White House Autumn (7 page)

On the morning that the tennis team was playing the one school with a first singles player whom she wasn’t sure she could beat, she had a little trouble getting up, a problem which she suspected was Freudian.

The switchboard had to call three times before she said, “Okay, okay, I’m awake,” and meant it. She crawled out from underneath her quilt, opened the draperies, and was instantly depressed. The sky was grey, with rain threatening. When she had checked the weather on the Internet, before she went to bed, all of the forecasts had said that it was
definitely
going to rain from midnight on, which would mean that the tennis match was canceled. From the looks of the sky, the storm wouldn’t start until right after she lost.

Very grumpy, she opened her closet to find something to wear. There weren’t any rules, but the President’s daughter was supposed to try to look nice, if she could—not that Meg ever tried very hard. Today, she felt like looking mean as hell, but that was probably out of the question.

She stared at the dresses, skirts, nice pants, respectable jeans and disreputable jeans—then took a pair of blue sweatpants out of her bottom dresser drawer. She put them on with a light blue Lacoste and a darker blue chamois shirt as a jacket. Not in the mood for socks, she stepped into her Topsiders. All of this made her feel somewhat less grumpy, and she went over to one bookcase—she had two built-in cases on either side of the fireplace, plus a huge freestanding one—to find something she could skim a few chapters of and be completely cheered up. She pulled out
Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man
, which was an hysterically funny book by Fannie Flagg, and fell onto her bed to read.

“Hey, Meg!” Steven bellowed down the hall. “Dad says you’d better hurry up!”

She looked at the clock, scowled, and slammed the book onto the floor.

“Meg, come on!” he yelled.

“I’m coming already!” Twice as grumpy as before, she slouched down the hall to the Presidential Dining Room, reaching for the orange juice without bothering to say good morning to anyone.

“Snap it up,” her father said. “You’re going to be late.”

Meg poured her orange juice so quickly that she spilled some on the tablecloth and had to blot it up with her linen napkin.

“Boy, talk about stupid,” Steven said.

Meg kept blotting so that she wouldn’t throw the glassful at him.

“What are you wearing?” her mother asked, and Meg could tell that she was in a foul mood, too.

“Sweatpants.” She took the Frosted Flakes box from Neal, who was reading the back of it.

“Well, go change,” her mother said. “I don’t want you going to school like that.”

“Like what?” Meg filled her cereal bowl and started reading the box herself, which made Neal kick her under the table. “I always dress like this.”

Her mother frowned at her. “Not in public, you don’t.”

Meg ignored her, reading the box.

“Dad, make her give it back,” Neal said. “I had it first!”

“Give him the box, Meg,” her father said, sounding very irritated. “And go put on something presentable.”

Meg let out a hard breath, returning the box as ungraciously as possible.

“Ground her,” Steven advised, his mouth full of English muffin.

“Shut up,” Meg said, “or I’ll tell them you’re the one who broke the eagle vase.”

Her parents scowled at Steven, who mouthed the word “bitch” across the table at her.

Their mother put down the morning edition of the
Post
. “It was
that basketball, wasn’t it? From now on, you’re not to use it anywhere in the house, got it?”

“Not even in the North Entrance Hall?” Steven asked. “You promised I could—”

Their mother picked her newspaper back up, her mouth tight. “I changed my mind.”

“That’s not fair,” Steven said. “You promised!”

Their father pointed at him. “One more word out of you, and you’re going to be the one who gets grounded.”

Steven sat glowering for a silent minute, then looked across the table at Meg. “Bitch,” he said, then grabbed the basketball which was on the rug next to his chair and ran out of the room.

“Steven!” Their father jumped up. “Get back here!” He spun to face Meg. “See what you started? I hope you’re happy.”

Meg shrugged. “I didn’t start anything. He’s the one who—”

“You started it,” Neal said.

“I did not!” she said. “You just—”

Her mother’s paper slammed down. “Meg, I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m in no mood for it.”

Since she was going to get herself grounded for about thirty years if she stayed in the room, Meg pushed away from the table.

“You’re not to leave the house until you change,” her father said.

She kept going, and he grabbed her by the sleeve.

“Starting right now, you’re grounded,” he said. “For two weeks, and if you don’t shape up by then—”

“Big deal.” Meg shook her arm free. “What’s it matter if I can’t go anywhere without a bunch of damn agents, anyway?”

“You want me to make it a month?” he asked.

Jesus, she couldn’t
wait
to go away to college. “Do what you want,” Meg said, and left the room. She got her tennis bag and knapsack from her bedroom, meeting her mother on her way out.

“I said for you to change.” Her mother’s voice was calm, but angry.

“I don’t have time,” Meg said. “I’m late.”

Her mother moved her jaw. “I’ll write you a note.”

Meg looked at her, tall and determined in a grey flannel Brooks Brothers dress with barely visible white pinstripes. Then she sighed, went back into her room, put on a different pair of blue sweatpants, and came out again.

“Satisfied?” she asked, and her mother looked so furious that she backed up a step.

“Meg, I’d advise you to get back in there,” her mother said, her voice quiet enough to be a little scary.

Meg swallowed, afraid to push it any further, but not wanting to back down, either.

“
Now,”
her mother said.

Meg hesitated, still not sure how to play this.

“I’m late,” she said, and ran down the hall, taking the stairs to the first floor so quickly that she almost fell. Her agents were waiting, and she jumped into her car.

Wayne grinned at her. “Running a little late?”

The odds that the President would chase after her were low—since it would lack dignity—but, she didn’t want to take any chances. “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Gary started the engine. “Trouble getting up?”

“Let’s just go, okay?” she asked. “Uh, I mean—please.”

When she got to school, she headed straight to her locker without pausing to talk to anyone, or even say hello. She opened it, not bothering to admire the decorations inside. Big-shot seniors always decorated their lockers, and hers had a mainly photographic motif. Postcards of old-time movie stars like Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart, digital photos of her favorite Red Sox players—none of whom she was dating, and a couple of snapshots of Josh. There were also a few pictures of Boston, but it was essentially a locker full of men, and usually, opening the metal door cheered her up no matter what kind of mood she was in.

Not today.

Alison drifted over. “Ready for the big match?” she asked cheerfully.

Meg jammed her tennis bag into the locker. “Who cares about the stupid match.”

Alison frowned. “What’s with you?”

Her bag didn’t seem to want to go in there, and she kicked the bottom to
make
it fit. “Nothing.”

“If you say so,” Alison said.

“I say so.” Meg let her walk away, focusing on Cary Grant. Then, she sighed. “Alison, wait.”

Her friend turned. Alison qualified as a big-shot senior by the way she dressed. Which was generally a distinct combination of being retro—and timeless. Today, she had on baggy corduroy pants, an Argyle sweater vest, an Oxford shirt that probably belonged to her brother Andrew, and a very long, gauzy scarf. Annie Hall was alive and well, and living in the District of Columbia, NW.

Meg kept her eyes on Cary Grant. “I’m sorry. I’m in a pretty lousy mood.”

“I didn’t notice,” Alison said. Stiffly.

Meg sighed. “I’m sorry, I had a fight with my mother.” She was going to say, “my stupid mother,” but it was tacky to be publicly derogative about parents.

“Um, a bad one?” Alison asked. People were usually cautious when they asked questions about the President.

“I’m probably grounded for the next
year.”
Meg searched through her English folder for the essay she had spent half the night working on. It wasn’t there, and she frowned, checking her notebook, and then the rest of her knapsack.

“What’s wrong?” Alison asked, as she began to go through her knapsack again.

“I forgot my stupid English paper.” Because of her stupid mother. Meg gritted her teeth. It was okay to
think
derogatory things about parents. “Mrs. Hayes is going to kill me.”

“Just tell her you forgot it,” Alison said.

“Oh, yeah, great.” Meg kicked her locker shut. “She’ll probably flunk me.”

Alison grinned, but sympathetically. “Not if you explain.”

“With my luck? No way.” Meg leaned forward against her locker for a second, resting her head on her arms. “You might want to stay away from me. I have a feeling I’m going to be mean to people.”

She grouched her way through the morning, not participating in class, scrawling inane pictures in her notebook: jagged lines, people skiing, Vanessa sleeping. Everyone seemed to sense her mood, and no one bugged her much—which made it easier not to offend them by snapping and snarling.

“Cheer up,” Josh said, as they walked into physics. “It can’t be
that bud.”

“You weren’t there,” she said, taking her usual seat in the back. They always sat in the back.

“It’s nothing to get worked up about,” he said. “Everyone fights with their parents.”

“Yeah.” Meg twisted a pencil in her hands and—predictably—it broke. “But, I think I kind of went overboard.”

He shrugged. “They’ll get over it. Just be really nice when you get home.”

Maybe. Although she knew that Steven was going to go out of his way to
remind
her at dinner how much breakfast had sucked.

“Hey, did you guys study for this?” Zachary asked.

Meg felt a nervous thump in her stomach. “Study for what?”

He grinned. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” She started to get scared. “Study for what?”

“We have that test today,” Zachary said.

They had a test? Oh, God, they
did
have a test. She had completely forgotten. Meg closed her eyes.

“You have time.” Josh opened her book for her. “It’s just these formulas.”

Meg looked at a page of unfamiliar material, then re-closed her eyes. What a day.

Her teacher came in right on time, and handed out Xeroxed exams which looked so difficult that even the people who had studied groaned.

She stared at incomprehensible motion and distance problems. Damn it, she should have figured that God would get her for being so rotten to everyone. Or maybe this was proof that there
was
no God.

She uncapped her pen, scribbling her name at the top of the sheet. The one good thing about physics was that her teacher always gave partial credit. She looked at Josh, who indicated that he would leave his paper in sight, but she shook her head and he looked very relieved. But, as she struggled with the first problem, she couldn’t help wishing for an act of God or a fire drill or something. That way, the test would be invalid, and she could have another crack at it tomorrow.

Not getting anywhere, she glanced around and saw everyone else’s pens and pencils moving. Terrific. She knew Josh would lift his elbow for her, but she would never stoop to that. Pretty tempting, though.

Of course, if she flunked the test, her parents would completely flip out, and maybe it would be better just to—no. She was above that. Or, anyway, above actually
doing
it.

She picked up her pen. It had been stupid to be so rotten to everyone. So her parents wanted her to change out of her sweatpants, big deal. She should have just put on some jeans and left it at that. But, no. Now the whole family was mad at her, and she couldn’t blame them.

Circumlocuting her way through the third problem, she felt a sudden, unexpected jolt of guilt, picturing her mother’s expression. Hell, maybe she
deserved
to flunk this test—even though it meant she might not graduate, or get into college, or ever be gainfully employed, or—she shook her head, trying to concentrate on physics.

There was a knock on the door as she struggled through the fifth problem, panicking because she was running out of time. She didn’t even check to see who was there, and was surprised to hear her name.

“Meg,” her teacher said again, and she looked up. There was something strange about the way he gestured towards the door, something
anxious
about it, and she gulped without knowing why, a tight coldness starting in her neck and throat.

She stood up, clenching her pen hard enough to hurt her hand, and crossed to the door, praying that nothing was wrong.

Her agents were standing in the hall, and feeling their controlled urgency, the coldness turned into a hard contraction of fear.

“Who is it?” she asked unsteadily.

“Your mother,” one of them said.