The President's Daughter

by Ellen Emerson White

  “Everyone’s very excited about having you here,” Mr. Haigwood said.

  Meg blushed. “I hope they’re not going to be disappointed.”

  After going through some red tape, including signing various forms and getting her official schedule, as well as meeting the entire office staff, Dr. Lyons and Mr. Haigwood took her down to the last half of her first-period class, Literature of the United States, with a Mrs. Simpson.

  “Your grades from your old school are excellent,” Mr. Haigwood said.

  Actually, Meg considered them subpar, since she had never put out anything genuinely approaching full effort, but she nodded politely.

  Dr. Lyons smiled at her. “We’re looking forward to having you as part of our student body, and obviously, if you run into any problems at all, you should just come to one of us directly.”

  Would being shunned by her classmates count as a serious problem? Certainly, that was what she was anticipating.

  Once they were outside her classroom, Jeff sat down in a chair outside. “Do it up, kid.”

  Meg smiled weakly, then followed Dr. Lyons and Mr. Haigwood into the room. All work stopped, and what seemed like hundreds of faces looked up.

  It took some effort, but she ordered herself to focus on something else. Anything else. They were hostile, she could tell they were all hostile.

  “This is Meghan Powers,” Dr. Lyons said. “As you all know, she’s going to be a student here.”

  Meg nodded stiffly, afraid to look at anyone. The room was very quiet, and she could hear her heart up in her ears.

  “Do you like to be called Meghan?” Mrs. Simpson, a short woman with greying hair and a very friendly smile, asked.

  “Just Meg.” Her voice squeaked a little. Way to go, Sandpiper.

  “Well, it’s wonderful to have you here, and I know you’re going to be a great addition to the class.” Mrs. Simpson handed her a thick anthology and several paperbacks. “These are the texts we’re using right now. Why don’t you choose a seat?” She gestured towards two empty desks in the front row.

  No way. She couldn’t sit in front. She’d be sure that people were looking at her. Not that she was paranoid or anything.

  “Meg?” Mrs. Simpson asked pleasantly.

  Seeing a place in the back, she made her way to it, her face painfully hot as everyone watched her. She stumbled a little as she pulled out her chair, but managed to sit down, pretending that she wasn’t aware that every single head was turned in her direction.

  “I think we’re all set here,” Mrs. Simpson said to Dr. Lyons and Mr. Haigwood, who nodded, and left the room. “Now. Why don’t we pick up our discussion where we left off?”

  Meg took mechanical, obedient notes, knowing that she couldn’t concentrate—not that anyone else in the room seemed to be paying much attention, either. People kept looking at her, and she would stare down at her desk, embarrassed. There were about ten guys in the class, some of whom—on quick glance—looked as if they might be handsome.

  She caught eyes with one of the best-looking boys she had ever seen, a guy sitting diagonally across from her. In fact, he was so attractive, that she almost dropped her pen. She glanced back and saw him grinning at her. Redder than she had been so far, she focused on the board, where Mrs. Simpson was writing something about class and social conflicts in the early 1900s. One of the books she had been handed was by Edith Wharton, so she assumed that’s what they had been reading.

  A hand flashed over to her desk and away, leaving behind a small wad of paper. She unfolded it and saw “You blush more than anyone I’ve ever seen” in masculine handwriting. She—naturally—blushed again, and heard him laugh.

  But, it was entirely possible that she was in love. He was really sexy. Forget Rick Hamilton, he of the clay feet. She looked at him, admiring the blond hair and charm-school smile. He dressed right, too. Most of the other guys were wearing sweatshirts, but he had on faded, not too faded jeans, and a blue and white rugby shirt, and she had a sudden desire to touch his arm, wanting to feel the material.

  Although he was so handsome that he had to have a girlfriend already.

  She watched him from behind, eyeing the wide shoulders and the muscles that showed through his shirt. Very, very handsome. A 9.3. No higher, because she had never given a 10, and she wanted to leave the possibility open. He was a strong 9, though.

  She squinted at the board, scribbling down the diagram of wealthy New York societal structure Mrs. Simpson had drawn on a clean, neatly dated page in her notebook. Soon, there would be drawings of cats, concentric circles, and small figures running or skiing, but right now, it looked pristine and far too well-organized. Which made her nervous, and she scrawled a fast cat curled up on a rug. It was out of proportion and very ugly, but relieved the perfection of the page.

  Sometimes—she drew a skier slaloming down a steep slope—sometimes, she had extremely graphic thoughts. Not too often—she tried not to encourage them, but sometimes—like, if she saw someone really, really handsome—and, well, she had the feeling that she was about to have some good ones. Very detailed. Although it was kind of funny that people could have graphic thoughts without really having a frame of reference. She had seen an old movie once where this character was going on and on about sex and passion and that sort of thing, and another character said, “How do you know?” “Well,” the first character admitted shyly, “I read a lot.”

  Once, when she was about twelve, she was in her parents’ room—putting on make-up because no one else was home—and she found an old paperback called The Sensuous Woman, which she hid in her room and studied at great length. It was more confusing than informative, and late one night, when her mother was home and they were alone in the den, she asked her if she was a sensuous woman. Her mother, who was drinking iced tea, choked, and then laughed for about ten minutes.

  “What do you think?” she’d asked, finally.

  Meg wasn’t sure how to answer.

  Then, her mother had gotten serious, and they discussed Sex in much more detail than the time her mother had explained that there was going to be a little sister or brother because she and Meg’s father loved each other so much. She was given one of those A Doctor Talks to Kids books, which was kind of clinical, and equally obscure, and she mostly forgot about all of it until the night she got her period, and her father had to deal with it because Trudy had gone home and her mother was in Washington. He was very calm, seemed proud, but kept turning red. He’d hurried out to the store, returning with several brands of pads and tampons, so she could choose. In retrospect, it was pretty funny to imagine what the clerk in the store must have thought of the man who was buying out the feminine protection department. Meg hadn’t been able to decide which was best, and called her mother for suggestions. Tampons weren’t as easy as the directions led her to believe, and she’d had to practice for a few months before catching on. Until then, she had been convinced that she was deformed, although her mother assured her she wasn’t, finally offering to take her to a gynecologist so she could get an expert opinion. The idea of that was so mortifying that Meg immediately learned how to use them, and never mentioned the problem again.

  It had taken a very long time to go through all of the boxes her father had gotten.

  She heard Mrs. Simpson asking a question and looked up, realizing that she had been in school for about twenty minutes—and was already having trouble paying attention. Junior year was the most important one for her transcripts—at least, according to guidance counselors—and she needed to make sure to keep up her average. Of course, being the President’s daughter, she would undoubtedly get in anywhere she applied to college, but it would be nice to be accepted—or not—on her own merits. Since Harvard was a Vaughn tradition and they would be sixth generation, either she or one of her brothers was going to have to go there. Maybe she would make Steven do it. She would rather be at some little school in the mountains where no one would know who she was. She glanced around the room, seei
ng almost everyone else still sneaking looks at her. She would rather go anyplace where no one knew who she was.

  “Hard to concentrate the first day,” Mrs. Simpson said, smiling at her.

  Meg realized that the bell had just rung, and flushed—again. “Kind of, yeah.”

  “Well, we’re very happy to have you with us,” Mrs. Simpson said.

  For now, maybe—but probably not once they got to know her. “Thank you,” Meg said. She gathered up her books and put them in her knapsack—at least the knapsack felt familiar. Her next class was History of the United States, and she was glad that Jeff was out in the hall, so at least she wouldn’t have to worry about walking alone, while everyone else in the school walked with their many friends.

  “Hi,” a chubby blond girl said. “I’m Gail. Do we call you Meg?”

  Meg shrugged affirmatively, albeit shyly.

  “What’s it like living in the White House?” another girl asked, most of the class still in the room.

  “Uh, I don’t know.” Meg shifted her knapsack to her other shoulder, flustered. “Big. Very big.”

  “Do you get to go wherever you want?” someone else asked.

  “I thought you were supposed to have Secret Service agents,” someone else said.

  “Do you get waited on?” another person asked.

  This was like reporters. Worse, even. She gripped her knapsack strap, too intimidated to answer right away.

  “Told ya the kid’d be a snob,” she heard a guy say, heading for the door.

  “It’s, um”—her voice still wasn’t coming out right—“it’s kind of weird, I guess.” Oh, yeah. Nice and articulate. She was definitely headed for a top college.

  “Hadn’t all of you better get along to your next classes?” Mrs. Simpson said from the front of the room.

  People started for the door, and Meg let a small, relieved sigh escape, relaxing slightly.

  “Hi.” The guy with the rugby shirt came over, holding out a confident hand. “Adam Miller.”

  “Hi.” She tried to return the handshake perfectly, not holding on too long, not letting go too quickly. What a production. So, she let go. “I’m Meg Powers.”

  In case he hadn’t gotten the word.

  “Oh, yeah? How do you feel about being called Meghan?” he asked.

  She was completely in love.

  He held the door for her. “Must be something, living in the White House.”

  “I guess. It doesn’t seem very real yet.” She smiled nervously at Jeff, as he stood up from his chair. “Um, Adam, this is Jeff. Jeff, this is Adam.”

  “Hi.” Adam glanced at her. “Friend of yours?”

  She nodded. “My husband. He’s very possessive.”

  Adam looked surprised, maybe not expecting her to have a sense of humor, then laughed. “Where are you going now?”

  “History,” she said.

  “So’m I.” He held out his hand. “Let me see your schedule.”

  She handed him her official schedule grid, and he ran down the list, nodding.

  “You’re going to have the same kids from English in most of your classes.” He gave her back the card. “What, were you a brain at your old school?” He grinned. “Or, do your parents have pull?”

  “Um, well—” Meg wasn’t quite sure how to answer that.

  “Come on, it’s down here.” He started down the hall, then turned left, with Jeff trailing behind them. “He always follow you around?”

  Meg nodded. Not that it would necessarily always be Jeff, but there would unquestionably be agents nearby whenever she was out in public. She had asked her father if it would be possible, once school started, for them to give her more space—and his immediate response was a very open-minded “Absolutely not.”

  “What happens if you go out or something?” Adam asked.

  “I don’t know,” Meg said. But, did that mean he maybe wanted to ask her out sometime? She would probably die. She was going to have to figure out a way to take a surreptitious picture of him with her cell phone, and email it to Beth and Sarah—who were bound to approve.

  “This is it up here.” He pointed down the crowded corridor. “Patterson—he’s the teacher—he’s been looking forward to having you come for days.”

  Which made it sound like he’d been marking them off on a little calendar—which seemed unlikely. “Oh, yeah?” she said.

  Adam nodded, smiling at her as he opened the door.

  She smiled back. He had nice teeth. Very nice, white teeth. And a nice mouth, too. He’d probably never had chapped lips in his life, or—she should stop looking at his mouth, already. She should look at his eyes; it was always more appropriate to look at someone’s eyes. He had a great mouth, though.

  “Hope you’re ready to tell everyone about ‘your experiences,’” Adam said. “He’s really into it.”

  Meg forgot about his mouth. “My experiences?”

  Adam nodded. “Yeah. He can’t wait.”

  She made an effort to keep her sigh inaudible.

  21

  MR. PATTERSON DID WANT to share her experiences—it was almost like being home again. As usual, she stuttered a lot and couldn’t think of anything to say. Why did they always do that? On the first day, even.

  Of course, if he’d wanted to hear about the efficacy of school vouchers, she could probably have given him a nifty little speech about that.

  Barry and Jeff switched assignments at lunchtime, with Barry taking a position along one of the cafeteria walls. She had to say that she didn’t envy them this particular duty—they were going to be bored out of their skulls.

  Adam brought her over to his table and spent a couple of minutes introducing her to everyone: Gail, the girl who had said hello at the end of English class; Matt, curly, dark hair, wearing a Georgetown sweatshirt; Phyllis, who had suspicious eyes and kept her arm locked through the arm of a tall, very good-looking black guy named Nathan; Zachary, almost as good-looking, but with a goofy quality, too; Alison, who was wearing a long white button-down shirt, with a striped, fitted vest and filmy long scarf—reminding Meg very much of Annie Hall; and Josh, a boy with brown hair and glasses, who ate with quick motions, either tense because she was there—probably not—or just generally tense. But, his sweater was pretty nice, argyle and all.

  She took a seat at the far end of the table, wishing that she had her mother’s ability to remember names.

  “What’s the matter, Josh?” the boy in the Georgetown hoodie—Mike? Mark? Matt?—asked. “Where’re the jokes?”

  Josh—the one with glasses—concentrated on his sandwich. “What jokes?”

  “Usually, we can never get him to shut up,” Adam said, taking a napkin out of the holder in the middle of the table, brushing his arm against hers.

  Wow. Had he done that on purpose? What a nice arm. She wanted to grab him, throw him down, and kiss him. Hell, do a lot more than kiss him. That would attract attention. She glanced at Josh to take her mind off what might be turning into graphic thoughts, and he flushed and dropped his sandwich, both of them immediately looking away.

  Christ, with her luck, he would be the one who ended up liking her.

  Then, Gail motioned toward her brown paper bag. “Hey, who packed your lunch?”

  “Your mother?” Adam asked, and they all laughed.

  “No, um, I did,” Meg said.

  “You mean, a chef did,” Phyllis said.

  “No, I did. See, I always figure—” She stopped, wishing that she could just crumple herself up, along with the bag, and get rid of this whole conversation.

  “What?” Matt or Mike or Mark asked, when she didn’t go on.

  “It doesn’t matter, it’s pretty stupid.” Looking around, she could see that they wanted her to tell them, anyway. “See, the thing is, I guess I’m neurotic or something, I don’t know, but I can’t stand tomato seeds.” Which Trudy, of course, knew, and so, she trusted Trudy’s sandwiches. “And just about everyone puts tomatoes on sandwiches, so I al
most always make my own, so I can take the seeds out.”

  “How do you do that?” Gail asked dubiously.

  Very, very special sleight of hand. “You cut off the top, and—” Meg pantomimed squeezing a tomato, then turned red, realizing that they were all going to think that she was a maniac.

  “Like this one here.” Zachary pointed at Josh with a half-eaten apple. “He won’t eat hot dogs or bologna or anything.”

  “Are you kosher?” Meg asked him.

  “N-no, only at Passover.” He didn’t meet her eyes. “I saw a film about how they make all that stuff, and I haven’t been able to eat it since.”

  Matt-Mike-Mark laughed. “That film was probably fifty years old.”

  “Beef lips?” Josh looked up with sudden animation. “You like to eat beef lips? And hearts? And—”

  “Enough already,” Nathan said. “I got a sandwich to finish here.” He frowned at his bologna sandwich, then bit off about a third of it.

  He wasn’t quite in Adam’s league, but Nathan was pretty damn cute himself. No wonder Phyllis was hanging on to him. But—okay, if looks could kill, she had just barely escaped a very painful death. Meg Powers, femme fatale. What a joke.

  “What’s that?” Matt-Mark-Mike asked.

  Meg looked down at the small plastic bag of delicate cookies in her hand. “What do you mean?”

  “Did someone bake them, or do they buy them, or what?” he asked.

  Oh. Meg frowned. “Well, they were, uh, left over.”

  Gail looked very curious. “Left over?”

  “There were receptions all weekend, and there was stuff leftover.” Meg put the bag down, too self-conscious to eat now.

  “Did the chefs bake them?” Zachary asked.

  No, her mother had—slaving away for hours, more pressing professional responsibilities entirely ignored. “I guess so. Or, you know, the pastry people.” She held out the bag. “You want some?”

  He nodded. “If it’s okay, yeah.”

  Well, whatever floated his little boat. “Sure.” She looked around uncertainly. “Anyone else want a cookie?”