The President's Daughter

by Ellen Emerson White

  She followed the draft, tentatively opened the heavy metal door from underneath which it was coming, and saw a dimly-lit, car-crowded parking garage.

  No way was she going in there. Everyone knew that people got kidnapped in parking garages.

  Damn.

  Damn.

  Damn.

  She thought about pushing the little panic button they always made her carry, but that would be too embarrassing, so she hurried through open doors and grey corridors, up some more stairs, and finally arrived at a red and gold hall. Okay, that meant that she was back up on the first floor. There was a God.

  She had no idea where she was, but she opened a door and saw one of the extra agents assigned to the event striding down the hall, with his radio out.

  “Uh, hi,” she said guiltily.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, sounding furious.

  “Well, I, uh, I sort of took a wrong turn,” she said.

  He was already on the transmitter, relaying the information that Sandpiper was secured.

  “Come on,” he said, when he was finished. “The President is waiting for you.”

  “Am I, uh,” Meg cleared her throat, “in trouble?”

  He nodded.

  Great.

  26

  THE AGENT KNEW his way, and after only two doors, they were out in the very crowded lobby, other agents swarming around her, everyone else staring. The word “mortified” took on a whole new dimension. She let the agents hustle her to the motorcade, noticing how particularly angry Jeff and Barry were. There were camera flashes everywhere, and she could already picture the news reports about the President’s klutzy daughter who had gotten lost on her way out of the ladies’ room.

  She looked down at the red carpet leading to the President’s limousine, feeling as if she were being taken to her execution. Her mother, in spite of very nervous agents, jumped out of the car, looking as furious as Meg had ever seen her.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  “Uh, well.” Meg put her hands into blazer pockets that didn’t even belong to her. “I sort of—”

  “Why do you think you have agents?” her mother asked. “Didn’t it occur to you that everyone might be—”

  “I’m sorry,” Meg said, flushing more as she realized exactly how many cameras—and eyes—were currently focused on them.

  Her mother nodded. “Terrific. You’re sorry. Glad to hear it. Get in the car!”

  “Kate,” Linda muttered, lurking nearby. “Not in front of—”

  “I can’t be angry?” Her mother whirled around to confront the cameras and reporters—and civilians with cameras—her posture challenging. “I am absolutely furious at my daughter, I think I’m quite within my rights—and you may quote me! I’m certain that any one of you who is a parent will understand.” She shook an agent’s hand from her arm. “Will you please get off me?”

  Wow. The President was completely losing it—on national television. Meg grinned, suddenly not minding the attention at all.

  “I thought I told you to get in the car!” her mother said. Or, more accurately, barked.

  Meg climbed into the limo, still grinning, and her mother followed a few seconds later, the motorcade immediately pulling away.

  “Meg,” her mother said, very grimly, “I thought we made it very clear—”

  That word again. Her parents loved to be clear.

  “—that you weren’t to give your agents any trouble,” her mother said. “Do you know what could have—”

  Meg nodded.

  “I don’t think you do,” her mother said. “I was afraid you—”

  Meg grinned. “You’re yelling at me.”

  “Damn right I’m yelling at you!” her mother said. “You’re grounded, got that?”

  Meg felt her grin get bigger. “Again?”

  “Yes, again. And get that smile off your face!” her mother ordered. “It’s not—”

  “I love you,” Meg said, and reached over to hug her, hanging on, feeling the hard thumping of her mother’s heart.

  Her mother tried to move away. “Don’t pull that.”

  “But, I love you.” Meg held on more tightly. “I really do.” She leaned up to kiss her mother’s cheek, still hugging her. “I love you a lot.” Tired from saying all of that, as well as embarrassed, she let go, afraid to meet her mother’s eyes. “Even though you’re President, I love you,” she said quietly.

  She didn’t hear anything on the seat next to her and finally looked over. Her mother was sitting very still, her face averted, and Meg recognized Steven and herself in the slight slouch of her mother’s shoulders.

  “Mom?” she asked.

  Her mother reached out a tentative left hand, and Meg took it, seeing a small braceleted wrist, and older, but very familiar, fingers. She had always thought of her mother’s hand as being much bigger than hers, but they were the same size. Her mother was really holding on, as if she needed to, or something.

  “Do you look like this when you cry?” Meg asked.

  “No.” Her mother turned, and Meg saw the brightness in her eyes. “I look like this when I’m trying not to.” She took Meg into her arms for a quick, hard hug. “Can I ask you something?”

  Meg shrugged.

  “Did you mean that?” her mother asked.

  Meg tilted her head to see her mother’s face. “Could I ask you something?”

  Her mother laughed. “I might have guessed. Okay. What?”

  “Are you insecure?” Meg asked.

  “Yes.” Her mother laughed again. “Yes, I am very insecure.”

  Yep. Meg grinned at her. “Did it feel good to yell?”

  Her mother nodded. “Yes. I have to admit that it did.”

  “Are you going to do it all the time now?” Meg asked.

  “I just might.” Her mother leaned back, leaving her arm around Meg’s shoulders. “Are you ever going to pull an idiot stunt like that again?”

  “No.” Meg slouched down. “I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. Because—okay.” Her mother looked at her for a long minute, and then nodded. “Okay, we’ll leave it at that.” Then, unexpectedly, she grinned. “Hey, would you like a martini?”

  Meg sat up straight. “What?”

  Her mother opened the tiny refrigerator built into the back of the front seat. “They keep this thing stocked.”

  “Very dry?” Meg asked.

  Her mother nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “With an olive?” Meg asked.

  Her mother nodded again. “You bet.”

  Hmmm. Meg looked at her thoughtfully. “Are you kidding?”

  “Yes,” her mother said.

  FILMED REPORTS OF the President yelling at her daughter made every newscast that night, and damn near flooded the Internet. Everyone on her mother’s staff was having heart attacks—except for Preston, who she heard had laughed for about ten minutes straight. Steven thought it was hysterical, Neal was worried that Meg was in big trouble, and her father groaned a lot. After her mother finally came upstairs—there were, after all, pressing national and world events for her to handle—she and Meg both grinned a lot, as the whole family sat in her parents’ bedroom, watching some of the coverage.

  “Boy, Meg,” Steven said, as one of the cable news shows ran the clip yet again. “They’re gonna make fun of you at school tomorrow.”

  No doubt.

  “I think they’re probably going to make fun of me, too,” her mother said.

  Shoot, judging from the quick spin she had taken on the Internet earlier, hundreds and thousands of people already were.

  “Is Meggie grounded again?” Neal asked.

  “Meggie is grounded until she’s thirty,” their father said.

  Their mother shook her head. “No, Meggie is grounded until she’s fifty.”

  “Oh, right,” Meg said, in a yeah-sure-anything-you-say voice.

  Her mother didn’t even flinch. “Malapert. Recalcitrant. Overweening.”
<
br />   “You forgot ‘a joy to be around,’” Meg said.

  Her mother smiled. “No, I didn’t.”

  STEVEN WAS RIGHT, and people did give her grief about getting blasted by the President—on film—but it didn’t really bother her. She had apologized to her agents, who laughed and said they would forgive her—as long as it never, ever happened again.

  “You’re pretty chipper,” Josh said after school, as he leaned against the locker next to hers. “I mean, for having been chastised.”

  “You mean, chaste, right?” Meg said.

  He lifted her knapsack onto his shoulder. “Whatever you say.”

  Someone, somewhere, had definitely taught this guy to be a gentleman—she wasn’t sure if she had ever met someone who treated her quite so respectfully.

  “You know, I could probably carry that myself,” she said.

  “Probably,” he agreed. “How about you hold the door?”

  “Fair enough.” She moved ahead of him, and opened the nearest exit with a flourish.

  “Thank you, young lady,” he said.

  “Young woman,” she said.

  “Sorry,” he said, the attraction she’d noticed before suddenly strong in his eyes. “You—you look good happy, Meg.”

  “What?” she asked, that particular remark unexpected.

  “I’m just glad you’re happy.” He walked her to her car, and they stood there for a minute. “Guess you, uh, have to get going.”

  “Yeah.” She took the knapsack from him. “Um, you need a ride anywhere?”

  He shook his head. “I’m all set.”

  They both nodded.

  “Uh,” he coughed once. “Hypothetical question.”

  She nodded.

  He looked everywhere but at her. “If I were to ask you out—to a, a movie, say, how do you think you’d feel about that?”

  “This is just hypothetical, right?” she said.

  He nodded, still not looking at her.

  “I think I’d feel good,” she said. “Can you wait until I’m fifty?”

  He glanced up. “What?”

  “I kind of got grounded until I’m fifty,” she said, then shifted her knapsack to her other shoulder. “Do you like The African Queen?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. I guess so.”

  “They’re showing it at the house tonight—it’s one of my mother’s favorites. Would you,” she blinked a couple of times, “uh, maybe like to come over and see it?”

  His eyes got very wide. “T-to your house?”

  She nodded.

  “Big white job?” he asked. “Pennsylvania Avenue?”

  “That’s the one,” she said.

  “Wow.” He took his glasses off, absently wiping them on his sweater, then put them back on, squinting as if he’d only made them worse. Then, he grinned, his whole face brightening. “What time?”

  “Um, eight?” she said. “They usually start running them around eight-thirty, nine.”

  “Black tie?” he asked.

  “Wear what you have on,” she said.

  He glanced dubiously at his sweatshirt and jeans. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” Then, she remembered something. “What kind of car will be you driving?”

  He frowned. “Would it make a difference?”

  Well—yeah. “If I don’t let them know at the gate, they won’t let you in,” she said.

  “Oh.” He looked relieved. “Toyota, dark green, pretty ugly.”

  She laughed. “Okay. Great.”

  Adam Miller and a group of his friends came laughing out of the school, and without thinking, Meg leaned forward and kissed Josh.

  “You just used me,” he said quietly.

  Yeah. “I know.” She turned very red, regretting the impulse. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Now it’s my turn.”

  He kissed her, and they moved closer together, forgetting about Adam, forgetting about his friends, and forgetting about agents who might be watching. Remembering, they quickly pulled apart.

  “Wow,” he said. Awkwardly, he touched her face, then dropped his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  Adam and his friends had walked past them now, no longer laughing.

  “I’m not,” Meg said. “Eight?”

  AT THE WHITE House, she got off at the South Portico, and cut around underneath one of the ancient Andrew Jackson magnolia trees and straight across the Rose Garden, to the Oval Office.

  Her mother’s longtime secretary, Mrs. Berger, was sitting at her desk in the outer office, looking—as was typical—as though working for the President was as relaxing and undemanding a job as had ever existed. Which, given the chaos that generally reigned, had to be very soothing for her mother.

  “Hi,” Meg said. “Is she busy?”

  Mrs. Berger laughed.

  Good point. “Well,” Meg amended that. “Is she really busy?”

  Mrs. Berger smiled, and looked down at the schedule on her desk. “Actually, if you want to wait, Meg, she has a small window in about twenty minutes.”

  That didn’t sound too long, so Meg sat down, and talked to Frank—whose desk was also in the office—for a while, until some Congressional leaders left the office, all of them looking a bit surly, and she was buzzed in. She found her mother frowning at her reflection in the window, straightening her hair.

  “Maybe they should hang a wall-sized mirror up for you,” Meg said, “and then you can just sit and stare into it all day long.”

  Her mother turned, looking a little sheepish. “Hi.” Then, she looked worried. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Nope.” Meg sat down behind the desk, putting her feet up, enjoying the feeling of power. Maybe there was something to public office. Something that went well beyond the simple concept of service.

  “How was school?” her mother asked.

  “Not bad.” Meg picked up her mother’s phone without pushing any buttons down. “God-damn it,” she said into the receiver, “I told you that I wasn’t to be disturbed. I’m entertaining.” She listened for a second. “Yeah, well, get on the stick, or I know someone who’s going to be increasing my unemployment figures. Yes, they are my figures. Everything is mine. I am in charge.”

  “Having a nice time?” her mother asked.

  Meg sighed impatiently. “Miss, please. I’m really terribly busy. If you’ll just—oh!” She let her eyes dawn with recognition. Lots of recognition. “The interview—of course. Good God, I’m sorry.” She studied her mother, then leaned forward to scan imaginary papers on the desk and nodded. “Yes, you’re in luck. We do have an opening for an exotic dancer. If you wouldn’t mind—”

  “You’re invading my space, small, pesky child,” her mother said.

  “Well,” Meg said, huffily, “we are a mite presumptuous, aren’t we?”

  Her mother laughed. “We are, indeed.” She motioned abruptly for Meg to get out of the chair.

  “Boy,” Meg said, standing up. “Some Presidents sure are grumpy.”

  “I’m not grumpy.” Her mother sat down, swung her own feet onto the desk, and then grinned. “I’m possessive.”

  Meg nodded. “That’s for sure.”

  Now, her mother got up, too. “I hate to do this to you, brat, but I have to ask you to leave, okay?”

  “Boy,” Meg said, kicking at the carpet. “You don’t even want to talk to me.”

  “Perhaps we can find a more opportune time,” her mother said. The phone on her desk rang, and she picked it up. “Thank you, I’ll be right in.” She hung up, glancing into the silver stand of her engraved pen and pencil set, checking her hair again.

  “You look fine,” Meg said. “I mean, considering how old you are.”

  “Thank you.” Her mother frowned at the phone, as it rang again. “Do you still hate being the President’s daughter?”

  “Maybe,” Meg said, in a bet-you-wish-you-knew voice.

  Her mother nodded. “That’s what I figure
d.”

  Meg grinned and moved in to give her a hard, reassuring hug before leaving. “Are you coming to dinner tonight?”

  “Maybe,” her mother said.

  Meg shook her head. “No, really, I mean it.”

  “Sure,” her mother said, her smile bright with far more joy than happiness. “I’ll be there.”

  THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER. Copyright © 2008 by Ellen Emerson White.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK

  An Imprint of Macmillan

  Originally published in the United States by Scholastic Press

  First Feiwel and Friends Edition: August 2008

  www.feiwelandfriends.com

  Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto

  eISBN 9781429939331

  First eBook Edition : October 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available