Secrets of a First Daughter (4 page)

On my way home from school
in the Baby Beast, my cell phone chirped. I glanced at the screen. Great. Mom wanted to see me in the Oval Office as soon as I got in. That couldn't be good.

George escorted me into the protective security bubble of the West Wing, then bailed to change out of her “school uniform” (jeans and a flannel shirt, which made her look about fourteen years old), and I dragged myself down the hall past the portraits of Truman and Eisenhower toward the Oval Office. As I reached the door to the executive suite, Humberto Morales swung into the corridor. “Morgan, just a sec,” he said.

“Whatever it is, I didn't do it,” I replied automatically.

Humberto gave me a mock wince. He'd been putting out fires for Mom ever since she'd become president, but he made no secret of the fact that the kind of trouble I got
into was far worse than anything he'd had to deal with as Mom's right-hand man.
Hey, just because I impersonate the president occasionally is no reason for Humberto to stock up on Rogaine,
I thought grouchily.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked.

“No, no. At least, nothing I know of.”

Whew.

“I heard that you were taking your SAT,” he went on.

I nodded, confused. Why would Humberto care that I had taken my SAT? Unless he had inside information that I'd gotten super-low scores again and was about to embarrass my mom.

The headline flashed through my head:

MORGAN ABBOTT'S EPIC FAILURE
:
WILL SHE HAVE TO REPEAT HIGH SCHOOL
?

“I was wondering if you've given any thought to where you want to go to college.”

College?
Again?
Why couldn't everyone stop bugging me about it?

“Not really…”

“Northwestern University happens to have a great law school.”

“Northwestern? In Chicago?”

“It's my alma mater,” he said modestly. “I took law prep there. I really think you should consider the legal
profession. You'd make a great lawyer someday.”

I felt my jaw sag. Me, a lawyer? Sure, I could talk my way out of anything if I had to, but the thought of wading through legal briefs and tort cases almost made me break out in hives.

Humberto's BlackBerry chirped. “I've got to run,” he said. “You think about it. If you're interested, I can make a call. I know a few members on the board of trustees. Plus I'm the chair of my alumni association.” He began trotting down the hall and soon disappeared into the Cabinet Room.

I shook my head.
That
was weird.

I headed into the Executive Suite. “Wassup, Pads?” I said to Padma, Mom's executive assistant. “Got any toffees?”

“Help yourself.” Padma pushed the candy jar on her desk toward me and I dug in. “Word of warning,” she whispered. “Sara's not a happy camper right now.”

Teeth glued together by caramelized sugar, I nodded. Usually when I got called into the Oval Office, it involved me being in trouble.

Padma opened the connecting door leading into the Oval Office, and I entered. Seated at the Resolute Desk, Mom frowned into her specially developed Abbott Technologies laptop. The pastel lavender suit she was wearing actually looked good on Mom because of the smart Chinese
collar that showed a teensy hint of style for once. She'd let her basic bob haircut grow a little longer, and if she wasn't my mom, I'd think she was a college intern playing Pretend to Be the Boss at the president's desk.

“What is this, Morgan?” she asked. The serious tone of her voice instantly set me on alert.

I sighed. “Clue me in.”

She turned her computer toward me. On the high-res monitor, the headline on one of D.C.'s most popular political blogs blared:
PRESIDENT ABBOTT CAUGHT IN THE ARMS OF A YOUNG AGENT—DEVELOPING
!!!!!

I felt my heart stop.

Hands shaking, I pulled the laptop closer. “Sources inside the White House reveal that the youthful President Abbott has been seen cavorting with a young Secret Service agent. Rumor? Or truth? We'll keep digging.”

Mom's face was stony. “Do you know anything about this?”

Horrified, I stalled for time by collapsing on one of the overstuffed sofas that flanked the Presidential Seal woven on the rug. I wanted to tell Mom that Max and I were a thing, but I couldn't risk Max's career.

I gave a shaky laugh. “You know how the press twists everything around,” I managed to squeak out.

“So you haven't been impersonating the president lately?”

Avoid the subject without denying. “Maybe someone saw you talking to Parker and got the wrong idea.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you're not telling me something.”

“Like what?”

“Like you have a boyfriend?”

Urk. No way could I tell mom about Max. But I haaaated lying to her. So I hedged. “I'm not interested in anyone at school right now, no.”

Mom laid down one of her penetrating stares that stripped the skin off heads of state. She wasn't buying it. I needed to think fast before she asked me the question I could almost see forming in that presidential brain of hers. Redirect! Redirect!

“Besides, I'm so busy right now,” I said. “I've got a major problem, and I hope you can help me out.”

I explained about the depleted senior-class treasury thanks to Brittany Whittaker's brief reign of terror, and the idea of having a fund-raising party at the White House.

“I don't think it's a good idea,” I said hastily when I caught the expression on Mom's face. “But I have to agree with the rest of the class officers that it would raise what we need quickly so we can concentrate on our initiatives instead of worrying about the budget.”

“Spoken like a true elected official,” Mom remarked.

I perked up. “Is that good?”

“It's good, sweetie. You're thinking of how to achieve the goal in the most effective way. All right, I agree. But you'll have to clear it with the security team and the social secretary first. There will be restrictions, you know.”

“No problem, Mom.” I got up and gave her a hug. “Thanks for agreeing. I know this isn't your thing.”

She hugged me back tightly. “Well, I'm not just the president, I'm also a parent. Besides, I owe you one for helping with the African peace talks. We're a team, remember?”

“Yeah. A pretty kick-ass one at that.”

“I think so, too. And I've been thinking, when we're in London, I'd like you to spend a day with me. I think you'd make a great politician.”

I laughed. “A politician? I've already been the president of the United States. Anything else is a demotion.”

Mom chuckled.

“Sure, Mom. I'd love to hang with you in London.”

“As for this internet rumor,” she sighed, “I guess the best course of action is to let it die for lack of oxygen. We can't respond to every random item some blogger decides to post.”

“Excellent decision, Mom.”

I headed to the door, feeling great. Not only did I manage to dodge the question about Max, but I'd talked Mom into having the fund-raiser at the White House. I
gave myself a pat on the back.

I had my hand on the brass knob,
almost
free and clear, when Mom's voice stopped me. “Oh, by the way, have you given any thought to prospective colleges? The window for applications is upon us, you know.”

What
was going on? This was the third conversation about colleges I'd had today. I was soooo sick of it!

“I, uh, have some ideas in mind,” I hedged.

“Because my alma mater would be perfect for you,” Mom said.

Harvard? Yeah, right. Like that place would admit a screwup with marginal grades like me. Even with presidential backing, I knew it wouldn't happen.

“I guess I could give it a look,” I said unenthusiastically.

“Excellent.” Mom beamed. “Let me know when, and I'll arrange a tour.”

I gave a sickly smile and got the hell out of there before Mom could launch into stories of her wild days sitting in Harvard's Lamont Library and leading her debate team to a rousing discussion of international economic policies or something.

If Mom thought I'd turn into a brainiac overnight, she was more optimistic than I thought.

“Nigel, what if we go Mexican with this?
It's a fiesta, right? Mockeritas, nachos, tapas, stuff like that.”

Nigel Bellingham, the White House's executive chef, grinned. The killer smell of braising meat and fresh chopped herbs penetrated the air in his tiny office adjacent to the White House kitchens, where he and I were meeting. It had been a week since my mom had given permission to hold the fund-raising party at the White House, and planning the menu was going to be the best part of the event.

“Technically, tapas are Spanish, luvvie, but I like where you're headed,” Nigel said. “You want finger foods for your party so the guests are able to stay mobile.”

“Yeah, that's it. I don't want anyone plopping down in their cliques and gossiping.”

Nigel eyed the menu I'd scribbled on a piece of loose-leaf notebook paper. “You've got a natural flair for planning an
event, luv. Let me talk this over with the staff, and we'll see what we can do to make your party even more smashing.”

“Thanks, Nige.” I beamed. I loved hanging out with Nigel. The creative chaos of the White House kitchens energized me, and I loved seeing what the gifted chefs created even given the security restrictions of cooking for the most powerful people in the world. Food had to be inspected by the Secret Service in a special procurement procedure, and if it didn't clear in time to be served to the president, then oh well—the staff had to improvise. I got a charge out of seeing how creative they could be with food at the last minute.

Speaking of security, George poked her head into the office, hand cupped over her ear-com so she could hear over the flames and curses erupting near the burners. “Agent Jackson says you have a visitor moving through the security chain, Morgan. Where do you want her to go?”

The mention of Max's name made my heart do a little square dance. Then I remembered…. “Oh god, is Hannah here already? I've totally lost track of time!”

“Big shock,” I thought I heard George mutter.

“I'll meet her upstairs in the residence. Are we good, Nige?”

“Ducky.” Nigel folded my menu and tucked it into the pocket of his chef's smock. “Don't worry about a thing. The
party will be a smash.”

If only I could take his words to heart. Because with me in the driver's seat, there was a good chance of a pile-up somewhere along the road.

George left me once I entered the residence wing, and I found Hannah waiting for me in the kitchen so we could spread out. She was helping me plan the party itinerary, and we had to have basically every second accounted for before the White House social staff and the Secret Service would approve it.

“Hey, Morg.” Hannah greeted me by waving a purple sparkle pen over the screen of her mini laptop. “This party is really shaping up! Looks like every single senior is coming. Not only that, they all bought tickets for the behind-the-scenes tour with your mom. And the mini concert with Cin'Qua didn't hurt, either.”

Cin'Qua was a scorching-hot hip-hop singer whose latest single, “Shake That,” dominated the airwaves. He'd agreed to perform at my party if my dad would hang out with him afterward and show him the latest electronic gadgetry from Abbott Technology's experimental lab.

“So? How do the financials look?” I asked.

Hannah tapped at the computer and studied the spreadsheet. “Let's just say the class treasury is solvent again.”

“Excellent. My stomach ulcers will be worth it in the
end.” Planning the fund-raiser had pretty much consumed all my free time over the past week. I needed to get this right, not only to help the senior class but also to prove to myself and my classmates that I was leadership material.

“Let's go over everything again,” I said.

She groaned. “Relax, Morgan. The situation is under control. Killer food, check. Awesome entertainment, check. Sold-out tickets, check. This event will be the biggest fund-raising success in the history of AOP's senior class. You'll see.”

 

Despite the fun of picking out a cute ethnic-inspired dress for the party—with adorable strappy heels, of course—by the time the day of the event rolled around, my stress levels had reached critical mass. But I'd been dealing with pressure my whole life and knew that the way to cope was to block out the disaster scenarios and focus on a positive outcome. No matter what, tonight was sure to be a night to remember.

The Yellow Oval Room in the residence wing looked fantastic. When the White House social team tackles a job, look out. They transformed the old-fashioned decor by moving out the traditional furniture and creating a fiesta wonderland. Twinkly lights twisted around real mini palm trees, and the buffet table had been staged to look like a
beach cabana. Flameless candles on the tables brought a touch of Cabo San Lucas to the ambiance. The French windows opened up to the Truman Balcony, which overlooked the Washington, D.C., skyline. A mini stage had been set up on the balcony with speakers and all sorts of equipment for Cin'Qua's number, which was sure to be an unbelievable spectacle with the Washington and Jefferson memorials lit up in the distance.

The only thing that would make tonight perfect would be if Brittany Whittaker got stuck in traffic or suffered a massive wardrobe malfunction that made it impossible for her to attend the party. No refunds would be issued on her ticket, either.

“Ready for the party, Morgan?” Max's voice broke through my concentration.

Max.

I forced my mouth into a smile to hide my anxiety. “Yup. Everything's going to be great.”

Max had been assigned to security for my party, which meant he'd be close by. So close, and yet so far. He wore his boring brown suit again, but the nondescript threads made him even more adorable, if that was possible. I wanted to head straight into his arms, despite all the staffers weaving in and out of the room.

He leaned toward me, keeping his hands firmly clasped
behind him, Secret Service style. No one looking at us would suspect that we wanted to rip into each other.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

Tingles sparked my nerve endings. I really wanted him to kiss me. Before I could stop myself, I lifted my face up to his. He inched forward, too….

“Hey, Morg!”

Hannah's voice cut between us. We sprang apart.

Hannah glanced from me to Max and back to me again, trying not to laugh at our gooey expressions. “I'm not
interrupting
anything, am I?”

“Nope. Nothing at all.” Max and I exchanged rueful looks. Close call!

Hannah looked kick-awesome in a Mexican print skirt, embroidered peasant blouse, and about a million bangles on her wrists, an ensemble only Hannah could pull off. Somehow she always managed to turn a gimmick into high fashion. “The place looks fantabulous. Kudos to the White House staff for rocking it out.”

A stir rippled among staff members. Parker, Mom's Secret Service agent, entered, immediately followed by Mom wearing a beige pantsuit. At least she tried to be jaunty by jazzing up her look with the Huichol Indian friendship bracelet she'd gotten from the president of Mexico on her last state visit to the country. Dad followed, looking fly in
jeans, a bespoke fitted shirt, and snakeskin cowboy boots. Sauntering next to him, speaking with animation was—

“Omigod! It's Cin'Qua!” Hannah about lost her cool when she laid eyes on the hip-hop star wearing several layers of baggy gangsta clothes and about twenty pounds of gold chains. George trailed Cin'Qua, her eyes sweeping the room in Secret Service overdrive. I'd gotten her assigned to Cin'Qua for tonight since Max told me he was her favorite singer. Who knew Little Miss Pixie liked hip-hop? It also meant that I wouldn't be tripping over her all night.

Mom headed over to me. “Is it showtime yet, honey? Hi there, Agent Jackson. Hannah.”

“Madam President.” Max morphed into his professional Secret Service persona. The president's arrival meant that he had to get back to work. To me, he said formally, “Good luck tonight, Morgan.”

“Thanks, Max.”

I watched him head to the security checkpoint station downstairs at the base of the grand staircase and squelched a wistful expression.

Meanwhile, my super-cool bud Hannah was fan-girling out over meeting the rap singer. “I've downloaded all your albums,” she squeaked. “It's an honor to meet you in person.”

“Yo,” came Cin'Qua's reply.

Hannah continued to gaze at Cin'Qua in adoration. “Yo,” she repeated dreamily.

He edged away. “Maybe I should start my sound checks,” he said to Dad and George.

“Good idea,” Dad replied, amused. “I'll show you the stage.” George cleared the way to the balcony in hyper-professional mode. Hannah followed them at a discreet distance.
OMG,
she mouthed at me.

I turned to Mom. “It's almost time for the guests to arrive.” I gave her a hug. “Thanks for doing this. I know it's a big time-suck.”

“No problem, sweetie. It'll be fun showing your classmates around the White House.
If
they can tear themselves away from jamming to ‘Shake That.'”

“How do you know that song?”

“I haven't been living in a cave for the last six months, honey. I get briefed on pop culture.”

She threw an awkward gangsta sign, and I busted up. Sometimes my mom could be so cool.

One of the event management junior staffers approached. “Guests are arriving, Morgan.”

I turned eagerly to the doorway, ready to be a good hostess….

Then Brittany Whittaker glided in.

Gag. Whittaker
would
be the first to arrive. Figures.

She'd poured her slender body into a zipper-fronted white jumpsuit that made her look insanely stacked, and she towered over me in four-inch platform wedges. Her eyes zoomed around the room until they landed on my mom. Instantly she tottered over to us.

Stationed in a discreet but visible corner of the room, Mom's head agent, Parker, pressed the com on his lapel. Mom shook her head at him. I knew that Mom had issued a special order to drop Brittany from the Watch List kept by the Secret Service against possible threats to the president. “I couldn't let her go through life with that hanging over her head,” Mom had said when I told her I wanted to keep the White House a Brittany-free environment. “She learned her lesson.”

“President Abbott,” Brittany began with a fake-humble smile. “It's such an honor to be here. And what a lovely shade of brown you're wearing. It really sets off your coloring.” Her eyes darted to me in my colorful print dress. “Sometimes subtlety works best in fashion, don't you think?”

“What a lovely compliment, Brittany. Thank you. And don't worry, I'm not holding any press conferences tonight.”

Mom!
Oh
snap
!

“I want to apologize again for what happened. I thought, well, I was…” Brittany spluttered.

“We've put that unfortunate incident behind us,” Mom interjected, saving Brittany from more humiliation.

Brittany turned an ugly shade of purple and slithered away.

“I probably shouldn't have said that, huh?” Mom remarked when Brittany was out of earshot.

I started giggling. “Probably not. But I loved it!”

Now the room really started filling up with my classmates. They oohed over the decorations, and some, holding copies of Cin'Qua's latest
Rolling Stone
magazine cover, headed straight to the balcony to snag an autograph. George organized the fans in a line and—wait—did her Secret Service eyes linger for a moment too long on Cin'Qua's booty? George was full of surprises.

“The party certainly has started,” Mom said. “When do you want to begin the tours, honey?”

“Why don't we let everyone run through the buffet line once first,” I said. “People will be less antsy on a full stomach.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The party revved up. People gushed about the food, and especially my mango salsa and smoked chipotle flautas. Mom started the tours.

So far, so good. Every so often, I spied Max when he took his turn to perform routine security sweeps of the event.

At one point I caught him looking longingly at me. Then he did that magic Secret Service thing where he blended into the crowd and disappeared. I wished he could be right by my side as my boyfriend tonight—no secrets, no hiding.

I surveyed the guests again, eager to distract myself from the strange loneliness I was feeling in a room full of people. Cin'Qua started to play. Jonas, the horndog captain of the tennis squad, was hitting on Mya while she ignored Konner, my ex, who was checking himself out in the antique mirror hanging over the unlit fireplace. The buffet table was already a wreck. Jeong and Carl were hanging there, scraping up mango salsa with Nigel's homemade tortilla chips. “This party's the bomb, Morgan,” Carl said, mouth full.

“Yeah, and your mom's tour was so cool,” Jeong added. “Whodathunk the president of the United States was so funny? She showed us your dad's nunchuk collection in the gym, and I couldn't stop cracking up when she said she had to borrow them every so often to break a Congressional filibuster.”

“That was classic!” Carl busted up.

“Ha ha.” I scanned the room again. I couldn't put my finger on it but something was wrong. “Hey, have you guys seen Brittany?”

They shook their heads. “And that's a bad thing
because…?” Jeong asked.

“It's better to see the snake than wonder where it is,” I said.

“Good luck with that.” Carl gave a sympathetic shrug and went back to his chips.

I headed to the balcony, which was jammed with a White House–style mosh pit. Hannah was out there, her normally pulled-together outfit seriously messed up from her spazzing out in the front row of Cin'Qua's concert.

A sick feeling was developing in my stomach. If someone wanted to see me fail, it would be Brittany. She was up to something. I just knew it.