“No. Mr. Escobado has been informed.” Denny had kicked into full-on official Secret Service mode. There’d be no more negotiating with him today. Or until my mom’s term in office expired, probably.
I sighed. I wasn’t real eager to see my mom right now. She wasn’t going to be happy about being interrupted over another one of “Morgan’s little episodes.”
Man, how I wished I could stay out of trouble for just one day.
A delegation of Japanese dignitaries was giving a press conference in front of the North Portico, my usual entry into the White House. Media presence would be intense, so Denny had the team drive me to the West Wing entry, which I usually avoided because it swarmed with Cabinet appointees, D.C. powerbrokers, diplomats, an army of staff members, and the press. From there, I’d meet my mom in the Oval Office.
As I got out of the motorcade, I clutched the trench coat that I’d pilfered from the prop room to my throat. Underneath the coat, my PVC hot pants chafed and crept up into all the wrong places. I’d managed to remove most of Hannah’s pancake makeup in the limo, but now my face somehow felt both naked and smudgy. I kept my head down and walked quickly toward the door, flanked by agents.
I scooted by one of the marines guarding the entry and nearly bumped into a massive vase full of white lilies—Mom’s favorite flower—sitting smack-dab on the Madison-era hall table. My nose began its telltale tingle and I sneezed. Gah, I’m beyond allergic to lilies. Mom reminded her staff about it, but fawning diplomats kept sending them anyway. I sneezed again.
Julia, one of Mom’s deputy chiefs of staff, was power walking by, arms loaded with files. “Bless you, Madam President,” she said cheerily.
I raised my head, sniffling like a spaniel puppy. Julia checked her step and flushed. “Goodness, Morgan! I took you for your mother. Wow, you’re the spitting image of her. When did you get to be such a big girl?”
Appalled, I stared at her. I didn’t know which insulted me more: the fact that she thought I was a big girl now, or that I looked so much like my mother. Despite being in her early forties and blessed with preternaturally youthful skin, Mom didn’t believe in chasing trends or wearing shoes with anything resembling a heel. I guess the unlimited power of the presidency drains a person of all sense of style. The media said her style was classic; I thought her style was just plain old-fashioned. And that was what I looked like?
Reluctantly, I conceded that it wasn’t Julia’s fault that she’d misidentified me. I was wrapped in the trench coat, plus with my hair being a bit longer than normal and without its usual streaks of neon hair color, I had somehow ended up with something approaching my mom’s hairstyle. Arg!
Julia’s eyes swept over my smudged lips and raccoon eyes. “Maybe I should call my optometrist and make an appointment,” she muttered.
Denny asserted himself. He was clearly ready to get this over with. “Morgan’s expected in the Oval Office,” he told Julia. She got the hint and resumed her power-walk down the corridor.
Padma, Mom’s private secretary, did a double take when I entered her office in the executive suite, but she recovered quickly. “Go right in. The president had to step away for an emergency meeting, but she won’t be long.” Padma’d gotten used to my unique fashion sense and flare for total catastrophe over the year she’d been Mom’s gatekeeper, and she smiled at me sympathetically.
“Thanks, Pads. Got any toffees left? I’m starved.”
“You know where to find them. Help yourself.” Padma kept a stash of candy imported from her hometown of Mumbai on a shelf next to her desk. I took a couple. These toffees rocked. The boiled chocolate limes—not so much.
Denny checked the peephole in the door leading to the Oval Office before opening it. The detail ushered me in, and I flopped onto one of the plush couches flanking the presidential seal woven into the gold-and-blue area rug.
Denny and team stationed themselves at the windows and doors. I popped a toffee and studied the portrait of George Washington hanging over the fireplace. At the opposite end of the room, neat stacks of papers loaded the famous Resolute Desk. When Mom sat behind it, she’d have to stare at ol’ George smiling tightly down at her day in and day out. Someone had placed a bowl of pale pink peonies on the Federalist coffee table instead of lilies, thank god. Afternoon sun burnished the creams, golds, and blues of the decor, muting the colors even further. The Oval Office was cool, what with all the monumental history that had gone down in here, but something about it bored me. Bad feng shui, I guess. A pop of red or purple would do wonders. Maybe a lava lamp or something, just to bring it into the last century.
The door leading to the Cabinet Room opened and the agents sprang to attention. Mom walked in.
“Madam President,” Denny said deferentially. The tension coming from the detail was palpable.
I popped another toffee in my mouth.
“I’d like to speak to my daughter alone, please.” My mom never raised her voice above a pleasant tone, but that didn’t fool anyone.
The room cleared in three seconds flat.
Chapter Five
There was a long moment of silence. Mom perched on the edge of the Resolute Desk and toyed with a plaque, hand-carved by a famous Gullah Island artist, which bore her motto: The People Come First. The silence grew. But that was the point. I’d seen Mom make renegade senators sweat until they needed to change their shirts. They’d blurt out something stupid just to fill the silence. Then Mom would pounce.
It wouldn’t work with me. No way I would crack.
At last Mom smoothed down an unnoticeably errant strand of mahogany hair in her classic bob. “I suppose you know why I asked you to come to the office.”
“Nope.”
“A level-three security threat, Morgan. Your father and I were scared witless when they couldn’t find you.”
“Denny overreacted,” I said defensively. “He just doesn’t get it. He shouldn’t have brought in the perimeter detail.”
“We’re not talking about Denny right now, Morgan. We’re talking about you.”
“Yeah, but when we talk about me, I always end up in trouble.”
Mom ignored my retort. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into you these days.”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe my mom became president.”
Mom’s cocoa-colored eyes widened. “You can’t blame me for everything. You need to focus, Morgan. You’ll never reach your goals if you don’t.”
“I’m not you, Mom. I don’t need, or want for that matter, to plot everything out months in advance. Stop trying to fit me into your mold.”
The counterattack didn’t work this time.
“Ms. Gibson called and talked to your father.”
Uh-oh.
“Your grades are appalling. Four Ds? I had no idea. Are you getting mixed up with the wrong crowd?”
“No, Mom! Relax. You try to study calculus or organic chemistry knowing that a Secret Service agent is looking over your shoulder. And the perimeter detail makes AOP feel like a jail, not a school.”
Mom flushed. “The security is for your safety, Morgan. You know that.”
“But it’s ruining my life!”
“We’re getting off track.” Mom took a calming breath and the color on her cheeks mellowed a bit. Her eyes became chips of ice.
Here it comes.
“If you don’t get your grades up by the end of the semester, you’ll be grounded until you do.”
OMG, that might be forever. “Mom!” I wailed.
“And I don’t want to receive any more disturbing reports about you and that boyfriend of yours…in a broom closet.”
“Prop room,” I muttered.
“Does that make it better? That sort of behavior won’t be tolerated. I’m not even going to get into the embarrassment you caused to both yourself and the office of the presidency this time. Like it or not, we’re supposed to be role models for the nation.”
I didn’t have a response for that, so I retreated in
to sulky silence. Mom plowed on with her lecture on image-shaping and public perception, and I listened with half an ear. I really hated how Mom talked to people in bullet points now—her own family included. I missed the cozy chats we used to have where we’d giggle and eat ice cream. Back when I thought I could tell her anything. But now…I don’t know. A barrier had sprung up between us when she became president. There was no way I could imagine talking to the nation’s commander in chief about Konner or how he was moving way too fast for me. I couldn’t tell her that I didn’t want to lose my boyfriend, but I wasn’t sure I could handle him, either.
Mom’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Well? Any rebuttal?”
“I didn’t run for office.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I never wanted all this attention, Mom. It’s not fair that I have to think everything through a bajillion times before I take action because I have to worry that the media or the nation or the freaking president of the United States will judge me. Why does your job have to ruin my life?”
Mom flinched. I couldn’t believe it—her eyes were welling up with tears. I felt my own eyes start stinging.
A chirping noise from the intercom on her desk snapped us both out of it. Mom broke eye contact first and hit the com button. Padma’s voice warbled out. “He’s here now, Sara.”
“Thanks. Give me one minute, then send him in.” Mom sighed and stood up. “As much as I want to continue this conversation with you, I honestly don’t have time.”
“Do you ever?”
She ignored my snarky retort. “I’m heading to Africa on Friday for a series of crucial meetings. But when I get back, we’ll have a good long discussion. Just you and me.”
I shrugged. I’ve heard that line too many times to take it seriously anymore.
My trench coat, which I’d loosened because the plastic hot pants and tight bustier were making me sweat like a pig, slipped off my shoulder.
Mom’s head snapped around. “Morgan, what on earth are you wearing?”
I looked down. My gel enhancers had forced one boob higher than the other. “Oh, it’s a—”
The office side door swung open.
“Max Jackson to see…you.” Padma’s voice faltered when she caught sight of me on the couch.
Behind her, a young man with short-cropped curly brown hair entered. I cinched the coat tight again, but it was too late. The dude had gotten an eyeful.
He paused only a fraction of a heartbeat before he beelined for my mom, hand outstretched. “President Abbott. This is an honor.”
Mom gripped his hand firmly and gave him one of her legendary smiles, the one that could power small cities in China with its megawatt charm. “May I introduce my daughter, Morgan? Morgan, Max Jackson.”
“Hi.” This Jackson guy was probably a congressional intern from some underprivileged high school or a national spelling-bee winner or something.
“Nice to meet you, Morgan,” he said.
His stance was pretty solid for a high school kid, though. He didn’t sweat or fidget in the presence of the president.
Mom was watching us carefully. “Max is going to be the head agent on your Secret Service detail.”
What!? Was she kidding? The guy looked like he should be asking me if I wanted fries with my burger. Then I noticed the small round Secret Service pin on the lapel of his gray suit—the one that held a tracking device for all agents.
She wasn’t kidding.
“Are you sure he’s old enough to drive?” I blurted.
Agent Jackson’s blue eyes regarded me without a smidge of irritation. “I get that all the time,” he said to my mom, who chuckled.
Okay, I really hated the way he just made me feel like a snotty brat. Even if I was being one. I didn’t like the way this was going.
“What about Denny?” I asked, trying my best to keep any sign of desperation out of my voice.
“Denny’s paid his dues, Morgan, don’t you think? Special Agent Jackson has been specially trained for this detail. Your father and I felt that a change in your security team was due, and after today’s fiasco, I’m convinced more than ever that Agent Jackson will be the right person to shadow you.”
I couldn’t believe this. “But he’s my age.”
“That’s the point,” Mom said.
“Actually, I’m twenty,” Max interjected.
“That’s only two years older than I am.”
I glared at him. I don’t know why, but something about this guy really set my teeth on edge. “What if a terrorist tries to kidnap me? What’s he going to do, chase after him with a skateboard?”
“Agent Jackson is fully trained, Morgan. I have every confidence that as the inside agent on your detail, he’ll act appropriately to any threat. He’s young, yes, but brilliant. I’m not about to discount an able agent because of youth.”
I remembered that Mom had to fight a lot of age prejudice early in her term, and she wasn’t going to back down on the matter.
“If it will ease your mind further, Agent Jackson’s part of a classified program within the National Security Agency, which has put him through the rigors of security training for the presidency. That’s all I can tell you.”
I recognized the tone in Mom’s voice. It was a done deal, and nothing I could say would change her mind.
Frustration, anger, and helplessness welled up in my chest like a big ball of fire. I hate-hate-hated how decisions affecting my life were made without consulting me first. “Why can’t everyone leave me alone?” I cried. “I just want to be a normal person for once.”
Mom wasn’t having it. “That’s not possible for us anymore.”
I turned to make a dramatic exit but as I did so bumped into the bowl of peonies. Water spilled all over the rug in a classic Morgan Abbott moment. Embarrassment swamped me.
Mom put her hands on her hips. “All right, missy. That’s it. You’re grounded for the rest of the night.”
“But I didn’t mean…”
“The time for excuses is over. Maybe an evening hitting the books will put things in perspective for you.”
“But I’m going out with Konner tonight.”
“You’ll have to cancel your plans.”
“You may be the ruler of the free world, but you can’t run my life!” I pushed Agent Jackson out of the way and stormed out.
Chapter Six
I rushed out of the Oval Office, down the center hall that connected the West Wing to the East Wing, and shoved my way through a tour group with necks craned upward while one of the White House docents droned on about the Truman-era vaulted ceilings. I pounded up the back stairs to the third-floor residence, anger and frustration boiling in my gut. God, this day had gone from bad to worse.
I headed to my bedroom, but when I reached the door, I realized that Boy Scout/Secret Service agent Max Jackson had kept pace right behind me.
I stormed into my room and slammed the door in his face.
That felt pretty good for about one second. Then it felt like one of a million horrible things I’d done wrong today.
Tears threatened, but I held them back. I hadn’t been a crybaby in the past, and I wasn’t about to start now.
After a long moment, I threw myself on the bed and dug my cell phone out of the pocket of the trench coat. I dialed Konner’s number. Even though I was dreading delivering the bad news about our canceled plans, I was anxious to hear his voice. Maybe I could smooth things over about what went down in the prop room.
“Hey, babe, what’s up?” Konner’s voice sounded normal, if a little distant.
I bit my lip. This was gonna suck. “Hey. I have to cancel our dinner date tonight.”
“What’d you say?” The sounds of body blows and explosions rang out in the background. Konner made no excuses for his Ninja Mêlée game addiction. I’d learned to live with it.
“I said, I have to cancel dinner tonight. Mom had a fit about…you know, what happened at rehe
arsal. I’m grounded.”
“Bummer. Oh, man, I nailed him! A two-hundred-point kill.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“Mad at you?”
“About us…in the prop room…I’m just not ready…. I hope you understand….”
“Yeah, I get it, babe. But it was sorta your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You don’t know your power over me. You looked smokin’ in that outfit, I lost it.”
I blushed. I loved how Konner made me feel like the hottest girl alive.
More lasers, explosions. Sounds of screaming ninjas being wasted. “Awesome!” Konner yelled. “I’m ripping up this level.”
I frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from accomplishing anything as important as getting to level five in a video game.” I didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm.
“Thanks, babe.”
I flipped the phone shut. I still felt crappy.
My stomach growled. Nerves from my class-president speech had prevented me from wolfing down my usual lunch. I checked my purple clock radio with the googly-eye antennas. Three hours before our official dinnertime. My life is so scheduled. I deserved a snack before I hit the books to study for tomorrow’s psych test.
Thankfully, Agent Jackson wasn’t lurking in the halls of the family wing when I emerged wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Like all agents, it looked like he was going to leave me alone once I was inside the protective zone of the White House’s third floor. Still, surveillance cameras and personalized tracking devices made it virtually impossible to escape the feeling of being watched.
I hated it.
The delicious smell of braised meat and caramelized onions hit me when I entered the White House kitchen. My appetite exploded.
“Hey, Nigel!” I waved to the White House’s executive chef, who was bending over a pasta machine. “Need some help?”
A big smile split Nigel Bellingham’s face, which was the color of cooked lobster under his chef’s toque hat. “Of course, luvvie. I can always use a spare set of hands.”
Confessions of a First Daughter Page 3