I kicked out of my limp skirt, grateful that I’d followed through on Plan B and worn my gym shorts, leaned into the mic, and raised my voice over the hysterical laughter pinging around the auditorium.
“You’ve got two clear choices this election, my fellow seniors. Candy kisses and sugar-coated promises, or unpredictability. What’s more fun? Vote for me, and I can guarantee one thing. Your senior year won’t be boring.”
I picked my skirt up off the floor and twirled it over my head. More laughs, but this time they seemed a little friendlier. Or maybe I just wanted them to seem that way.
Tears began to sting my eyes as I gritted my teeth and smiled at my classmates. For all my advance planning, I’d still managed to achieve utter humiliation. Amazing.
Brittany joined me at the front of the stage. Her sugary voice cooed in my ear while she graciously acknowledged the applause for us both: “Becoming class president will be easier than I thought. Thanks, sweetie.”
If I killed her right now, do you think my mom would stay my execution?
Dad said my senior year in high school would be the time of my life. Yeah, right. I wondered if I could go on sabbatical. Check back in when I was, like, forty-seven.
I left the auditorium and ducked into the bathroom in the math hallway. When Hannah burst in I was busy drying the front of my blouse under the hand dryer.
“That was some speech,” she said, giving me a quick hug. “I went to your locker and got the spare clothes you keep for emergencies. We’ll fix you up in a jiff.”
“Thanks, Hannah,” I said, changing into my new outfit.
Hannah dug into her massive Baby Phat handbag and pulled out scarves, a tangled mass of necklaces and bangles, and her makeup brushes. Not for the first time I felt thankful my BFF wanted to major in theater makeup and costume design.
I let Hannah fuss over me while I tried my dad’s tai chi mental relaxation techniques. Unfortunately, Brittany Whittaker’s smirking face kept floating before me, ruining the tranquil waterfall I was trying to visualize.
“There. Looking sharp now, Morg, if I do say so myself.”
I gazed at myself in the mirror. “You’re a genius, Hannah.”
“I know,” she said without a trace of modesty.
I heaved a big sigh. “Guess I can’t hide in here all day.”
“Nope. We might as well head to play rehearsal. We’ve pretty much missed calculus.”
“Calculus—crap.” I was already on shaky ground with Mr. Parmentaviswala. Somehow he wasn’t impressed with my solid D average.
“Well, here goes nothing.” I lifted my head, exited the bathroom, and rammed right into someone blocking the way. “Denny!”
My Secret Service agent had stationed himself at the bathroom door, arms folded like a bouncer. He might as well have erected a flashing neon sign: President’s Daughter Having Nervous Breakdown Inside.
“You okay, Morgan?” Real concern reflected in his eyes, and I swallowed the annoyed remark sparking on the tip of my tongue.
“I’m fine,” I said. I knew Denny was just doing his job, but did he always have to get in the way? He was about as subtle as a chin mole with a big black hair sticking out of it.
The final bell rang and students poured into the halls. As Hannah and I made our way back to the auditorium, I got a few friendly nods and high fives.
Hannah nudged me. “See? Even all wet you can outshine Brit-Brit.”
“Or maybe they’re just glad I provided another freak show for them to yak about.”
“No one’s gonna remember this tomorrow, Morgan. You’re too hard on yourself.”
Before I could share my fear that my performance was already on YouTube, an arm snaked around my midsection and squeezed.
“Hey, babe!” Konner whirled me around and kissed me. “You rocked it today.”
“You think so?” I felt breathless, as I always did when Konner showed me a little PDA. “Even when my skirt fell down?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that was hot.” He frowned.
Obviously, the puzzled wrinkle over Konner’s brow meant he hadn’t paid any attention to my speech, but for once I was glad.
Behind him Hannah rolled her eyes. Then she stiffened. “Uh, Morgan—”
“Hey, Davis, can’t you give us some privacy?” Konner turned me toward the lockers and leaned in close. “I don’t like an audience.”
Over Konner’s shoulder, my BFF was making a series of cryptic motions with her hands. I realized too late that it was a warning.
Chapter Three
Ms. Gibson, AOP’s guidance counselor, appeared at my side. She was about twenty-five years old and looked like Angelina Jolie—not U.N. Ambassador Jolie, all friendly and helpful, but Tomb Raider Jolie, the one who would kick anyone’s ass for fun.
“Morgan Abbott! Konner Tippington! You know the rules about inappropriate behavior in school.”
Konner and I sprang apart. “Sure, Ms. Gibson,” Konner said easily. “I was just congratulating Morgan on her speech.”
“See to it that’s all you do during school hours.” Ms. Gibson’s glare could cut glass. “Morgan, I need to speak with you. In. My. Office.”
I shot Hannah a resigned look and waved good-bye to Konner. I glumly followed Gibson into the part of the Academy that was built during the nineteenth century. I’m talking oak paneling with portraits of stodgy old men lining the walls. We eventually arrived at the guidance counselor’s office.
“Your grades stink, Morgan,” she said after she settled behind her desk.
One has to appreciate Ms. Gibson’s candor.
“Four Ds, an A-minus in drama—” Ms. Gibson barely restrained a snort of derision. “And two Cs. I’ve always taken you for a smart girl, Morgan, despite your poor academic record. So you tell me how you’re going to be admitted to a community college, let alone a respectable university, with grades like these.”
“Uh…I think you might have mistaken my impish charm for intelligence.”
Did Gibson’s lips twitch in amusement? Impossible.
Then her gaze grew steelier. “Let’s put all the cards on the table. You don’t get a pass here just because you’re the president’s daughter. Or the daughter of Sam Abbott, who single-handedly made Wi-Fi available to the entire planet at a reasonable cost. You are responsible for you. And you are in danger of flunking out of AOP.”
My mouth went dry. This was getting serious.
“If you don’t get these grades up, Morgan, you will be banned from any—and I mean any—extracurricular activities.”
“But—”
“That means no more drama productions, including the upcoming musical, no team sports or field trips, no student council. Nada.”
“That’s so unfair,” I said lamely. My parents’ art of persuasion had clearly skipped a generation.
“If that’s what it takes to get you to focus, Morgan, the school has no choice. You know we can’t give you any special treatment.”
I slouched in my chair. “I know.”
“Change starts with one person: you.”
Ouch. She would throw that back in my face.
Why was it I had to practically set my brain on fire studying to accomplish those Cs when Mom and Dad came out of the womb as geniuses?
“I’ll do better, Ms. Gibson. I promise.”
I slunk out of there as fast as I could.
Getting metaphorically walloped upside the head by Ms. Gibson was never a pleasant experience, but today’s session really shook me up.
Everyone thought I had it soooo easy as First Daughter. How could I tell Ms. Gibson…or anyone for that matter…that being the president’s daughter wasn’t all state dinners, Easter egg hunts on the White House lawn, and trips to Africa during school breaks? The pressure of it sat on my shoulders like a lead-lined parka. Be perfect. Don’t screw up. Everyone’s watching you.
And when you do mess up, it’s a double whammy. Not only are you an idiot, but you’re the idiot who hap
pens to be the president’s daughter. My lousy grades reflect badly on the leader of the free world. Seriously, who can live with that kind of pressure?
I heard puffing behind me. Denny trotted at my heels. Sweat beaded around his receding hairline and he looked like he needed another macchiato. “Morgan, hey, hold up,” he wheezed.
“I’m late for rehearsal, Denny.”
“You haven’t told me where you and the Tippington boy are going out to dinner tonight.”
“Do you really need to know?”
“I need to send out an advance team to sweep the place first. You know that.”
“Yeah. But the problem is, so does the entire world. We’ll have the paparazzi swarming all over Augustino’s before we even get there.”
“Augustino’s. Check.”
“Denny! I said don’t send the advance team to Augustino’s. Konner and I want privacy tonight.”
Denny gave me one of his looks—the sympathetic executioner. “Rules are rules, Morgan.”
I was getting soooooo sick of this.
“Denny, I’m tired of being watched every minute. I can’t even go to the bathroom without everyone knowing because you’re practically standing outside the stall. Can I just pretend to be a normal person for one afternoon?”
A weird expression crossed his face—a combination of pity and exhaustion.
“Okay, Morgan,” he said. “I’ll give you some space this afternoon, as long as you don’t do anything crazy.”
I couldn’t even muster up the grace to thank him. I needed to get moving.
Dress rehearsal had already started when I arrived at the auditorium. Finally, after three years of badgering, I convinced the drama teacher that we could handle the musical Rent. Well, it was my convincing paired with the fact that a school edition of the production just came out—and Konner’s parents forked over the money for the royalty payment.
Up on the stage, Konner, who’d won the role of Benny the slumlord, was belting out his number in a killer three-piece suit. I paused for a moment, dazzled by his charisma and good looks. Whether on the basketball court or the stage, Konner commanded everyone’s attention. Geez.
Hannah appeared at my elbow. “You survived Gibson?”
“Barely.”
“Come on, I’ve got to get you into your costume before Escobedo throws one of his screaming hissy fits. We’re behind schedule as it is.”
“So, what am I wearing? Something outrageous, I hope.” I’d been cast as Maureen, the bisexual performance artist. The role was as far as possible from my normal personality, which was why I loved it.
“Outrageous? It’s interplanetary!” Hannah dragged me backstage. She was the production’s wardrobe and makeup artist, and getting into full diva mode about it.
Ten minutes later, I was gazing at my reflection in the full-length mirror in the girls’ dressing room. Hannah had poured me into skintight black PVC hot pants and a matching bustier.
“I’ll tell you what’s interplanetary. My boobs.” I tugged at the gel cleavage enhancers Hannah had thrust down the front of the bustier, which gave my two flat pancakes a serious lift.
“You’re welcome. Now shut up while I do your makeup.”
Hannah applied slabs of blue eye shadow that contrasted nicely with my brown eyes, and found some purple-black lipstick for my lips. Then she swiped sparkly blush over my cheeks, which I had to admit really brought out my cheekbones.
The sour feeling left by Ms. Gibson was easing away. I loved all this: performing, getting into a role, and most of all, having a great excuse to forget about being Morgan Abbott, the president’s daughter, for just a little while.
My entrance onstage caused a stir.
“Holy moley!” Jeong Nguyn said, pulling down the glasses he had to wear for the role of Mark Cohen, the Jewish mensch. “Is that you, Morgan?”
“For real.” I slammed a pop ’n’ lock move, which cracked everyone up.
Konner made a beeline for me. “Looking good, babe,” he said, his eyes glued to my mounded breasts.
I resisted the urge to cover them with my hands. Brittany Whittaker drifted past. She’d badgered Escobedo into being his director’s assistant, perfect for a control freak like her. “Making yourself a little more user-friendly, I see. How sluttastic for you, Morgan.”
“Who peed in your cornflakes this morning, Brit?” Jeong remarked.
Hannah spoke up. “She’s just jealous because Morgan kicked her butt at the class president speeches.”
“At least I don’t have to strip for votes,” Brittany replied snottily.
I felt myself growing hot with anger. “Because that would be so much worse than stealing someone else’s platform, word for word, right?”
Brittany’s pink-frosted mouth thinned into a vicious line.
Konner yawned. “Yeesh. I hate it when girls fight,” he said to Jeong.
“Speak for yourself,” Jeong replied with an exaggerated leer. “I kinda like it.”
Hannah smacked the back of his head. “Pervert. This is serious.”
Brittany and I glared at each other. IT. WAS. ON.
Mr. Escobedo bounded onstage, stopping things from getting ugly. “Everyone take five,” he shouted, even though we were standing right next to him. “We’ve got a problem with the lighting that needs to be fixed before we can continue rehearsal. Don’t wander away!”
Immediately, everyone began wandering away.
Konner whispered in my ear. “You look amazing, Morgan.”
Tingles shot through me. “So do you,” I murmured, allowing my eyes to slide appreciatively over his six-foot-two-inch frame lovingly tucked inside that smokin’ three-piece suit.
“Come on.” He tugged my hand and I willingly followed him into the prop room, which was filled with a jumble of rejects from past drama productions.
I ignored the smell of mold and plastic, then forgot about it altogether when Konner drew me close. “Wow, Morgan,” he said, giving my boobs another long look before lowering his face to mine. “Wow.”
Konner, it must be said, kissed like the babe-magnet he was. I tried not to think about all the girls he’d practiced on before me, but still, I appreciated their unspoken service.
That is, until I felt his breathing change.
His hands, which had been running up and down my back, now wandered to the front of my bustier, and the lack of oxygen from his increasingly hard kisses made my head spin.
I broke the kiss. “Konner. Wait—”
“Come on, babe.” He started gnawing on the side of my neck. His teeth felt sharp and his hand squeezed my gel enhancers.
“Konner! I said stop—”
Suddenly the door of the prop room burst open.
“Freeze right there! Step away from the president’s daughter.”
In horror, I looked over Konner’s shoulder and saw not only Denny, my Secret Service agent, but a team of agents.
He called in the perimeter detail? Unbelievable.
And behind them, Brittany and AOP’s entire drama class craned to get a gander at us.
The only thing missing from this freak show was the popcorn.
Chapter Four
“Denny! What’s going on?” I yelled.
By now Konner had been wrestled away from me by a couple of agents and was being frisked. The expression on Konner’s face was something I wouldn’t soon forget: one part humiliation and ten parts pissed off. “Morgan! Call off your goons, will ya?”
“Denny!”
“He’s clean,” said one of the agents who was keeping a tight grip on Konner’s shoulder.
“Of course he’s clean; he’s my boyfriend,” I told him angrily.
“Probably not after this,” I heard Brittany say snidely. The agents were communicating with devices implanted in their earpieces. “Yep, false alarm—again,” I heard one say.
Mr. Escobedo quickly herded the drama class away from the prop room, but that didn’t spare me the sight of Brittany’s s
atisfied smirk.
I rounded on Denny. “I demand an explanation.”
Denny pocketed his portable GPS tracking device—the one where I was the little red flashing dot. “Simple, Morgan. Through window surveillance, one of the perimeter team agents saw you being shoved into a closet. When he called me for clarification, I had to tell him I didn’t know where you were.”
“Does that mean barging in, guns blazing?”
“You broke The Bubble, Morgan. I had to act.”
The Bubble. Agent-speak for the zone of protection around the president and her family.
“You told me you wouldn’t do anything stupid,” Denny continued.
“Correction. I told you I wouldn’t do anything crazy. Because stupid’s something I’ve got a lock on.
As furious as I was, I really couldn’t blame Denny for doing his job. To be honest, beneath my shock and embarrassment, I was a little relieved. Konner and his wandering hands had gone too far, and I had a real moment of doubt that I could get him to back off.
Speaking of Konner—
“Hey, bro. Could you let me go?” Konner twitched under the perimeter agent’s special restraining grip. “Morgan?”
Denny nodded to the agent, who gave Konner a don’t-give-me-any-b.s. scowl before releasing him.
“Watch the threads, dude.” Konner smoothed the lapels of his suit before heading to the auditorium door.
“Text me later,” I called after him.
“Yeah, whatever,” he replied sullenly.
A second perimeter agent approached Denny. “POTUS is in the hold,” he told him.
POTUS. President of the United States. “The hold” was the Oval Office.
“Your mom is waiting for us,” Denny said. I had to admit, he kept a pretty good game face on, considering he was about to get reamed for this. “Get the motorcade ready and let’s roll.”
I glanced down at my skimpy costume. My gel enhancers had gone wonky due to Konner’s roving hands. “Can you at least let me change and talk to Mr. Escobado before you bring the Baby Beast limo around?”
Confessions of a First Daughter Page 2