White House Autumn

MEGHAN POWERS SLOUCHED
in the back of her Political and Philosophical Thought class, incredibly bored. Her friend Alison yawned at her from across the aisle and Meg nodded, feigning death from ennui. Top
that
, Camille.

“Miss Powers?” her teacher asked. “Do you have a problem?”

Meg sat up hastily, death scene arrested. “Sir?”

“I realize,” he spoke with some sarcasm, “that a discussion of the Presidency can hardly be expected to hold your interest—”

Most of the class laughed.

“But,” he said, “I would appreciate it if you would try to pay attention.”

Meg blushed. “Yes, sir.” She was going to add, “Forgive me, sir,” but he might not find that as amusing as she would. One of the many problems with being the President’s daughter was that she had to watch every single thing she said—and did—in public. Rise above her natural inclination to be—well—a jerk. Her mother had only been in office about nine months, and Meg was still trying to get used to it. Hell, her whole
family
was.

She slumped down into her turtleneck. Turtlenecks were good to hide in. But, this was a nice skiing shirt, and she shouldn’t stretch it out. She sat up, turning around to check the clock. Ten minutes to go. Major drag. It was only October, and she wasn’t supposed to have senioritis yet.

However.

Maybe she would look at Josh for a while. She liked to look at Josh. Except that he was looking at her, and it was too embarrassing to stare back. Besides, gazing lovingly was sort of a public display of
affection, and one wanted to maintain decorum whenever possible. That made up for the times when it
wasn’t
possible. Like during the last song at dances. Amorous embraces seemed rather appropriate at such moments. Except for White House dances. Although officials who had had a little too much to drink had been known to break that rule—like Raul, the prince who had taken their association as dinner partners as an engagement or something, and spent the whole night trying to kiss her, until Preston, her father’s press secretary, had tactfully tangoed her away. Meg was exceedingly fond of Preston.

The bell was ringing, and she closed her notebook. That was the good thing about thinking—it was an excellent way to kill time. Not that she ever accomplished much.
Reflections
, by Meghan Winslow Powers. Swell. She and Rod McKuen could walk off into the sunset together.
Admiring
the sunset.

“You coming?” Josh asked.

“Yeah.” She zipped her books into her knapsack and smiled back at him. He had a very nice smile. And nice hair and nice eyes and a nice nose—the kind of guy people asked for directions, although knowing Josh, he would get rattled, blink a lot, and send them blocks out of their way. Not miles, just blocks.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

She grinned sheepishly. “I don’t know. Things.”

“Interesting things?” he asked.

“Not really.” She walked closer to him in the hall, smelling his aftershave. It was pretty funny to imagine him putting it on in the morning when she knew he didn’t shave. Or, as he put it, he shaved every three weeks, whether he needed it or not.

“I’m sorry I can’t come to the match,” he said.

“It’s no big deal.” She automatically swung her arm, as if she were holding one of her tennis racquets. “I don’t think we’re going to win, anyway.”

He grinned. “You mean, you think
you’re
going to win, but the rest of the team isn’t.”

Well—yeah. Pretty much.

“Nice attitude, captain,” he said.

“Well,” she glanced around, “don’t quote me.”

He made his hand into a microphone. “Yes, fans, you heard it here. Miss Powers concedes that—”

“Funny,” she said, pushing him off-balance. Actually, it was too true to be funny. Reporters were always showing up at her matches, and even members of opposing teams sometimes took pictures of her. The one which seemed to be making the rounds recently was a terrible photo which had shown up in some tabloid, of her hitting a drop-shot. On the run, mouth open, eyebrows furrowed. Really most attractive. And embarrassing. It was like, she spent thirty five hours a day trying to get people to forget who she was—and one stupid picture would blow it in about ten seconds.

“Melissa Kramer’s
really
going to want to win today,” he said.

Her opponent, who was ranked fourth in the 18-and-under, USTA, Mid-Atlantic Section—and seemed to think that meant she would be heading off to Wimbledon, sooner rather than later. Meg nodded. “Yeah, but she’s all hat, no cattle.” Or, more specifically, all serve, and no ground-strokes or cogent strategy.

And had made the grave error, earlier in the season, of popping off on the sidelines after winning the first set they played, 6–2—whereupon, Meg had won the final two, 7–6, and then, 6–1. After which, Melissa complained that it “wasn’t fair” that she had to play someone famous. It had taken a great deal of effort for Meg to do nothing more than smile pleasantly and say, “Oh, I’m sure I just got lucky.”

Yeah. Right.
Lucky
.

“You gonna smash them or what, Meg?” their friend Nathan shouted down the hall. Nathan was six-four, and one of the few football players she’d ever genuinely liked—and trusted. He had huge shoulders, a close-cut Afro, and always wore those baseball shirts with brightly colored sleeves.

”Six-love, six-love,” she shouted back.

“Boy, some people sure are conceited,” Josh said.

Meg laughed, and pushed him again. “You’re really a jerkhead, you know that?”

He nodded. “Yeah, you tell me all the time.”

“Mrs. Ferris says for us to get ready as fast as we can,” Alison said, meeting them at Meg’s locker.

Meg missed the last number of her combination and had to start over. “Big pep talk?”

“And how.” She looked at Meg, then at Josh, and grinned. “I’ll see you in the locker-room.”

Meg flushed. “Uh, yeah, I’ll be right there.”

When she had her books and her tennis gear, and was waiting for Josh to get his stuff, she wandered down to the corner where Wayne, one of her Secret Service agents, was.

“I’m just going to change, and then head out to the bus,” she said.

He nodded. On days when she had away matches, her security detail was increased, with two agents riding
on
the bus, plus follow cars, and other agents doing advance work. At the beginning of the season, the Secret Service had wanted her to ride in a separate car, away from the rest of the team, but Meg had protested so vehemently that, luckily, they had agreed to compromise. Having agents on the bus was bad enough, especially when everyone was talking about sex—which was most of the time. No wonder they lost so many matches.

Josh walked her to the locker-room, and they paused outside.

“I’ll call you tonight,” he said.

She nodded. “Have a good lesson.” Two afternoons a week, he worked with his piano teacher, preparing for auditions for the conservatories he was applying to, even though he insisted that he would never get in and would end up majoring in history somewhere.

“Have a good match.” He leaned over to kiss her, and Meg made sure that no one was around before relaxing against him. Well, her
agents were around, but they never looked. She didn’t
think
. “Do it for the Gipper,” he said against her mouth.

“I’ll try my best, Knute.” She hugged him, then pulled away. “Talk to you later?”

He nodded, kissed her one last time, and she went into the locker-room.

HER TEAM LOST
almost every single one of their matches, and someone from the
Washington Post
took pictures of her perspiring and lunging for cross-court shots. Melissa had apparently been practicing like a mad thing, because her placement was much better than Meg remembered, and the match went to three sets before she managed to pull it out with some of her hardest serves.

Leaving Melissa, of course, very disgruntled.

When she had originally been assigned to the top rank on the team, she had worried that it was only because she was the President’s daughter. In fact, when she’d first tried out, even though she knew she could beat the reigning number one player, Renee, easily, she carefully lost her challenge match, so she would come in second and not have to feel as though she had been given special privileges. But, her coach had not been fooled and kept her after practice to accuse her of throwing the match. Meg had allowed as how maybe she could have done better, and Mrs. Ferris said that if she wasn’t going to put out her full effort
every single match
, she couldn’t play at all. Awkwardly, Meg explained the situation, and her coach had sympathized—sort of—but still said that she couldn’t be a member of the team with that attitude. Meg decided to adjust her attitude, but she still threw points sometimes, because most of her opponents were uneasy about having to play her, and she didn’t want any unfair advantages.