing room.

“Are you insane?” I screeched. “The press room’s crawling with reporters!”

Max muttered into his com before he turned to me. “I’m hiding you in plain sight, Morgan. By the time they realize you’re right under their noses, you’ll be gone. Plus it’s the fastest way in. But we have to move quickly.”

“Okaaaaay.” It seemed like a long shot, but I didn’t have much choice. The car had already stopped.

I have to give Max his props, because his plan worked like a charm. Before the pool reporters even had a chance to register my presence, I’d slipped through them.

Max escorted me to the back stairs leading to the third-floor residence.

“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “Can I get you to promise you won’t make any unauthorized excursions outside of secured areas?”

“Like I’d give the press another shot at getting a horrible photo of me? Not a chance.” I slung my backpack on my shoulder and started up the stairs. Then I paused. “Thanks for everything today, Max. You really came through for me.”

To my surprise, he stalked away without another word. What was up with him?

Upstairs in the family quarters, nineties grunge rock music blared from the workout room. Dad was home.

“Puddin’ Pop, can you come in here?” Dad yelled before I had a chance to sneak past.

I cringed at hearing the nickname Dad would probably be calling me for the rest of my life. An image of me at the ripe old age of sixty flashed through my mind as my ninety-year-old father called me Puddin’ Pop from his hovercraft wheelchair.

“Can you turn down the moldy oldies?” I asked as I entered the workout room.

Dad set down the barbell he’d been pumping—he needed to keep in shape for all the surfing he liked to do—and ran his hand over the touchscreen pad of the high-tech sound system invented by Abbott Technology. The guitar riff mercifully died. Dad wiped his sweaty face with a workout towel. His black hair still curled thick and only a couple of lines creased the corners of his eyes.

“Puddin’ Pop, I know today must’ve been rough for you,” Dad began.

“You saw the paper?”

“Of course. Your mother is outraged. So am I. The
Gadfly
crossed a line when they went after you.”

“Reporters were waiting for me at the school gates today.”

He got up off the weight bench and gave me a sweaty hug. “I know this is tough, but believe me when I say this will pass. Remember what happened during the campaign when Mom was ready to secure the nomination? The coconut bra incident?”

I nodded miserably. Someone had found photos from Dad’s days as a fraternity brother in college. Photos of him in a grass hula skirt and coconut bra at some frat kegger got splashed over the front page of every major newspaper from coast to coast. “Bra-gate” almost cost Mom the nomination.

“I know that sucked, Dad, but it’s not the same. You chose to marry a politician and run the risk of looking like an idiot in public. I didn’t ask for all this attention and it’s ruining my life!”

At that moment, Dad’s cell phone, tossed onto a pile of his martial arts uniforms, began to vibrate. Dad gave me a hard look before reaching for it. “It’s your mother,” he said, reading the text message. “She wants to speak to you.”

“Where is she?”

“Oval Office.”

I sighed. I wanted to whine that I was always going to her instead of her coming to me, but even I knew that maintaining world peace was going to be the trump card every time.

“Hang in there, Puddin’ Pop.” Dad gave me an encouraging smile as I trudged out.

Inside the executive assistant’s office, Padma’s eyes were glued to the flat-panel TV mounted on the wall.

“Omigod!” A montage of unflattering photos of me flashed on the screen. There I was as a kid in my ballet tutu and braces. The photo was overlaid by the one of me in my
Rent
costume, boobs ahoy.

Padma hurriedly clicked off the TV “Wait here just a sec, Morgan. I’ll see if your mom is ready for you.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t ask for any toffees this time. I felt vaguely like throwing up.

“It’s unforgivable!” I heard Mom saying angrily when Padma opened the connecting door to the Oval Office.

I peeked. Mom paced furiously over the eagle’s seal on the rug. I’d never seen her so livid. Standing at attention near Washington’s portrait, Humberto Morales, Mom’s chief of staff, looked concerned.

“I want the
Gadfly
’s press pass pulled for a start, Humberto.” Mom’s voice sliced; I’m surprised Humberto didn’t split in two. “Then I want any paper that reprints the photo to be officially reprimanded. No interviews, no access, none of their reporters allowed on Air Force One or Two. Understood?”

“I’m not sure that’s the wisest course, Sara—”

“They crossed a line when they went after Morgan. I will not have it.”

“I agree that Morgan is off-limits to press, but let’s do this the right way.” Humberto held his hand up in a conciliatory gesture. “You can’t afford any further slips in the polls. I’ll send surrogates out to the Sunday talk shows to express our displeasure about this outrageous breach of Morgan’s privacy. We’ll push our side to friendly bloggers and have editorials hit the major papers. Spun the right way, we’ll be able to protect Morgan from future breaches and gain public sympathy.”

“I don’t give a damn about public sympathy, I want the harassment to stop!”

Padma’s voice murmured. Mom put a hand to her forehead and took a deep breath. “Do I look calm?” she said to Padma. “Okay, send her in.”

Truth was, Mom looked anything but calm.

Chapter Ten

When that fire lit Mom’s eyes, watch out.

“Come on in, honey.” Visibly, she pulled herself together. As I entered the Oval Office, Humberto gave me a friendly nod then faded into the shadowy hallways of the West Wing. Humberto was a cool guy, but he was short on chitchat. That’s probably why Mom kept him on her staff during her transition from the Senate to the presidency.

Mom beckoned me over to the sofa and turned to Padma. “Why don’t you ask the kitchen to send up a snack? Some of Nigel’s gingersnaps should get Morgan and me through the afternoon.”

“You got it, Sara.” Padma shut the door behind her.

I plopped on the couch and Mom sat next to me. “I’m so sorry about all this, Morgan. But I promise I’ll do everything in my power to get the press off your back.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

She brushed a lock of hair from my forehead the way she used to when I was little. “You’re growing up. I didn’t really realize until I saw that photo in the
Gadfly
.”

“Mom, gross! Those are gel enhancers! Hannah used them for my costume.”

“No kidding? Maybe Hannah could let me borrow a couple, and I’ll send your father out in his coconut bra to the next National Press Club luncheon. That’d really give them a story.”

“Don’t even think about it. You know he’d totally do it!”

Mom laughed a hearty honk of a laugh. I hadn’t heard one of those from her in I don’t know how long. “We could put the photo on our Christmas cards. The party donors would have a heart attack.”

“So would Nana.”

We busted up. Nana Abbott came from a starchy Connecticut blue-blood line. Every teapot wore its cozy at Nana Abbott’s house.

A chirping cut across our laughter, and the red button on the phone on Mom’s desk blinked.

Instantly, Mom switched into president mode, and rose. “I have to take this call, honey. Just a minute.”

“No prob.” I’d gotten used to getting my mom’s attention in bits and pieces over the years.

She snatched the phone off its cradle. “Sara Abbott here.”

Padma came in with a tray of cookies, a pot of coffee for Mom, and a soda for me. Reluctantly I took a gingersnap and nibbled. I didn’t want to spoil my appetite before my date with Konner tonight, but Nigel’s cookies were too amazing to pass up. He’d drizzled dark chocolate over this batch.

While I ate, I listened to fragments of Mom’s phone conversation.

“I’m not signing the bill if Congress loads more pork-barrel spending in it,” Mom said. “Tell the speaker of the House that the bill will be DOA if I see one more congressional pet project attached to it.”

Mom said she found it ironic that when she was in Congress, she thought the president didn’t compromise enough. Now that she’s the president, she feels that she compromises too much.

I was reaching for another gingersnap when Sally Kempton, Mom’s rail-thin, chain-smoking communications director, tapped on the door and opened it. “Press conference in thirty minutes,” she mouthed from the doorway.

Mom nodded without missing a beat in her phone conversation. Three seconds later, she’d hung up. “Why don’t you come with me?” she said, sliding her arms into the suit jacket she’d draped over the back of her chair.

“Really?” Mom never asked me to go to presidential press conferences—not after that time she caught me snoozing while she gave her stump speech. It wasn’t my fault; I’d already heard the speech a gazillion times when we’d been on the campaign trail.

“It would be great to have you in my corner. Abbotts have to stick together, don’t we?”

As much as I wanted to be angry with her, to blame her for this mess, I couldn’t help but feel a little—okay a lot—proud of my mom. “Yeah. We do.”

I followed Mom to the Brady Press Briefing Room. The sight of camera crews and reporters milling about made my stomach automatically lurch, and I hurried after Mom into the peanut-sized green room where Humberto was waiting.

I twirled in the makeup chair while Mom and Humberto huddled in the corner and went over last-minute talking points. Dion, Mom’s makeup artist, walked in and came toward me. “Okay, Sara—oh gosh! Morgan? Sorry, hon.”

“That’s okay. I’m getting that a lot lately. Must be the hair.” Honestly, tomorrow I was going to get the bob hairstyle cut off. Shaved off. Whatever it took.

“Well, I’m going to take it as a compliment,” Mom said with a smile, shooing me out of the makeup chair. Humberto seemed to have vanished. He has this way of being everywhere and nowhere. It’s kind of freaky, actually.

Dion got out the makeup brushes and a can of hairspray. “You should, Sara. You and Morgan could be twins.”

“It’s nice to know I won’t need any Botox injections for a while,” Mom joked.

“Everyone take a deep breath,” Dion warned, and sprayed Mom’s hair with a cloud of aerosol.

After the coughing subsided, Humberto poked his head in. “They’re ready, Sara.”

“Showtime.” Mom stood up. She straightened her shoulders, and suddenly Mom disappeared and I was looking at the president of the United States.

In the crowded press briefing room, cameras and video monitors whirred while reporters peppered Mom with questions. From my seat in the wings, I got a good view of the media circus. I recognized a few of the reporters. Mom answered even the most aggressive reporters calmly, and I marveled at how she kept her cool. From her position at the blue lectern bearing the presidential seal, Mom pointed to reporter after reporter, careful to give each one a chance to ask a question.

“Yes, Helen?” Mom pointed to an older woman wearing an outrageous yellow-checkerboard suit.

“Chet Whittaker made good on his threat to kill your micro-loan program for those below the poverty line. What are your plans for the initiative now?”

Ah, the Whittakers. Brits, my nemesis, and Chet, the leader of the opposition party.

“To try again,” Mom responded firmly. “The opposition party feels that money spent on the poor is money wasted. We feel differently. Next session we’ll work harder to convince the congressional delegates that this legislation is needed. Tom?”

Tom Agoletti of
The New York Times
rose. “There’s been criticism of your administration’s new offshore drilling regulations. The oil companies in particular have launched a media blitz against it. Will you hold hearings on the issue?”

Mom rubbed her ear. I could tell she didn’t like the question. “Change is always hard at first, Tom. We feel confident that the CEOs of the Big Three oil companies will agree that reworking our country’s energy policy is the right thing to do.”

It occurred to me that Mom just gave one of her famous (the opposition party would call it infamous) non-answer answers.

“Yes, Jerry?” she said to her least favorite reporter from
The Washington Post
.

Jerry Shutz stood and stabbed his pen aggressively at Mom. “President Abbott, the situation in the African tidal basin is getting more fragile. General Mfuso’s ruling military junta has threatened civil war unless the opposition party gives up its demand for free elections. There are also rumors that Mfuso has purchased a supply of yellowcake uranium. What is the American response to the threats?”