My trusty First Friend laptop kept me company. I opened chat and saw my list was sparsely populated, except for one name with a bright green dot next to it: Quint. Instinctively I smoothed my hair and sat up straighter. Which was silly because: 1) video chat doesn’t work with the firewall, and 2) we weren’t exactly speaking, either. I was on a roll—the only people not currently pissed at me were Kim and Harrison. Both oh-so-conveniently located 1,098 and 847 miles away, respectively.
I stared at Quint’s name, willing him to IM me. I tapped out a pithy status (“Me, myself, and I—won’t you join us?”), then decided it was stupid and deleted it. I changed my icon from available-green to busy-red. I scrolled through my photos and uploaded a cuter one (of me laughing in a nonfake way) for my profile image. I switched back to available-green. I opened another tab for my e-mail, but kept checking back to see if Quint was still there. He was. I wondered if he was busy talking to Madeline. That made me feel a little sick.
Only when I got distracted by finally starting an e-mail to Debra did I hear the ping of a new message. I clicked back, crossing my left-hand fingers that it was Quint. And it was.
DrummerBoy: You there, Audrey?
tinydancer: Yeah.
DrummerBoy: What’s up?
tinydancer: Not much. What’s up w/ you?
DrummerBoy: Studying. I don’t get this mitochondria stuff.
tinydancer: What’s not to get? It’s in cells, and it makes energy.
DrummerBoy: Says the MacArthur Genius’s kid.
tinydancer: He doesn’t have a MacArthur.
DrummerBoy: Touché.
tinydancer: Anyway, I don’t think he’ll be helping me with my homework anytime soon.
DrummerBoy: ????
tinydancer: Big fight.
DrummerBoy: Pourquoi?
tinydancer: Well…it’s a long story. I got caught doing something I shouldn’t have been doing.
DrummerBoy: I do read the news, ya know.
tinydancer: Oh. Yeah. That stuff.
DrummerBoy: South Lawn joyride? That’s so bada$$, Audrey.
tinydancer: There was more to it than that. I mean, I had permission to use the cart, and the crash was an accident. And what do people expect me to do with my time, anyway? I’m stuck in the WH and usually alone.
tinydancer: Anyway, I am in deep shizz.
DrummerBoy: Sorry to hear it. You okay? Re: parents?
tinydancer: It’s never fun to be told how disappointing you are.
DrummerBoy: I’m sure they don’t mean it like that. It’d be impossible for you to be a disappointment.
tinydancer: Thanks.
tinydancer: I kind of needed to hear that from someone tonight.
DrummerBoy: My pleasure.
DrummerBoy: If it makes you feel better, mine are always on me about spending too much time practicing drumming and too little studying history or foreign languages.
tinydancer: Oh, the struggles of a diplomat’s kid.
DrummerBoy: Or the president’s kid.
tinydancer: Maybe just of being a kid with Very Important Parents.
DrummerBoy: You got it.
tinydancer: Totes.
tinydancer: I should probably go get ready for bed. School night.
DrummerBoy: Ditto. Maybe I’ll see you around this week?
tinydancer: Yeah, sure.
DrummerBoy: G’night.
tinydancer: Night.
I was smiling so hard that I took a picture with my webcam. I wanted to document how superhappy I looked.
My crush on Quint was growing exponentially, like those Fibonacci bunnies. I was about 96.4 percent sure that he had a crush on me too—at least he flirted with me a lot. What does it mean, though, if Quint is already in the middle of something with Madeline? It was confusing. And how could a girl living in 1600 today ever have a boyfriend? Alice had Carpenter and Arthur and all those guys fawning all over her at fancy dinners. But she also got to ride her bike on the streets of Washington and travel and basically live. I wanted something to happen with Quint, but I was afraid that trying to go from being friends with him to more-than-friends could lead only to more loneliness. I looked down at my WWAD bracelet. Even though I got the impression any guy could fall in love with Alice, her dating successes gave me a smidgen of hope. Maybe I needed to fill what was empty. To mine own self be true, and mine own self was pining for Quint. Maybe, if I wanted something to happen with him, I would have to make 1600 work for me, instead of against me, for once. The White House worked for Alice, anyway.
• • •
Eventually I reached a détente with my parents, and we started talking again. As mad as they had been with me, I think they’d actually been angrier at the paper that ran the item. At the Sunday press briefing, the Press Secretary skewered reporters for ignoring the long tradition of the media leaving the private lives of presidential offspring out of the news. He even handed out copies of the Letter to the Editor former First Daughter Margaret Truman Daniel wrote the New York Times in 1993, in which she begged reporters to leave Chelsea Clinton alone. I stood in the wings, watching him do his soapbox thing. “I’ll read part of the late Mrs. Daniel’s letter aloud, for emphasis.” The Secretary cleared his throat. “The reporter, quote, ‘made a list of all the circumstances that would be embarrassing to a shy, thirteen-year-old girl thrust into the Washington limelight, and used them as his framework. His article bordered on child abuse. My sympathy is with Chelsea, since I too was hauled off to Washington—at the age of eleven, when my father was elected to the Senate, and incarcerated in the White House when he became president.’ End quote.” The Secretary dropped his sheet of paper on the podium and glared into the corps. “Any further questions?” He was met with silence and swiftly moved on to release news of a shiny new clean-energy initiative. Validated, I happily scooted back to my room.
Before dinner Monday night, my mom showed up at my door. She looked rested and presidential, once again. “Audrey, can we talk for a minute?”
“Sure.” I swung the door wide. My mother filed in and took a seat on my desk chair, and I hopped onto my bed, hugging a pillow.
Mom started with a tense smile. “What you did wasn’t okay for a bunch of reasons. But I’m sorry for losing my cool on Sunday. It might’ve been the morning, but it was the end of a long day for me.”
“Apology accepted. I am sorry for creating problems.”
My mom studied my face. “It’s not like you to act out. Is everything okay?”
I had so much to say in response that I didn’t know where to start. Debra leaving. Fighting with Quint and falling for him too. Being treated like a little kid. Not having any privacy or space. Missing my Minnesota friends and my normal life. Madeline being mean and everyone else at Friends being suck-ups. And lingering hurt feelings from being shipped off to live with Harrison because my parents had better things to do. I had lost almost all the things that made my life mine, and I was clinging to what was left.
I decided to start telling her about all this. “Well…not really. Things haven’t been the greatest at Friends.” I hugged my pillow a little tighter as I opened up. “There’s this girl, Madeline, and—”
“Oh, Madeline. I believe I’m well acquainted with her grandfather.” Mom smiled wryly and sank back into the chair. “I’ll bet she’s been welcoming.”
I nodded and rolled my eyes. “Totally.” I paused to think of what I wanted to say next, but then Mom’s phone started buzzing. She picked it up from her lap and stared at the screen.
“Then my only friend transferred to Hogwarts,” I said, testing to see if she was still listening.
My mom actually nodded, her index finger scrolling something on screen. I sighed.
“Sorry,” she said, turning off the screen and looking up at me. I was about to start talking again when her ph
one buzzed again. Her hand reached for it.
“That’s it, really,” I said, disappointed.
Mom glanced up from the phone to smile at me. “I’m sure she’s just jealous, honey. Try to ignore her.” Really helpful, Mom. “Anything else?”
Might as well throw this in, before the phone interrupts me again. “I am super upset that I can’t go on the class trip.”
Now she sighed. “Do we really have to get into that again? I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I shrugged. “Fine.” What was the point of trying to talk to her?
Mom stood up from the desk chair and ruffled my hair. “Well, I’m glad we talked.” Not really—more like you read your e-mails and selectively listened. “I think it’s time for family dinner. Sound good?” I nodded and followed her downstairs. The olive branch of a family dinner was nice, but part of me was disappointed that she didn’t try a little harder to talk to me. Were my feelings really such a pain for her to think about? Maybe on the surface things were back to normal, but underneath I still was simmering with anger and hurt.
• • •
On Tuesday, Madeline started blabbing about another party she was going to have over the weekend. She made a big point of listing who to invite, including Quint but not including me. Great. But then Quint randomly showed up during my lunch, turning around my day. “How come you’re at early lunch?” I asked as he sat down at my loner, I mean V.I.P., table.
“My fourth period got turned into a study hall today because Dr. Swanson is out sick. I sneaked out to say hi.” That made me blush.
As I took a bite of my sandwich, one of the cafeteria chefs, Estelle, walked past. That reminded me of Alice’s friend Thomas transforming into “Estella” for a sneaky visit. From that, the idea randomly popped into my head. Brilliant. Once I finished chewing, I asked Quint, “Why didn’t you come to the party I had when I first started at Friends?”
“Party?” Quint furrowed his brow. “What part—oh, I remember.”
“Yeah, there’s only been one successfully,” I interrupted, rolling my eyes.
“I had to visit my grandfather that weekend. He broke his hip. Why?”
“Well,” I said, drawing out my words. “It occurs to me that you’ve never seen 1600.”
“Of course I’ve seen it.” He grinned.
“You know what I mean. Inside.”
“Noooo,” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “What are you getting at?”
“Maybe it’s time you visit.” I smiled at him, in what I hoped was a flirty way.
“Are you serious?”
“Totally. I can make it happen.” Maybe I should have him over before he spends the weekend hanging out with Madeline. “Tomorrow,” I added.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Don’t you need to ask your parents?” Quint adjusted his shirt collar.
“Sure, I’ll ask tonight,” I lied. “They won’t care, I promise.” They won’t care because they won’t know. I knew it was risky, especially after the fight with my parents last weekend. Technically, I still was grounded—whatever that meant for a person who rarely socialized. But a little voice in my head was telling me to fill what was empty—and I couldn’t say no. “So are you game?” I pressed.
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside.”
“Okay, so plan on it tomorrow.” Lunch was almost over, so I started packing up my bag. “I’ll e-mail you tonight?”
“Sounds good.” Quint stepped aside as I walked to the recycling can. I tossed my juice bottle in with a satisfying smash. “See you tomorrow!” I waved brightly at him, and hurried inside.
I sat in the last row of my math class and pulled out my tablet, hiding it on my lap under the desk. I opened e-mail and scrolled through my archives, looking for an updated contact list. People constantly are joining and leaving the White House staff, so contact sheets are updated weekly. I found the list, and jackpot: one of the Visitor’s Office names, Melanie Pinter, was highlighted in blue, which signaled a new employee. I clicked on her e-mail hyperlink and composed a message, flagged status urgent:
Hi Melanie,
I am writing because I need to meet with a classmate after school tomorrow. We have a very important assignment due for our music-history class. I feel it would be easiest for me to do so at the White House. Could you please enter his name in the security system: Quintus Roberts. You should have his info on file from my movie party. Also, my mother approved this message.
Thank you,
Audrey Lee Rhodes
Shortly after I got home from school, I had my reply:
Miss Rhodes,
I have made the necessary arrangements for Quintus Roberts to visit the White House tomorrow. Your security detail will be informed.
Best,
Melanie Pinter
I felt a little bad, taking advantage of the fact that a lower-level person might not know that I couldn’t just write “My mom approved this message.” The process for me having visitors is a lot more complicated than a simple e-mail. I could’ve begged my parents for permission to have Quint as a guest, but I didn’t want them trying to shut our friendship—or whatever it was—down. Plus, that whole being-grounded thing. Anyway, the plan was turning out to be way easier than I anticipated; probably because it rested on tricking the staff and not sneaking boys in wearing drag, Alice-Roosevelt style. Lucky Alice hadn’t had to deal with metal detectors and background checks.
At 1600 that night, I e-mailed Quint and said to meet me at my locker after last period. Then I made a special trip down to the kitchen. Maurice was cleaning up at one of the sinks. He wiped his hands on his chef’s jacket as he walked over to me. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I was wondering if I could stock up on some cookies.” On Sunday I’d polished off all the ones in my stash.
“Certainly.” Maurice hustled over to the cupboards, returning with a big bag of cookies. “Debra’s special recipe. These should hold you over.”
“Thanks!” I headed upstairs, stopping to grab a few cans of soda. I was all set to entertain.
Chapter 17
I kept refreshing the screen of my phone during Health and Wellness, urging the numbers to creep up to 3:15 p.m. I was half thrilled about getting alone time with Quint, half worried about getting caught. I bounced my legs nervously, rattling Naveen in front of me, who actually turned around multiple times to give me dirty looks—a first, considering how smarmy he always was to me. I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see me.
“Audrey? You’re rolling your eyes. Do you disagree about the average length of the menstrual cycle?” Ms. Whidbey, the Health and Wellness teacher, was staring at me. The rest of the class turned around to look at me too. Half the people were smirking.
“Um, no.” I blushed. “There was something in my eye.”
“All right. Well, cycles do vary, anyway, so thank you for providing me with a teachable moment.”
When class ended, I shot out of the room and toward my locker. Once I rounded a corner, I saw Quint standing in front of my locker, drumming away at the adjacent one. He had earbuds in and his eyes were closed as he felt out the rhythm. My heart beat a little faster as I walked up to him and gently pulled one of the buds from his ear. “Hi,” I whispered.
“Hey!” Quint smiled and dropped his arms to his sides. “Am I dressed okay and everything? For the White…your house?” He was wearing the Friends’ boy uniform: pressed khakis, scuffed loafers, and a white polo with the Friends insignia embroidered on the breast pocket. The polo was snug, perhaps a half-size too small, suggesting that either he’d been growing or his housekeeper had shrunk it in the wash.
“You look fine,” I assured him. “In case you’re wondering, my parents probably won’t be around. They’re so busy.” Quint raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. I grabbe
d my jacket and a few books from my locker, then slammed it shut. “Ready?”
Quint nodded and followed me toward the door at which Hendrix was waiting. “Agent Hendrix, you know my friend Quint Roberts. He’s coming over to work on a history project.”
“I thought it was a music project?” She looked stern.
My face flushed. “Uh, yeah…music history.”
“Something outstanding from that class you two were in last term?” Hendrix pressed.
“Independent study,” I hastily replied. She so knows that something is up. But Hendrix didn’t say anything else. Thank you, Secret Service circle of trust.
The drive back to the White House was almost silent. Not what I expected. Quint didn’t say a word but compulsively tapped out drumbeats on the armrest. I started to wonder if this was all such a great idea. The possibility of running into one of my parents gnawed at me. Why hadn’t I planned this for a time when they were both out of the country? Or at least the capital? But I needed to spend time alone with Quint before Madeline’s weekend party.
We pulled up to a little gate south of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building because I had a visitor. Hendrix showed Quint’s school ID to the guard, and we pulled ahead to a second gate, closer to the White House. Hendrix got out and opened the car door, and Quint and I scrambled out. He showed his ID again and walked through a metal detector. On the other side of it, an aide stood with a badge for Quint. “Here you go,” she said cheerily, placing the lanyard around his head like a lei. “Welcome to the White House.” Hendrix escorted us up to the Residence—thankfully bypassing the West Wing.
“Where will you be working?” Hendrix asked.
“My room.” I quickly added, “Because that’s where the computer is. I might show Quint around a bit first?”
Hendrix nodded and listened to her walkie-talkie. “Sure. Your father is at the lab and your mother is in Cabinet meetings.”
“Okay, thanks.” Awesome. Cabinet meetings always take forever. I shifted my bag onto my other shoulder and turned to Quint. “Shall we?”
When Audrey Met Alice Page 14