The President's Daughter

by Ellen Emerson White

  So, protestations overruled, Meg found herself sitting on the stage in the auditorium, quite certain that she was going to throw up. Her kingdom, for a fire drill.

  Her mother, amused by the whole thing, had insisted that Meg borrow her blazer from the first debate, and now that she was sitting up in front of the entire damn school, Meg regretted giving in. People were really going to think she was a jerk. David Mason was wearing a three-piece suit, and had slicked his hair down to look like Griffin. Even wearing the exact blazer and a similar dress, Meg was pretty sure she fell far short of looking like her mother—but, she had done her best.

  A faint expensive perfume lingered in the wool, and for a second, Meg fell as if her mother were right up there with her. She sat up straighter, deciding that even if all else failed, she would maintain presidential elegance.

  “And now,” Mr. Bucknell was saying, from the podium.

  Meg closed her eyes, briefly forgetting to be elegant.

  “Even though I know they need no introduction,” he said, “I’d like to present Representative John Jasper Griffin on my left, and Senator Katharine Vaughn Powers on my right. Mr. Griffin will make the first statement.”

  Hokum. She had allowed herself to be forced into hokum.

  There was great applause, along with some catcalls—terrific—and Meg thought she saw camera flashes. Christ, they were even making it look as though the press was there? She was never, ever—for the rest of high school—going to be able to live this down.

  David read his statement, gesticulating and promising that he was going to build up defense, foster democracy aboard, lower taxes, blah, blah, blah. Same old thing. Consciously imitating her mother, she sat with her best posture, her right leg crossed over her left. Relaxed, but not too relaxed. Pleasant, but not too funny. Friendly, but presidential. Maybe she should even sip her snifter, seize her knees, and sneeze.

  The bright lights were still there, giving her a headache, and she looked out at the audience, realizing with a deep, sickening thud in her stomach that there were reporters out there. Lots of them. Reporters, and what looked like television cameras, and—someone had called the press. She glanced over at Mr. Bucknell, who smiled at her and motioned towards the media.

  Jesus, he had called the press? Great. Absolutely great.

  Panicking, she tried to force herself to take a deep breath. In keeping with her mother’s style, she hadn’t written her speech down, so she had no idea what she was going to say, and David was almost finished, and—she was going to throw up. It was as simple as that. She was going to throw up, and it would be on television.

  And if that happened, she would have to kill herself. Except, if she killed herself, there would be all kinds of publicity, and her mother would lose the election, and it would be all her fault—David was done, and everyone was clapping wildly. Why were they making her run against someone who was so incredibly popular, anyway? It wasn’t as though she had volunteered for any of this.

  “Senator Powers?” Mr. Bucknell asked from the podium.

  She nodded, trying to pull her expression under control, reminding herself to be presidential. She stood up, crossing—elegantly? gracefully?—to the front of the stage, blushing as there were quite a few whistles, but making herself keep going. There were some cheers and shouts of encouragement, too—mostly from the juniors, which she, indeed, found encouraging.

  “Thank you,” she said to Mr. Bucknell. Then, she smiled at the audience, noticing with an inner terror that the television cameras were filming. Did her mother feel this scared when she got up to speak? Legs shaking, muscles tight, hands perspiring? “Well.” She let out her breath. “I guess I should start off by saying—” She paused, taking off her blazer, then smiled. “I’m sorry, they make me tense.”

  Everyone laughed, and Meg grinned, draping it over the back of the nearest chair.

  “At any rate,” she said. At any rate what? “I must say that I’ve enjoyed the campaign—I’ve gotten to meet so many marvelous people. My opponent, of course,” she gave David a dignified nod, “people all over the country, half of Iowa, all of New Hampshire—” She smiled when that got a laugh, deciding that maybe this wasn’t so bad, after all. It was kind of fun, even. “And I can only say that I’ve enjoyed it. It’s—” She paused. “It’s a very special country. I mean, it really is—we should all be proud. There’s no other place like it, it’s—well, maybe it’s why I ran for President. This country is so great, and I really wanted to be able to do something to—to make it better. I have ideas, you have ideas, we all have ideas. What we need is action. Cooperative action. We need to forget party differences, racial differences, gender differences, religious differences. In spite of everything, we all have something in common. We’re all Americans, every one of us. We need to use it, we need to be proud of it. I know we can do it—I think everyone knows that. But, I want us to do it. We can. And we will.” She stopped, out of things to say, and for lack of a better idea, smiled. “Thank you very much.”

  To her surprise, people clapped and cheered, and she stood there uncertainly, not sure if she should sit down, or acknowledge the response, or—sitting down would be the best choice. But then, Mr. Bucknell gestured for her to stand back up, and the school band began—quel hokum—playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” She and David weren’t supposed to sing, were they? No, they all were supposed to march out. Which wasn’t quite as bad as singing—but just barely.

  Everyone else filed out first, the band bringing up the rear. As soon as the auditorium had cleared somewhat, and before Meg could get out, the reporters and camera people came hurrying down to the stage. Alice, a woman from Linda’s staff, was right there with them.

  “Meg, they would like to ask you a few questions,” she said.

  “Yeah, but—” Meg shifted her weight, very self-conscious. “I mean, I sort of have to go to biology.”

  Alice gave her a this-is-very-important look.

  Meg smiled weakly. “Then again,” she said.

  Alice nodded.

  AFTER SCHOOL, SHE jittered around until six o’clock, waiting for the local news to come on.

  “What’s gotten into you, Meg?” Trudy asked, stirring the spaghetti.

  Meg shrugged, looking at the clock. Quarter of six. “I thought Dad was going to be home by now.”

  Trudy tasted her tomato sauce, and frowned. “All he said was before six-thirty.”

  “Six-thirty?” Meg said. The news would be over by then.

  Trudy snipped some basil from the planter on the windowsill above the sink, and began rinsing the leaves. “If you’re that hungry, why don’t you have an apple or something?”

  Meg shook her head. When she got home from school, Trudy had asked how the speech went, and she had said, “Okay.” She was too embarrassed to admit that she was probably going to be on the news, but she did kind of want them all to see it. Even though she would probably look stupid. It turned out that Alice had been there because someone at Channel Four had called campaign headquarters to ask if it was true that the Candidate’s Daughter was giving a speech. The reporters had asked lots of questions—like had her mother written her remarks for her, and that sort of thing, with Meg trying to be dignified and mature, rather than kicking the floor and blushing a lot. But mostly, she had kicked the floor and blushed.

  She wasn’t sure if the media presence had influenced the voting, but Senator Powers had won the school election by an overwhelming margin.

  “Meg,” Trudy said.

  She looked up.

  Trudy indicated a wedge of Parmesan on the counter, as she chopped the basil and added it to her sauce. “Would you like to grate me some of that?”

  Meg checked the clock. Five of six. “Um, if you want.” She glanced at the television in the corner. “Can I turn on the news?”

  “Sure.” Trudy put the set on.

  Channel Five. Yeah, Channel Five had been there.

  Meg sat down at the table to grate the cheese, w
atching as the anchorwoman talked about the election—and the top stories included polls, predictions, interviews, and film footage of her mother in Fort Lauderdale and Kansas City.

  “And today,” the anchorwoman said, “out in Chestnut Hill—”

  Meg flushed, as she saw and heard herself on television.

  “Meg.” Trudy stared at her. “You’re on the news.”

  Meg went back to grating cheese. “Hunh,” she said, being as blasé as possible. “How about that.”

  ON ELECTION DAY, her mother was in a terrible mood. Meg was in a pretty lousy mood herself, but it was nothing compared to her mother, who was positively fierce. Her parents had gone over to the polling place at their church early that morning to vote on national television, but except for that, her mother had stayed in the house. Most of the campaign people seemed to be very happy—even overjoyed—about the latest overnight and exit polls, but her mother had snarled something to the effect of “saying they’re willing to vote for me, and actually voting for me are two entirely different things,” and they had all exchanged glances, but tempered their enthusiasm accordingly.

  Glen wanted the whole family to check into a hotel in Boston and watch the election returns there, so that they would be in a central location when it was time for her mother to make whatever announcement had to be made, but her mother vetoed that idea, in favor of the five of them watching at home, as privately as possible. After a fairly contentious discussion, Glen gave in, and only a few campaign people stayed behind, along with a significant press pool gathered outside, as well as the Secret Service, of course. Even Trudy left, with—as far as Meg could tell—a very relieved look on her face.

  Her mother sent someone out to get her “a trashy novel; any trashy novel,” and then took it into her bedroom, closing the door. Possibly even locking it.

  Meg didn’t see her again until late afternoon, when she and her father were sitting in the den, watching endless reports about more exit polls and predictions—which almost all seemed to be skewing in her mother’s direction, although a number of the pundits seemed to doubt the veracity of the voters’ responses.

  “I suppose I’m losing,” her mother said grimly, standing in the doorway.

  “The polls haven’t even closed yet,” her father said.

  “Well.” Her mother glanced around. “Where are the boys?”

  “Outside playing soccer,” Meg said.

  Her mother frowned at her father. “Isn’t it rather dark for them to be out?”

  He glanced at the window. “It’s barely dusk, and they have three off-duty agents playing with them.”

  One thing Meg had noticed, right from the start, was that almost all of the Secret Service agents seemed to love sports. All sports.

  Which was in their favor.

  Regardless, her mother left the room and reappeared shortly with Steven and Neal, who looked as if the soccer game had deteriorated into a leaf fight.

  “Boys, why don’t you go up and take showers,” their father said, “and then, we’ll see about some dinner.”

  Steven and Neal looked at each other and went upstairs, for once not making any smart remarks. Meg watched them go, kind of wishing that she could think of a plausible excuse to leave the room, too. To go hide from the Surly Senator.

  “Um, anyone want anything?” she asked. “I’m going to go to the kitchen.”

  Her parents shook their heads, and she escaped to the kitchen, where she sat alone at the table, drinking orange juice and eating graham crackers.

  When she heard her brothers come downstairs, she followed them to the den, where her mother was more uptight than Meg had ever seen her, moving from one chair to another.

  “I feel like making dinner,” she said, standing up yet again. “Who wants dinner?”

  Cooked by her mother? No one with any damn sense.

  “Kate,” Meg’s father said, “we were going to send out—”

  “I feel like it,” she said, testily. “How about omelets? We all like omelets.”

  “I hate omelets,” Steven muttered.

  “You love omelets,” their father said, cuffing him.

  “Better not have any vegetable crap in them,” Steven said, and their father cuffed him again.

  So, they all went out to the kitchen, Meg returning to her orange juice and graham crackers, consciously ignoring the sounds of laughter and ring-tones in the living room. And she didn’t actually smell completely-forbidden cigar smoke; it was a figment of her imagination. The Candidate was glum and cranky and pessimistic, so, by God, she was going to be, too.

  “Oh, great.” Her mother took the egg carton out of the refrigerator. “We only have two stupid eggs. How can I make omelets with only two stupid eggs?”

  “We could go out and get some more stupid eggs,” Meg said.

  Steven laughed. “Yeah, the smart ones don’t get caught.”

  Their father cuffed them both, then gave Meg some money. “Go find Frank, and have him send someone out for some intelligent eggs.”

  “If he can catch them!” Steven shouted after her.

  Someone dutifully ran out and got eggs, and her mother threw together soggy vegetable omelets. The frenetic burst of cooking only made her more tense, and she didn’t eat hers, jittering around the room, instead. Meg wasn’t hungry either, but she pretended to eat, and when Steven scraped his vegetables onto her plate, she stuffed them into her omelet so no one would notice.

  “Maybe,” her mother gulped some coffee, “maybe I’ll go brush my teeth. Yes. I think I’ll—”

  Glen came in and, damn it, he did smell like cigars. “Kate. The returns are starting to come in.”

  Because the Senator had specifically said that she no longer wanted to hear anything speculative, or listen to spouting about trends or internal polling numbers.

  Her mother rushed out of the kitchen, mug in hand, and they all followed her, leaving the omelets behind.

  “Mom’s like, flipped out,” Steven said.

  Meg nodded. It was quite disconcerting, really.

  The numbers on the screen gave Mr. Griffin an early lead.

  “Well, that’s it.” Her mother swigged some coffee, very grim. “I knew I didn’t have a chance. Who wants to be President, anyway?”

  “Katie, you knew you weren’t going to do well in South Carolina,” Meg’s father said.

  Her mother nodded. “Terrific. They hate me in South Carolina.”

  “Katie—” he started.

  “Don’t call me that! You make me sound like a poodle!” She blinked, as though surprised by the outburst, and put down her coffee. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

  “How long is this going to take, do you think?” Meg asked, once she had left.

  Her father looked very tired. “Probably all night.”

  Official results continued trickling in, none of them too unexpected—especially her mother’s early numbers in the Northeast. Every hour or so, the press pool was allowed to come inside to ask questions and take pictures and film the Candidate and Her Happy Family—even though they all started scowling and bickering again as soon as the media left.

  Meg sat in a rocking chair by the fireplace, drinking a Coke and wishing she could go upstairs and read Tennis Magazine or something. Or play tennis, even better.

  “And, with most of the polls still open,” a commentator was saying, “it’s still too early to—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” her mother said. “Someone change the channel.”

  Her father clicked to one of the networks—which concurred with the first channel. One minute, her mother would be ahead; the next, Mr. Griffin would be in the lead.

  “Voter turnout so far has been much higher than predicted,” an anchorman remarked, “and we have a live report from outside a polling center in Trenton, New Jersey. Susan?”

  “Thank you,” a woman with a microphone said. “This is Susan Gaines, and I’m standing outside the—”

  “They hate m
e in Trenton,” her mother said, and changed the channel again.

  This time, they heard a male voice saying, “—too close to call,” and her mother shuddered, and moved on to yet another channel.

  “Now, let’s go to our correspondent in Chicago,” the lead anchor was saying. “Take it, Bill.”

  “Boring, boring, boring.” Her mother gritted her teeth. “They hate me in Chicago.”

  Someone knocked on the door. “Meghan, you have a telephone call.”

  Thank God. Meg jumped up. “I’ll take it upstairs.” She didn’t pick up, until she was in her room, with the door closed. “Hello?”

  “How’s it going?” Beth asked.

  Meg groaned.

  “I don’t know,” Beth said. “She’s doing pretty well, so far.”

  Meg sighed. “Everyone’s in really bad moods here.” Well, with the exception of the campaign staff—about which she was still not permitting herself to think. “Mom, especially.”

  “Sounds like you are, too,” Beth said.

  And how.

  “Whoa,” Beth said. “She just got a whole bunch in Virginia.”

  “Really?” Meg frowned. The last she’d heard, Griffin was expected to take Virginia by two or three percentage points. “I’m not sure if that’s good or not. I mean, some states, she’s supposed to win.”

  Beth laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Meg asked uneasily.

  “I don’t know,” Beth said. “I guess this is just a pretty weird conversation.”

  Well, yeah, it probably was, wasn’t it?

  “If she wins, are you blowing off school tomorrow?” Beth asked.

  If her mother won, she would be too busy inhaling smelling salts and lying on the floor with a cool cloth on her forehead. “Either way, I’m blowing off school,” Meg said.

  Beth laughed again. “No, if she wins, you have to come in and swagger around a lot. That way—”

  “Hello?” someone asked, clicking on.

  Meg sighed. God forbid she be able to have a private conversation—in her own bedroom. “I’m kind of on the phone.”