by Kathy Myme
Ordinarily, photographs of the President wouldn’t be an issue. Mr Andrews had made it pretty clear this morning: although photographs taken by our own photographers are preferable, we really can’t do much about people snapping pics of the President.
“And the man is so photogenic,” Mr Andrews had laughed, “that it doesn’t really matter anyway. The President has no bad angles.”
But there’s definitely an issue here.
Because the President isn’t alone in the picture. Far from it. He’s bent over, half on the ground, but it’s fairly evident… that he’s on top of a woman. With his hands all over her. In an intimate moment.
Holy shit.
For one stupid moment, my brain short circuits. Nobody had told me that the President has a girlfriend. Or that he had this type of reputation. If the papers caught even the slightest whiff of anything scandalous going on, it’s a sure bet that they would have reported on it a long time ago.
But the picture can’t lie. The President is lying outside, tangled in the arms of some woman. I take a deep breath, checking my watch. 3:23PM. Checking Twitter, I notice that the post already has thousands of retweets. This is going to be huge.
I get the feeling I might be working late tonight.
But when I pull the picture up again, I stop. I stare. And my entire world begins to fall apart.
It clicks.
The woman in the photograph. It’s me.
David
“Get out. Now.”
The herd of people in my office stare at me in silence.
“Now,” I say, slightly louder.
They begin to file out, hushed whispers making their way through the small crowd.
The door shuts and I collapse back into my chair and loosen my tie. Shit. How could this have happened?
The last few months have been even more intense than I ever would have expected. But I can feel it, this is the point it might all come crashing down. And all because of one compromising photo.
“Fuck.”
It would have been one thing if I’d actually been fucking around and some photographer had caught us. At least then, it would have been my own fault. At least then, I would have been caught doing something actually questionable.
But this? This… photo? It’s a joke, a simple case of bad timing. I haven’t done anything even slightly wrong.
I sigh. The public won’t see it that way though. The public will see this as the President taking advantage of an innocent young intern. And we all know what happened the last time a president was caught in… a compromising position like that.
I pull the news article up on my computer and look at the photo again. If only I knew who took it, I swear to god I would…
I scroll down the page to the comments. They are not kind.
Some of them I expect. Tearing into me for taking advantage of an innocent girl, for abusing my position and my power. Some question whether I’m taking the job seriously, or if I’m just using the job title to pick up women. Others question whether I have a secret girlfriend, or a wife even, and say they will wait to learn more before judging. I like those ones.
Then I read something that makes me truly mad.
TruePatriot74:
What a whore. No doubt she’s been slutting herself up to fulfill her sick desires and distract the President, a True American Hero.
I can feel my heart beating faster as I clench a fist. How dare some piece of shit post that sort of thing? Veronica didn’t ask for this, none of it.
Then there’s another.
ShepardFanxx:
This makes me sick. The President would never take advantage of an innocent woman, clearly this skank has been forcing herself on him long enough. If I ever saw her in the flesh, I’d slap her a million times.
I stand up, the force bumping my desk and knocking some pens and files onto the floor. I don’t care, I’m pissed.
It was one thing when this was targeting me, but Veronica as well? It has to end.
Objectively, I can tell the protectiveness I feel for her is out of place given we’ve barely met twice, but right now all I want to do is hide her away from the world and these… people.
There has to be something I can do.
Veronica
“Miss Waters, is it true that you’re engaging in a romantic relationship with the President?”
Flash.
“Did President Shepard take advantage of you, Miss Waters?”
Flash.
“Veronica, do you have anything to say to the people watching at home?”
Flash.
Oh my god.
The paparazzi have to be psychic. Every street corner I go down, they’re there. I’m even taking the long way home from work, with three buses instead of two. Yet somehow they still seem to know my every move.
“Miss Waters, can we have a quick chat?”
There’s no escaping them.
How do they even know who I am? I check my iPhone. It’s 5:30PM. Just over two hours ago, I was sitting at my desk on my second day of the job with no idea what was about to hit me.
Somehow between the article breaking the news and now, the press managed to figure out my identity. That I’m the girl in the photograph. They’re vultures. If I wasn’t so terrified, I might even be impressed.
As it is, I want to crawl under a rock and die.
When I finally get home, after battling my way through the crowds of press people waiting from me at my apartment entrance, I slam the door shut and flop down onto my sofa. I take a deep breath. It feels like the first one I’ve taken in quite a while.
This can’t be happening to me.
I try to resist the urge to switch on my apartment’s TV, but it doesn’t last very long. The soft click of a TV turning on is usually a comforting noise, but this afternoon it makes me shiver.
“-ident Shepard was photographed engaging in improper relations with a young woman from California, who we’ve identified as Veronica Waters-”
“Will this impact the President in opinion polls? Well, I can’t see how it wouldn’t-”
“-and some nobody girl trying to seduce the President-”
Click. Just as swiftly as I turned it on, I switch the TV off. I don’t know what I’d expected, but...
It’s unreal. When I woke up this morning, I was nobody. Now my face is being projected across every TV channel in the country. Maybe even the world.
My phone buzzes and flashes.
Lacey Smith: veronica! what’s going on????
Lacey Smith: is that YOU in those pics?
Lacey. I’d completely forgotten that everyone I know is probably hearing about this scandal too, not just nameless strangers. She’s probably incredibly worried.
Lacey Smith: what’s going onnnnnn?
I type back a message quickly.
Veronica Waters: Don’t believe the news. It was an accident!!
Lacey is probably freaking out right now and yelling about this to anyone who’ll listen. Though to be fair, this is probably the one time her over-the-top reactions are warranted...
“Ronica!”
Loud, noisy, and loud. Those are the three words I’d best use to describe my new roommate, Hailey Chase. Other than a few getting-to-know-you-and-making-sure-you’re-not-a-psychopath Skype calls, we’ve known each other for a grand total of four days. I have no idea where she’s getting ‘Ronica’ from as a nickname, and I’m doing my best not to encourage it.
“Ronica,” she says again, slamming the door on my way in. “I could barely get in with all the press- had to squeeze past, which was pretty hard.” Her voice gets higher and it gets louder. “What on earth is going on?”
Good question, I think.
I open my mouth. “I’m not sur-”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you’d done it with the President?” She shakes her head. “I knew you had a White House job or whatever, but Ronica! How long has this been going on?”
“I-”
I don’t think it’s required to give notice about that type of thing in the Roommates Handbook, but she doesn’t look likely to let it go. Or let me get a word in sideways during this conversation.
“If you don’t mind,” she says, “can you tell all those journalists to go away? I have a pilates class at six I have to get to, and they’re kinda killing my vibes.”
I stare at her, blinking. This girl can’t be real.
“I don’t think they’ll just ‘go away’,” I say. “They think that I’m mixed up in some kind of weird love tryst-”
“Well, maybe you should have kept your legs closed, then,” she snaps. “Listen, this is some Monika Lewinksy level shit. I don’t wanna be mixed up in your mess. They already got some shots of me coming in through our door.”
“I didn’t sleep with the President!” Now that’s not a sentence I thought I’d be yelling today. “Hailey, please. This is all a misunderstanding.”
She gives me a glare, marching out of the room. For a merciful second, I wonder if she’s gone to deal with the press herself. Instead she comes back with a familiar-looking sheet of A4 paper that we’d stuck to the entrance corridor of our apartment.
“Recognize this?” she asks, waving it in my face.
It’s our Apartment Code. The first night I moved in, Hailey had insisted we sit in the common area and draw out some ‘rules’ using her scented gel pens. The entire process had taken over two hours and we had fourteen color coded rules to show for it. I had contributed very little to the whole affair.
“Rule Nine: Thou shall not put bad vibes into the universe,” Hailey says, tapping the paper loudly. “Listen, I’m not trying to, like, slut-shame, but you’re putting some sleazy vibes out there right now. Are you and the President even a thing? Is this just all some crazy California girl scheme to make it into the news?”
My jaw nearly falls to the floor. “Sleazy? Hailey, I didn’t-”
Beep beep. Beep beep.
I scramble for my phone. Mr Andrews could be calling. Somebody could be calling that knows a way out of this situation. A way to fix this messed-up disaster.
My heart drops dramatically as I read the caller ID. Dad.
Oh my god. Dad.
What must he think?
“Hailey,” I say, standing up. “I’m going to my room. We’ll have to go over this later.”
She sniffs indignantly. “My pilates class-”
“Use the back entrance,” I snap. “I’ll see you later.”
So, not the best start to our relationship as roomies. But now I have more pressing matters to deal with. I escape to my bedroom before she can yell at me any louder and collapse onto my bed, hair fanned out across the pillows.
Slowly, hesitantly, I hit ‘accept’ on my iPhone and raise the device to my ear.
“Dad,” I breathe softly. “Hi.”
“Sweetie,” he says, his soft voice a welcome relief after the sound of Hailey’s screeching. “I think we have some talking to do.”
Instantly, I feel a million times better. Somebody who actually wanted to talk. Calmly and rationally, instead of just hurling insults at me and accusing me of something terrible.
“It’s not what you think, Dad,” I explain. “The President-”
“Funny,” he interrupts. “I thought it might all be some scheme by the press to make a quick few bucks profiting off a man who’s trying to make a change in the world.”
I could almost cry in happiness. (Okay, maybe I do a little bit. But only a few tears.)
“The photograph was an accident,” I explain. “We both ended up tripping over, which is how we got into such an awkward position.”
“It’s awkward, all right,” he agrees. “I turned on the TV a little while ago. I was pretty shocked to see cameras following my daughter home.”
I take a peek out of my bedroom window. If anything, now there are even more reporters lurking out there. Quickly, I pull the blinds fully shut and make sure the window is locked.
“It’s gonna be tough for you,” he continues. “The White House. Have they…?”
“They haven’t fired me,” I finish for him, so he doesn’t have to ask the rest of such an indelicate question. “For now, at least.”
“So you still have your job,” he says, sounding relieved. “Well, I suppose you’re just going to have to weather this one out.”
I shudder. “What if I can’t, Dad? This is… this is crazy.”
“I know, sweetheart. I wish I could give you better advice, but it’s not often that your daughter ends up implicated in a nation-wide scandal concerning the President.” He chuckles, even if it’s somewhat hollow. Dad is usually delighted by his own bad jokes. He must be worried. “If your mother was here, she’d know what to do. She always was miles better than me in these kinds of… situations.”
“Even mom would have struggled with this one,” I say, laughing. It’s the first time I’ve felt anything but despair all afternoon.
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” I can tell he’s smiling through the phone. “But Veronica…”
“Dad?”
“I know you’ll do the right thing.” He stalls. “But there’s someone you need to talk to.”
I know exactly who he means immediately.
Trevor.
Oh god. Trevor.
“Is he…” My throat is tight. “Have you seen him this afternoon?”
“He left work early, before I’d heard the news. Probably around 4:00PM. Veronica, he didn’t look happy.”
Guilt pools in my stomach. I haven’t done anything wrong… but I can only imagine how Trevor must be feeling right now. It can’t be pretty.
“Dad, I should-”
He interjects. “You go, sweetheart. Tell Trevor what you need to.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up quickly and flip through my contacts. Trevor. His phone rings and rings, but… no answer.
Damn it. I’m not sure if he’s just ignoring me or if he’s genuinely busy, but this doesn’t bode well. I try two or three more times just in case. There’s no response.
Frustrated, I pull up Twitter on my phone. I’m not a big social media type of girl. That type of thing always just seems to be a waste of time. The time I could be using to get a leg up in studying or my career.
But then again, I’m not usually the main event. I pull up the ‘trending’ section of the app to see #InternGate trending at #1 all over the world. When I click on it, it shows me hundreds of posts people are making. The number grows by the second.
@PatriciaxSue: Can’t BELIEVE some nobody intern has gotten her hands on the President! Hope somebody fires her ass xx
@AceSmithy9: ahahaha, the Prez is getting some #ShepIsTheMan
@GirlonLine544: Listen, i’m all 4 President Shep (he IS hot) but he needs to stay away from women like that lmao
God, I’m tired. I don’t mean to fall asleep, but when my head sinks into the pillow I don’t fight it. Right now, I’d rather be anywhere but here.
David
“Alright, does anyone else have any ideas?” I ask, looking around the room with what I can only assume is a rather stern glare.
No one responds. I can’t blame them, it’s not an easy situation and there’s no easy answer.
Also, I may have snapped slightly at the intern who suggested we try and cover things up by straight-up lying to the press and denying the photo was legitimate. I’ll have to remember to send them a note tomorrow and make sure they didn’t take things too personally.
It was an understandable suggestion at first glance. We could tell the press anything really, but if we get caught in a lie things will go from bad to worse. Or perhaps disastrous to presidency-ending bad. A denial such as that would be easy to disprove, and I seriously doubt anyone would believe it in the first
place.
I look down at the photo print-out again. The man is certainly me. My face is far too clear to deny that. Part of me wonders who took it and from where. There’s something about it, the angle and viewpoint, that’s bugging me... but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
My thoughts are interrupted by someone raising their hand.
“Yes,” I say.
“We could just ignore it,” Miss Robertson suggests. “And distract the press with something bigger, and then in a few days quietly slip out a press release explaining it was a mistake or bad camera angle.”
I nod slowly. “Do we have anything big to release?”
I’m skeptical, to say the least. The gossip columns don’t care about policy announcements. What they care about is selling their trash.
And the one thing that sells better than anything else is a good scandal. Especially presidential scandals. Especially presidential sex scandals. And this is something they are definitely twisting to fit that exact mould.
“We’ve got a few new Treasury policy updates,” she replies, checking her notes.
“No one gives a shit about them,” I reply. “The headlines are all going to be talking about this scandal unless we give them something even bigger to talk about.”
Not only would it have to be bigger news, but also positive for me. I’m sure I could get a bigger headline by resigning overnight, but that would defeat the entire point of a distraction.
Miss Robertson nods and leans back in her chair. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything else.”
I sigh. I can’t blame her, but it’s still disappointing. I try to rack my brains for another distraction.
Half the problem is that any announcements we make will be a very obvious attempt to distract the press. And that fact would very much be mentioned in whatever articles they print.
There is still one other option. “Okay, what do we think about denying any wrongdoing, apologizing for the mistake and hoping this all evaporates over the next news cycle?”