The President's Daughter (23 page)

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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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“Okay.” Meg folded her arms across her chest. “I don't like reporters, paparazzi, Secret Service agents, or starting school tomorrow.”
“No argument there,” her mother agreed.
“I wish we lived in Massachusetts,” Meg said. “I wish our lives were completely private, I wish you were an English teacher, I wish—”
“My God”—her mother fumbled around on the floor—“where's the chip?”
Okay, that was funny. Meg grinned. “I was only going to wish for world peace.”
Her mother laughed, hugging her even though Meg's arms were still folded. “Do you really think it would be better if I'd been an English teacher?” she asked, her face pressed against Meg's hair.
God, yes. “I don't know,” Meg said.
Her mother nodded. “Just anything but President.”
Well, that was certainly up near the top of the list. “It could be worse,” Meg said, and paused. “You could be
Pope
.”
Her mother laughed again, kissing her on the top of the head before releasing her. “Do you really hate my being President?” she asked.
Were they going to go over and over this, non-stop, for the next four—or eight—years? Jesus. “I don't know,” Meg said.
Her mother looked worried. “Well, do you—”
“Mom, don't push me, okay?” Meg asked. “We haven't even been here a week.”
Her mother nodded. “I know. I'm sorry.”
Oh, for God's sakes. Meg sighed. “You don't have to say you're sorry. I'm just not sure how I feel. I mean, you wanted the truth, right?”
Her mother nodded.
All right, it was
way
past time to change the subject. “You know what I wish?” Meg asked.
Her mother shook her head.
“I wish Cary Grant would ride up and carry me off,” she said.
Her mother grinned. “That sounds exciting.”
Hell, yeah. She had never been one for the latest pretty boys—give her the real thing, any day. Meg nodded. “Carry me off to the frozen tundra, and—”
“I get the picture,” her mother said quickly.
“And we'd go skiing together,” Meg said.
“Oh, well, that sounds like a nice time,” her mother agreed.
“I thought so,” Meg said.
Her mother smiled, and kissed her on the forehead. “It's late. You ought to get some sleep.”
Had her mother still never noticed that she
absolutely hated
being told what to do? “I always stay up this late,” Meg said.
“I'm sorry, I forgot.” Her mother stood up. “You know, Meg, I think all of this is going to be okay. We're all going to be together a lot more, spend some time with each other, find out a great deal about our family. I think you're going to end up feeling better about it, I really do.”
One could only hope.
“I honestly think you are. That all of us are.” Her mother paused at the door. “Come out and say good-night before you go to bed, okay?”
“Maybe,” Meg said, in her if-you're-lucky voice.
Her mother drew her breath in between her teeth. “Did I ever tell you that you can be an extremely irksome child?”
Many times. Meg nodded cheerfully. “SAT word.”
Her mother tried, but wasn't able to keep her smile back. “Perpetually impudent. Unabashedly churlish.”
“Some applause for the woman who swallowed a thesaurus,” Meg said.
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Incessantly obstreperous.”
“Oh, very good,” Meg said, impressed.
“Thank you.” Her mother opened the door. “Come out and say good night before you go to bed.”
Meg nodded.
AFTER AGONIZING AGAIN the next morning, Meg decided to wear a pleated wool skirt and a white Oxford shirt with a sweater over it. She felt a little evangelical, but surely, that would be casual enough, yet dignified enough, to please everyone. Or, anyway, not
offend
anyone. She solved the shoe problem by selecting—God help her—knee socks and Top-Siders. How very girlish of her. She would reflect well upon the Administration.
She rode in the backseat of the car, with Barry and Jeff in the front, two other agents following them in another car.
“Nervous?” Jeff—who was a stocky, African-American former Army Ranger—asked, slowing for a red light, not very casual in his blue suit and tie.
“Nope,” she lied. Then, she leaned forward. “You think someone who walks into school with two pens and a brand-new notebook looks like an idiot?”
“The person looks prepared,” Barry—who was Caucasian, slightly balding, and had once been a third-round pick for the Miami Dolphins—said, even less casual in his grey suit.
“The person looks quiet and bookish.” And, inevitably, unpopular. Meg sat back. “I don't want to go.”
“I think you're stuck,” Jeff said, turning off Wisconsin Avenue and driving toward the main administration building, where she could see a press pool and what seemed to be a bunch of school officials waiting. Maureen, who was one of Preston's assistants, was hanging around, too—even though Meg
really
hadn't wanted anyone to accompany her. She liked Maureen well enough, so far, but the fact that her parents apparently didn't think she was capable of
going to school by herself, despite her express insistence otherwise, was very god-damn annoying.
There were also several other Secret Service agents there, either for crowd control—or possibly to make sure there were no crazed gunmen or whatever around.
The latter, being a less than comforting thought.
“Do I have to get out of the car?” she asked, her throat feeling very tight.
“I think it might be a good idea,” Barry said, both agents scanning the waiting group.
“Should I swagger, or slink?” she asked.
“Stroll,” Jeff said.
Marcy, from the follow car, opened her door for her, and as she stepped out, she saw cameras go off and flinched—even though she had been planning not to do so.
A man in a tie and jacket moved forward, his right hand out. “Good morning, Miss Powers. I'm Thomas Lyons, the headmaster.”
Meg shook his hand. “Hello, Dr. Lyons.”
Then, she was introduced to the Assistant Head of School, the Upper School principal, the Dean of Students, the Director of Community Service—the school was big on community service, she'd been told—and the Head of Security.
Her mother had gotten some grief for not sending them to public schools, but she had used the excuse that there were security concerns, instead of harping on the more-obvious reality that the D.C. school system was not the world's best. Her parents had seriously considered sending Neal to public school, since the elementary schools were better than the high schools, but in the end, he had been enrolled in the same school where Steven was going.
“Miss Powers, how do you feel about starting school?” a reporter asked.
“Nervous,” Meg said without thinking, and everyone laughed.
She had to answer a few more harmless questions, but finally,
someone asked the predictable “why are you attending this exclusive private school, when the President is such a strong proponent of public education?” one.
Maureen quickly stepped forward. She was in her late-twenties and very tall, with black hair and skin so pale that it looked as though she had never let a single ultra-violet ray ever touch her face. As far as Meg knew, Preston had poached her from the DLC—Democratic Leadership Council—staff. “I'm afraid that's a matter of policy, and not something Meg needs to address.”
Which didn't change the fact that it was a proverbial gun on the wall—and really
should
be addressed. “It
isn't
fair,” Meg said—and Maureen looked aghast. “I'm very lucky to be in a position where my parents can send me to the best school they can find, and I wish the same held true for everyone.”
“So, you're advocating school vouchers?” someone asked.
Aw, hell, she'd sauntered right into that one, hadn't she. Damn.
Maureen shook her head firmly. “I'm sorry, but classes have already begun for the day, and Meg—”
“No, I don't support them,” Meg said—and it was possible that Maureen gasped. Although, luckily, she didn't actually topple over. “Public education hasn't gotten enough funding for
years,
and it makes a lot more sense to me to do everything possible to improve the entire system, and bring everyone back into it, instead of the other way around. Vouchers are only going to perpetuate the problem that already exists.”
Which was actually quite close to her mother's position.
The reporters were all grinning, and taking notes like crazy, and she realized that she was being filmed, too.
“So,” a print person said, “you're saying that your mother will definitely—”
Meg shook her head. “I can't speak for the Administration. I'm just giving you my personal opinion.”
“How about social issues, in general?” a television reporter asked,
with a very sly look in her eyes. “Would you care to weigh in on any of those?”
She could tell that Maureen was about to drag her away forcibly—but that she was also sort of mesmerized by all of this, and wondering exactly how far the President's obnoxious child might be going to go.
“I don't think this is the right time for that,” Meg said, “but thank you for asking.”
Now, Maureen pulled herself together and actually stepped in front of her. “I think we really need to let Meg go to class now,” she said. “If you have any further questions, though, I will be happy to respond later, or you can go directly through Mr. Fielding's office.”
Mr. Fielding was Preston, although she had never once called him that, or thought of him that way.
She was ushered into the main administration building, away from the media, and Maureen promptly pulled her aside.
Dragged
her, in fact.
“That was actually pretty good, Meg, but—gosh,” she said. “Please don't ever do it again.”
Meg grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I know.” Christ, Linda was probably going to
kill
her. “But, it's not like my parents can pretend that my being here is anything other than what it is.” Which was, namely, a function of them being rich and powerful—and their children receiving extra advantages, as a direct result.
Maureen moved her jaw. “You handled the situation at brunch the other day very well, too.”
Her prospective, smarmy suitor.
“But—gosh,” Maureen said. “Okay?”
That was a whole lot better than the “
everything
you say must be vetted through our people” lecture she was likely to get from Linda later today. But, it maybe wasn't a good sign that as soon as they separated, Maureen was immediately on her cell phone.
Once she was inside the Upper School itself, Barry went off with
the Head of Security to whatever area had been set aside for the Secret Service command center. She was pretty sure that there were going to be at least three agents on the campus with her every day, and one of their duties would be taking turns sitting outside each of her classrooms, or the cafeteria, or wherever she happened to be. Fun job. The White House had to keep track of where everyone was twenty-four hours a day, and they even all had code names—she was Sandpiper. She couldn't help wondering what they called her behind her back. Steven was Snapper and Neal was Snowflake. Her mother was Shamrock, her father Sunflower. What a team. The Secret Service liked to keep things innocuous and neat, and it was a tradition to have everything begin with the same letter. Barry was probably already contacting the PPD—Presidential Protective Division—communications center: “Sandpiper safe and sound. Mission successful.” They talked like a bunch of astronauts.
As she walked down the hall with Jeff, Dr. Lyons, and Mr. Haigwood, the Upper School principal, various teachers came up and introduced themselves, while passing students just stared—upon which, Meg remembered to start being nervous again.
“Everyone's very excited about having you here,” Mr. Haigwood said.
Meg blushed. “I hope they're not going to be disappointed.”
After going through some red tape, including signing various forms and getting her official schedule, as well as meeting the entire office staff, Dr. Lyons and Mr. Haigwood took her down to the last half of her first-period class, Literature of the United States, with a Mrs. Simpson.
“Your grades from your old school are excellent,” Mr. Haigwood said.
Actually, Meg considered them subpar, since she had never put out anything genuinely approaching full effort, but she nodded politely.
Dr. Lyons smiled at her. “We're looking forward to having you as part of our student body, and obviously, if you run into any problems at all, you should just come to one of us directly.”
Would being shunned by her classmates count as a serious problem? Certainly, that was what she was anticipating.
Once they were outside her classroom, Jeff sat down in a chair outside. “Do it up, kid.”
Meg smiled weakly, then followed Dr. Lyons and Mr. Haigwood into the room. All work stopped, and what seemed like hundreds of faces looked up.
It took some effort, but she ordered herself to focus on something else.
Anything
else. They were hostile, she could tell they were all hostile.
“This is Meghan Powers,” Dr. Lyons said. “As you all know, she's going to be a student here.”
Meg nodded stiffly, afraid to look at anyone. The room was very quiet, and she could hear her heart up in her ears.
“Do you like to be called Meghan?” Mrs. Simpson, a short woman with greying hair and a very friendly smile, asked.
“Just Meg.” Her voice squeaked a little. Way to go, Sandpiper.
“Well, it's wonderful to have you here, and I know you're going to be a great addition to the class.” Mrs. Simpson handed her a thick anthology and several paperbacks. “These are the texts we're using right now. Why don't you choose a seat?” She gestured towards two empty desks in the front row.
No way. She couldn't sit in front. She'd be sure that people were looking at her. Not that she was paranoid or anything.
“Meg?” Mrs. Simpson asked pleasantly.
Seeing a place in the back, she made her way to it, her face painfully hot as everyone watched her. She stumbled a little as she pulled out her chair, but managed to sit down, pretending that she wasn't aware that every single head was turned in her direction.
“I think we're all set here,” Mrs. Simpson said to Dr. Lyons and Mr. Haigwood, who nodded, and left the room. “Now. Why don't we pick up our discussion where we left off?”
Meg took mechanical, obedient notes, knowing that she couldn't concentrate—not that anyone else in the room seemed to be paying much attention, either. People kept looking at her, and she would stare down at her desk, embarrassed. There were about ten guys in the class, some of whom—on quick glance—looked as if they might be handsome.
She caught eyes with one of the best-looking boys she had ever seen, a guy sitting diagonally across from her. In fact, he was
so
attractive, that she almost dropped her pen. She glanced back and saw him grinning at her. Redder than she had been so far, she focused on the board, where Mrs. Simpson was writing something about class and social conflicts in the early 1900s. One of the books she had been handed was by Edith Wharton, so she assumed that's what they had been reading.
A hand flashed over to her desk and away, leaving behind a small wad of paper. She unfolded it and saw “You blush more than anyone I've ever seen” in masculine handwriting. She—naturally—blushed again, and heard him laugh.
But, it was entirely possible that she was in love. He was
really
sexy. Forget Rick Hamilton, he of the clay feet. She looked at him, admiring the blond hair and charm-school smile. He dressed right, too. Most of the other guys were wearing sweatshirts, but he had on faded, not too faded jeans, and a blue and white rugby shirt, and she had a sudden desire to touch his arm, wanting to feel the material.
Although he was so handsome that he
had
to have a girlfriend already.
She watched him from behind, eyeing the wide shoulders and the muscles that showed through his shirt. Very, very handsome. A 9.3. No higher, because she had never given a 10, and she wanted to leave the possibility open. He was a strong 9, though.

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