The President's Daughter (26 page)

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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

BOOK: The President's Daughter
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A big, dumb comedy was opening that night; maybe she should ask him if he wanted to go to that, instead. Or, in retrospect, they could have watched absolutely any movie they wanted in the White House private theater—and he probably would have been really into the idea.
Too late now, though.
“Why you sitting way over there?” he asked.
Because she was shy, maybe? “Am I?” she said.
“Yeah. Come on, move over.” He patted the seat next to him.
She wasn't really comfortable taking off her seatbelt, and she looked behind them at one of her agents' cars, and didn't move.
“What,” he gestured with his head towards the rear window, “you uptight about them?”
“Kind of.” She looked through the windshield at the city streets, ignoring the battle the emotional and intellectual parts of her head were having. The emotional part was insisting that he was really nice, really handsome, really everything—while the intellectual side was saying, very quietly, that he was kind of a jerk, and she ought to face up to it.
“You okay?” he asked.
“What?” She blinked. “Oh. Sure.”
“You look good tonight.” He reached over and touched her face with his right hand. “I wasn't kidding.”
Yes, flattery would get him everywhere. “Thank you,” she said, feeling her intellectual arguments weakening.
The theater was mostly empty, so they had no trouble finding seats, and only one person seemed to notice them, although he promptly nudged his companions, who all turned around and stared.
Great. The guy probably hadn't recognized
her,
but even when her agents dressed down, they were still pretty obvious.
Adam chose seats far over on one side, letting her go into the row first. One of her agents sat up near the front, and two others were up behind them somewhere.
“You want popcorn or anything?” he asked, taking off his jacket.
“If you do,” she said.
He looked around. “Am I allowed to leave you to go get some?”
“Yeah, they're right there,” she said.
He nodded, a little grimly, and then headed for the concessions stand.
While he was gone, two of the people who had recognized her started to come over—but one of her agents instantly took such a subtle, but threatening, position that the guys stopped in their tracks and then went straight back to their seats.
When Adam returned, he settled into his chair, putting his arm around her as soon as the lights went down. She spent the first few minutes of the movie thinking about how much she liked the opposite sex and how great their arms were. She felt warm, she felt safe, she felt very female—and she felt like throwing him down and kissing him.
Yeah, the emotional argument was gaining ground.
He pulled her closer. “You still here?”
“What?” she asked. “I mean, yeah.”
“You like it?” he asked.
She nodded, looking up at the screen, seeing that the movie was in the middle of another embarrassing sex scene, which, if the plot stuck to its current course, would end with the beautiful girl lying on the floor in a pool of blood, while the camera lingered on her. She closed her eyes.
His hand was creeping down over the front of her shoulder and she moved, avoiding it. He tried again, then got the hint, and kept his hand where it was.
The fourth murder was particularly offensive, and even Adam seemed uncomfortable.
“I didn't know it was going to be this bad,” he whispered.
“It's not that bad,” she said bravely.
“It's awful.” He glanced behind them, then at her, sliding closer. “You really do look good tonight.”
“Well, so do you.” She also looked over her shoulder, sensing that he was about to kiss her, and wondering if her agents—and the people who had recognized her before—were all going to be able to see him do it.
At least, they were way over on the side. Did she really want him to kiss her so much that she was willing to do it in public? The answer was very easy, and she blushed in the darkness. Better to have him kiss her here, where her agents could pretend to be paying attention to the movie.
“Come here,” he said, and turned her face to him. Then, he kissed her, one hand on her cheek.
She couldn't keep back a quick, shuddering sigh of relief, having wanted him to do that ever since she'd met him, but then she pulled her head away, embarrassed—and startled—by the intensity of her reaction.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, blushing, and as he kissed her again, she let a tentative hand move up into his hair, feeling very—new—at all of this. She opened her eyes, and saw that his were closed, then checked to see if her agents were watching—which they weren't, thank God.
His breathing was faster, and she hoped that it was something
she
had done, and not just puberty. His arms were warm around her, and she noticed how good he smelled; he was wearing some kind of really sexy aftershave. And—his hand was not only already under her sweater, but also under her
bra
. She flinched, surprised that it felt so good—and that he had managed it so deftly. But, this was the first time they'd ever—and they were sitting in a movie, and—she really couldn't let him—
“Adam, don't,” she said in a very low voice.
He looked confused. “Hunh?”
“Come on, don't.” She pushed his hand down, hoping—again—that no one was watching or listening.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because I don't want you to,” she said.
He tried to get his hand back underneath her sweater, and she dodged it. “Why not?”
“Because it's—I mean, because we're—” She tried to think of a way to explain it. Especially since the answer seemed so damn
obvious
. “I just don't.”
“I don't believe it.” He sat back in his seat, scowling up at the screen, and Meg sat back, too, folding her arms defensively across her chest.
“We didn't see you as a tease,” he said quietly.
What? She stared at him. “I'm not!”
“You led me on,” he said.
How? By
sitting
next to him? “I did not,” she said.
“Yeah, well, guess we didn't see you as being frigid, either.” He watched the fifth murder.
“I'm not—” She stopped, shoulders crumpling. “You said ‘we.'”
He shrugged. “So what?”
“Oh, God.” She lowered her head, not trusting her expression, and fumbled for her coat.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She got up, walking—almost running—up the aisle, as her agents jumped up to follow her.
“Meg?” One of them caught up to her in the lobby. “What's wrong?”
“I don't feel very good.” She didn't look at him, fighting back a strong urge to burst into tears. “I think I'd better go home.”
Adam hurried out after them. “Meg, what's going on?”
“I need to go home,” she said. “I don't feel very good.”
He stared at her. “You're gonna leave? Just like that?”
Damn straight. Luckily, the lobby was almost empty, and she was able to make her way to the main doors almost completely unrecognized.
“You're not even going to let me drive you?” he asked.
“I have a ride,” she said, and kept walking.
“Meg, come on.” He touched her arm. “Look, let me drive you, okay? I'm sorry.”
She shook his hand off. “I have a ride.”
“Okay, okay, look,” he said. “Just get in my car for a second. I have to talk to you, okay?”
She hesitated.
“Just for a second, okay?” he asked.
She thought about that, then nodded and got in, staying close to the passenger's door.
“Look, uh—” He put his keys in the ignition, then turned to face her. “I'm sorry. What did I do?”
She was supposed to believe that he didn't know
precisely
what he had done? She stared back at him. “Did you ask me out because of
who
I am?”
“No, I—” He shifted uneasily. “I mean, it's not that you're not—”
She nodded stiffly, and opened the door.
“Meg, wait.” He put his hand on her arm again. “I didn't mean it that way—it was before you even came. Everyone figured you might go with me, and then we could—”
“Figure out how far I went?” she asked.
“No, I—” He stopped. “Well, sort of.”
“Terrific.” She knocked his hand away. “Make sure you tell them.”
“Meg, come on.” He tried to touch her shoulder, and she shrugged him off. “I really am sorry. I like you. I didn't know I was going to—I thought you'd be—I don't know.
Famous
. But, I like
you. When we started fooling around, I didn't even think about those guys. I kissed you because I wanted to. Really.”
She nodded, pushing the door all the way open.
“Can we try again sometime?” he asked. “I'd like to.”
“Well, I wouldn't.” She got out of the car. “Tell your friends that, too.”
He sighed. “Meg, at least let me—”
She slammed the door, ran over to one of her agents' cars, and jumped into the back.
“Is everything—?” one of them started.
“Just take me home, okay?” She folded her arms. “I mean, please.”
Both agents nodded, and the one behind the wheel, Ned, started the engine.
AT THE WHITE House, she went straight upstairs to her room, ripping off her coat and throwing it on the bed. Luckily, her family wasn't home yet. Of course, why would they be? It was only ten. She took off her sweater and skirt, slamming them onto her closet floor, and then changed into a battered, huge chamois shirt, a pair of old navy blue sweatpants, and her hiking boots.
She went out to the hall, where Felix was just coming out of the kitchen.
“Did you have a nice time?” he asked, smiling.
None of this was his fault, so she definitely wasn't going to snap at him.
No matter how much she wished she could.
“Yeah, I did.” With a great effort, she smiled back. “Do you think I could have a Coke, please?”
When he came back out, carrying her glass on a silver tray, along with a crisply pressed napkin, and a plate of cookies—which she didn't want—she thanked him, and carried the glass up to the solarium, where she could be alone for a while.
She sat down on one of the couches, knowing that she was going to cry, but afraid to start. To distract herself, she turned on the television, and slumped down, watching
SportsCenter
for a few minutes. She was going to call Beth, but it was Friday night, and any
normal
person her age had friends and was out with them. She sipped her soda, occasional tears sliding out and down her cheeks, not bothering to wipe them away.
At around eleven-thirty, by which point she had given up on television and was just plain crying, she heard footsteps in the hall
and dragged her sleeve across her face to get rid of any traces of tears.
“Hi,” her mother said.
Meg didn't look at her. “When'd you come home?”
“Just a little while ago,” she said. “Felix told me you came in, but I wasn't sure where you were.”
Meg didn't answer, drinking her Coke.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” her mother asked.
“About what?” Meg looked up at her mother, who was, naturally, ravishing in a slim red velvet dress. So beautiful, in fact, that Meg felt a strong flash of hatred, hating her for always looking, and being, so perfect.
Her mother must have felt something, because she paused on her way across the room. “May I keep you company?”
“Why?” Meg asked. “So you can gloat?”
“I don't think you meant that,” her mother said.
Well, maybe the President wasn't quite as god-damn smart as she thought she was. Meg didn't say anything, her arms tight across her chest as her mother moved Kirby off the couch and sat down. They sat there in complete silence, Meg scowling and her mother brushing at an invisible piece of lint on her sleeve.
“Well,” Meg said finally. “Aren't you going to say I told you so?”
Her mother shook her head. “No. What happened?”
Meg clenched her fist, very close to crying again. “He only asked me out because of you, okay? You were right, are you happy?”
“I'm sorry,” her mother said, and put her arm around her.
“Don't!” Meg moved away. “Please don't touch me.”
Her mother slowly withdrew her arm. “I want to help you. What can I do?”
Meg shook her head, bringing her left hand up to cover her eyes, the tears starting again.
“I really am sorry.” Her mother reached over to rub her back. “I wish I could—”
“I just want to be by myself,” Meg said, feeling the tears come harder, not wanting anyone to see them. “Please?”
“Oh, Meg.” Her mother kept rubbing her back. “I don't want to leave you alone.”
“You have been for sixteen years,” Meg said. “Why stop now?”
There was a silence so silent that Meg was sure she could hear both of their hearts beating, especially hers.
Why had she said that? She never should have said that. She swallowed. “Mom, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. I don't know why I said that.”
Her mother sat back, looking suddenly smaller, her face expressionless.
“I'm sorry,” Meg said. “I didn't mean it.”
“I expect you must have,” her mother said, so softly that Meg almost couldn't hear her. She stood up, her eyes as distant as a
Time
magazine photograph. “Excuse me.”
As she started towards the door, Meg knew she didn't want to let her leave first, since she'd be afraid to go downstairs, if she did. So, she jumped up and hurried past her, running downstairs to her room and slamming the door, leaning against it, too out of breath to cry.
Why had she said that? She shouldn't have said that. She should have just told her that she hated her, or something. Lots of people said they hated their parents when they were angry, and her mother would know that she hadn't meant it. And she hadn't.
Well, okay, she
had,
but not really. It just came out. But how come, when she felt terrible, she had had to turn around and immediately hurt someone
else?
A hell of a thing to know about herself.
Slowly, she pushed away from the door, realizing that she was crying again. She hadn't even shouted it in anger—she had said it calmly. Maliciously.
Vindictively
. Somehow, that made it worse. Anyone could get mad and yell things. Nothing like going for someone's weak spot, though.
She sat down on her bed, taking off her hiking boots and
sweatpants, then getting under the covers and reaching up to turn the light off. She stared up at the chandelier in the darkness, tears sliding down her cheeks and into the pillow. She lay there, feeling a lot of tired hatred—almost all of it directed towards herself.
 
SHE DIDN'T SLEEP much, and the next morning, she was afraid to go to breakfast. Only, she would have to face her sooner or later. So, she got up, took a shower, put on jeans and a thick ragg sweater, and went out to the Presidential Dining Room with its stupid wallpaper. She hesitated in the doorway, seeing her parents at the table, eating silently. They glanced up, neither of them looking very happy to see her.
Her father. She had forgotten about her father. He was probably ten times angrier than her mother was. She backed up toward the hall, figuring that she would just skip breakfast.
“Meggie, come on!” Neal shoved her from behind, trying to get into the room, so she took a deep breath and went over to sit in her usual place.
“Morning.” Neal hugged their father. “Hi, Mommy.” He went over to the other end of the table, fastening his arms around their mother's waist.
“Hi, Neal.” She hugged him back, her face hidden by her hair as she kissed the top of his head.
Meg tentatively checked her father's eyes, found them very cold, and focused on her place setting.
“What would you like for breakfast?” a butler asked.
“Just cereal, please,” she said, not looking up.
“What kind?” he asked.
“Uh,” she tried to think of a brand, “Rice Krispies.”
Once he had served her, she tried to eat, but her stomach felt like lead. Neal kept up a high-pitched running conversation about the play they had seen the night before, which he had apparently loved.
“And then,” he bounced in his chair, “when the man came out
and danced, and his friend, his friend came out, and
he
started dancing—”
“Hi.” Steven came in, wearing sweatpants and a cut-off compression shirt, which meant that he had a new athletic conditioning plan to get ready for baseball. He took a boxer's stance and gave their father several light, quick punches on the arm. “Hi, Pop,” he said breezily. Then, he saluted the other end of the table. “Hey, Prez.” He sat down, slapping Neal on the head. “How ya doin', brat?” He grinned across the table at Meg. “Betcha looked pretty ugly last night. D'ja have to pay him to take you?”
Something snapped somewhere inside, and Meg threw her cereal and milk at him, then put the bowl down, running out of the room. She saw the surprise on the butler's face, and heard her father's furious “Meg, get back here!” but she didn't stop, even though she wasn't sure where to go. She kept running, and then ducked into the Lincoln Bedroom, lying down on the antique bed and wishing that Lincoln's ghost would come along and carry her off.
She knew they wouldn't follow her, and no one did, so she stayed there for what seemed like a very long time, hands folded behind her hair, staring up at the chandelier, which she decided that she hated. She hated all of the chandeliers in the house. In fact, she hated every chandelier in the
world
. They didn't have chandeliers at home; they had lamps. She liked lamps. She lay there, hating chandeliers, sitting up when she heard a gasp.
“Glory, and you startled me, Miss Powers,” the housekeeper in the doorway said, holding a dust cloth. “I'm sorry, I didn't expect—I'll just come back later.”
“No, I'm finished.” Meg got off the bed, smoothing the wrinkles. “Sorry.”
She moved out into the East Sitting Hall, trying to decide where to go next. But, the longer she put it off, the more time her father would have to simmer. Maybe she should just go back to her room,
and if she ran into him on the way, she could at least find out how angry he was.
He was in one of the chairs in the Center Hall, holding the morning
Post
, obviously waiting for her, and she wondered what time it was. Seeing her, he stood up, folded the paper under his arm, and indicated the Presidential Bedroom with one sharp point of his hand.
“I-I don't feel good,” she said. “I have to sleep.”
He just looked at her, and she swallowed, and went down to her parents' room. He followed her, closing the door behind him.
He couldn't actually
kill
her. It would be all over the news.
She sat in a rocking chair, and he sat across from her on a small sofa. He put the paper down, folding his hands, and she wondered if he was going to crack his knuckles. Sometimes he did, although it drove her mother crazy. He looked at her, cracking them halfway.
Yeah, he was mad, all right.
“I didn't mean it,” she said, making an effort not to sound nervous, holding onto the worn wooden arms of the chair.
He frowned at her. “Why did you say it, then?”
Good question. She avoided his eyes. “I was mad.”
“A little below the belt, don't you think?” His voice was very calm. Almost casual. People in her family didn't yell much.
“Does she, uh, hate me?” she asked, not looking up.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Meg shrugged, running her hand along the right arm of the chair.
“Do you hate her?” he asked.
She shook her head. “You know I don't.”
“I'm not always convinced,” he said.
She nodded, watching the bones and muscles of her hand move as she tightened and loosened her grip on the chair. “As usual. Taking my side.”
“Hey!” He grabbed her arms, holding them just above the elbows
so she would have to look at him. “Let's get something clear. I don't want any more fresh remarks out of you. Not to your mother, not to me, not to your brothers. Is that clear?”
She looked right back at him. “You're hurting my arms.”
“You know I'm not,” he said, but loosened his grip. “Is that quite clear?”
She jerked free, folding her arms so it would be hard for him to grab them again.
“Well, it had better be,” he said.
Yeah, fine, whatever. “What happens now?” she asked.
“First of all, you're grounded,” he said. “More because of what you did to your brother than anything else. For two weeks, and if you don't shape up by then, I'll add on more time.”
Big deal. “Just moving here grounded me,” she said, standing up.
He glared at her. “Where are you going?”
“I thought we were finished,” she said.
“We aren't,” he said.
Oh. She sat back down.
“Look, Meg,” he said. “I know you were upset last night. Neither your mother nor I is even exactly sure what happened, but we know how upset you were. Do you want to tell me about it?”
She shook her head.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Very
god-damn sure. She nodded.
“You might feel better,” he said.
She shook her head again.
“Well, all right, but I think it might help.” He sighed, pulling absent-mindedly at his tie—which he normally wouldn't be wearing on a Saturday morning. “I know how difficult it's been for you—it's been difficult for all of us. What it means is that we all have to try harder, especially with each other, okay?”

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