The President's Daughter

by Ellen Emerson White

  The coatroom was almost always the parents’ bedroom, unless there were siblings. In this case, it was the little sister, and the room was so pink and adorable that it actually seemed to smell like bubble gum.

  Before dropping her jacket on the bed, Beth took out a package of cigarettes. She always held a cigarette at parties. Marlboro Lights.

  “Wow,” Meg said. “You are so cool.”

  “I know.” Beth released a slow stream of smoke. “It’s a lot for you to live up to.”

  “It’s a lot for me to live down,” Meg said.

  “Ha.” Beth glanced in the white plastic mirror to adjust her hat. It was grey felt with a small red feather. Very stylish. Meg would never have the chutzpah to wear a hat.

  They went out to the kitchen, each taking a Budweiser from the refrigerator. Usually, Meg had one beer—she had never actually gotten drunk, or even, really, come close to it. Partly because her father trusted her not to, but also because she wasn’t sure how it would affect her. Lots of times at these things, people got sick—especially sophomore girls—and Meg couldn’t stand the thought of that kind of public humiliation. Besides, paranoid or not, she always worried about the possibility of publicity. If she were getting drunk at parties, it would be bound to show up in the tabloids or on the Internet. At the very least, her mother’s constituents might find out.

  “Oooh,” Fred, one of the captains of the wrestling team, said as he came in to get more beer. “Big bad sophomores.” He nudged Meg. “What would Mom say?”

  Beth shrugged. “That she should have Heineken.”

  “Yeah, well,” Fred took out two beers, draining one of them in one long gulp, “think I’ll go call the news stations, get them out here.”

  “Hell,” another guy from the wrestling team said, yanking out his cell phone. “Let’s just upload it ourselves.”

  He was probably kidding, but she put the beer down and got a small bottle of water, instead. Better safe than sorry.

  “Give her a break,” the boy behind them, Greg Knable, said.

  Meg blushed. Greg always intimidated her. Not only was he tall and handsome, but he was president of the South Senate, was on the cross-country, basketball, and baseball teams, and participated in about six thousand other extracurricular activities. He also got good grades. The really intimidating part, though, was that his father—a wealthy, successful businessman, in every clichéd sense of the phrase—was vehemently, publicly, constantly against everything her mother did or said, and always worked actively for any candidate who tried to run against her. It was even stupider because if she was with either parent, and they ran into Mr. Knable at the club or someplace, everyone would be sickeningly polite. Her mother said it was civilized. Meg thought it was hypocritical.

  At any rate, she was never quite sure how to act around Greg. Her friends usually made cracks, but he seemed pretty embarrassed about the whole thing, too. Usually, if she was around him, neither of them brought up politics at all—and, in fact, rarely did more than say hello, and then hurry off in opposite directions.

  “So.” Greg opened a can of beer. “How’s it going?”

  She looked around, saw that Beth was giving someone a cigarette, Fred was trying to pick up this girl from her honors English class, and that Greg was definitely talking to her. “Not bad. How’s it going with you?”

  “It’s cool,” he said, then gestured towards her water bottle. “You don’t have to drink that—Sam was only kidding.”

  Maybe, maybe not. “I heard you got into Princeton early decision,” Meg said. “That’s really good.”

  “Yeah. I was pretty happy. My father went there and everything, so he’s”—he stopped—“um, pleased.”

  Meg nodded. “He must be. It’s excellent.”

  “Yeah.” Greg blinked, and concentrated on his beer.

  “Hey, everybody, look!” Fred said. “A peace treaty! Historical moment here!” He put a heavy arm around Meg’s shoulders. “Think your parents’ll ground you for talking to him?”

  “Fred, shut up, okay?” Greg said.

  “Anything you say, Romeo.” Fred winked at him, and opened another beer.

  Meg kept her eyes on her hands, too shy to check Greg’s expression.

  “I, uh, I told someone in the living room that I’d kind of be right back,” she said.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Good talking to you.”

  She looked up, saw that he was also red, and hurried out to the living room.

  “Hey.” Beth caught up to her. “Were they being jerks to you?”

  Meg shook her head. “No. Just stupid Fred.”

  “Don’t even listen to him,” Beth said.

  “Yeah, I know.” Meg gestured across the room towards some people from their class. “Sophomores.”

  “Let’s go,” Beth said, heading over.

  The party got better as the night went along—more crowded, more noisy, and more interesting. She was in the middle of an argument—well, more like a friendly, but intense, discussion—with Isaac Pechman, who didn’t like the Patriots, when she caught sight of his watch and realized that it was past eleven-fifteen.

  There was a news special on about the Iowa Caucus at eleven-thirty, and she wanted to watch at least the first few minutes. Her mother had done really well in the debate, which had been on Wednesday, and the polls had been going up ever since.

  So, when Isaac decided he wanted another beer, Meg went to find Monica, who was pretty drunk and having a marvelous time at her party. After being told that there were two televisions upstairs that Monica was perfectly happy to have her “check” for a minute, Meg decided that she would just tune in for the beginning, and then go back downstairs.

  “Where you going?” Some guy who must have crashed the party tried to grab her as she went by. “Keep me company, babe.”

  “Excuse me,” she said, continuing past and hoping that he wasn’t drunk enough to follow her. Once upstairs, she found a television in Monica’s parents’ bedroom and flipped to the right channel.

  The door opened as the commentators of the special were introducing each other and outlining the format and content of the show.

  “Sorry,” a guy said. “I thought this was the bathroom.”

  “I think it’s down to the right.” Then Meg blushed, realizing it was Greg.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” He came all the way in. “You a television addict or something?”

  “Despite Senator Powers’ strong performance in Wednesday’s debate,” the main commentator was saying, “Iowa is expected to go with the more conservative Hawley, or possibly Governor—”

  “Oh,” Greg said.

  Meg nodded sheepishly.

  “You, uh,” his hands went into his pockets, “want me to leave?”

  “I’m only going to watch for a minute,” she said. “I just thought I’d, um—”

  He shrugged, sitting down on the bed next to her. “Of course you’re watching. Hell, I know I would.”

  A film clip came on showing Senator Hawley earlier that day.

  “Do you have any predictions about the outcome of next week’s caucus?” a reporter was asking.

  “These are serious times, and our nation is facing some real challenges,” Senator Hawley—tall, slightly balding, and very tough—said firmly. Or maybe even grimly. “I’m confident that the voters will make the right choice.”

  Naturally, the reporter didn’t give up that easily. “Do you think Mrs. Powers’ victory in the debate will have an effect—”

  “The voters understand what’s at stake here,” he said. “We need a strong leader, not the flavor-of-the-month. But I know that the voters here in Iowa will rise to the challenge, and vote responsibly.”

  Ouch. Not exactly subtle.

  Senator Hawley was being ushered away by his campaign staff and Secret Service agents—full protection for all Presidential candidates had just started earlier that week, and obviously, there were agents posted at her house, and around t
he neighborhood, but since she hadn’t actually seen her mother in person, Meg hadn’t let herself do much thinking about what that actually meant.

  And she didn’t feel like thinking about it right now, either.

  A film of her mother flashed onto the screen, and Meg saw her parents—along with her mother’s retinue of aides and agents—leaving what appeared be a local ice cream shop, everyone looking quite cheerful and relaxed in comparison with the Hawley contingent.

  But, Christ, why was that her clip-of-the-day? Senator Hawley had been shown in front of an army ammunition factory—a location almost certainly chosen with very great care by his staff—and even though her mother’s daily schedule indicated that, among other things, she’d given a speech to a group of Iowa National Guard members, and made an appearance at a John Deere manufacturing plant, the network had decided to go with the damn ice cream excursion? A frivolous snack? By comparison, Hawley might as well have been wearing a pair of six-irons—and a codpiece.

  On top of which, Governor Kruger had recently gone pheasant and quail hunting, striding around through the underbrush with a bunch of burly Iowans, and the images had gotten—and were still getting—a lot of air-play, and Internet coverage. And, cynically, she was almost surprised that the news editors hadn’t promptly gone out of their way to show lengthy footage of her mother forcefully wielding a blow-dryer, or something.

  “Senator Powers, how do you feel about the caucus?” a reporter asked.

  Her mother grinned. “Oh, my level of excitement is such that I can scarcely begin to describe it.”

  Everyone nearby laughed.

  “All kidding aside,” she said. “I actually think that we’re blessed to have the opportunity to watch democracy unfold right in front of our very eyes. It should be a very interesting evening.”

  “Do you think you’re going to win?” someone else asked.

  “I wouldn’t presume to predict,” her mother said. “What do you think?”

  People laughed again, and the clip ended, going back to the commentators, who were smiling, too.

  “Well,” one of them said. “Two very different candidates.”

  And how.

  Senator Hawley had been pounding the word “serious” for weeks. Strong. Right. Confident. Responsible. Fun stuff like that. Whereas, her mother usually seemed to be going for inclusiveness, although she might have been sending an “I’m not quite as secular as you may fear” message this time by throwing the word “blessed” in there, too.

  Meg glanced at Greg to see his reaction.

  “She’s too funny,” he said. “Is she always that funny?”

  More often than not. “Not always,” she said defensively. “They just show it when she is.”

  He slowly crumpled his beer can, then tossed it into the trash can by the bureau. “I don’t know. She should be more serious.”

  Damn it, maybe Hawley’s strategy was working—especially if Greg’s opinion was representative. “Maybe it would be good for the country to go back to being optimistic again,” she said. And fearless. And friendly.

  Just for a change.

  “Yeah.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. I guess my parents kind of like Griffin.”

  Who was the almost-certain Republican nominee—and the sort of glad-handing, ear-marking politician Meg particularly disliked.

  Greg shifted his position. “I’ll be eighteen by then.”

  “I’m not even going to ask,” Meg said.

  “Don’t,” he agreed. “Hell, I don’t even know.”

  “—can’t help wondering whether her nuanced position on trade will play well here in the—” one of the panelists was saying.

  Meg changed the channel, stopping on ESPN. “Sports are nice, too.”

  He grinned, and they watched for a few minutes, companionably silent, Meg having no idea who was playing, or whether the game was important, except that it was two college teams. Villanova and somebody.

  “I guess we should go downstairs,” she said, as the game switched to a commercial.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She looked at him blankly. “What?”

  He leaned over and kissed her, his arm going around her waist, and Meg automatically kissed back, but recovered herself almost as quickly and pulled away.

  “Why’d you do that?” she asked.

  He kept his arm around her waist. “What do you mean?”

  “Because you like me, because I’m a girl, or because you feel sorry for me?” she asked.

  He laughed. “All three.”

  “What?” She moved away from him. “Where do you get off feeling sorry for me? There’s no reason to feel sorry for me.”

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Because I like you.”

  Yeah, right. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You mean, because I’m a girl.”

  “I like girls,” he agreed. “What’s so bad about me liking girls?”

  “Nothing.” She swallowed, knowing that she wanted to keep kissing him, that he still wanted to kiss her, and they probably weren’t going to do it again. She wouldn’t have let him get much further, but—considering where they were sitting—it would have been nice to stretch out, and relax, and maybe—

  “Oh, sorry,” a guy said from the doorway. “Thought this was the bathroom.” He shrugged at them, and continued down the hall.

  Which definitely broke the mood—although not the tension.

  “Well,” Greg said, after a minute. “I guess we should go back down.”

  Damn. Meg nodded. “Yeah.”

  They got up and walked awkwardly together, a couple of feet apart, not talking.

  “You’re going to love Princeton,” she said finally.

  He smiled, touched her hand for a second, and they separated to rejoin the party.

  8

  ON THE NIGHT of the caucus, her house was filled with people from the campaign, some of her parents’ friends, and a small pool of reporters, photographers, and camera people. Originally, Meg and her brothers had been scheduled to go to Iowa, but her parents—mainly her mother—decided that it really wasn’t worth their missing school. Meg thought that was too simplistic, and figured that either her mother thought she was going to win and that it would be more important for them to skip school at certain points further on in the campaign, or—and this was what she suspected—because her mother thought she was going to lose, and didn’t want all of them to be there to see it.

  Whatever the reason was, they stayed home with Trudy. Four televisions had been set up in the living room, with each one tuned to a different cable news station, except for the one set to show C-Span all night. People had brought pizza, and things to drink, and it was more like a party than anything else, although most of the campaign people had their laptops open, and also took turns manning the phones, which never seemed to stop ringing.

  After helping Trudy make sure that everyone had everything he or she needed, Meg sat on the rug in front of the televisions with Steven, who was gobbling pizza, Neal, who was looking around with huge eyes, and Beth, who was spending the night. Kirby lay in front of them, wagging his tail every so often and eating the crusts Steven gave him, which he always called “pizza bones.” Weird kid. The cats were all closed up in her parents’ bedroom, so that no one would let them outside by mistake.

  There was a flash, and all four of them jumped.

  “Good,” the Globe photographer said. “Can you all maybe turn a little so I can see everyone’s faces?”

  “Are we going to be famous?” Neal asked.

  Perish the thought. “Come on, Meg,” Meg said to Beth. “Aren’t you going to smile for him?”

  Beth shook her head. “I don’t want to. I’m a Republican.”

  “Yeah, but she’s your mother,” Meg said.

  Beth sniffed. “She’s a bleeding heart, that’s what she is.”

  “Girls,” Steven said sternly, imitating their father.

  “We’re boys,” Meg
said.

  “No way,” Steven said. “You’re too ugly to be boys.”

  Meg laughed. “Yeah, well, you’re too ugly to—”

  “What do you all think of this?” Her mother’s best friend, Andrea Peterson, stopped next to them, and they all sat up politely.

  “I think it’s neat,” Steven said, helping himself to more pizza.

  “I think it’s loud,” Neal said, still looking around.

  “What about you, Meg? Don’t you think?” Mrs. Peterson asked.

  “Only twice a day,” Meg said, grinning back. “And I used them up already.” She liked Mrs. Peterson. They had been friends since college, or, as Mrs. Peterson put it, “back in the days when Kate was a simple political science major.” “Simple is right,” her mother would usually answer, and they would both laugh. Mrs. Peterson was one of the very few people around whom Meg ever saw her even slightly relax. “Oh, Mrs. Peterson, you know my friend Beth, right?”

  They both nodded.

  “Do you want some pizza, Mrs. Peterson?” Steven asked, reaching onto the coffee table to get a clean plate.

  “No, thank you.” She touched her waist. “Not all of us have your mother’s infuriating metabolism.”

  Her mother was, indeed, dependably thin, although after Neal was born, she’d had some trouble losing the last fifteen pounds of her baby weight—much to the delight of the media, and a very snarky columnist actually called her “Senator Chunky” once. Whereupon, her mother—who did not, it went without saying, accept this with good grace—had almost instantly dropped the fifteen pounds, and now generally erred on the side of being too thin.

  She had also, after being accused of using Botox, said testily, “No, thank you, I enjoy moving my eyebrows,” but Meg had noticed that—although she didn’t seem to be aware that she did it—she sometimes brushed her hair self-consciously across her forehead.

  “My God, I never thought I’d be over here watching her run for President.” Mrs. Peterson’s smile widened. “I’m invited to the Inaugural Balls, right?”

  “Yeah,” Meg said. “You can stand in for me.”

  Beth looked surprised. “You wouldn’t go to the Inaugural Balls?”