He dug around inside a drawer, then tossed a pair of SAMOHI—Santa Monica High School—sweatpants on the bed. “These are kind of small for me, anyway, so you can keep them, if you want.”
She unfastened her surgical brace, then took off her sweatpants, Jack lounging back against his desk to watch.
“Hey, you stared at me stripping,” he said, when she frowned at him. “There’s no way you can tell me I can’t do it to you, too.”
That was valid, so she continued without a pause, pulling on his sweatpants—which absolutely hung off her—and then going through the cumbersome task of refitting her brace to her leg, which always took a while to adjust properly.
“You need help?” he asked.
Since it was something she needed to be able to do by herself, she shook her head—even though it was so much easier when someone with two hands assisted her.
“You want me to wash the other pair for you?” he asked.
She shook her head, since she needed to do some laundry, anyway. Laundry, being another exhausting aspect of college life, since the machines were all the way down in the damn basement—and she’d maybe been spoiled by the degree to which everyday chores like that were magically completed in the White House before she even noticed that they needed to be done.
Back in February, Susan had arranged it so that she and Andy usually did their laundry together. That way, he could carry her bag and detergent for her, and—not that she was an expert—she could help keep him from using cups of bleach and washing and drying everything at the highest temperatures. According to Juliana, during first semester, he had shrunk so many of his clothes, and the colors had run so often, that he had had to take the shuttle over to the Berkshire Mall and buy a bunch of new stuff to replace them. Twice.
Jack walked her up to the Frosh Quad, and since there was no evidence of photographers nearby, there was no compelling reason not to kiss him good-bye with indecorous enthusiasm.
“So,” he said, when they moved apart. “Going to over to the bio lab to do forensic analysis on the evidentiary sample?”
Meg nodded. “Yeah. Might as well find out where you’ve been.”
He grinned at her. “Can’t recommend that, actually, Meg.”
Which was more than she wanted to know.
Juliana had decided that the two of them should have dinner with Mary Elizabeth and Debbie that night, and see what life as suitemates might be like. It was immediately obvious that Debbie was not only laid-back and cheerful, but also, innately diplomatic—which was probably going to come in handy.
On a regular basis.
The rest of the week felt fairly routine—which was a treat. An unexpected luxury, well worth savoring. It was also great to have the Red Sox up and running again—albeit, often right into double plays, although Jack had already made a couple of “wait, you don’t always watch them, do you?” comments.
A question she couldn’t quite bring herself to answer truthfully.
On Thursday morning, she waited until the very last minute to decide whether she was going to go to her political science class. In the end, she limped on over there, and slouched in the back row. But she was somewhat gratified when—after someone said, in the middle of yammering away, “Well, liberals always” do thus and so—Dr. Richardson asked, mildly, whether he had any empirical evidence to back that up, and the guy’s high sense of smug dudgeon seemed to wither a little.
Along with something else, she was guessing—but that might just mean she was spending too much time with Jack these days.
After he left for New Haven on Friday, she was surprised to find herself feeling kind of bereft about the idea of not seeing him again until late Sunday afternoon, when the Ultimate team would be returning to the campus.
He had assured her, at lunch, that he had no intention of being his usual WUFO—Williams Ultimate Frisbee Organization—road trip self, getting trashed at whatever parties they went to, and trolling insatiably for likely female partners. He would, he said with great assurance, confine himself to quaffing many malt beverages.
Of course, until he brought it up, she hadn’t thought to worry that he might take advantage of being away by looking for a one-night stand, but as soon as he promised he wouldn’t, it became a small, but nagging, concern.
Her mood was not improved by the fact that when she got home from physical therapy, there were emails from both Maureen and Anthony, letting her know that one of the upcoming week’s tabloids was going to be running an unusually unflattering photo of her on its cover, with the headline “The President’s Daughter’s Secret Anorexia Nightmare.”
Which meant that all of the other tabloids and blogs, and maybe some of the mainstream media outlets, were likely to hit the theory hard for a while. Especially since Hannah Goldman—whose article was scheduled for the next Sunday edition—also emailed her with a “do you want to address it, or just let it go?” query.
Swell. Just fucking swell.
She forwarded the emails to Beth, with nothing more than a “God-damn it!” comment, then went over to take some ibuprofen and lie down on her bed with an ice pack—which she put on her forehead, for a change of pace.
It would be productive to think about, say, the sociopolitical and historical ramifications of the nature of threat, or why, in fact, she was in college, but instead, she alternated between being generally disgruntled about her life and worrying about being thin. It wasn’t like it was her fault—or her intent. And the President was pretty damn thin herself—wasn’t there a decent chance that they were both just built that way?
She lifted the bottom of her shirt—an old yellow Oxford of her mother’s—to look at her stomach.
Okay. There was a concavity, and her hips looked—not pretty. Sharp. Bony. As though they might crack under the slightest strain.
Which, judging from recent energetic, intimate activities, was not the case, but still.
“Is this a bad time?” Susan asked from the hallway.
When one planned to stare, critically, at oneself, it was probably a good idea to close the door first. “I am almost as thin as everyone keeps telling me I am,” Meg said grimly.
Susan nodded. “Glad you finally noticed.”
Meg frowned at her. “You know, you are, too, and I don’t see anyone getting on your case.”
“It’s a different kind of thin.” Susan raised her own shirt—a blue Lacoste—just high enough to expose her abdomen, which was slim, but also very muscular. “It’s fit thin.”
Running several miles and working out daily—or playing sports—wasn’t a damn option for everyone, though, was it?
Mary Elizabeth, walking by on her way to her room, paused. “What the hell kind of distracting psychosis is this?”
“We have officially determined that Meg is too thin,” Susan said.
Mary Elizabeth’s expression indicated nothing, if not extreme distaste. “God, yes.” Then, she checked out Susan’s stomach. Extensively. “On the other hand, if you ever decide to switch teams, I’ll be first in line to try and woo you.”
Susan laughed, but also blushed and quickly lowered her shirt, tucking it into her jeans.
“Show’s over, then?” Mary Elizabeth asked, and went on her way.
Meg smoothed her own shirt down, deciding that it would be foolish to be offended about having been deemed unattractive. Not that she didn’t like her current team just fine—but, still.
“So, why the sudden realization?” Susan asked.
“There’s a big story coming out about my secret anorexia nightmare,” Meg said. “And that means there’ll be a lot of coverage about my weight for a while.”
Susan shrugged. “Start getting photographed with food.”
What, some kind of women’s magazine layout? Her standing happily in front of a State Dining Room table, gesturing towards a bounteous Easter feast? Meg looked at her blankly.
“They get you sometimes carrying huge cups of coffee around, but that’s it,” Su
san said. “So, let them see you holding a piece of pizza or a doughnut or something.”
Oh. Well, okay, maybe that was a decent idea.
“And you could always eat the food, too, if you wanted,” Susan said.
Words spoken by someone a bit less experienced with being a paparazzi target. Meg shook her head. “You ever seen pictures of people chewing? Not a good look.”
Which made her think of a carefully planned campaign stop in Philadelphia, where her mother had made short work of a cheesesteak—Whiz wit, naturally—holding it out in front of herself and leaning forward in the traditionally accepted manner, while a bunch of locals stood around grinning and doing the same.
She had actually been standing off to the side at the time, out of camera range, with a sandwich of her own—part of which she spilled on herself—and been appalled when Rob, one of the advance guys, watched her mother’s deft gustatory attack and said appreciatively to Glen, “That was perfect. A little carnal, and a lot carnivorous.” Glen had nodded, obviously well-pleased with the nominee’s performance.
A little vignette she had never shared with her mother, who, afterwards, had mainly been glad that her new linen suit remained stain-free, and that it had been an excellent, if sloppy, sandwich, indeed.
There was a small, short whistle, and Meg looked up.
“Back now?” Susan asked.
Oh, right. There was someone else in the room.
“Come on,” Susan said. “Let’s grab some people, and go down to Spring Street, and get some ice cream.”
She was really tired, but it was still light outside—so that any photographs would come out clearly, and—yeah.
What the hell.
* * *
SHE SPENT MOST of the weekend working on a more fleshed-out version of her political science paper, although she took off some time on Saturday night to go to a party some people Juliana knew were having over in Lehman, where she drank three beers, and rebuffed at least twice as many insincere passes.
The next morning was Easter. She had saved the two packages—one from her parents, and one from Trudy—she had gotten on Friday, and felt very homesick as she opened them, especially when she saw a short snippet on CNN of her family heading into St. John’s for the early service. Somehow, they had talked Steven into coming along, because there he was, in a jacket and tie, with—something she had never seen him do off the ski slopes or baseball field—sunglasses on. Neither her father, nor Neal, had gone with dark glasses, but her father had a fresh flower in his lapel—a dapper enough touch to make her laugh.
The President herself was decked out in a bright yellow dress, with subtle white accents, topped by a wide-brimmed spring hat, complete with a striped ribbon and some impressively retro netting, which—along with her white gloves—gave the whole outfit some extra pizzaz. Despite not having the gift of making fashion statements herself, Meg enjoyed seeing the results when other people made the effort, and the CNN anchors seemed to share her sentiments, in this case.
In addition to the box, her parents had also sent her a very large bouquet of tulips, which she had put on her desk as soon as it arrived. The package itself—dispatched uneconomically by special White House courier—was stuffed with all kinds of candy, granola bars, microwave popcorn, and other food, a couple of new novels, and a blue silk t-shirt. Neal had written a card, although he signed it with Vanessa’s name, and Steven’s contribution was a computer printout of Jack, with his arm slung around her, near the dorm. He had written several exclamation points next to the Web page’s excited revelation that the President’s daughter was currently being romanced by a wealthy California Republican financier’s playboy son, and underlined the word “Republican” twice. Her parents had also each enclosed cards, in which they had written long, encouraging, loving notes.
Trudy’s package mostly contained well-wrapped homemade baked goods, along with a “Happy Easter, dear!” note, two bags of gumdrops, and one of orange marshmallow circus peanuts, which had always been a favorite of hers.
She was eating circus peanuts and watching one of the Sunday political shows when Preston called from his mother’s house, where he had gone to visit his family overnight, to wish her a happy Easter. He was watching, too—although his snack of choice was a ham sandwich—and they swapped a few “Damn it, she just went way off message” remarks about the Attorney General, who was handling her rather standard grilling less adroitly than either of them would have liked. The Vice President was also making the rounds, but acquitting himself with far more skill and charm.
“The President has on an actual Easter bonnet today,” Meg said, during the next commercial.
Preston laughed. “Are you wearing a frothy little holiday confection this morning, too?”
Meg looked down at herself, but sadly, there was nothing impressively chic to report. “I’d say it’s closer to a ‘Tennis, anyone?’ look.”
Which made her want to cry the second she heard it come out of her mouth.
“Fuck,” she said.
“I know,” Preston said. “I’m sorry.”
While she was home on break, he’d come upstairs to drink coffee with her early one evening, on the small patio outside the Solarium, and he was still the only person she’d told about her request to Dr. Brooks for the amputations.
He had nodded, sighed, and covered her splint with his own hand briefly, before they returned to their coffee, and started talking about the NFL draft, instead, and how his Eagles, and her Patriots, were likely to fare.
“Anyway,” Meg said, when the silence on the telephone had gone on a little too long, although they had also been distracted by the near frothing at the mouth of a supposedly objective, but wildly conservative, journalist about the prospect of a more equitable restructuring of corporate taxation. “Were you resplendent when you went to church this morning?” Since Beatrice Fielding would have insisted that her son attend the holiday mass with her.
“I’m here, outside the Beltway, among my people, Meg,” he said. “You do the math.”
The math added up to a spiffy combination of flash and style. “Some of your best plumage?” she asked.
“Well, don’t tell the boys at 1600, but I fearlessly donned a pink dress shirt with my suit,” he said.
Which meant that a magenta tie or pocket handkerchief was not out of the question. Something the girls at 1600 would not only take in stride, but applaud. “And ankle boots?” she asked. She just loved his pairs of ankle boots.
“Absolutely,” he said. “The grey suede ones.”
It was Preston’s good fortune that his sleek feline qualities were balanced by a powerful enough aura of masculinity to keep from completely terrifying the members of the grey, very grey, and even greyer male fashion milieu in which he now found himself—but, he probably made more than a few of them extremely nervous. “A hat, too, I hope?” she asked.
“A very fine fedora,” he said. “And you?”
“It’s a rich navy blue wool blend, accented by a bright red embroidered B,” Meg said.
Preston laughed. “Why, yes. I believe I can picture that perfectly.”
They watched the rest of Face the Nation together—it was so much more entertaining to share a play-by-play with a kindred wonk, who found all of the same types of gaffes, portentous prognostications, and zealous punditry funny, and she felt happy and relaxed—and lonely—when they finally hung up.
But then, Neal called, and she talked to the whole family, although Steven pretty much just said hi, yup, and nope, and then, “We still suck,” when she asked how baseball was going. Neal, however, chattered on at length about school, and the soccer league he had joined, and the fact that since the White House was getting ready to issue an official “Adopt a Pet Month” proclamation, they were maybe going to go to a DC animal shelter in the next week or so and get a puppy to keep Kirby company.
Or else, her mother had decided it would maybe be nice to have two friends in Washington.
When she came on the phone, Meg made a remark to that effect, and her mother agreed that it was an appealing notion, but then, when she was talking to her father, something he said made her realize that her parents might actually be thinking about getting another dog to try and cheer Steven up more than anything else.
A very worthy goal, in her opinion.
She also commented on the President’s fancy choice of headgear, and her mother allowed as how the entire outfit had made her feel positively dainty, but that she would, perhaps, prefer not to be quoted about that, if possible.
All of which made her feel more homesick than ever.
She spent most of the rest of the day trying to catch up on the reading for all of her classes, and working on the damn political science paper, too. Since Jack still hadn’t gotten back, she went to Sunday snacks, for once, and brought a couple of dozen of Trudy’s brownies as a contribution. Juliana looked at them with eager anticipation, but Meg shook her head, since they had not been prepared by someone with the power to declare war—or peace—purely of her own volition.
Jack showed up on her floor at about ten that night, with an Ace bandage on his ankle, a bruise below his eye, and a big grin on his face, because they had placed second in the tournament, and come damn close to beating the heavily-favored, top-seeded team from Brown. He was also carrying a package of yellow marshmallow peeps, which he tossed her, and she flipped him a green wooden White House egg in return.
“Hey,” he said, stopping when he saw her flowers. “Are you holding out on me about some other guy?”
Meg indicated the handwritten card tucked in among the stems.
“Oh,” he said, when he read it, and did a decent job of not looking cowed.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, watching him limp around.
His nod was closer to a shrug, which made her suspicious, but she decided not to press the issue.
“My friend Joel told me he saw you reject about ten guys at some party last night,” he said.
He had spies, did he? “I think it was more like seven,” she said. “How about you?”
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