Long May She Reign (31 page)

So, she pulled a sweatshirt on over her t-shirt and sweatpants, and slogged down to find a large florist's box on the security desk. She reached forward, and then hesitated.

“Have you checked it?” she asked.

The agent on duty, Ed, just looked at her.

Right. The Secret Service was notoriously fond of letting the First Family open unexamined packages. She lifted the cover of the box and saw two dozen long-stemmed red roses. The envelope had already been opened, of course—standard threat assessment—but at least that made it easier to take the card out with only one hand.

It said:
I apologize. Jack.

Ed was trying to be discreet, but she could tell that he was extremely curious about what her reaction was going to be.

“Do you want them?” he asked.

Not really. But, roses were roses, and—what the hell. “Sure,” she said, and tucked the box under her arm.

*   *   *

THE NEXT MORNING
, after her psychology class ended and everyone was leaving the lecture hall, she somehow wasn't stunned to see a certain West Coast resident—and classmate—waiting around by the door for her to come out.

She stopped, gave it some thought, and then walked over to him. “Thank you,” she said. “They were very pretty.”

Jack nodded, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I'm glad you liked them.”

They stood there.

“Well,” she said.

He nodded. “Right.”

Then, without looking at each other, they walked in different directions.

*   *   *

DURING THE NEXT
few days, she settled into a new routine. Lots of studying,
meticulous
devotion to her physical therapy, and even the occasional well-balanced meal. An exciting evening was something along the lines of heating up instant coffee in the microwave and answering email.

Of course, she was completely freaking miserable, but—life was flawed. And, at least, it was a relatively familiar state of mind. She spent a lot of time watching CNN and C-Span, and thinking about how much she missed Vanessa, and wishing that she could hold her on her lap, and even get scratched a few times—just for the chance to hear that loud rumble of a purr.

During the weekend of the annual Winter Carnival, there seemed to be twice as many parties and social events as usual—all of which she skipped. Snow and ice sculpture contests, sledding excursions, fireworks, snowball fights, something called “Broomball,” that sort of thing. But mainly, Winter Carnival seemed to be devoted to
skiing
. Going skiing, watching skiing,
celebrating
skiing. Listening to the distinctive sound of skis clacking together, and boots clunking, as people in her dorm packed up and headed off to the slopes was so depressing that, in the middle of reading
As You Like It
, she found herself crying. In fact, she felt so close to the edge emotionally that she didn't bother checking her email or answering her phone for almost three days—although she made herself call her parents once and try to sound happy, so that they wouldn't panic about not hearing from her. She also avoided the dining hall, avoided Goodrich, and avoided Sunday Snacks in the second-floor common room. In fact, she avoided doing much of anything whatsoever which involved leaving her room—or, more accurately, the
bed
.

Day after day, Juliana would pop in, full of ideas of fun things to do, and Meg would nod, and be polite, and refuse for what she suspected were nakedly-flimsy reasons. Susan and Dirk checked on her constantly, looking ever-more concerned and frustrated, and surprisingly, Mary Elizabeth showed up at her door once to ask if she wanted to go over to Bronfman and see a movie. Meg thanked her, but said that she needed to stay in and work on a lab report for her psychology class. Even Jesslyn stumped into her room to invite her to come join a hard-core Texas Hold'Em game over in Morgan—another offer which she rebuffed as pleasantly as she could.

Jack Taylor and his long-haired buddy had stopped throwing the Frisbee at her, but whenever she saw him somewhere, he would hesitate, and then nod, or give her a slight wave. Most of the time, she would nod back, and they left it, uncomfortably, at that.

She was hunched over her desk one night, working on a philosophy paper, when Susan stopped by.
Again
. But, at least she wasn't going to get yelled at about food, for once, since she had grimly chewed her way through a full meal of beef stroganoff, noodles, and butternut squash earlier while sitting at the very same table with Susan, down at Mission. In fact, she even got some dessert from the sundae bar. Granted, she didn't finish it, but she
served
it to herself, at least.

“Hey,” Susan said.

Meg nodded, using the mouse with her good hand.

“How's it going?” Susan asked.

It would be nice if these little encounters felt less—perfunctory. Meg turned in her chair. “Does Dirk hand this chore off to you? Or do you break your own rule—and
volunteer
?”

Susan looked tired.

“Anyway, I'm fine. Thanks for stopping by,” Meg said, and turned back to her computer.

Susan watched her for a minute. “Are you going to spend the next four years this way?”

Quite probably. “I'm highly academically motivated,” Meg said, typing a couple of notes about the section of Plato's
Republic
she had read earlier. “My studies mean a great deal to me.”

“Since when?” Susan asked dubiously.

Since her drunken escapade. And, for that matter, since she'd had to listen to a JA's blunt lecture about it. Meg shrugged.

Susan sighed, and—since there weren't any other chairs in the room—sat down on the bottom of the bed. “I should never have said anything. You were just trying to fit in, and—I got in your way.”

Yep.

“You
should
relax, and have fun, and do dumb things,” Susan said. “I just—I really don't like Jack Taylor, so I got worried about you, and—I'm sorry, it was a bad call on my part.”

Although she wouldn't have predicted it, Meg immediately felt defensive. “Jack's okay. He's just a little overwhelmed by having a penis.”

Susan grinned wryly. “Aren't they all?”

Since the beginning of time.

“Just—I don't know,” Susan said. “Try to find some middle ground. Okay?”

Yeah. Maybe she'd settle for a couple of A minuses, instead of straight A's.

During her brothers' February vacation, her security suddenly doubled, because her whole family was heading off to Europe, so that her mother could meet with the Member States of the International Atomic Energy Agency, and also make short hops to Berlin, Geneva, Brussels, and Madrid. Ramstein Air Base, Landstuhl, maybe Wiesbaden. An “if it's Tuesday, it must be Vienna” kind of trip. Behind closed doors, her mother referred to all meetings with European allies—with
any
allies, for that matter—as “cleaning up the mess,” and the staff privately called them “America Is Your Buddy!” appearances. Her parents were very nervous about leaving her alone in the United States—which made
her
nervous—and so, they decided upon a huge expansion of her protective detail in their absence.

They had wanted her to join them, and she was tempted to say yes, since overseas Presidential trips were always interesting as hell, but if she went, she was pretty sure she wouldn't bother coming back to finish the semester when they returned. In fact, she had a feeling she might drop out of college altogether, given even the slightest excuse—and, as such, it would be the better part of wisdom to avoid anything which resembled an opportunity to do so.

But, she was very tense all week, and spent almost every free second glued to CNN, to follow the progress of the trip, and make sure that her family was safe, and appeared reasonably cheerful. For the most part, they looked okay, although she had to laugh when, right before starting to make a statement after a meeting at the IAEA Secretariat, her mother stopped, apologized, and went over to a very anxious-looking Neal, bent down, and spoke to him quietly. Then she glanced at Meg's father—whose radar was
good
, but not nearly as sharp as her mother's—and he came over to lead Neal off somewhere, presumably the nearest men's room.

Whereupon, her mother returned to the podium, entirely unruffled, gave her statement, took questions, and went back to the business of international affairs. The media seemed to be divided about whether it was wonderful, endearing footage—or whether her mother had been making a craven high-profile attempt to seem like an engaged parent. Apparently, they had missed the President's distinct, if subtle, attempt to make eye contact with Meg's father, or Linda, or one of her many aides, or
anyone
who could have quickly and easily interceded before she had to do it herself—and they were also, in Meg's opinion, perhaps lacking in senses of humor. Of course, one of the commentators routinely described the President as “The She-Devil” during many of his very biased round-table talk show appearances, so it was hard to take him seriously on any level.

Actually, right after her mother took office, some nut had self-published a book called
The She-Devil and Her Ruthless Plan for World Domination
, augmented by many author-planted five star reviews on Amazon. She and Beth had once spent an afternoon on the roof patio by the Solarium, reading it aloud and pretty much laughing themselves sick the entire time. It was easily the most hilarious book she had ever read, with the possible exception of a ranting diatribe titled
Dark Powers
, which included detailed accusations of satanic occult practices her mother was thought to embrace, complete with a photo of her holding their cat, Sidney—who looked sleepy, overweight, and deeply phlegmatic—and was described as one of the President's “familiars.” Meg had even found a picture of herself in that epic tome, taken when she was about eight years old, dressed up for Halloween in a witch costume, smiling away with green makeup on her face. The caption was: “Grooming the next generation,” which was funny all by itself, but made that much more so because the Evil-Being-To-Be was happily holding up a little orange cardboard UNICEF box in one hand.

It seemed to snow almost every day, which not only meant that she slipped and fell a lot, but served as a near-constant reminder that she was missing out on one of the best New England ski seasons in
years
. Maybe life would seem less bleak when, and if, the snow ever melted away. But, she just forced herself to keep getting up in the morning, going to classes, studying, heading over to physical therapy, and then studying some more. Trying to remember to eat, making a point of lying down at night even when she couldn't sleep, missing her cat, watching too much television. All of which was mind-numbingly dull, but at least she was probably going to get
really
good grades this semester.

Then, it was Friday, yet again, and she knew she was facing another long, empty weekend, which left her feeling so unhappy and out of sorts that when she got to her psychology class, she started to go inside the lecture hall—and then walked right back out again. Her agents exchanged glances—but, wisely, refrained from commenting. Paula was the first one to find the gumption to break the silence.

“Will you be needing a car?” she asked.

Meg shook her head. “Not until we have to go to god-damn physical therapy, no.” What she probably needed was coffee, and maybe even something resembling breakfast.

So, after informing her agents accordingly, she decided to go down to the coffeehouse on Spring Street, and get a latte and a muffin or something.

The guy behind the counter was either unusually friendly—or, possibly, just flirtatious— and she was cordially aloof in return.

Which was, now that she thought about it, the character trait she
most
detested in her mother. It was always sort of disquieting to realize that the apple was making a regular habit of nestling itself directly underneath the tree.

Although a lot of people were coming in and out to get drinks or pastries to go, most of the tables were empty. She was looking for the most secluded place to sit down, when she noticed Hannah Goldman, her most recognizable journalistic shadow, slumping in a chair in the back room, with a cup of coffee, looking rather petulant and as though she
really
wanted a cigarette. She was still dressing as though she was expecting to be called into the White House Press Room for a vital briefing at any moment, and possibly then do an extensive live analysis on national television herself, but apparently, the reality of a foot and a half of snow had been enough to force her to abandon her high heels temporarily for a pair of impractical, but flashy, knee-high black leather boots.

Ms. Goldman looked up, saw her standing there, and instantly checked her watch.

It was scary to think about what an incredibly long list of people knew her daily schedule, down to the very minute. Meg shrugged at her, started to look for a seat as far away as possible—but then, changed her mind and limped over.

“Haven't seen you around lately. Happy to be back in town?” she asked.

Ms. Goldman nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

Yeah. Sure. “Here for a gloriously exciting follow-up story?” Meg asked.

This time, Ms. Goldman's nod was more resigned.

Well, she wasn't planning to be helpful, but she could still have a chat. Maybe even try to cheer herself up, a little, by being
just
short of cooperative and revealing. Meg indicated the empty wooden chair across from her. “Mind if I sit down?”

Ms. Goldman looked delighted—and somewhat perplexed.

Meg eased herself down clumsily, managing to spill some of her latte—the largest size, with an extra shot of espresso—when an unexpected tremor of pain ran through her bad hand, intense enough to make her good hand shake, too.