Secrets of a First Daughter (3 page)

“Serves Brittany right, Morg.”
My BFF, Hannah Davis, riffled through my closet, throwing outfits that passed her critical judgment on my bed. It was late afternoon, and I'd spent the entire morning draining my brain over SAT questions. Now Hannah had come over to offer a little mental relaxation and some sorely needed fashion advice for the London trip.

She continued, “Little Miss Wonderful tried to game the system by cheating and she got caught. I wouldn't waste one drop of sympathy on her. She wouldn't on you if the situation was reversed.”

“I know, I know.” I sprawled in my beanbag chair, feeling miserable for some weird reason. Brittany Whittaker got caught cheating because of
me
. And the thing is, I had an inkling of the desperation and pressure she must have felt to get good scores. Everyone growing up in Washington,
D.C., had power-broker parents who didn't settle for second rate—especially in their children.

“Dear gawd. Don't tell me the White House social secretary seriously expects you to wear this in London?” Hannah pulled out a milky-colored dress with hideous navy-blue trim adorning the padded shoulders. “This is like some nightmare uniform from a cruise line.”

“She expects it, all right. I'm forbidden from even bringing jeans and T-shirts to London,” I said. “I mean, I know I'm not supposed to wear flip-flops to meet the queen, but jeez. Everything she bought is so blah. Thanks for helping me sort through all this, Hans.”

“And
thank you
for talking your mom into letting me come along on the trip! We are gonna have a blast!”

“Luckily Mom thinks you're a good influence. She's not taking any chances on me making another classic Morgan Abbott mess, and she expects you to help me not humiliate my country.”

“Heh. Little does she know, right?”

“Seriously, Hans. We've got to tone it down when we're over there, or Mom will have my passport revoked.”

“Don't worry, there will be no drama on this trip. Just good times. In fact, I've got a heads-up on a killer clubbing hotspot in Piccadilly Circus.”

“Hannah! Did Prince Richard text you this morning?”

“He did,” she replied modestly, but I could tell she was busting with happiness. Hannah had hooked up with Prince Richard, heir to the British throne and the planet's hottest royal, on his official visit to Washington, D.C., last month and they hadn't stopped texting or webcaming each other since. Not that he could be blamed. Hannah looked stunning today in a ruby-red satin dress that set off her chocolate skin to perfection. My BFF was a born fashionista who knew how to make the most out of her assets, which were considerable. And she helped me make the most of mine, which were difficult to find.

“I can't believe you've snagged a royal,” I said, and tried to smile. I was thrilled Hannah was going to get to see Prince Richard again but was also tragically bummed that my time in London would be Max-free if I didn't think of some way to get him assigned to the security entourage for the trip.

“Oh. Mahgawd.” Hannah pulled a two-piece business suit in a grotesque shade of oatmeal out of the closet. “Are you sure this isn't one of your mom's?”

“Looks like it could be, doesn't it? Maybe the social secretary thinks I look good in noncolors.”

I slipped into the suit and peered at myself in the full-length mirror. I raised my arm, Mom-style. “My fellow Americans. Join me on my important new initiative to
eradicate shoulder pads and harem pants in our lifetime.”

“Man, it's freaky the way you sound just like her. Hold up.” Hannah grabbed a wide tortoiseshell hair band from my dresser and eased it over my head, pushing my choppy bangs back off my forehead with it. A little smoothing, a little fluffing, and she eyed me critically. “Dang, I'm good. May I present President Sara Abbott?”

“Whoa.” I took a closer look in the mirror. Hannah was right. Now I
really
looked like my mom.

“I
still
have nightmares about turning into her,” I said. “The boring haircut. The sensible suits. Ugh.”

“Well, you only look like her,” Hannah reassured me. “And sound like her. And act like her when necessary. Typical mother-daughter doppelganger stuff. Your abnormal similarity to each other is completely normal.”

“You're not helping.” I threw a pillow at her.

She ducked. “And you're freaking out over nothing. Besides, how awesome is it that you can become the president of the United States with just the right outfit, a wig, and my skill with makeup?”

“We need to make sure you use your powers for good instead of evil.”

My cell phone chirped, and I glanced at the screen. “It's Max,” I said happily. “He's got a fifteen-minute break and wants to see me. Hans, do you mind…?”

“No way! Go get your Max fix. I'll send Rich a text and see if he's up for a chat.”

Hannah settled into my beanbag chair while I debated changing out of the fugly suit and back into my jeans and T-shirt. But I didn't want to miss a moment with Max and time was ticking away. Aw, forget it. I'd only be gone a few minutes anyway, I rationalized.

Quickly I texted him to meet me in the Solarium, the third-floor sunroom off the Promenade. We used the sunroom and connecting porch for family barbecues and informal parties. Plus it had the added bonus of being away from the main hub of activity on the floor. Perfect for a rendezvous with Max.

I slipped out of my room wearing the suit and nearly tripped over a bronze bust of Teddy Roosevelt sitting in the middle of the hall. The furniture had been pulled away from the wall for the weekly cleaning of the residence wing common areas. The scent of Brasso and lemon furniture polish tickled my nose.

Suddenly, a member of the housekeeping staff emerged from one of the spare bedrooms. “Afternoon, Madam President,” she said as she breezed by me.

I opened my mouth to correct her, but she'd already ducked into another room. Short of chasing her down to set her straight, I'd have to let it go.

I tiptoed down the center hall, dodging a vacuum cleaner and janitor's cart and hoping to avoid being seen by whoever happened to be on duty at the Secret Service desk at the end of the hall.

Two agents stood at the desk. My heart stalled. Max! God, he looked so cute in his boring brown business suit. I couldn't wait to get my hands on him….

And there was George standing right next to him.

My step faltered
. George, yikes! I did not want her interfering and asking a bunch of questions about why Max was waiting for me. Should I abort the mission, as Max would say?

In that split second of indecision, George looked beyond Max and saw me.

“Good afternoon, Madam President,” she said deferentially.

Ha! She thought I was my mom. Maybe I could take advantage of the situation.

I straightened my shoulders and told myself to look presidential. I modulated my voice to my mother's measured tones. “Good afternoon, Agent Best. Agent Jackson.”

“Good afternoo…” Max did a double take.

I plastered a pleasant smile on my face and nodded at him encouragingly.

“…noon, Madam President.” Max instantly recovered from his surprise. “Heading down to the Oval Office?”

“Uh…yes?” I clued into Max's imperceptible nod.

“Perhaps you'd like to use the stairwell at the other end of the hall,” he continued. “Housekeeping is shampooing the carpeting on this end.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Near the door to the linen room, the housekeeper I'd seen earlier fiddled with extension cords and an upright carpet cleaner.

“Good idea, Agent Jackson. I'll do just that. Carry on.”

With a brisk nod to George, who'd been examining me with an expressionless face, I headed back down the hall. When I reached the entrance of the ramp leading up to the Solarium, I glanced behind to make sure I was hidden from the Secret Service station. Then I ducked inside. Safe!

The Solarium's skylights and panoramic windows gave the room an airy feeling. The room had always been a favorite of mine, and I'd even held my sweet sixteen birthday party out on the Promenade, which overlooked the South Lawn. My dad had booked Arcada, the hottest boy band at the time, to give me and my friends a kick-ass concert. It was amazing.

After the party (okay, maybe the impromptu mosh pit trashed the room
just a smidge
), Mom had the room redecorated in eco-friendly paints and fabrics. It lived up to strict
environmental standards. But the Solarium's soothing earth tones and wind chimes couldn't calm me. I was too worried that George had figured out who I was and was going to ruin my interlude with Max.

As that horrible thought tumbled through my head, a male voice echoed up from the Solarium's ramp. “Hello?”

“Max!” I rushed him as soon as he entered the room.

He let out an
oof
when our bodies collided. “Okay, Morgan. I'm not sure I want to know, but I guess I have to ask. Why are you pretending to be your mother?”

“I wasn't really trying to impersonate Mom. Hannah and I were messing around, trying on my mom-inspired fashions for London, when I got your text…anyway, forget it,” I said as the confusion grew on his face. “George was fooled and will leave us alone. How much time do we have?”

He glanced at his watch. “About five minutes. I'm sorry I got hung up at Bubble Central.”

“Five minutes?” Was that all? I grabbed him by the tie and pulled his mouth to mine.

After a moment, he came up for air. “Whoa. It's weird to be kissing the president.” He leaned back, still holding me in his strong arms.

I smacked him on his well-toned bicep. Very well toned. Mmm. Whodathunk that such a hot bod lurked under a
government-issue suit? “Knock it off.” I smiled a mischievous smile. “And that's an order!”

I pulled him close again.

“I can't believe I'm dating the president's daughter,” he murmured. “You could have any guy you want. Why me?”

“Oh, let's see. For starters because you're adorable, smart, a great dancer, and an even better kisser.”

“Maybe we'd better practice that last bit again.” He grinned.

“Hang on. I think I hear someone coming.”

In a flash, boyfriend Max disappeared and Secret Service Agent Max Jackson reappeared. He and I sprang apart, and I dove into the butler's pantry just as someone entered the room.

“Oh!” said a female voice I didn't recognize. “I didn't know anyone was in here.” A cleaning bucket rattled, and I caught a whiff of pine-scented cleanser.

“Sweeping the room for a routine security check,” Max said.

Good thinking, Max! I cheered silently.

“That's strange,” I heard her say. “The head housekeeper didn't mention any security sweeps happening in the residence today.”

“I should be finished in ten minutes or so,” Max said firmly.

“I guess I'll come back later” was the reply. “Or I could get started vacuuming while you finish your sweep—”

“It would be best if you came back later.”

A pause, maybe a frustrated sigh, some footsteps. A tense moment, and then Max poked his head into the butler's pantry. “Okay in there?”

“Fine. We have about twenty-five cans of Clamato stored here, in case you're interested.”

Max let out a huge breath. “That was a close call.”

“We've been in worse situations.”

“It's not over yet. I'll leave first. You wait three minutes before you leave. I should be downstairs by then.”

“Check. But first, Agent Jackson, the president's daughter has a request.”

He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “And that is?”

I nuzzled into his palm. “One more kiss.”

A moment later, Max slipped out of the Solarium, smoothing his hair and straightening his tie. Dreamily I wandered around the room until I thought about three minutes had passed, enough time for Max to make his escape.

As I left the room, I should have been paying attention instead of thinking about how good Max's new aftershave smelled. I didn't check to make sure the coast was clear
like I normally would have. Unfortunately, at the end of the hall, a member of the housekeeping staff who I didn't recognize was dusting the Coolidge-era paperweight memorabilia collection. Was this the same person who'd almost caught us? Uh-oh. Maybe I was only imagining the speculative expression on her face.

I straightened my spine and walked with my mother's trademark quickstep. “Good afternoon,” I said to the housekeeper as I passed her.

She nodded deferentially. “Afternoon, Madam President.”

Mom would have added a thoughtful comment. She always treated staff members with extreme courtesy. “You're, ah, doing an excellent job dusting,” I said, then winced. That was pretty lame.

But the housekeeper beamed. “Thank you, ma'am. I hope the shampooer won't disturb Morgan when we run it by her bedroom door. The motor can get loud.”

I could still feel the pressure of Max's lips against mine. “It won't. I can say with complete confidence that Morgan's got other things on her mind right now.”

At school on Monday,
Hannah met me at our lockers before study hall. “Ready to take up the reins of power at the first student council meeting?” she quipped. “AOP's got a new prez, and she's ready to kick booty.”

“You're in a good mood this morning,” I said. “Must have to do with that epic IM chat with Prince Richard.”

“I'm in as good a mood as you were in after your make-out session with Max on Saturday.”

We giggled.

“Better get to work,” I said, and grabbed out of my locker a spiral notebook that I'd designated as the official log of AOP's senior class president.
Put everything in writing,
Mom always said. I was determined to go by the book, too. Now that I was senior class president, I wasn't taking any chances. We were already midway through the first semester and the class hadn't done any fund-raising for
prom, our graduation party, or worse, any philanthropic initiatives.

That was going to change.

I strode into the biology lab, which doubled as our meeting room.

Jeong Nguyn hummed “Hail to the Chief.” “All rise for our new president.”

“Knock it off.” I blushed as the senior council applauded. “Let's get started, we've got a lot to cover today.”

“You mean we're going to get some actual work done instead of bitching about how busy the class president is?” asked Carl, the swim captain who represented the Athletics Council.

Ouch. Slam on Brittany.

I was tempted to join in but remembered another one of Mom's golden rules: Don't badmouth your political enemies. Even though I
reeeally
wanted to take the opportunity to do just that.

I rose above my urge to snark, and at that moment, Brittany Whittaker waltzed into the lab.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said coolly into the pool of shocked silence. “I hope I didn't miss anything.”

“Uh, no.” Everyone looked as puzzled as I felt. What was she doing here?
Don't make a scene….
“We're just getting down to business.”

She gave a gracious wave of her hand. “Carry on, Morgan.”

“Oookay. Let's start with the treasurer's report.”

Mya Boskovitch, the head cheerleader, opened her laptop and brought up a spreadsheet. Mya and I had had our differences, especially where my former boyfriend Konner was concerned, but there was no denying she had a head for business. The cheerleaders were the most solvent activities group at AOP.

“Our balance is seventy-five dollars and eighteen cents,” she said.

My mouth fell open. “That's it?”

“I just paid a huge florist bill for our homecoming dance,” Mya said with a pointed look at Brittany. “So we're gutted.”

“Wow.” I was reeling, but shook it off in a hurry as the rest of the student council was looking at me with a bleak expression and mentally waving good-bye to our prom and graduation party. Everyone except for Brittany, that is. She fingered the gold chain around her neck and kept her face carefully blank, eyes hooded.

Like a cobra.

“Okay, brainstorm,” I said. “We've got to figure out a way to raise a decent amount of money in a short amount of time if we want to put deposits down for our prom venue.”

“What about a car wash?” Carl suggested.

“Bake sale?” Mya offered.

“Good, good.” I started writing the suggestions in my notebook. “Keep 'em coming.”

“We could do a raffle,” Hannah suggested. “Ask local businesses to donate items to auction off.”

Brittany's sugary voice cut across the babble. “All those ideas are lame. We need at least five grand to hold both a prom and a graduation party. A bake sale or auction isn't going to raise enough cash to put down a deposit, let alone fund the events.”

“Well, since you're the one who blew our entire treasury on
flowers
for homecoming, do you have any better ideas?” I shot back.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Uh-oh. I sensed too late that I was walking into a trap.

“Why don't you host a private party at the White House?”

No. Nonononono. “How would that raise money?”

“We could charge a ‘donation' for everyone who wanted to attend. It'll be huge, especially if your mother is there. People will pay good money to socialize with the president and to see the sections of the White House not open to the public. Or so I hear.”

“Yeah, my dad would pay big bucks to have me party
with the president,” Carl said.

“I'm not sure my mom would go for that—” I began, but I was drowned out by enthusiastic yells of approval from everyone else.

“God, we'd make all we need and then some to get our philanthropy slate off the ground,” Mya said. “Plus, is it true the White House has its own bowling alley?”

“Hang on, hang on!” I shouted, but no one listened to me. The whole meeting had gone completely off the rails. Everyone was squealing with excitement over the prospect of partying at the White House and solving our financial dilemmas in one fell swoop. But how was I supposed to talk my mom into this?

From her seat, Brittany sent me the evilest smile ever.

 

After the meeting, I was moodily crunching through a bag of Cheetos and thinking about the right approach to take with my mom over this senior class fund-raiser situation, when I saw Ms. Gibson, AOP's guidance counselor, heading straight for me. I quickly stuffed the bag inside my three-ring binder and stopped midchew. Eating in the halls was an infraction, and I didn't need any more demerits in my file.

“Morgan, I need to see you in my office,” Gibson said in her scary, don't-even-think-about-giving-me-any-lip voice.

I nodded, hoping my mouth wasn't covered in that tell-tale neon-orange Cheeto dust.

“Right now,” she added.

Nod.

Her Angelina Jolie mouth tightened suspiciously, but she headed into her office without another word or glance behind her, obviously expecting me to follow obediently. Which I did. No one disobeyed Gibson.

No sooner had she settled behind her freakishly neat desk—a coffee mug at a convenient distance from her computer mouse, of course—did she attack. “What are your college plans, Morgan?”

“Uh…to get into one? Hopefully.”

“The AOP phones have been ringing off the hook from college admissions offices around the world.”

“They are? That's weird.”

She sighed in frustration. “They're asking about
you
.”

“Me?” The synthetic flavoring chemicals in the Cheetos must have slowed my brain's comprehension function. I knew it wasn't a good idea to look so vacant in front of Gibson, but I was honestly confused. My grades sucked. My SAT scores were stunningly average, at best. “Why?”

Gibson gave me her patented “Is this girl for real?” look. “Because you're the daughter of the president of the United States, that's why. It's great publicity for the university that
lands you. Plus, they probably think they could get your mother to speak at convocations or graduation.”

Ha! Well, the joke's on them if they think they could leverage my mom into doing something she doesn't want to do.

Gibson leaned forward over her desk and lowered her voice. “I've been offered all kinds of bribes and perks if I can persuade you to attend this college or that.” She sat back and took a sip from her mug. “Of course, I refused. But that doesn't stop us from needing to have a conversation about your future. I noticed you haven't started the application process yet.”

“Nope. To be honest, I haven't given it much consideration. I thought I had some time.”

“The time to start applying for early admissions is now. We need to get your transcripts ordered, letters of recommendation written, et cetera.”

“But I have no idea what I want to do with my life. Shouldn't I get that basic fact under control before I start applying to universities?”

“Morgan, no one is asking you to make a decision on your future right now. College is for testing your boundaries and discovering new talents. Most people start college with one major in mind, and then find out they want to explore other disciplines. And that's okay. You'll have a
chance to decide what's right for you.”

I heaved a big sigh. “Well, that's a relief.”

Gibson went on. “You know, when I was at Cornell, I tried all sorts of things: biology, musicology, public affairs, ballroom dancing—”

“Ballroom dancing? Like, doing the rumba with feathers and stuff?” I giggled. Tomb Raider Gibson dancing to the cha-cha-cha? No way!

“It wasn't like that.” She drew herself up defensively. “But the point is, I expanded my horizons while I was away at college, which led to my falling in love with education. And here I am today.”

“That's…uh…fantastic.”

“Cornell has a great reputation and you would get a top-notch education there.” Gibson took a sip from her mug. And I suddenly noticed Cornell's distinctive red seal plastered on its side.

“You think about it,” she said. “Wherever you decide to go, I'm sure the institution will admit you. But this is not a time to let your grades slip even lower than they already are. You still have to have a diploma from
this
institution.”

“Okay. I'll think about it.”

I left her office feeling hollow. I wanted to be admitted into a college based on my own merits, not because I was the president's daughter. I hated everyone sucking up to
me because my last name was Abbott. Or because I was a handy tool to get in good with my mother.

Instead of making me feel better about college, the conversation with Gibson added another level to the pressure already on me. I wished everyone would back off and let
me
figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.