White House Autumn

by Ellen Emerson White

  And she wasn’t the only one who was afraid. Her family was, naturally, and when she was being taken to the hospital from the car or vice versa, if someone slammed a car door or beeped a horn, she would see her agents tense, ready for action. Everyone seemed to flinch lately, waiting for something to happen, for someone to do something. She covered her face with her arm, trying to will her stomach to stop hurting.

  There was a knock on the door and she jumped.

  “May I come in?” her father asked.

  She lowered her arm. “Uh, yeah. I mean, sure.”

  He opened the door, and while his expression was composed, he seemed a little shaky and very sad. “I’m sorry I lost control,” he said.

  “It’s okay.” Meg blushed, feeling as if she were giving absolution. “I mean, it’s probably good for you.”

  He looked uncomfortable. “In any case, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry I argued,” she said.

  “Well, I didn’t expect you to be thrilled about the idea.” He put his hands in his pockets, looking old and hunched. “I wouldn’t do it, if I didn’t feel that it was necessary.”

  “Have they, um, gotten any more threats?” Meg asked. “Like last summer?”

  “No. Your mother and I just want to take as many precautions as we can.” He sighed. “I really am sorry. The last thing I want to do is hurt my children.”

  “You aren’t hurting us,” she said.

  “Well.” He shrugged dismissively. “I’m not helping very much, either.”

  It was awkwardly silent.

  “Well,” he said, and straightened up. “Good-night. Sleep well.”

  How unlikely was than “Um, yeah,” Meg said. “You, too.”

  SHE SKIPPED BREAKFAST the next morning, staying in her room to fold and refold her tennis uniform, smoothing out all of the wrinkles, hoping that she was going to be able to get through the day. Right now, she felt like going into her closet, shutting the door, and never coming out.

  But, it was getting late, so she went down to the dining room to say good-bye. Her mother’s chair was very empty—instead of sitting there, Trudy had been using an extra chair on Meg’s side of the table.

  “If you hurry,” Trudy said, “you have time for some cereal and juice.”

  Meg shook her head. “No, thanks, I’m not all that hungry.”

  Trudy frowned and poured her a glass of juice. “Please drink some of this. I really don’t want you going off this way.”

  It was easier to gulp half the juice than to argue about it, even though her stomach rebelled against every swallow. “See you guys later.” She glanced at her father. “Tell Mom I said hi, and hope she’s feeling better and everything.”

  He nodded, his eyes almost as tired as they had been the night before. “Have a nice day,” he said, either from force of habit, or to make it seem like a normal morning.

  As though the matriarch wasn’t lying in a hospital bed, torn apart by bullets.

  “Meg, wait!” Steven called after her. “Later,” he said to the others, his usual tough-kid good-bye.

  Meg waited near the private staircase, reflecting briefly and bitterly on the fact that it was probably the first school day all year that she hadn’t had to bring her tennis bag. For once, everything would fit in her locker. Big deal.

  “Um, look,” Steven said, his eyes on his high-tops as they walked downstairs. “I’m sorry.”

  “About what?” she asked.

  “Tennis,” he said. “You must feel pretty bad.”

  Yeah. She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The season’s almost over, anyway. What’s the deal on basketball?”

  Steven avoided her eyes. “It might be okay, because it’s indoors, and they can just, like put on extra guards.”

  Oh. But she couldn’t sound jealous, because there was no point in making him feel lousy, too. “Well, that’s good,” she said. “I mean, I’m glad.”

  “Are you, um,” he didn’t look up, “mad at me?”

  Insanely jealous was more like it. She shook her head.

  “Well, are you sure? I mean,” he blinked several times, “if you want, I’ll quit, too, so you’ll like, have company.”

  What a nice guy. “No, don’t be dumb,” she said. “My season’s almost over, anyway. It really doesn’t matter.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “You don’t hate me?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, she punched him in the ribs, and he grinned.

  “Guess you don’t,” he said.

  She nodded. “Come on, we’re late.”

  There were many more reporters and cameras waiting outside on the South Grounds than usual, and for a second, Meg didn’t think she was going to be able to go out there. But, Maureen, her father’s deputy press secretary, was—politely—keeping them at bay, so they wouldn’t have to answer questions, and she assumed they weren’t expected to smile broadly, either. Or even at all.

  She could tell that Steven was even more scared that she was, and walking him over to his car before going to hers gave her time to find enough courage to get back to her car and inside. Security was tighter than ever, and two extra cars were accompanying her regular detail.

  She and her agents rode in complete silence, and she spent the time thinking about her mother. Wondering if she was up yet, what she was doing. If they were letting her eat regular food. If she hurt as much as she had yesterday. If the agents driving her father to the hospital would be able to protect him. If—they were at the school now, and she saw bunches of reporters outside, almost as many as had been there on her first day of school. Seeing the cars, they swarmed over in her direction, still more agents and school security people blocking them back, and Ginette—one of the youngest of Preston’s many staffers—trying, and failing, to keep them under control.

  Meg gripped her knapsack with her hands, afraid to get out of the car.

  “You okay?” Wayne, one of her agents, asked.

  She didn’t answer, staring at the crowd, the school looking completely unfamiliar. An agent from the car behind them had opened her door, and hesitantly, she climbed out. The cameras were rolling, reporters were shouting and shoving microphones at her—and she froze.

  “How do you feel about—” one was saying.

  “—afraid for your mother’s safety?” another asked.

  “—true that you’re no longer allowed to play on the—” a third wanted to know.

  “Come on,” Wayne said, in her ear. “Let’s get inside.”

  “Miss Powers isn’t going to be addressing any questions,” Ginette was shouting, her voice a little too thin to be effective.

  Meg still hung back against the car, and then agents had each of her arms, propelling her almost painfully through the crowd and inside.

  The hall was also jammed, with students and a few teachers, all of whom were staring at her. She veered into the main office for a minute, but that seemed to be mobbed, too, so she went back out to the hall, ordering herself not to cry.

  “Are you all right?” Gary, one of her other agents, asked quietly.

  Oh, yeah. She was swell. She nodded, not looking up in case her eyes were red. “I have to see Mrs. Ferris.” Her tennis coach.

  “We can have someone take care of that for you,” Gary said.

  She shook her head, walking down the hall, people moving out of her way. No one said anything to her, and she was half-relieved, half-hurt, focusing on the floor.

  Her coach, who was also a history teacher, was sitting behind the desk in her classroom. Meg knocked on the door and Mrs. Ferris looked up, and then came out into the hall.

  “It’s good to have you back,” she said. “How is everything?”

  Everything sucked. “Fine, thank you.” Meg pulled her uniform out of her knapsack. “I, um—I mean, my father—” She stopped. “I’m really sorry, but I’m kind of not allowed to play anymore.”

  Mrs. Ferris nodded. “Mr. Fielding
spoke to me about it.”

  Thank God, as ever, for Preston.

  “I hope the President is okay,” Mrs. Ferris said. “We’re all praying for her.”

  Meg nodded. “Thank you.” The White House had been releasing photos of the President holding staff meetings, looking vibrant and cheerful—which would have been all well and good, if it hadn’t been a complete sham. Make-up, strategically placed pillows to prop her up in the chair, clothes carefully pinned in place, artful and flattering lighting—the whole nine yards. Her mother actually was running meetings, but doing it while lying in bed, looking terrifyingly pale and exhausted.

  “I’m very sorry about all of this,” Mrs. Ferris said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Meg shook her head. “Thank you, but it’s okay.” If walking away from tennis was her biggest problem, she would have counted herself lucky. Probably.

  “We’re going to miss you on the team,” Mrs. Ferris said, “but obviously, everyone understands.”

  Certainly, they would know that she would never leave the team by choice. “Would I, um—” Maybe she shouldn’t ask this, but she couldn’t help wanting to know. “How do you think I was going to do at the ISL?”

  “I would have been stunned if you didn’t make the finals,” her coach said, without hesitating.

  Which would have been nice. Meg swallowed, feeling tears, but suppressing them. “It would have been Kimberly Tseng, probably?” Against her, in the finals to determine the top singles player in the league.

  Mrs. Ferris nodded. “Odds are.”

  Yeah. She had always considered Kimberly the one genuine threat in the league. “Do you think I could have beaten her?”

  Mrs. Ferris nodded again. “As long as you didn’t lose patience with the dinking and dunking.”

  Kimberly was a superb player, but—as opposed to Meg’s slashing, attacking, fast-paced game—her style resembled a relentless and infallible ball machine, and she was inclined to beat opponents with sheer, infuriating consistency.

  It was too late now, of course, but it was nice to know that she might have won.

  She made it to her locker, and then homeroom, without breaking down, but could tell from the trembling tension in her arms and legs that it was going to be a very difficult day. Especially since there was an Upper School-wide meeting for silent worship scheduled, which would obviously include a call for prayers for her mother, during which she would have to look game and grateful—and not cry.

  As she walked into the room, people stopped whatever they were doing, awkward and uneasy. She saw Alison coming over and abruptly turned her back, making it clear that she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Couldn’t talk to anyone. She heard Alison hesitate, then move away.

  No one else even tried to approach her, and when the bell rang, she let everyone else leave first, pretending to fumble through her knapsack. Walking to the door, she saw Josh in the hall, leaning against a locker, his hands nervously in his pockets.

  She was barely hanging on right now, and if he hugged her, she was going to fall apart. So, she carefully kept her distance.

  Everyone else in the hall was staring at her, as if she had lost a limb or been horribly burned or something, and no one knew how to treat her anymore.

  “Uh, hi,” he said.

  “I need to be alone,” she said stiffly. “Okay?”

  “Oh.” He stopped. “I’m sorry.”

  “What, is sorry your new word?” she asked.

  He stepped back uneasily. “No, I—I mean, I just—”

  “Well, quit saying it, okay?” she asked. Did he have to act so damned nervous? He was supposed to be her closest friend, for Christ’s sakes. What was he doing being afraid of her?

  “Is it okay if I walk with you?” he asked, still keeping his distance.

  Jesus Christ. Would it be possible for him to be more tone-deaf? She frowned at him. “You have to ask permission?”

  “No, I just—I don’t know what you want me to do,” he said.

  It would probably be a mistake to answer that honestly. She frowned at him. “Right now, that might not be such a great question, Josh.”

  “I’m sorry. I mean—” His expression was very unhappy. “I just don’t want to upset you.”

  “Too bad, because you’re doing a hell of a job.” She moved past him and down the hall, knowing that he wouldn’t come after her. None of this was his fault—why did she keep yelling at him? She couldn’t tell if she fell like falling down and crying, or turning around and hitting someone.

  People were watching her, and she gave the entire hall a mean look, afraid that if anyone came near her, she might do something irrational.

  Because, of course, barking at a sweet, nice—if sometimes infuriatingly tentative—guy made perfect sense.

  Her whole French class stopped talking when she walked in and she had to gulp, suddenly very nauseated. There was an empty desk in the back and she took it, praying that no one would come over to her—which people either seemed to sense, or word had gotten around that she wanted to be left the hell alone.

  When class started, her teacher’s voice sounded like the robot-teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoons, and she looked at her desk, concentrating on not throwing up. If he called on her, she would probably pass out.

  Neal was on his way to school now—were his agents taking care of him? He was so small. It was awful to think of a crowd of agents surrounding an eight-year-old. Was he as scared as she had been? As she still was? When the bell rang, her stomach jumped as much as she did.

  “Mademoiselle Powers?” her teacher asked.

  Great. She was going to throw up all over Mr. Thénardier. She walked up to the front of the room, gripping her knapsack.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Powers,” he said. “I wanted to—”

  “Could I talk to you tomorrow, sir?” she asked. “I’m not feeling very well.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Would you like me to take you down to the clinic?”

  “No, thank you.” She headed for the door, taking deep breaths. She didn’t want to throw up. If she did, she would never live it down. No one ever forgot people who threw up at school—or on top of Japanese prime ministers, for that matter. She had a brief flash of Anne-Marie Hammersmith vomiting all over the place in the third grade. During geography. The last she’d heard, Anne-Marie had lost the election for Homecoming Queen. She was incredibly beautiful, so it was probably because of people who remembered her throwing up.

  Only, now she had to go to physics. The last time she had gone to physics—and wished for something, anything, to get her out of class—how would her mother feel if she knew? She felt like King Midas.

  She veered over to the nearest water fountain, pretending to take a drink, but really hanging on for support. But before her agents could talk to her, she started walking again, her legs weak. The science lab didn’t have any windows—like the waiting room at the hospital, when they were sitting there, wondering whether her mother was—she pulled her sweater sleeve across her face, ordering herself not to be dizzy. Then, she sat in the back of the room and opened her book, the page blurring in front of her eyes.

  As her teacher began his lecture, his voice seeming unnaturally loud, she hung on to her book, the corners digging into her hands. She should be taking notes, but she was afraid to move and get a pen, since the motion might make her feel worse.

  “Hey,” someone next to her—Nathan?—whispered. “You okay?”

  She nodded, sucking in a deep, nausea-controlling breath. It didn’t work, and she shoved away from her desk, running out of the room and down the hall to the nearest girls’ lav, two of her agents right behind her. There were three juniors standing around by the sinks, and they stared at her, then hurried out.

  “Meg,” one of her agents said, “are you—”

  “Leave me alone!” She leaned against the wall, resting her head on her arms, fists tight.

  “We just have to make sure you’re al
l right,” he said, but she could also hear them checking the room to make sure that there was no one else in there, no potential threats. Oh, yeah, they were great at their jobs.

  “Okay,” Wayne said, “we’ll—”

  “Jesus Christ!” She whirled around, her face flushing with a sudden hot fury. “Can’t I even throw up in private?”

  They nodded, both edging towards the door.

  “You follow me everywhere,” Meg said, hearing her voice shake, “make my stupid life miserable, and then, then, when we god-damn need you, no one’s around! Mom probably would have been better off without you—all you do is make things worse. Tempt people to hurt us!”

  “Meg,” Wayne said quietly, “calm—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” she said. “You’re not my parents—you’re not anybody! You’re just stupid jerks who can’t even do their jobs!”

  “Meg,” he put his hand on her shoulder, “just—”

  She jerked away. “Touch me, and I’m getting new agents! I don’t have to put up with that.”

  “Okay.” He moved to the door. “We’ll be right outside.”

  She nodded. “Of course. A bunch of professional voyeurs. Professional cowards.”

  Neither man said anything.

  “What would you do if someone was in here, anyway?” she asked. “Let them shoot me a couple of times, and then react?”

  Still, neither of them responded.

  “Oh, I forgot—I’m the President’s daughter. God forbid any of you talk to me.” She shook her head. “I should have figured. If you’re scared to talk to us, naturally you’re going to be too scared to protect us. Jerks.” She pushed past them and out to the hall, every muscle trembling, fists clenched to keep from bursting into reaction tears. Then, she stopped. “By the way,” she said, “thanks for getting me kicked off tennis.”

  SHE WENT STRAIGHT to the car, not even stopping by the office to let them know that she was leaving. She slouched in the backseat, not speaking—or even putting on her god-damn seat belt—and they drove her home in silence.