Long May She Reign (7 page)

He shrugged. “Hey, no big deal. I just thought—it like, totally doesn't matter. I only meant if you weren't busy and all.”

Busy sleeping. “Is Dad going?” she asked.

Steven shook his head. “He can't tomorrow. Mississippi, or something.”

No point in even asking if their mother was planning to show up. She would always try to make it to at least one game of whatever sport Steven was playing that particular season, but weekday afternoons were the worst possible time.

“Neal'll be there,” Steven said. “He always comes.”

Had she known that? In fact, did she have any idea what her brothers did with themselves lately? Probably not. Would it be enough to have Neal with her, or would she still be afraid? Christ, if she couldn't manage this, how the hell was she going to go away to school? Go anywhere.
Ever
.

Steven went out to the hall. “Dad said we'll eat around seven-thirty.”

Meg looked at her clock. Quarter past. “Okay, I'll get cleaned up.”

Steven nodded, closing the door behind him.

She used her good hand to guide her leg over the side of the bed, then leaned down for her cane. Seven-fifteen. That was early. She plugged her phone back in, and dialed Preston's office extension. He was on another line, the staff told her, but they put her right through, anyway.

“Hey, what's up?” Preston asked, sounding as though he had all the time in the world.

“Were you talking to someone important?” she asked, feeling incredibly intrusive.

“No one I can't call back,” he said. “What's on your mind?”

“Nothing.” Oh, yeah, like she called him up every other minute. “I mean, I don't want to bother you when you're working.”

“I'm not doing a thing,” he said.

Sure. “Well, it's just—” She let out her breath. “Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?”

“No,” he said, without hesitating.

Yeah, right.
No one
who worked in the White House ever had a free afternoon. She had to smile. “You liar. Aren't you supposed to go to Mississippi with Dad?”

“Louisiana, actually,” he said. “And Maureen—” who had been hired to be her father's press secretary, after Preston officially took the chief of staff position— “is going, so no problem.”

She was a complete jerk even to have picked up the phone; she
knew
better than to get in the way of White House events.

“For that matter, your father's a pretty big kid,” Preston said. “He could probably handle a day care center and a community housing construction site on his own.”

There was a good chance of that, yeah.

“What'd you have in mind?” Preston asked. “Maybe some Christmas shopping?”

On the one hand, she hated it that they all dropped everything whenever she said a word; on the other hand, thank God they did. “Steven has a game,” she said. “And I thought—well—”

“You want some company, maybe,” he said.

Yeah. Only now, she felt—weak. Incompetent. Halfway to fulfilling the wimp acronym. “Do you mind?” she asked.

“No, sounds fun,” he said. “The little guy coming, too?”

Neal was the Little Guy; Steven was the Big Guy. “Yeah. But, can you, um—” Christ, this was humiliating. She sighed. “Leave with me? Instead of meeting us there?”

“Sure,” he said instantly. “No problem.”

Which was such a relief that she was all the more embarrassed. “I—I'm sorry to ask,” she said. “I know how busy—”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” he said.

*   *   *

THE GAME WAS
at three-thirty. Leaving her just enough time to go to her classes, come home, do her exercises, then rest for an hour. She was supposed to meet Preston downstairs at two forty-five, and at two-fifteen, she actually found herself standing in her bedroom, leaning on her cane, worrying about what to wear. To a junior varsity basketball game, for Christ's sakes.

So, she put on a clean pair of sweatpants, a blue Lacoste shirt, an old V-neck tennis sweater, and Saucony running shoes with one of the pairs of special elastic laces Carlotta had given her. That way, each shoe would expand enough for her to put her foot in, and then snap back into place for a fairly tight fit. The laces looked goofy, but it was preferable to going around in orthopedic Velcro shoes or slip-ons. She had to use a long plastic hook to pull her left sneaker on, since her knee couldn't even take the pressure of pushing her foot into a shoe, but at least she could get into it without having to ask for help from anyone.

Preston was waiting for her near the Diplomatic Reception Room, surrounded by several staff members and aides, who—judging from the tenor of the conversation—all seemed to be very anxious about the logistics of several upcoming holiday parties and receptions the White House was holding. And her father was going to have to host the unveiling of the official White House decorations in a couple of days, an annual chore which, she knew, did not thrill him.

“Just use your best judgment,” Preston said to Ginette, the deputy press secretary. “I should be back around five-thirty, six.”

As the staff members moved off towards the East Wing, Meg nodded a self-conscious hello in response to the various nods and “how are you today”s.

“So.” Preston slung on his coat—a long, quite smashing, grey duster. “We ready to go?”

Meg nodded, putting on her sunglasses.

“Maybe we should work up an endorsement deal for you,” he said.

Meg flushed, and straightened them. There was presumably something extremely nonegalitarian about overpriced designer sunglasses. She had several pairs of glasses with clear lenses, which she wore sometimes when she was trying very hard not to be recognized, but it never seemed to make much difference, and she felt much safer behind sunglasses. The darker, the better.

When they got outside, there were a few reporters—and civilians—hanging around, some of whom shouted questions, to which she responded with a smile and a vague, friendly wave before getting into the car.

“Are my little friends coming?” she asked.

Preston nodded. “Looks that way. Sorry.”

Swell. They hadn't even pulled out of the driveway yet, and she was already exhausted. She sat back, keeping her sunglasses on, her fist tight in her lap.

“Okay?” Preston asked.

She nodded, pretending to look out the window, but keeping her eyes closed. Then, as they drove towards the Southwest Gate, she started having trouble getting her breath.

Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ, oh, Christ, oh, Christ. She was going to lose it, right here in the car, and when they got to the school, she wouldn't be able to—

Preston's hand came onto her shoulder. “You're all right, Meg. I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

Which gave her another reason to panic. What if they were attacked, and
Preston
got caught in the cross-fire? Or her brothers. Or a bunch of innocent bystanders. Or—

“Count to ten,” he said. “Do it a couple of times.”

She looked at him, hoping like hell that he couldn't see the tears in her eyes behind the sunglasses.

“It's okay,” he said. “We're the only ones here.”

She wanted to sob, and throw up, and just generally fall apart. Make the car turn around, hurry inside, and huddle in her room for the rest of the day and night. The rest of her
life
, if possible.

The gates had opened, and they were on the street now, and it occurred to her that her all-too-quiet agents were witnessing this silent meltdown, too. It was bad enough to make a fool of herself in front of Preston, but she really didn't want her agents to see how cowardly she was. So she sucked in her breath, counted to ten, counted to twenty, and then—just to be sure—counted to fifty.

Preston gave her shoulder one last squeeze, took his hand away, and pulled a small tin out of his inside coat pocket. “Altoid?” he asked.

Why the hell not. With an effort, she opened her fist, and then clumsily helped herself to a couple of mints. “Thanks.”

“I have LifeSavers, too,” he said.

Good to know.

“This is going to make your brother very happy,” he said.

It damned well better.

5

WHEN THEY GOT
to the school, she saw a lot of extra Secret Service agents milling around, indicating that Neal had gotten there ahead of them. Which made sense, considering that he was only coming over from the Lower School. Although security was much heavier on game days, regardless. With all three of them in the same place, there would be at least twenty-five agents in and around the school. Probably not the most efficient use of the taxpayers' money—but, as far as she was concerned, the more, the merrier.

She moved as quickly as she could, very aware of the size of her entourage. The deathwatch didn't help matters any. Once they got to the gym, everyone—a pretty sparse crowd, luckily—turned to stare, and she stopped short, not sure if she could go through with this.

“Come on, there's Neal.” Preston steered her towards the bleachers, where Neal, his friend Ahmed, and three Secret Service agents were already watching the action on the court.

Carefully, she climbed—hopped, sort of—up several rows and sat down next to Neal. “Hi.” She nodded at Ahmed. “Hi.”

Ahmed nodded gravely, peering at her through his very thick glasses.

“Steven made like, the last four in a row,” Neal said, pointing at the lay-up drill.

“It was
ex
-cellent,” Ahmed said, in his precise, clipped little voice. He was a Foreign Service child, and had picked up a British accent somewhere along the way.

Meg looked across the huge gym—it had been built quite recently, and was quite state-of-the-art for a high school—at the far basket, searching for Steven. He was wearing his usual number 9—the number he tried to be assigned in all sports, because of Ted Williams. Her family had always been partial to Ted Williams. And Carl Yastrzemski, of course. Jim Rice. David Ortiz. The usual suspects.

The other team, in blue and white, looked taller, and Meg glanced at Neal. “Are they good?”

Neal nodded.

“Is Steven's team going to win?” she asked.

Neal and Ahmed shook their heads.

Oh. Meg scanned the whole gym, including the jogging track up above them, still wearing her sunglasses, looking for anything out of place, or suspicious, or—fortunately, the most unusual phenomenon was the number of men lurking around in suits and earpieces. Her body-watch had filtered in, the cameraman and photographer wandering down to a spot near the scorer's table to join three other photographers and videographers, who might be professionals—or simply overly-involved parents.

“Do you think Steven minds the cameras?” she asked Preston.

He grinned, loosening his tie—purple and black-striped, and quite flashy. “I think Steven
loves
the cameras.”

That was probably true, when it came to sports. Not that he would ever admit it.

The scoreboard buzzer sounded—making her flinch—and both teams trotted over to their respective benches. Or, more accurately, two lines of white folding chairs. All of the players pulled off their warm-up pants as their coaches gave them last-minute instructions. Steven saw her and shook his head, pointing to his own eyes.

Meg sighed and took her sunglasses off, and he nodded, obviously amused. Then, his team gathered in a tight circle, each stuck a hand forward, and they all shouted, “One, two, three, let's win!” The circle broke up, and the starting five ran out to the court, where the other team, the Panthers, joined them.

Her high school had actually played both of these schools in tennis; neither of their number one players had been terribly impressive, in Meg's opinion.

Before, of course, she had had to drop off the team for security reasons, after her mother's shooting. She'd been undefeated in singles at the time, and so, even though there were a couple of matches and the ISL Tournament left, she was still picked All-League, and as the team MVP—which, she suspected, had resulted in a certain amount of legitimate grumbling from other players.

And now, it seemed like a hundred years ago.

The game started off rough, and only became more so. Lots of loose balls, plenty of traveling and double-dribbling, fouls galore. Both teams seemed to be pretty well-coached, moving in and out of zone and man-to-man defenses, but they missed many more shots than they made. Steven's team, the Hoppers, had cheerleaders, of assorted sizes, who were waving green and white pom-poms, and breaking into little routines every so often.

Neal and Ahmed kept jumping up every time Steven got the ball, and when he spun down the lane and flicked it in with his left hand, Meg was kind of excited herself.

“The kid has some pretty moves,” Preston said, as Steven stole the ball from the boy he was guarding and passed ahead to one of his teammates for an easy lay-up.

Meg grinned. “Did you teach him that little pump-fake?”

Preston shook his head and pointed at one of Steven's agents, who was posted outside the entrance to the locker rooms. “That one came from Billy, I think.”

Only Steven would have an agent named Billy. Bud. Scooter. He tended to get along very well with his agents, who gave him constant sports advice. “If they teach him a breaking pitch, my father will kill them,” she said. Her father had a rule that none of them could throw curve balls until they were at least sixteen and their arms were fairly mature. In Meg's case, she had not found this sanction particularly confining. Steven, however, complained about it constantly. “Location,” their father would say. “Work on your location.”

Steven's coach, an Hispanic guy in his late twenties, paced up and down as though it was the seventh game of the NBA finals, while the assistant coach just sat in one of the folding chairs and yawned a lot. “Open man!” the head coach kept yelling. “Look for the open man!”