White House Autumn

by Ellen Emerson White

  So, what with staring, and passing notes, and drawing Vanessa, the day passed pretty pleasantly. They had a great time in their Political and Philosophical Thought class, because Alison was selling M&M for the choir, and they spent most of the period throwing them at various targets around the room whenever Mr. Murphy turned his back.

  Meg’s hand slipped with an orange M&M and she bounced it off Mr. Murphy’s file cabinet, instead of the “If You See Something, Say Something” poster. Mr. Murphy was not amused. Meg and her friends were. He threatened that if he caught anyone in the act, they would have to stay after school and spend an hour crawling around on their hands and knees, picking up scraps of paper and other improperly discarded trash. Sounded like a fun time.

  “The pencil sharpener,” Nathan whispered, when Mr. Murphy was standing up at the board, and they threw yellow M&M’s, all of which missed, clattering on the floor. Mr. Murphy decided to stop writing on the board and gave his “This is a class of seniors and I don’t expect this sort of infantile behavior” speech. They were infantile enough to laugh.

  After school, she drifted to a Student Senate meeting, the first one she’d attended since the shooting. The advisor just smiled and said, “Good to have you back,” and she ended up being put in charge of decorations for the Christmas dance. Snowflake city. When the meeting was over, since Josh had already left for his piano lesson, she hung out on some benches outside with Alison and Zack and a few other seniors—as well as, of course, a bunch of damn agents posted nearby. Nathan, who had been playing pick-up basketball in one of the gyms, came out and joined them, and they spent another twenty minutes lounging around—and giving very superior looks to any underclassmen who dared to approach the benches. Unless, of course, they were fond of the underclassman in question, in which case, the person—usually a junior—was permitted to join them.

  And, for the most part, they didn’t talk about college applications. At least, not the entire time.

  Matt, who was on the football team with Nathan and Zack, came jogging past them.

  “Big party!” he yelled. “My house! Friday night!”.

  She had once been to a party at Matt’s house—which had been somewhat out of control and drunken, but she had stuck to bottled water, and no pictures had leaked to the tabloids, so she had every intention of going to this one, too.

  Even if she had to be really boring, and just drink soda and stuff like that.

  Finally, everyone started saying good-bye, and drifting off towards their cars or the Metro, and she followed her agents to the exit location they were using today. Her departures and arrivals were always varied, and even though she—mostly—thought it was overkill, she just did what she was told without arguing, even though she often resented every single second of it.

  Today, they were going to deploy from the end of the parking garage, and as she walked in that direction, Zachary and Nathan—and Nathan’s on-and-off girlfriend, Phyllis—drove by, Zachary beeping his horn. She waved at them, and then put her hands in her pockets, as she walked over to her cars.

  November usually wasn’t that cold in Washington, but this year seemed to be an exception. She was going to have to break down and start wearing a jacket to school soon. On the positive side, winter meant skiing, and maybe, if her mother was well enough, they would be able to—there was a loud bang from somewhere, kind of like a gun or a firecracker, and before Meg had a chance to react, she found herself flat on her face on the cement.

  One of her agents was on top of her, shielding her with his body, while another crouched above them in a combat shooting position, his body a wide target, facing the direction from which the sound had come, his gun out and leveled. She heard two other agents run over, and tires squealing towards them, as the rest of her detail responded.

  “Is it a car?” Wayne shouted, on top of her. “I think it was a car!”.

  After some tense seconds—a minute, maybe—Gary and the others established that it had, indeed, been a car backfiring, and Wayne lifted Meg up, briskly brushing her off and hustling her to the car, with Joe flanking them.

  “You okay?” Wayne asked, out of breath, sliding in next to her on the back seat, as Benjamin, who was behind the wheel, put the car into gear.

  “Y-yeah,” Meg said, trembling. “I mean—” Her hands were shaking so hard that she clenched her fists. “I’m fine.”

  “Chuck, get her knapsack!” Wayne said through the window to.

  one of her back-up agents, and then, the cars were speeding away, all kinds of people staring after them.

  Meg closed her eyes and leaned back, not wanting anyone to know how scared she had been.

  “I’m sorry,” Wayne was saying. “We’re—overcautious—lately. Are you okay?”.

  She nodded, the inside of her head jangling.

  “I’m sorry.” He leaned over and dabbed her cheek with his handkerchief. “You’ve got a little cut there.”

  Meg opened her eyes, still dazed, aware that her cheek was stinging.

  “Let me see your hands,” he said, trying to open her right fist.

  “With an effort, she unclenched her hands and saw that her palms were gravel-scraped, and bleeding slightly, like when she was six, and used to fall off her bike all the time.

  “Wayne frowned. “Sorry about that. We’ll take you right to the WHMU, and have them fix you up.”

  White House Medical Unit. “I’m fine,” Meg said, which was a lie. She took a few deep breaths, still shaking, her nerves so jarred that it was hard not to cry. She rested her face in her hands, listening to Joe, who was in the passenger’s seat, call the incident in. “Um, I mean, thank you.”

  They all nodded, and she could tell that they were almost as spooked as she was. She covered her face with her hands again, trying to calm down. If it had been a gun, and the person had good aim, she might be—she closed her eyes more tightly

  When they finally drove on to the South Grounds, she stayed in the car for a minute, wanting to be under complete control before getting out in front of the reporters who had gathered.

  With an effort, she straightened up, looking at her agents. “Y-you guys didn’t have to do that.”

  Wayne’s expression tightened. “I’m very sorry. We overreacted.”

  Meg shook her head. “I meant, protect me. I’ve been so—I mean, lately—I mean, you didn’t have to—”.

  “Come on.” Wayne put his hand on her back. “Let’s take you inside.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “but—”.

  “Just come on,” he said.

  Dr. Brooks was waiting inside, and she was rushed right into his office to have the scrapes cleaned and bandaged. As he waited for the antiseptic to dry, he lifted her wrist to check her pulse.

  “Pretty scary stuff,” he said, unwrapping a roll of gauze.

  Meg was going to be cool and cavalier, but since she was still trembling, didn’t bother. “Yeah.”

  He patted her knee, then indicated the various rips. “Any of those new?”.

  She looked down at her jeans, then pointed to a wide tear below her right knee. “Um, that one.”

  He separated the cloth to check. “Unh-hunh, you’ve got another one there.”

  She protested against all of the gauze, but no one ever took chances with the First Family.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” he said. “Do you feel dizzy, or—”.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine, thank you.” She looked at her hands, clumsy with the thick layers of gauze. When she was little, no one ever gave her gauze. She would run into the house crying, and Trudy would wash her off, make her laugh—and send her back out again.

  Her father hurried in—he had been off making a First Gentleman appearance somewhere or other, when the word came in, apparently—looking very worried, and when Meg saw him, she had to grip the sides of her chair to keep herself from bursting into tears. He bent to hug her, and then she knew she was going to cry.

  “Okay,” he said gently.
“Don’t worry, it’s okay.”

  “Just a few scrapes, Russ,” Dr. Brooks said. “She’s more shaken up than anything else.”

  Her father nodded, and she was able to keep the tears back until they were getting off the elevator, and he led her across the hall to the Presidential Bedroom, sitting her down on the couch.

  “It’s okay.” He hugged her even more tightly than he had down in the Medical Unit. “Go ahead.”

  “They were really fast,” she said weakly. “Knocking me down.”

  He nodded.

  “I thought it was—I mean, it could have been—” She gulped down another deep breath, unexpectedly close to falling apart.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “You’ll feel better.”

  Meg shook her head, struggling not to cry. “I can’t. I shouldn’t be upset because something could have happened, when Mom—I mean, it wasn’t anything, I shouldn’t—”.

  “I think you should,” her father said. “To my knowledge, you haven’t yet.”

  “But—” She tried to stop the tears, and they came harder. “I mean, Steven and Neal don’t—”.

  “At least one of them has come to our room every night,” he said.

  She stared at him. “Really?”.

  He nodded.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Have you—?”.

  “Yes,” he said. “More than once.”

  She looked at him, tears running down her cheeks.

  “It’s good for you,” he said. “You invariably feel better afterwards.”

  She shook her head. “But—”.

  “Relax,” he said.

  His arm was comforting on her shoulders, and she cried until she was too tired to keep going, except for an occasional weak gulp.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “I guess so.” She wiped her sleeve slowly across her eyes, a few stray tears still coming out. “I don’t understand why he would hurt her.”

  Her father sighed. “It’s the position, Meg. Not the person. You know that.”

  No, she had been told that; she didn’t know it. “It’s not fair,” she said.

  “No, it isn’t,” he said. “I just—I don’t know what to tell you, Meg.”

  No, there weren’t any logical answers for this one. She was too tired to lean forward and take any Kleenex from the box on the table, and her father handed her several tissues. “She has three more years,” she said. Or, maybe, seven.

  Her father nodded.

  “Well, what if—” She stopped, guiltily.

  He sighed again. “You can’t spend the rest of her term worrying about it. I mean, in many ways, that would be equally destructive.”

  She looked up at him, feeling like Neal. “So, you think everything’s going to be okay?”.

  “Well,” he said, “insofar as things can be controlled.”

  Which wasn’t very far.

  “The Secret Service does a damn good job,” he said. “People only hear about it on the few occasions when they can’t prevent something.”

  “You mean, things have almost happened?” she asked.

  Her father hesitated.

  “Like if she’s going to speak somewhere,” Meg said, already knowing the answer, “and they switch locations. They must do that for a reason.”

  Her father nodded reluctantly. “She gets a lot of threats, Meg. Unfortunately, it comes with the job.”

  What kind of person would want a job like that? “Have there been—attempts?” she asked.

  He moved his jaw. “Foiled ones, yes.”

  Jesus. “Like what?” she asked.

  He looked tired. “I don’t know. A man on a roof in Chicago. Someone carrying a homemade bomb in Denver. That kind of thing.”

  The near-misses. Of which, there had been God only knew how many. If she wasn’t already worn out, she might have started crying again.

  “Usually, your mother hasn’t even known about them, until afterwards,” her father said. “The Secret Service does a very good, very quiet job. But—they can’t always prevent things. No one could.”

  No. Perfection—even when it came to something so incredibly important—probably wasn’t humanly possible. Which sucked, but there was no getting around it. She slouched down. “I’ve been really mean to them lately. Not speaking to them, or anything.”

  “I imagine you feel differently now,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “They understand how you’ve been feeling, and they’re smart enough not to take it personally.”

  “I hope so.” She looked at her gauze-wrapped hands. “Can I redo the People interview?”.

  He nodded. “I think your mother’s probably right, and that it’s a good idea. I’ll have Preston set it up.”

  They sat for a moment in silence.

  Then, she let out her breath. “Dad? Can I ask you something?”.

  “You may,” he said. Her parents were heavily into correcting their children’s grammar.

  “If you were in a room with him,” she said, “and you had a gun, would you hurt him?”.

  He didn’t answer right away.

  “Like, remember when she broke her leg?” she asked. “And you like, tried to take that guy apart?”.

  “I tried to slug him,” her father said defensively. “Not take him apart.”

  That’s not how it had seemed at the time, but okay. “Yeah, but all he did was ski in front of her,” she said. “This is a lot worse.”

  He nodded.

  “So, would you hurt him?” she asked.

  “I don’t think it would really solve anything,” he said, then smiled slightly. “That’s not to say that I wouldn’t mind punching him pretty hard.”

  She wouldn’t mind hitting him herself.

  “However,” her father said, his smile so wry that it was almost a grin.

  “Yeah.” Meg frowned down at her gauze. “Can I take this junk off? I mean, it’s only a couple of scrapes.”

  He glanced around—at the White House, in general, it seemed—and this time, he did grin. “Sure,” he said. “Just put on a Band-Aid, if you need one.”

  SHE HAD BARELYgotten to her bedroom when the telephone next to her bed rang—which was when she remembered that her cell phone was in her knapsack, and that she had no idea where that was. Still down in the Medical Unit, maybe?.

  She picked the receiver up. “Hello?”.

  “Hey, kid,” Preston said, sounding amused. “I just got a call from the Southeast Gate—seems your friend Josh is practically breaking it down, trying to get in here. You want me to have him sent up?”.

  Meg smiled. “Yeah. And ask them not to give him too hard a time, okay?”.

  She went downstairs to wait for him, and after a few minutes, he was finally escorted in, driving an unfamiliar car.

  He jumped out, looking very upset. “My God, you are hurt!”.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just a scrape.” Or two, or three, or four.

  “What happened? Nick Goldstein called and said he saw your agents knock you down, then drive away about a hundred miles an hour—” He stopped, not waiting for an answer. “My God, your poor face! Are you all right? What happened?”.

  “I’m fine.” She put her hands on his shoulders, seeing that he was literally shaking with worry. “A car backfired, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry?” he said. “Jesus, I called your cell about ten times in a row, and you never picked up, and then—I mean, I thought—Meg, you might have been—”.

  “I’m fine. Come on.” She sat him down on the steps leading up to the South Portico. “Everything’s okay.”

  “Jesus Christ. I thought—I mean, I about had a heart attack. I really thought—” He shook his head. “Are you sure you’re all right?”.

  “Yes.” She put her arms around him, feeling his heart pound against her chest. “Shhh,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”

  They kept hugging, Meg feeling his heartbeat and breat
hing gradually slow down.

  “Okay?” she asked, her mouth next to his ear.

  He nodded, turning his face to kiss her, a long kiss that left both of them breathing harder than was probably a wise idea, right there on the stairs, with plenty of witnesses.

  “Whose car is that?” she asked.

  He grinned sheepishly. “My piano teacher’s. I guess I kind of freaked.”

  Clearly. Meg looked at him dubiously. “And he trusted you to drive?”.

  “If he hadn’t, I swear to God I would have smacked him,” he said.

  Meg laughed. “You, and my father.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Your father wants to smack my piano teacher?”.

  “No, he—” She stopped, seeing his grin. “You jerk.” She leaned forward to hug him some more. “Can you come upstairs, or do you have to get the car back?”.

  Josh frowned. “I don’t know. I mean, I should probably—I’d rather come upstairs.”

  “Look, take the car back before he has a heart attack,” she said.

  “Yeah. I guess.” He looked worried again. “Are you sure you’re all right? I mean, all those bandages—”.

  “You know how they are around here,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He kissed each of her hands, her cheek, and then her mouth, staying at her mouth the longest. “I’m going to call you as soon as I get home, okay? More than once, probably.”

  Meg smiled, hugging him tightly. “It’s okay with me.”

  SHE GOT SEVERAL other phone calls, including one from Beth, who had seen a news headline on the Internet. Apparently, the story was being reported in more than a few places, even though there wasn’t any film or anything. Meg assured everyone that she was fine, and that it was no big deal—but, getting the phone calls felt nice.

  Her mother didn’t hear about it until she came upstairs for dinner, and she was very concerned. This spread to Steven and Neal, who bent over backwards being kind to her. Steven even held her chair for her. Meg felt like a fool, and escaped to her room shortly after the meal to work on her college essays. In theory.