Long May She Reign (24 page)

Trudy's quilt, at least, was familiar in a good way, and she pulled it closer. The room seemed musty, and she didn't like its shape, or the bare walls, or the way light came in underneath the door and at the edges of the extra-heavy—probably bullet-resistant—window shades. She was cold. Scared. She wanted Vanessa.

Finally, she was starting to doze off, when she heard low male laughter, very close to her door. She stiffened, feeling around for anything nearby that she could use as a weapon, trying to remember exactly where the new panic button was. Oh, God. Oh, God, he was here. Somehow, he had found out exactly where she was—probably just by turning on the damn television, and—a female voice was saying something now, and she realized that it was only Juliana and Mark saying good-night.

Okay. Okay. There were agents—and reporters—all over the place, and odds were, no one was coming up here to kill her. Not tonight, anyway.

She tensed and released her muscles, trying to relax. To go back to sleep.
Not
to cry nervous reaction tears.

And, at all three of these things, she was only modestly successful.

She had even more nightmares than she would have predicted in a moment of profound pessimism, and at one point, woke up crying very hard, sitting straight up in bed, putting much too much weight on her splint, and as she slowly figured out where she was—and
wasn't
—she hoped to hell that she hadn't screamed. Or, if she had, that no one had heard her.

Around daybreak, she gave up on sleep completely, and lay there, staring at the ceiling, the smoke detector, the ugly round light, and the empty walls, swallowing another pain pill dry—which made her miss the dependable pitchers of ice water she normally found on her bedside table. Here, she didn't even
have
a bedside table.

There was juice and milk and soda crammed into her little refrigerator, but she felt too sluggish and tired to give any serious consideration to dragging herself over to get a drink. So, she pressed her good arm across her face, to make the room seem darker, and to try and prevent herself from doing any more crying. As it was, she was going to be attending her first classes, and meeting her advisor—and dealing with the god-damn media—with red, swollen eyes, making the reality of her long, sleepless night, and pathetic loneliness, all the more obvious.

She stayed in bed until almost seven o'clock, then decided she might as well get up. The doctors had molded her a new waterproof plastic brace, complete with drainage holes, so she could take showers more easily now, but it was still a slow and painful ordeal, every single time. Not that the shower bench in the handicapped stall had much appeal, either.

The thing to do, was go out and make sure the bathroom was free. Her knee was very stiff, and her left hip was aching for some reason, too. All of those damned stairs, probably. When he saw her, Jose, the agent on duty in the security room, straightened up behind his desk, and they exchanged good mornings. Then, she established that the bathroom was empty, and hurried back to her room to get soap and shampoo and all.

She wasn't sure what people wore to the shower in college. In movies, they always seemed to have on flip-flops and artfully-draped towels. Her terry-cloth bathrobe would have to do. Her family had never been inclined to wander about casually in pajamas, forget towels. As a rule, they all liked to be
dressed
. Even in Chestnut Hill, with no witnesses around, they had generally been somewhat formal. And she hated slippers, so she always used an old pair of Top-Siders, instead.

As she limped back out to the hall, she ran into Mary Elizabeth, who was carrying a large towel and wearing a red corduroy bathrobe. They stopped, and looked at each other.

Meg took a step back, and had to catch herself against the wall, when her left foot refused to cooperate. “Uh, sorry. I mean, I don't know how it works.”

“We take turns,” Mary Elizabeth said, “how do you
think
it works?”

Yeah, she maybe should have figured out that one on her own. But this girl was certainly going out of her way to piss her off, wasn't she. “Sorry. Just trying to be polite.” Meg turned to go into her room. On the other hand. She turned back. “Am I wrong, or do you seem to have a problem with me?”

Mary Elizabeth scowled. “I don't have a problem.”

Right. “Good,” Meg said. “Hope we keep it that way.” Maybe her parents hated her mother or something.

Mary Elizabeth's scowl eased into—a mere frown. “Look. There are two showers in there, it's not like—”

Meg shook her head. “No, it's okay, I'll wait until later. I need to make a phone call, anyway.” Yeah, right. At seven-fifteen.

It wasn't a very relaxing way to start the morning, and if her father had known that she was skipping breakfast, too, he would have said that that was no way to improve her day. A gaggle of reporters met her on her way to her political science class, but Ginette had come over from the Inn to deal with them, and her agents were working with the local and campus police to force them off campus property to whatever degree possible. Meg kept to herself, saying nothing more than a friendly “Good morning, nice to see you,” while moving past them.

The class had about thirty people, all of whom seemed edgy—including the professor—about having her spend the next semester in a room where the Presidency was going to be discussed, and quite probably criticized, on a regular basis. She took a seat in the back of the room, and spent most of the class period wondering if she should drop the course, and take something else—except that she
wanted
to study political science, and hell, she was paying tuition, too. Or, at any rate, her parents were paying it.

So she just sat quietly and read the syllabus and took detailed notes—in a brand-new purple Williams College notebook someone on the advance team had purchased. They had to write their names, local phone numbers, and email addresses on the class roster sheet, and she left her phone number blank, because she couldn't actually remember which one she was supposed to use for things like that. When she passed the roster along, the people next to her noticed that she hadn't filled that section out, and exchanged glances, which might have been a sign of disapproval, or might just have been curiosity.

Once the class ended, she went to meet with her academic advisor, who was a literature professor, with a special interest in women's studies. Dr. Nyler was rather entertainingly gender-obsessed, and very disappointed that she hadn't signed up for any feminist courses, because she was sure Meg would have many fascinating insights to contribute.

Oh, no doubt.

It was barely eleven o'clock, and she wasn't sure she could make it any longer without lying down for a while, but she had to go to her Philosophy class, which was small enough to sit at a seminar table. To her horror, the professor went around the room, asking them each to say their names, where they were from, and tell a little about themselves.

When it was her turn, she just said that her name was Meg, she was from the Boston area, originally, and that she was a freshman. The professor, who seemed sweet, if a tad addled, nodded encouragingly, as though she might be inclined to share more, but Meg sat back and motioned for the guy next to her to go ahead and introduce himself.

One of her agents was in a chair in the far corner—in high school, they had always stayed outside in the corridor, or down in the command center—and the professor pretty much proved that he was a flake, when he turned towards him with an expectant look on his face, after everyone else had spoken. Her agent looked panic-stricken for a second—which she found funny, and also, alarming—and then said that his name was Brian, and he was from Washington, DC. “Splendid, splendid,” the professor said, and began to hand out syllabuses. Brian must have wanted to avoid trouble, or long explanations, because he accepted one without a word, folding the paper neatly and sticking it in his pocket.

After that, she had to spend some time in the Dean's Office, being welcomed by a steady stream of college administrators and faculty members, and then sitting in an empty room to fumble her way through the requisite Quantitative Studies exam.

She hadn't had anything close to a full meal since that last dinner back at the White House, so she knew she had to
force
herself to go to the dining hall and get some lunch, even though she had no appetite at all. The student center, which was right near her dorm, was supposed to serve food, but she was too shy to go in there by herself, so she made the slow, snowy trek down to Mission, instead.

The place was mobbed, and without the buffer of a kindly JA and three reluctant hallmates, she almost left. Today, at least, she
did
have her sunglasses, and she kept them on as she waited in line. Made it a little hard to see but that seemed like a minor price to pay.

A few people said hello to her, and she nodded in response. It seemed—opportunistic. Or, possibly, friendly.

Her stomach hurt so much that she didn't feel safe taking anything more than a cup of mushroom barley soup and some crackers and a Coke—part of which she spilled as she made her way to an empty table. Brian sat there, too, with a cup of coffee, for which she felt pitifully grateful. Not that they were apt to have much of a conversation, but it was still a nice gesture. Hard to tell, at this point, if she was setting the tone, or if it was mutual.

“Pretty cold out there,” she said, after a couple of silent minutes.

Brian nodded. “Sure is.”

“I hear you're from Washington,” she said, and he smiled, but didn't respond any further.

So much for that. Meg started eating her soup, the spoon wavering in her hand. She could feel that her shoulders were hunched—and likely to remain so—and wondered if everyone in the crowded room was staring at her. Surely not. But, it definitely felt that way.

So far, it seemed pretty clear that deciding she was ready to go away to college by herself had been one
hell
of a mistake.

15

TWO SPOONFULS OF
the soup were enough to make her feel so sick that she decided to give up and retreat to the dorm for the rest of the day. People would notice that she had rushed out, alone, after only about five minutes—but, it was preferable to the dreaded notion of vomiting in public.

“Hi!” a very happy voice said. “Can I sit here?”

Juliana. Who put her tray down before Meg had a chance to say anything.

“Can my friends sit here, too?” she asked, and turned to summon them without waiting for an answer.

Mark and two other guys carried their trays over, boisterously selecting seats. The friends were scruffy in the same way Mark was—ripped jeans, flapping unlaced hiking boots, flannel shirts, shapeless old sweatshirts, wispy attempts at mustaches, and—in one guy's case—an actual full beard.

“This is Simon,” Juliana indicated the guy with the beard, “and this is Harry,” she pointed at the one who had only managed a thin mustache and a small patch of hair below his lower lip.

“
Skipper
,” Simon corrected her. “Everyone calls me Skipper.”

Mark laughed. “You wish everyone called you Skipper.”

Simon looked at Meg. He was a brawny guy, with lots of bushy brown hair. “They do call me that,” he said. “It suits me.”

“Get yourself a little sailor's hat,” Harry—long narrow face, pale blond hair, and inescapably preppy in spite of his best efforts—said. “And then we'll see.”

“I crew boats all the time,” Simon insisted. “Every summer.”

Harry nodded, downing one of his three glasses of milk. “Yup. Sailboats galore in Indiana.”

“You know it,” Simon said, and turned to Meg. “Remember, it's
Skipper
.”

She nodded, tightening her hand around one of her little packets of saltines. Crushing them, as a matter of fact.

He motioned towards the soup. “That's all you're eating?”

“Not if you don't give her a
chance
to eat it,” Juliana said. She had a pulled pork sandwich, a spoonful of succotash, and an orange on her plate, while the other three had each taken several sandwiches, along with huge portions of french fries.

“Well,” Simon shrugged, “she looks very slim. Maybe bigger, and more balanced, meals are something she should be thinking about.”

“Let her eat, for Christ's sakes,” Harry said, already well into his second sandwich, dripping barbecue sauce everywhere.

Sitting there, so tense that the saltines were now powder, Meg tried to think of something she disliked more than being the center of attention. Luckily, Mark had started talking about some genetics course he was going to be taking, and whether it was too much work to be worth the trouble. It developed that he and Harry were both pre-med, and they discussed various science requirements and academic strategies, while Juliana made cracks about the twisted concept of being devoted to one's studies. This was, evidently, a conversation they had all had a number of times before.

Simon nudged her. “It's not, you know, bad, to be thin. I mean, like, I have sisters, right? And, all they eat are rice cakes, right? So, I was just commenting, not, you know, criticizing. In case, I don't know, you're sensitive or whatever.”

“How did you get
in
to this school?” Harry asked. “What'd you get, four hundreds, maybe, on your SATs?”

Simon didn't even look slightly offended. “Diversity, man. The place wants diversity.”

“Yeah, well, then, go to
Wesleyan
,” Harry said, and even Meg laughed.

She let them all talk, contributing nothing more than the occasional nod or smile, if it seemed to be indicated. Her soup, still barely touched, had gotten pretty cold, but when Juliana went up to the front to get a cup of milky, heavily-sugared coffee, and brought one back for her, too, she was surprised by how good it tasted.