Hannah eased the paper out of my numb hands. “C’mon, Morgan, don’t read any more of this trash. Let’s go to class.”
I couldn’t find the words to answer Hannah. I was in shock that someone would think I was stuck-up. Also, I’d never had to deal with negative publicity before. As soon as she was sworn into office, Mom issued an edict to the press corps to leave me alone so I could try to have as normal a life as possible. Amazingly, the press respected the request. Until now.
With Hannah’s protective arm around me, I walked to chemistry class, head down. I couldn’t bear the staring. Titters and whispers followed me in the halls. Could things get any worse?
Uh, yeah.
Just before we reached the classroom door, Hannah paused. “Morgan, hold up a sec.”
I looked up to see Max ripping down a blown-up image of my front-page exposé taped to the door. I caught a glimpse of hand-drawn arrows pointing to my boobs with the words Hail to the Jugs.
Max crumpled the paper with one hand while he spoke into his com. I caught the words investigation, track down instigators, constitute harassment of the First Family…
“Don’t worry,” he said to me. “We’ll find the perpetrators and put an end to this.”
“It’s okay,” I told him. “Just drop it. You’ll only make things worse. Mom says ignoring bad press makes it go away in three days. If we make a huge stink, the story lives on. It’s no big deal.”
I thought I glimpsed admiration flitting across Max’s face before the iron curtain of Secret Service training came down.
“Plus, there are ways of getting back at people,” Hannah said. “Unofficially, of course.”
Did I mention how much I loved Hannah?
The bell rang, and Hannah and I went into the chemistry lab. Max stayed outside without me having to remind him. For the next forty-five minutes I stared unseeingly at my chem textbook. The Gadfly article insinuated that I used my mom’s position to get special treatment. That was so untrue. I’d bent over backward not to get preferential treatment at school. And being called stuck-up really hurt. I thought I’d done a pretty good job of being friendly to everyone and anyone who’d let me. I hated stuck-up snobs like Brittany Whittaker. Though I couldn’t prove it, I was sure Brittany was behind this.
Zombielike, I plugged away through the rest of the morning and even managed to cast my class-president vote. By lunchtime, my balance returned. Or at least I got better at hiding my humiliation. Even though I had little appetite, I met up with Konner in the cafeteria, as promised.
I toyed with a limp fishwich and fries. “Konner, I’m really sorry if that awful picture of me in the paper embarrassed you.”
Konner, who’d just inhaled half a double-patty burger, swallowed. “Embarrassed? I think it rules! You’re on the front page of the Gadfly, and you look hot. I’ve got the page pinned up in my locker.”
“But Konner—”
“It’s gonna be the top download on Celebricity.com for sure, Morgan. Probably for weeks, too. Man, you can’t buy publicity like that.”
Horror burst over me. “Oh my god, really? Weeks?”
“Hell, yeah! Dudes around the world will be lovin’ all over your killer curves.” He chomped another bite of his burger.
Reeling, I pushed away my tray. This was way worse than I expected.
I caught sight of Max standing nearby. He rolled his eyes at Konner’s words. It ticked me off that someone like Max would judge my boyfriend. Sure, Konner wasn’t the most sensitive guy on the planet, but Max didn’t get how lucky I was to have the hottest, most popular guy at AOP as my boyfriend.
I snuggled closer to Konner, who grunted through his burger and put his arm around my shoulders. Konner swallowed. “Hey, babe,” he whispered, nuzzling my neck. “Wanna sneak off to the prop room again?”
I drew away a little. “After yesterday’s fiasco? No way!”
“C’mon. I know you’re upset about the newspaper. But I’ll get your mind off your problems.”
Konner raised his brow and smiled in a way that could curl the toes of nuns.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said, mind racing. I knew what he was asking for. “My new Secret Service agent is…uh, more by the book than Denny was.”
“Oh yeah. That Jackson dude.” Konner shot Max a cold glare that had been known to freeze lesser mortals dead, like freshmen who didn’t know better than to cut in front of Konner in the lunchroom line. “Well, I hope we’ll find some ‘alone time’ tonight. If you know what I mean?” He followed it up with his devastating grin.
Oh, I knew what he meant, all right.
Another glare at Max, then Konner planted a passionate kiss on my lips. I got a good taste of the burger he’d just eaten.
After the kiss ended, Konner pinned me with a significant look. “See you tonight, babe.”
I smiled back and hoped I didn’t look as nervous as I felt. No way was I ready to go as far as Konner was. Why did he have to pressure me now, especially after the cruddy few days I’d had?
Barely aware of Max on my heels, I made my way to psych class, where a brutal test awaited. The morning had shot my confidence to smithereens, so I turned over the test with a feeling of doom. Then I perked up. Questions on Erikson’s eight stages of psychosocial development filled the first half of the test. Yes!
Feeling like I’d managed at least a B on the test thanks to Max and his Gestapo drilling methods, I met Hannah by our lockers.
“Morgan, hurry up,” she said. “Hsu is posting the election results in the cafeteria right now.”
This was it! Excitement surged through me, but there were nerves as well. The Gadfly’s article could not have come out at a worse time.
Hannah gave me a hug. “You’re gonna be our new class president. I just know it.”
Good thing I didn’t count on Hannah’s ESP for reliable information. Because one look at Brittany Whittaker’s triumphant smirk as she stood outside the cafeteria told me that she’d been elected the senior class president.
Wearing variations on the same short skirt/tight blouse combo Brittany always sported, her minions fawned around her while she graciously acknowledged their congratulations.
“Morgan, there you are,” Brittany cooed when she caught sight of me. “Sorry, sweetie. But Abbotts don’t win all elections, do they?”
“Considering your ‘platform’”—I signed air quotes—“was clearly the best, it’s no surprise.”
Brittany’s plastic smile turned into a snarl.
Hannah stalked forward, and Brittany’s posse flinched. “But you better watch out, Brits, honey, because Morgan and I will make sure you keep your campaign promises.”
Brittany dismissed Hannah’s words. “You know how politics is. Winning comes first. Keeping promises is”—she waved her hand airily—“as needed. Excuse me, please. I’m late for a meeting with Mrs. Hsu. Oh, and a bit of advice, Morgan. You may be the daughter of the president, but you should know that not all publicity is good publicity.”
She laughed, and her posse dutifully echoed as they trailed her on her way to the school’s administration wing.
Hannah snorted in disgust. “So now we have to live a whole year under Brittany’s despotic rule? Maybe we could stage a coup.”
“Worked for Napoleon. Or was it Hitler?” I answered sourly.
“Cheer up, Morgan. Karma’s a bitch. It’ll bite Brittany on the butt one day—hard.”
“I don’t believe in karma. If I did, I’d have to believe that karma’s taken a huge bite out of me. What did I do to deserve all this trouble right now?”
For once, Hannah didn’t have an answer.
Chapter Nine
Somehow I got through the rest of the afternoon, though I was still in shock that I lost the election…to Brittany Whittaker! Ugh! Mom always said that in politics, integrity would be rewarded, but no one could argue that Brittany’s underhanded ways paid off for her big-time. And her crack about not all publicity being
good publicity let me know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was behind that insane newspaper photo of me.
I was pulling books out of my locker when Max approached. “We’re going to bring the Baby Beast up the drive,” he told me. “You can wait on the front steps for us.”
I slammed the locker door shut. “Don’t bring the car inside the gate. I hate that. Besides, I have rehearsal.”
“There’s press outside school grounds. And a camera crew. I think it’s best to get you out of here.”
Oh craaaaaap.
Max’s face betrayed a trace of sympathy, which I totally didn’t want at the moment. “Unless you want to be on the six o’clock news, bringing the car onto private property where the press isn’t allowed is the only way to avoid them.”
I heaved a sigh. “All right. I’ll be out there in ten minutes.”
As usual, the sight of the heavily armored black limo with the presidential seal on the door caused a stir. Gawky freshmen crowded on the sidewalk to get a closer look at the car and to take photos with their cell phones.
“Maybe Abbott does think she’s hot shit,” someone muttered audibly. “Glad I voted for Whittaker,” someone else answered.
I hurried down the front steps to the waiting car, pushing my way through the crowd. Just as I reached the door, a mic was thrust in my face.
“How does it feel to be an Abbott and lose an election?”
Surprised, I stopped. A young woman, clearly a Georgetown undergrad, complete with skullcap and nose ring, had breached school property with her dreadlocked cameraman.
Before I could blink, Max was between us. “This is private property,” Max said. His voice was just a little scary. “You’re breaking the law.”
He nodded to an agent from the perimeter detail, who moved in on the cameraman.
The color drained out of the young woman’s face. “I…I didn’t know….”
“It’s okay, Agent Jackson.” I knew what it was like to break the rules and screw something up. “I’ll take the question.”
I thought of my mother the day after she lost her very first campaign, running for a seat in the House of Representatives. Always stay classy in victory, she’d said, but most especially in defeat. The voters will remember it next time.
I took a deep breath. “As everyone who participates in democracy knows, losing is sometimes part of the process. I wish my opponent every success, and I know she’ll make a fine senior class president.”
God, maybe I really was born to be a politician. Because I just told a whopper of a lie.
Max intervened with an air of someone who’d had his last nerve worn out. “We need to roll,” he told me, and shooed me into the car.
“Cute outfit today, Morgan!” the reporter called after me before Max shut the limo’s door.
The car swung away from the curb. Outside the gate, crews from nearly every news outlet had camped out. Paparazzi ran after the limo to fire off shots, but they wouldn’t get anything through the smoked glass windows.
I slouched into the leather seat, bone weary. Today had been another rough one.
As we approached the White House, Max’s wireless com chirped and Max instructed the Secret Service driver to pull around to the south entrance.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Unwanted media has camped by the north entrance,” Max answered. “They’re on the street with high-powered cameras trained on the driveway.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “Why?” Then I knew. They wanted another photo of me wearing a crazy outfit.
“Don’t worry,” Max answered shortly. “I know another way in.”
“You do?” But I didn’t have time for more questions. We quickly changed directions and pulled into the south entrance by the White House’s press briefing room.
“Are you insane?” I screeched. “The press room’s crawling with reporters!”
Max muttered into his com before he turned to me. “I’m hiding you in plain sight, Morgan. By the time they realize you’re right under their noses, you’ll be gone. Plus it’s the fastest way in. But we have to move quickly.”
“Okaaaaay.” It seemed like a long shot, but I didn’t have much choice. The car had already stopped.
I have to give Max his props, because his plan worked like a charm. Before the pool reporters even had a chance to register my presence, I’d slipped through them.
Max escorted me to the back stairs leading to the third-floor residence.
“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “Can I get you to promise you won’t make any unauthorized excursions outside of secured areas?”
“Like I’d give the press another shot at getting a horrible photo of me? Not a chance.” I slung my backpack on my shoulder and started up the stairs. Then I paused. “Thanks for everything today, Max. You really came through for me.”
To my surprise, he stalked away without another word. What was up with him?
Upstairs in the family quarters, nineties grunge rock music blared from the workout room. Dad was home.
“Puddin’ Pop, can you come in here?” Dad yelled before I had a chance to sneak past.
I cringed at hearing the nickname Dad would probably be calling me for the rest of my life. An image of me at the ripe old age of sixty flashed through my mind as my ninety-year-old father called me Puddin’ Pop from his hovercraft wheelchair.
“Can you turn down the moldy oldies?” I asked as I entered the workout room.
Dad set down the barbell he’d been pumping—he needed to keep in shape for all the surfing he liked to do—and ran his hand over the touchscreen pad of the high-tech sound system invented by Abbott Technology. The guitar riff mercifully died. Dad wiped his sweaty face with a workout towel. His black hair still curled thick and only a couple of lines creased the corners of his eyes.
“Puddin’ Pop, I know today must’ve been rough for you,” Dad began.
“You saw the paper?”
“Of course. Your mother is outraged. So am I. The Gadfly crossed a line when they went after you.”
“Reporters were waiting for me at the school gates today.”
He got up off the weight bench and gave me a sweaty hug. “I know this is tough, but believe me when I say this will pass. Remember what happened during the campaign when Mom was ready to secure the nomination? The coconut bra incident?”
I nodded miserably. Someone had found photos from Dad’s days as a fraternity brother in college. Photos of him in a grass hula skirt and coconut bra at some frat kegger got splashed over the front page of every major newspaper from coast to coast. “Bra-gate” almost cost Mom the nomination.
“I know that sucked, Dad, but it’s not the same. You chose to marry a politician and run the risk of looking like an idiot in public. I didn’t ask for all this attention and it’s ruining my life!”
At that moment, Dad’s cell phone, tossed onto a pile of his martial arts uniforms, began to vibrate. Dad gave me a hard look before reaching for it. “It’s your mother,” he said, reading the text message. “She wants to speak to you.”
“Where is she?”
“Oval Office.”
I sighed. I wanted to whine that I was always going to her instead of her coming to me, but even I knew that maintaining world peace was going to be the trump card every time.
“Hang in there, Puddin’ Pop.” Dad gave me an encouraging smile as I trudged out.
Inside the executive assistant’s office, Padma’s eyes were glued to the flat-panel TV mounted on the wall.
“Omigod!” A montage of unflattering photos of me flashed on the screen. There I was as a kid in my ballet tutu and braces. The photo was overlaid by the one of me in my Rent costume, boobs ahoy.
Padma hurriedly clicked off the TV “Wait here just a sec, Morgan. I’ll see if your mom is ready for you.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t ask for any toffees this time. I felt vaguely like throwing up.
“It’s unforgivable!” I heard M
om saying angrily when Padma opened the connecting door to the Oval Office.
I peeked. Mom paced furiously over the eagle’s seal on the rug. I’d never seen her so livid. Standing at attention near Washington’s portrait, Humberto Morales, Mom’s chief of staff, looked concerned.
“I want the Gadfly’s press pass pulled for a start, Humberto.” Mom’s voice sliced; I’m surprised Humberto didn’t split in two. “Then I want any paper that reprints the photo to be officially reprimanded. No interviews, no access, none of their reporters allowed on Air Force One or Two. Understood?”
“I’m not sure that’s the wisest course, Sara—”
“They crossed a line when they went after Morgan. I will not have it.”
“I agree that Morgan is off-limits to press, but let’s do this the right way.” Humberto held his hand up in a conciliatory gesture. “You can’t afford any further slips in the polls. I’ll send surrogates out to the Sunday talk shows to express our displeasure about this outrageous breach of Morgan’s privacy. We’ll push our side to friendly bloggers and have editorials hit the major papers. Spun the right way, we’ll be able to protect Morgan from future breaches and gain public sympathy.”
“I don’t give a damn about public sympathy, I want the harassment to stop!”
Padma’s voice murmured. Mom put a hand to her forehead and took a deep breath. “Do I look calm?” she said to Padma. “Okay, send her in.”
Truth was, Mom looked anything but calm.
Chapter Ten
When that fire lit Mom’s eyes, watch out.
“Come on in, honey.” Visibly, she pulled herself together. As I entered the Oval Office, Humberto gave me a friendly nod then faded into the shadowy hallways of the West Wing. Humberto was a cool guy, but he was short on chitchat. That’s probably why Mom kept him on her staff during her transition from the Senate to the presidency.
Confessions of a First Daughter Page 5