To Thine Own Self Be True,
Alice
January 4, 1902
Diary—
It’s past noon, and I am still lying in my bed (although, as my father likes to comment, I rarely make any appearances before noon these days), reliving last night again and again in my memories. Diary, it was wonderful—every single shining moment. I have so much to write down now because I want to remember the night of my debut for the rest of my life.
The receiving line began at ten o’clock in the Blue Room. And do you know how many people my parents and I received? Over six hundred! I might not have gotten a shiny new hardwood floor, but the decorations almost made up for that. We transformed the Blue Room into something like the hanging gardens of Babylon. Over two thousand flowers covered the room—roses, carnations, hyacinths, narcissus—and there was holly on every lintel. It was thrilling to walk in and see the room decorated beyond my wildest expectations. My gown made me look as lovely as when I tried it on before, which made it easy for me to be confident and proud and charming in front of so very many people. My hair was even done up so as to hide my gargantuan high forehead.
The first waltz played at eleven, and of course it was the U.S. Marine Band playing for me. (No “poor Alice” on that account.) I danced with the positively dashing Lieutenant Gilmore of the Artillery. I was nervous and sure that my gimpy legs would make me trip all over him, but he told me that I was “graceful as a swan.” At which of course I had to snicker. It is quite a heady experience dancing at these events—the rooms get warm, and after a few rounds, the gentlemen tend to smell…not so gentle. It can get a little overpowering, especially when you are clutched tightly in a partner’s arms, and at times I couldn’t tell if I was getting dizzy from all the twirling or from the strong scent of sweat.
After we danced, the buffet started. The only word for it is sumptuous. Finger sandwiches, oysters, aspics and jellies, escargots à bourguignonne, chicken fricassee, roasted beef, savory soups and consommé, puddings, crepes, éclairs, meringues, soufflé, petits fours, and ice cream! No champagne, though, for poor Alice. Just punch. That wish did not come true, and champagne can’t easily be smuggled in elbow gloves.
It’s silly how these things are set up—first you attack the buffet as though you were a Rough Rider in Cuba at a chuck wagon, then you find a gent and dance or stroll the promenade. More like roll the promenade, after all that food. But my sateen-and-whalebone health corset did not permit me to sample as much as I desired of the delicious spread. One of the dear kitchen maids put aside some goodies for me in the icebox, so whenever I finally drag myself from this bed I can start sampling what my guests enjoyed.
I don’t much care for public speaking—actually I don’t care for it at all; it makes me frightened and faint. The kind of attention I got last night, though, I adore. All those eyes on me in my gorgeous dress, specifically the male eyes. Many handsome lads attended last night, and I flirted like mad with them. Auntie Corinne remarked to me that there was a crowd “seven-men deep” around me, the whole night. I don’t know if that is precisely true, but I did have a lot of admirers. I suppose because it was my fancy party and I was wearing an ethereal dress. There wouldn’t be a crowd for me as I look this morning, puffy-faced and tired and entirely without fuss and finery. Don’t think I’m playing “poor Alice,” though. It was a lovely, fantastic evening, and I felt the same: lovely and fantastic. Filled to the brim with happiness.
Now my stomach is growling in a very unladylike way (I am a lady now, I suppose—how strange) so I am off to raid the icebox.
To Thine Own Self Be True,
Alice
January 5, 1902
Diary—
All of those good feelings from yesterday have evaporated. Poof! The papers chimed in on my debut (some even on the front page!), and they’ve offered faint praise. First off with the little good: The New York Tribune did say, “A more charming debutante has rarely been introduced in Washington.” They went on to tell that I was “attractive in my dignified simplicity and natural grace as I was beautiful. Tall, with a striking figure, blue eyes, and a fine fair complexion, she was certainly one of the prettiest girls in Washington.” One of the prettiest girls in Washington! My cousin Eleanor will die when she reads that. Of course, that wasn’t so much my figure as it was that of my undergarments, but I won’t quibble.
Unfortunately, the New York Times called my decorations “extremely simple.” I am livid. How could anyone enter the Blue Room and say that about it? Of all the people reported to have “simple” decorations—the girl in the White House should not. It’s perplexing, but one of the papers actually raved about the linen-crash floor, saying that dancing on it was a delight. I would suggest that the reviewer had imbibed a little too much champagne, but I was not allowed to serve any. (I will quit lamenting that now, I swear on the Sloper handbook.)
According to Stepmother, today’s papers still buzzed about me, despite those lukewarm assessments. “Princess Alice” is what the reporters are starting to call me, and the readers are clamoring for more details about me. It is peculiar, isn’t it? Interest in my father is understandable because of who he is and what he has done. But I am simply a girl whose father is a politician. If you ask me, there’s comparatively little special about Alice. I suppose once all the details of my debut have been discussed ad nauseam the interest will wane.
Now I have little to occupy myself with here. Partly I hoped that some gent and I would experience love at first sight at my ball (I was dressed appropriately for a run-in with Cupid’s arrow, certainly) and now I could throw myself into writing torrid love letters and planning clandestine meetings on the South Lawn or the stables. It might sound contrary, but a beau-turned-husband is a ticket to get out of my father’s house and into the world on my own. Ironic as it may be, marrying may be my best shot at freedom. ’Tis a pity, but none of the boys at the ball made much of an impression on me. Lacking anything else to fill my time with, I suppose I’ll return to learning Greek.
To Thine Own Self Be True,
Alice
Chapter 6
Someone knocking on the Solarium door interrupted my reading. It was the social secretary’s assistant, wondering if she could please interrupt me for a minute to discuss dinner attire. Crap! I’d forgotten about dinner with the German chancellor. Maybe part of me wanted to forget—State Dinners are definitely not my preferred way to spend a weekend night. They used to make me nervous, but now they just annoy me. Other than saying hello to whichever head of state we’re meeting, I don’t say a word. For hours. It’s like olden times, when kids were seen and not heard, which is so boring. Amy Carter used to bring a book to the table. I tried that once, but Denise snatched it away.
I gently slid Alice’s diary under a newspaper, then watched as the assistant held up a few truly stupid-looking dresses for me to choose from. It’s like the East Wing people have so little faith in my ability to act normal that every little detail, down to my shoes, has to be micromanaged. Did I ever do a single thing wrong during the entire campaign? Or my mom’s long career in the Senate? Nope. I fantasized about strolling down in my favorite holey jeans and some Keds, just to see their reactions. Or a stunning grown-up dress, like Alice’s debut gown. All the choices I’m given are old-fashioned and/or babyish, thanks to Bikinigate.
Last summer my mom and I were scheduled to travel around the world, while my dad stayed home to run his experiments. Our fantastic itinerary—Majorca, Rome, Prague, Kiev, Moscow, Hong Kong, Taipei, Vancouver, then to our house in St. Paul for two weeks, and finally back to D.C.—was interrupted when paparazzi ambushed us on the beach in Spain. The tabloids back home went wild. Madam Presi-DON’T blared the headlines, with pictures of my mom in a Lands’ End tankini on Alcudia beach. (Can you imagine how awful that would be? Your mom in her swimsuit on the cover of every paper? Seriously.) I turned on the satellite TV in Air Force O
ne at night and, to my horror, heard a comedian on some late-night talk show make squicky jokes about my mom’s cleavage. The horror.
One magazine ran a two-page spread with shots of me in my totally modest two-piece. The White House felt compelled to issue a statement about the inappropriateness of publishing the photos, and the whole thing mushroomed into “Bikinigate.” First the editorials questioned, Is it appropriate for the president to be in public in swimwear? Then cable-news anchors gravely stated, Parents around the country are asking: Is it acceptable for a thirteen-year-old to wear a bikini? and Should the First Family be allowed the privacy of a “normal” vacation, without photographers and the press? My mom’s political opponents made snide comments like, Why is the president traipsing around with her daughter in the midst of a budget crisis? All this because we wore swimsuits at a beach. We never made it past Rome, and I spent the rest of the summer hiding out in D.C., except for the promised two weeks back in St. Paul. Ever since, my clothing options have been limited and vaguely Amish.
“Those are my only choices?” I asked the assistant. “Nothing a little more…mature?”
The assistant shook her head, her arms sinking from holding up the hangers so long. “These are all I have to offer.” I rolled my eyes and picked the dress in her left hand, muttering my disapproval. It was cut almost like a jumper and had kiddish pockets, but at least it was black. The other one had pink daisies all over it. “I’ll have it pressed and in your room by four,” the assistant said. I heard her heels clacking down the hall behind her as she left. I love the noise heels make. Mom’s staffers always make me wear Mary Janes for events. Not even ballet flats—and I’m a dancer.
I slouched in my chair and stared out the window. Alice had no idea how lucky she was, throwing a party like that. Wearing a beautiful dress, one that transformed her from gawky to elegant. I closed my eyes and imagined sweeping into tonight’s dinner in a stunning floor-length gown. Which would look insane, because this wasn’t a fancy dinner, just a formal one. I revised my fantasy to me walking in looking drop-dead gorgeous. Grown-up, in makeup and heels. (I included a cute German son of the chancellor in this version.)
Eventually I got up and went downstairs. The dress was hanging on a hook next to my closet, perfectly pressed. Polished Mary Janes sat next to my closet door. I sighed and walked over to put the dress on, but before I could pull it off the hanger, my mom barged into my room. She used to drop her capital-P Politician mannerisms with her briefcase at the door, but at some point in the past several years she started carrying on with them at home, walking as stiffly and briskly into rooms as when she’s on Capitol Hill. It’s weird.
“Hey! What about knocking?”
“Sorry, Audrey.” My mother sat down on the bed, gingerly, like she still wasn’t used to being in this unfamiliar yellow room. “What are you up to?” It was the first time I’d seen her since Thursday, but I didn’t feel like updating her on my life. You snooze, you lose.
“Nothing.” I pulled off my hoodie and casually threw it over the Alice paraphernalia on my floor. My mom has eagle eyes, and I didn’t want to share that stuff. At least, not yet.
She smiled. “I’m glad to see that you’re treating your room exactly like you do at home. It looks like a clothes bomb went off in here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Can we say the b-word in here?” She laughed, and I sat down next to her. “Are you here to talk clothes for tonight? I already picked out something appropriately dorky with one of the assistants.”
My mom tipped her head down and smiled. “You caught me. Although I wanted to sit and chat with my lovely daughter for a minute too.”
Her earnestness made me squirm. I used to love it when we’d catch up in my room back home or crawl into one of the hotel beds after a long day on the campaign trail that summer before the election. We’d talk about the places she’d delivered her stump speech at—laughing at how many local delicacies (like gut-busting chili dogs) we had to shove down our throats, or the baby that spit up on her when she was leaning in for a cliché kiss. Mom was as busy then as now, but it was different. We still had watched TV while eating room service together. When school made it impossible for me to travel around with her, she had made a point to come home for one long weekend a month. We got real breaks from the election stuff and politics. But the president rarely gets breaks, and my mom was almost never home for a full twenty-four hours anymore. I feel guilty admitting this, because I know the pressures on her, but it made me angry.
Mom smiled at me again. “Tell me all about your week, honey.” I opened my mouth as she glanced away. An aide lurked in the open doorway. “On second thought, I think I’m being summoned. Come downstairs by six-thirty, okay? We’ll catch up later.”
“Sure, Mom.” She strode back out the door, plucking a memo from the aide’s hand before she even started down the hall. I was left staring at the fugly jumper dress next to my closet. Yuck. Alice would not be caught dead in a dress like that. (Aside from the fact that it would show her ankles, and Alice probably would be into that taboo.) She wore clothes that made her feel beautiful and grown-up. I am sick of wearing a little girl’s clothes, especially in public. It was too late for me to try the elbow-in-the-soup treatment on the assistant who picked out my outfit, and my mom was obviously too busy to talk, so I would have to make a wardrobe adjustment without consulting them.
The jumper found its way to a pile of clothes on my floor and I found my way into the dress from my flapper costume. It’s not a costumey dress—it’s the real thing. Vintage, emerald green, fringed, and swingy. Maybe a little bit low-cut (Mom made me wear a leotard under it before), and it stops a couple inches from my knees. The dress looks amazing on me, though. I wore it when my dance company in St. Paul commissioned new choreography to Rhapsody in Blue, when I had my first solo. I danced around in front of my mirror, listening to the swish of the fringe. It tickled my bare legs. I skipped the leotard. To thine own self be true, right?
I sneaked into my mom’s dressing room and hit up her shoes. I’m almost a half-size larger than her, but I can squeeze into some of her pairs. I found a pair of extra-fancy black heels—tall, with red paint on the bottom. Excellent. Then I wandered over to her vanity and started messing around with her makeup. I didn’t put a lot on—just a few swipes of mascara and some red lipstick. I stood in front of her big mirror and did a twirl. I looked amazing: not at all like a little girl, and I loved it. Like Alice, I was transformed. I couldn’t wait to see how people would react to the new me.
A little after 6:30 p.m.—I wanted to make a dramatic entrance—I headed down to the Diplomatic Reception Room, where we always meet important State guests. I tottered a little wherever I hit thick carpet. How the heck do women walk around in these things all day long? Walking the long halls took forever, but finally I click-clacked my way into the room. My parents, some aides and the Chief of Staff, one of the official White House photographers, and the Germans—Chancellor Klaus Bergermann; his wife, Margaret; some of their aides; and who I assumed to be Bergermann’s teenage daughter—were already standing around, taking pictures.
I stopped in the doorway, one hand on my hip. My shoulders were thrown back in my best, most confident posture. I raised my chin and smiled broadly.
“Audrey, dear, come in—” my mother started, then her eyes broke from mine and scanned down my body, stopping at her tall, tall shoes. Mom’s mouth hung open. “Audrey?”
“Yes?” I kept grinning, but I noticed how quiet everything had gotten. There’s usually a constant murmur in the White House, but I could hear only my pulse pounding inside my head.
The assistant from this morning appeared at my side. “What are you wearing?” she hissed in my ear. I felt my cheeks start burning, even though the room felt cold and disapproving. This was not exactly what I had expected. I only wanted people to see me as I am, or want to be—not some silent, boring little girl.
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br /> Finally, someone broke the silence. “I adore your dress,” the teenage girl said with a strong German accent, walking forward. The rest of the room watched as she came to my side. “I am impressed by your shoes too.”
My mother turned and tried to smile at the other guests. “Audrey, meet Heidi Bergermann.” But Mom was fighting a grimace, so the corners of her mouth kept turning down. It looked like her face was half-paralyzed. “Please excuse me, I seem to have stalled in our introductions. I was taken by surprise by your lovely…gown.” I cringed, but everyone else laughed good-naturedly and stopped staring at me, turning back to the conversations they’d been immersed in before I entered the room—although a few curious guests kept glancing back at me, and at least one person took my picture. I planted myself next to Heidi, hoping that my parents would not come over to freak out on me if I stayed next to the chancellor’s kid. What was I thinking? Maybe someone like Alice Roosevelt could stun a room with a beautiful dress, but not me. I sighed.
The girl, Heidi, leaned in to talk to me. “These things can be difficult, no? Sometimes you just want to…do something unexpected.” She squeezed my arm reassuringly. “At least, I do.” Then Heidi pushed her thick, long red hair behind one ear, showing me a glimpse of a tattoo covering the side of her neck. It looked so strange on an otherwise conservatively dressed, fresh-faced girl. I couldn’t tell if it was real or temporary. “I think wearing your cool dress to dinner is, how do you say, inspired.”
When Audrey Met Alice Page 5