When Audrey Met Alice (6 page)

The rest of the dinner was fine, although I was barefaced and swathed in a massive pashmina that hid most of my dress. All I could concentrate on during the event was how much the shawl made my skin itch.

Around eleven, the knock I’d been dreading came on my door. “Come in,” I called and slouched into my pillows, pulling up the covers. Maybe if they saw me in bed they’d keep the lecturing short. Both of my parents walked in, still in formal attire.

“Audrey,” my mom started, “wardrobe for dinners with heads of state is
absolutely
nonnegotiable. Period. Thank goodness the chancellor has a teenage daughter himself—he found it amusing that you wore a dance costume. Not all guests would react the same way. What if he thought you weren’t taking his visit seriously? Or that you didn’t respect him and his office?” I nodded. I hadn’t thought about offending someone—whoops.

“Come on, Audrey,” my dad added. “You’re old enough that you should’ve known not to wear that.” I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. How could you
not
want to roll your eyes whenever a parent invoked the whole “you’re old enough” thing?

“I wasn’t wearing a costume, though. I mean, it was part of my dance costume, but it’s a dress,” I explained. “A grown-up one. For once, I didn’t want to look like a little kid. The wardrobe people never listen to me about that.”

“Then you should’ve told me that earlier today, or the assistant who chose your outfit.” My mom spoke in the kind of tone that meant she was trying not to blow up but might not succeed.

“Fine. I guess I’ll consider my clothes one less thing I get say-so over in this house.” I crossed my arms and flopped back into my pillows.

“Audrey. That’s not fair,” my dad started.

I shot back up. “It’s true. Admit it. I am just a prop to be dressed up around here.”

My parents glanced at each other. My mother was biting her lip, and my dad whispered something to her. Then he winked at me.

Mom uncrossed her arms. “I don’t appreciate your tone. But maybe we should set up a personal shopping session for you next week so you can get some new options.”

I refused to smile but did stop furrowing my eyebrows. “Good. I mean, thanks.” I felt a teensy bit less pissed at her. “Sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“Apology accepted,” my mother said, uncrossing her arms. “Now it’s time for bed.” My parents came over to give me very perfunctory kisses good night and then left the room. I stretched across my bed and stared up at the veiny ceiling, smiling. At the next State Dinner, maybe I’d have my own pair of heels.
Perhaps
tonight
hasn’t been such a disaster after all.

• • •

January 30, 1902

Diary—

Interest in me hasn’t waned since my debut. People in this country have gone absolutely crazy for their “Princess Alice!” I’ve received hundreds of requests for my autograph—enough that White House staff now needs to open my mail for me. Photographers and reporters pursue me whenever I leave the house, and on many occasions small crowds have formed when I am out in public. There still isn’t much automobile or carriage traffic when I cruise on my bicycle to Dupont, but there are people who point and exclaim. One morning I awoke to my stepmother all atwitter—some camera fiends were planted at the front door, hoping to get my picture. They weren’t even reporters but “fans.”

It gets even more peculiar. The most popular songs right now were composed with me as the subject: “The Alice Roosevelt March” and “The American Girl.” Probably my favorite homage to
moi
is the fabric color taking America by storm: “Alice blue,” the precise blue-gray color of my eyes—supposedly. No dressmaker has verified it against my peepers. One of the maids told me stores are selling out of it; the papers reported it’s the most popular shade for dresses right now. (How lucky for the ladies of America that my eyes aren’t a muddy brown.) My photograph decorates tinted postcards and fancy French chocolate cards. It’s wild. As one of my Sloper friends remarked, perhaps with a smidgen of jealousy, the world has become my oyster. If I had anything to be vain about, I suppose I would be getting very vain. Luckily for the world at large, my gargantuan forehead (among other attributes) prevents me from that sin.

My parents do not think it is so “wild.” My stepmother’s constant refrain: “Beware of publicity!” “Do not talk to reporters!” She says nice girls do not get their pictures in the paper, much less on chocolate cards, except for when they are born, married, and buried. I say poppycock to that. Actually, I asked Edith whether she’d like to find me a husband then, or otherwise put some arsenic in my tea because I’ve already been born. My father had the audacity to accuse me of
courting
publicity. Of all the people to say such a thing—my father, who has to be the bride at every wedding, the baby at every christening, and the corpse at every funeral. He never met a form of public attention that he didn’t love. Why, at the inauguration, I remember him chiding me for waving gleefully to some friends in the audience while he spoke. I said, “Why shouldn’t I?” “But this is my inauguration!” was his exasperated reply. For him, the master of publicity, to criticize me for having a little fun with the attention—it’s hypocrisy, pure and simple.

So I am told I must never, ever, ever, ever speak to reporters and should avoid photographers at all times. Cover my face if I have to. And yet, there is interest in every move my family or I make! How absurd. My siblings share my bemusement—Ted even sent me a letter from school with a postscript reading “Five cents for the signature please.” I nearly died laughing. (I suppose Edith would’ve allowed my name to appear in the paper then.)

But try telling any of this to my parents, with their fuss-box ideas of how young ladies should behave. Things are rather strained between my father and me lately. There’s no distinction between when he is working and when he is in his home anymore. Even that handy glass partition between his offices and our residence doesn’t separate the two for him. I miss the time he used to have for us—did you know I used to demand that he carry me downstairs to breakfast every morning via a piggyback ride? I would stand at my doorway and bellow, “Now, pig!” and off we’d go. I’d sit in on his morning shave too, and in between swipes with the razor, he’d tell me tales of the wilderness out west. But he’d never tell me any stories related to my mother. He hasn’t spoken of her, to anyone, since the day she died. Bye told me once my father’s peculiar silence is because he feels such terrible guilt for remarrying. I suspect I must bring out that guilt in him too.

So you can see that even before all the country wanted a piece of Alice, things between my parents and me were rocky. If anything, that discord spurs me to pursue what I want even more, and right now what I want is to eat up this attention with my silver spoon. And so I shall.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

P.S. One dollar for the signature please!!!

February 5, 1902

Diary—

Today I shan’t be writing of any of the foolish, selfish, or girlish things that normally fill my silly mind. For once all my attention is not on the needs and wants of “poor Alice” (do take notice). My darling brother Ted, my boon companion, is gravely sick. Off at school, he has taken ill with pneumonia. Father and Stepmother assure me that he will overcome it (“Ted’s a Tough, Alice. He’ll pull through this.”), but fear has stricken my heart. Perhaps I am prone to fearing that I will lose those whom I love—remember I never had the chance to know my sweet mother. I couldn’t bear it if anything were to happen to my dear brother. The Roosevelt children are split into neat little pairs: Ethel has Kermit, and the little ones Archie and Quentin have each other. Who will I have if I lose Ted? I am absolutely sick with worry and fear.

When Archie had the measles and was confined to his room, Quentin begged a coachman in the White House to help him bring our beloved family pony, Algonquin, up in the elevator. Quentin knew that nothing would cause Archie to rally like a little quality time spent with his trusty steed. And he was right—from the minute tiny Quentin led Algonquin by the reins into his room, Archie was on the mend. Edith was livid when she discovered that there was not only a pony but a few road apples in her invalid son’s room.

I want to do something similar for Ted—be the force that helps him heal. I begged Father to let me visit, but he refused. He said that Ted needs time to rest now and having visitors will only tire him. I will keep begging my father until I wear him into the ground. Perhaps, if no other option becomes available to me, I will steal Algonquin to get there.

—Alice

February 26, 1902

Diary—

First—Ted is fine and well now. My parents finally let me go to him. While he recuperated, he had great fun playing with Emily (whom I smuggled in my luggage) and me. We terrorized the poor nurses with Miss Spinach, slipping her in his soup bowl when they’d come to pick up his tray. We sent more dishes clattering to the floor than I could count.

Now—the past three days have been an absolute dream! Yours truly got the honor of christening the Kaiser’s yacht. Can you imagine? The German Kaiser himself didn’t come to America for his new purchase, but dashing Prince Henry did. He arrived in Washington on the twenty-third. I didn’t see him then because I was far too busy preparing for my official duties, i.e., smashing wine bottle after bottle in Auntie Bye’s backyard. You see, due to my international popularity those planning the visit decided that I should be the one to crack a bottle of fine champagne against the side of the
Meteor
as part of the official yacht-christening ceremony. (What a waste of the champagne.) I was terribly nervous about the whole event! I certainly didn’t know what amount of force would be necessary to break the darned bottle. But an hour in Bye’s backyard and a thorough drenching in sparkling wine left me much more confident about the whole affair.

On the day of the christening we rose early, almost before first light, so we (Father, Stepmother, and myself) would be in Jersey City promptly at seven. I doubt I could have slept later, I was so nervous about my performance. We ate breakfast whilst traveling, and I managed to lap up some tea and toast despite a jittery stomach.

By half-past ten we arrived at the grand boat. I nervously made my way to the yacht, praying that I would remember exactly what I needed to say. “In the name of his Majesty the German Emperor I christen this yacht
Meteor
.
” There, I still remember it, and I did then too, speaking clearly and confidently and with a great smile. Next I took an ornamental knife and sliced the last bit of rope that kept it tethered. Edith held her breath beside me, afraid I’d slice my hands. Finally, with a great flourish, I smashed that bottle of fine champagne smack on the bow, sending a joyous spray of bubbly onto the yacht and the cheering onlookers. My parents said that I did a fabulous job and I believe them. Prince Henry made a point of congratulating me right in front of Edith. Euphoric, I felt as though I’d nipped at Bye’s liquor cabinet. But I swear on Ted I hadn’t.

After the formal ceremony we went to the
Hohenzollern
, the emperor’s other yacht, and had a celebratory lunch. I sat next to Prince Henry, on his left, and had bully fun speaking with him. I didn’t even have to do Auntie Corinne’s elbow-in-the-soup treatment to hold his attention. Contrary to popular belief, not all princes are handsome—but Henry fit the dashing role. Before you get any ideas, Henry is much older than I and happily wed. Anyway, he took one of the lunch cards and drew a charming picture of his favorite stallion for me on it, signing it with his name. On behalf of the emperor, Prince Henry also gave me a beautiful diamond bracelet. He even fastened it to my dainty wrist himself, and I thought my stepmother would have to pull out the smelling salts. All of the fetching officers of the boat presented me with flowers as well. Even though the event intended to honor Prince Henry and the Kaiser, it sure felt as though everyone was honoring Princess Alice.

The newspapers unanimously proclaimed that I did a tremendous job with my official duties. The
New York Tribune
said that I “seemed unaffected” by all the attention lavished on me (ha, ha) and that I “stood in the glare of the footlights without flinching.” As should a Roosevelt! The sole group unhappy with me is the WCTU. Can you believe that those dry nincompoops lobbied for me to use a nonalcoholic substitute for the champagne? You’d think the old biddies would be happy that all the drink went to waste.

I am so proud that for once I could do something publicly that was a boon to my father’s presidency. Not that all of the attention I get for my debut or my social events is necessarily bad for him—despite what my stepmother thinks. It is, though, a distraction from whatever real work he does. I am pleased that I could be of diplomatic service. I also hope that now that I’ve proven what a charming asset I can be, this will be just the start of Alice’s political endeavors.

To Thine Own Self Be True,

Alice

I did not get diamond bracelets or champagne toasts out of our dinner with the German chancellor, but I did get a shopping trip with some staffers the next week. I picked out some new, oh-so-slightly more age-appropriate clothes and shoes, although my mom made it clear that she had veto power, especially concerning V-necks. One of the dresses I picked out was blue-gray, and I liked imagining that it was the exact shade of Alice blue. Wednesday I was excited to wear my new pair of yellow flats to school—shoes, I’ve found, are one of the few ways to express your style in a school with uniforms. I sat down to eat lunch in the cafeteria courtyard, hoping that someone might notice my supercute shoes and maybe that would lead to a conversation. Back in Minnesota, my friends and I were always borrowing each other’s clothes and showing off new purchases. But my shoes didn’t get any compliments, and I sat alone, eating my sandwich and doing homework.

As I flipped through my history textbook a different classical music motif, this one by Bach, interrupted me. Bach means a special announcement. The PA crackled, “Attention, students. There will be no seventh period today. Instead, there will be an assembly in Friendship Hall. Please report there promptly after sixth period.” My sixth period was music history, the one class I shared with Quint. Collectively, the two hundred and seventy-five minutes I spent in that sunny corner room on the top floor of the Upper School building were the best of my week, hands-down, because I had Quint to talk to and I loved listening to music. The music teacher, Mr. Morgan, plays really eclectic stuff for us—everything from ancient chants to Herbie Hancock to Plácido Domingo to The Killers. When I shut my eyes and listen to music, I can be anywhere I want in the world. The day Mr. Morgan played The Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun,” I was instantly transported back to the dusty sunroom at Kim’s house, dancing around with my best friend. We were obsessed with that song in sixth grade. Hearing anything Tchaikovsky makes me think about Harrison taking me to The Nutcracker ballet every December. Thankfully, Mr. Morgan never played any of the three songs that always blasted out of the speakers before one of my mom’s campaign events. After months of hearing them
every
single
day,
they became like nails on a chalkboard for me: Sheryl Crow’s “A Change Would Do You Good,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop,” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.”
Ugh
. Ruined forever.

Mr. Morgan wrapped the class up with Zuill Bailey playing a Bach cello piece. Perhaps he was building on the whole Bach-is-Friends’s-signal-for-special-announcements thing. I was still humming the theme when Quint sidled up to my desk. “Ready for the mysterious assembly, Rhodes?” I realized that he was tapping his pen on the side of my desk in time with my humming and shut up. Quint is always tapping and drumming on every available surface—all that practice has made him the top percussionist in the school band.

“Yeah—is it going to be serious or something? They’ve never done a pop assembly since I’ve been here.”

“Actually, the last one was to announce that you were coming here. Do you have any secret siblings who might be joining us?” he teased.

“Nope, no skeletons like that in my family’s closet. Unfortunately for Madeline’s grandpa.” Quint rolled his eyes. He’s so not into politics, at least not the us-versus-them kind. I grabbed my backpack and gestured toward the door. “Shall we?” We headed out, trailed by Hendrix.

We walked diagonally across the sunny commons, passing by a group of Lower School kids playing with a parachute on the grassy lawn. “There was one other surprise assembly last year,” Quint said as we scuffed through curled-up leaves.

“Yeah? What for?”

“The class trip. That assembly happened about this time of year too.” My heart sank. From the day I set foot on the Friends campus last winter, everyone was buzzing about the annual trip, which is to a different city each year. In May, the seventh grade went to Chicago. All spring I’d listened to my classmates debate signing up for the Cubs game over a day at the Shedd Aquarium, and then this fall I’d listened to them talk about how
awesome
the trip was on a freaking daily basis. I was the only student in my class who, for obvious reasons, couldn’t go.

“Oh. You’re probably right.” We walked up the steps to Friendship Hall, which used to be a colonial church but now serves as the school’s main auditorium. The first floor is filled with refurbished pews and up some stairs is a balcony that stretches along three sides of the large, one-room building. The back walls of the balcony level are broken up by the original stained-glass church windows, and on sunny days the seats up there are treated to a dazzling colored-light show. Quint and I hurried up the steps two at a time, seeing that the hall was already pretty full.

Seeing me plus Hendrix heading toward a front-row balcony pew, the kids already sitting in it scooted their butts away, repelled like a drop of oil hitting water. Even though a lot of kids are still super fake-nice around me, not a lot of people want to sit next to a Secret Service agent at a boring assembly. It makes goofing off hard. Quint didn’t seem to care, though. We settled into our pew, Hendrix taking a chair against the back wall behind us. A few minutes later the headmaster, Dr. Holmes, walked out to the pulpit-made-lectern. The crowd hushed.

“Good afternoon, students and Friends.” He never resists that pun, and I could barely stifle a groan. Next to me, Quint rolled his eyes and pretended to gag. The way he was sitting, with his left leg crossed and resting on top of his right knee, I could see that he’d used a Sharpie to write “Here comes Treble” on the edge of his shoe. I found that unbearably adorkable.

“I’m very pleased to announce that the faculty council has decided on the destination for this year’s class trip.” I wished that I had the certainty of attending that everyone else had.
Maybe, if it’s on the East Coast, I can go.
The room hushed as everyone waited for Dr. Holmes to announce the destination.

“This year’s Friends Academy class trip will be to…” Dr. Holmes paused. For once he had the attention of every student during an assembly, and he milked it for all it was worth. “New York City!” The audience went crazy, cheers erupting and kids jumping up and down in the pews. “Careful, careful.” Some of the teachers frantically ran around reminding people that they were in
a
historic
place
and needed to be
mindful
of
that
. Quint danced around in his seat, and I also found that adorkable.

His happiness was contagious, and I started to dance too. Sure, I’d been to New York a handful of times and seen the ballet and Broadway shows before. But I’d never been to 62nd and Madison and seen Bye’s house. I wanted to see everyplace Alice had lived. I felt myself getting wrapped up in the excitement about the trip—until I remembered that I had roughly a snowball’s chance in Hades of going. Last year, they decided it was too much of a security risk for me to travel with a school group. I didn’t know how it would be any different this year, and New York is a big place. I slunk back down into my pew.

Quint turned to me, brown eyes shining. “Audrey, isn’t that awesome? Maybe we’ll get to see a performance of the Blue Man Group!” He started drumming on the seat of our pew with one hand and tapping the balcony ledge with the other.

I smiled halfheartedly. “Why haven’t you seen it before? You go to New York with your parents a lot, right?” His dad is always at the UN, and his mom goes to all sorts of conferences and guest lectures.

“They’re usually too busy for stuff like that. And if we go to a concert or a show, they only like serious stuff.”

“I can relate—” I was interrupted by Dr. Holmes speaking again.

“I’m glad to see such enthusiasm for our selection. The itinerary is still being finalized, but we do intend to offer chances to see live theater, tour the museums, and perhaps even pay a visit to Lady Liberty.” He explained that we’d all receive an informational packet at home to share with our parents. A limited number of scholarships would be available for students in need of financial assistance to attend. Friends Academy did have a few students in each grade enrolled through merit scholarships, and to the school’s credit, every effort is made to allow them to have the same experience at school as their privileged counterparts.

When the assembly wrapped up, everyone spilled out of the hall into the commons, splintering into cliques to collectively freak out about how cool the trip was this year. A few of Quint’s friends wandered over, and pretty soon all of the eighth-graders crowded together, talking about the trip. Madeline sauntered over to where Quint and I stood. She and Quint had band in common—Madeline played clarinet. I cursed myself for never picking up an instrument. Ignoring me, Madeline asked him, “Do you think we’ll get to go to Carnegie Hall? Or hear the Philharmonic?”

“That would be so cool. I wanna go check the concert schedule…” Quint trailed off. Madeline and some other band members closed in a circle around him, and I stood off to the outside. I slouched there, imagining what traipsing around New York with Quint would be like. I could picture us strolling through Central Park together, or maybe taking one of those rowboats for a spin. I imagined us sharing an armrest as we watched ballet at Lincoln Center. I saw us taking pictures of each other with the Statue of Liberty or Times Square in the background. Then I looked back at him talking to Madeline and reimagined all those scenes with Madeline replacing me. And I wanted to puke.
I
have
to
go
on
the
New
York
trip. Seriously.
I started to brainstorm reasons why I should go, making a list of talking points for my mom. What did Alice call her little trip to christen the yacht in New York? A
boon
to the presidency? I could tell my mom that me going to New York would help her too. I just wasn’t sure how, other than promising to be well-behaved.

When I got home from school, I made a beeline for my mom’s office. “Denise, I need to talk to my mom,” I begged. Denise was the gatekeeper to my mom’s office—even when it was me trying to get in.

“Your mother is preparing for an important call,” Denise answered, barely looking up from a handful of memos.

“This is an emergency!” I am the Girl Who Cried Emergency, but only out of necessity. That’s the only way to get through Denise.

Denise sighed. “Okay, you can go in for a minute.” She pressed the intercom on the secretary’s desk. “Madam President, your daughter would like a word.”

I burst in and ran up to my mother’s desk. “Mom, I
have
to go to New York.”

“Huh? Right now?” My mom pulled off her reading glasses, confused.

“No, this spring. The school trip. They announced it today. We’ll get an info packet soon.” I bit my lip. “Please just say I can go. I think it would be a good publicity thing for you. If I…” I thought for a second. “Went to the Statue of Liberty! Ellis Island! Think of the photo ops. It could make up for Bikinigate.”

“Honey,” my mother started. “Obviously I’ll look at the information. But the concerns that kept you from going to Chicago last spring haven’t gone away.” She frowned sympathetically. “I have to be honest—it’s very unlikely. Your dad and I simply aren’t comfortable with you going on a school trip, even with your security. But we could plan a trip for you and I to take together. I have some fund-raisers to do—”

“You don’t understand!” My voice cracked. “It’s not the place. It’s getting to go with everyone from school.” Visions of Quint and Madeline and everyone else having a ball, without me, danced through my head. I wanted a chance to be a normal kid on a school trip so badly. Those kinds of trips are when everybody bonds and inside jokes are born. I
needed
to be a part of that. “I have to go. Please,” I pleaded.

“I do understand. But we’re all making sacrifices here, honey.”
But
you
chose
to
make
them,
I wanted to scream.
I
was
never
free
to
do
that!

“
Ugh!
” I stomped my foot. “You don’t get anything.”

“Audrey, that’s not fair.”

“Neither is ninety-five percent of my current life.” I turned on my heel and headed out of the room.

“Audrey,” my mom called after me, but I ignored her. I pushed past Denise, who was waiting on the other side of the door.

I ran upstairs and slammed my door. First thing, I turned on some music to relax. Classical, while I stretched—but no special-announcement Bach because that would only upset me more. Then I turned on the playlist my dance teacher gave me before I moved, and I danced around my room for as long as it took to feel calm. It didn’t last, though, because when I flopped on the floor, sweaty and exhausted, I couldn’t stop thinking about a trip I wouldn’t take and the friendships I wouldn’t make.
Nobody
gets
what
I
have
to
go
through
as
a
First
Kid.
Nobody.
Well, except Alice
. I reached over and slid the diary out of my desk drawer. It felt weird to be hiding someone else’s diary. But if I showed it to my parents, they’d probably find a way to ruin it too. No way would I let that happen. I thumbed through the musty pages to the one I’d left off at, when Alice was flush from her yacht christening in New York Harbor. Lucky girl.

February 28, 1902

Diary—

First, if any of my maids are reading this entry, I swear on my mother’s grave that I will seek revenge on you! I caught a maid peeking in this very journal the other day. I was flabbergasted. I may scoff at my stepmother’s obsession with privacy, but when it comes to my diary, I believe in it too! I refuse to censor myself, but perhaps I will have to devise ways to protect my most private confessions from prying eyes. Maybe you’ve noticed already (you’d have to be blind not to have), but I’m trying to use Bye’s peculiar style of handwriting here. She slants her letters to an almost unreadable degree. It’s an awful lot of effort, though, and so far I’m imitating her style with a singular lack of success.