White House Autumn (2 page)

Nothing like winning a few easy points to make people stop feeling uneasy.

She and her agents parted in the North Entrance Hall, with its shiny checkerboard floor, marble pillars, and flashy main staircase.
Meg usually went up the main stairs, instead of the private staircase, because the main one ended up outside the Center Sitting Hall, near her bedroom. There was an elevator, but she never took it, since one of her many mottos was: when in doubt, burn up calories.

She dumped her tennis bag and books on the bed, messing up the quilt and pillows a little. She made her bed before she went to school in the morning—her parents insisted—but the maids always changed the sheets and remade it, much more neatly. Neat beds made Meg nervous.

“Hi,” she said to her cat, Vanessa, who was asleep among the pillows. Vanessa purred, extending a soft grey and white paw, and Meg smiled. “Pretty cute,” she said, and batted her hand against the paw a few times. Vanessa liked games.

She changed out of her white and maroon tennis shirt, and into a very old green chamois shirt that had once belonged to her father. Her shower could wait—first, she had to have a Coke.

“Here, come on.” She picked Vanessa up, balancing her in the crook of one arm. “Let’s go see what’s going on.”

“Miss Powers?” Pete, one of the butlers, came down the hall to meet her. “Maybe I can bring you something? A Coke? Some Doritos?”

Meg grinned. Nothing like having someone make the offer before she even had to ask. “Sounds great, thank you,” she said, and followed him down to the kitchen, so she could at least take the glass out of the cupboard and feel as though she was helping. The White House staff preferred that the First Family
not
to help them, but Meg felt funny about being waited on all the time.

Armed with a delicate crystal glass of Coke and a silver bowl of Doritos, she went up to the third floor solarium where her brothers were slouched in front of the television, watching—
again
—one of their Brady Bunch DVDs, and eating chocolate cake.

“Hi,” Steven said, and gave her a more arrogant grin than usual. He’d always been a cocky kid, but being in the eighth grade
really
seemed to have gone to his head. “You sure look ugly.”

“Yeah, and everyone thinks we
look just like
each other.” Meg sat down next to Neal, who was eight, and hadn’t learned about arrogance yet.

“I think you look pretty,” Neal said, smiling at her, and Steven pretended to throw up on a cushion.

“Oh. Yeah.” Steven lifted his head. “Stupid Beth called before.”

“Beth’s not stupid,” Meg said automatically. Beth was her best friend from home, and when they weren’t emailing and texting each other, they talked on the phone a lot. “Did she leave a message?

“Something about the essay questions for Wesleyan, I don’t know.” He picked up his cake. “Hey, d’ja win or lose?”

“Got her in three sets,” Meg said.

“It took you
three?”
Steven shook his head. “You suck.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. She swung her legs onto the coffee table. If there was anything she enjoyed wearing, it was sweatpants. She infinitely preferred herself in sweatpants and old flannel or chamois shirts. “Which one is this?” she asked, indicating the television.

“When they go to the Grand Canyon,” Steven said with his mouth full.

Meg nodded, looking at him, and then at Neal. It was funny the way the three of them did—and didn’t—resemble their parents. She and Steven were like their mother, with dark, thick hair and narrow, high-cheekboned faces. Neal was more cherubic, with light brown hair and a gentle smile like their father’s. Even so, people could always tell that they were related—probably because they all slouched the same way. It had to be more than that, but the slouching was obvious. Her parents were always bugging them to shape up on their postures.

“I like the one where they go to Hawaii better,” Steven said, and went into the little kitchenette to wash frosting smudges off his hand. He had this habit of not using plates or forks when he ate cake. A rather disgusting habit, in Meg’s opinion, but then again, she
only ate the creamy part of Oreos, so she figured she wasn’t one to criticize. “What’s for dinner?” he asked, coming back out and using Neal’s head for a towel.

“Roast chicken,” Meg said. “And I think, plantains and stuff.”

“Blech,” Neal said.

Meg shrugged. “Mom likes them.” She liked them, too, actually—especially when they were caramelized.

“Does that mean she’s coming to dinner?” Neal asked.

Did she look as though she’d committed the President’s daily schedule to memory? “I don’t know,” Meg said. “I guess so, if that’s what they’re making.”

“What about Daddy?” Neal asked, taking another hunk of cake without—Meg noticed—bothering with a plate or fork, either.

Steven grinned. “He had to go shake hands with Miss Cherry Blossom.”

Neal giggled, and Meg had to laugh, too, even though she felt sorry for her father, because of all the annoying things he had to do—cut ribbons at new buildings, plant trees with Cub Scouts, address the Senate spouses, and so forth. An endless stream of ceremonial, and often, silly, events. In real life—well, life before the White House—he had been a senior partner at his law firm, specializing in taxation.

They sat through another episode, and had just switched over to
The Simpsons
, when their father came in, dignified in a grey worsted suit, with a muted red tie, for contrast.

“How was Miss Cherry Blossom?” Meg asked.

“Very excited,” he said wryly.

“Did you kiss her?” Steven asked.

“We shook hands.” Their father took off his jacket, and Steven put it on, sitting up and trying to look like an adult. Then, their father loosened his tie and frowned at the television. “Filling your little minds with garbage again?”

Meg looked at the ceiling. “Forgive him. He knows not what he says.”

Their father smiled. “You all could be in your rooms, reading Dickens.” He tilted his head at Neal. “How was school?”

“Fun,” Neal said. “We played kickball.”

“All day long?” their father asked.

Neal giggled, then nodded.

“Great,” their father said. “Even the school’s not giving you Dickens.” He looked at Meg. “Did you beat her?”

Meg nodded.

“Excellent,” her father said. “Was she a good sport?”

Meg shook her head.

“Were you?” her father asked.

“Well, except for the part where she’d smirked.

“How about school?” her father asked.

“I don’t know.” She slumped down in her best teenage punk imitation. “Got drunk again.”

“Terrific.” He tipped her Coke to the side to study what was left of the liquid, and Meg jerked the glass away, guzzling it and falling back in a drunken stupor. He laughed, then turned his attention to Steven. “How about you? What did you do today?”

“Read Dickens,” Steven said solemnly. He got a snicker from Neal, a smile from their father, and a groan from Meg, whereupon he glanced away from the television just long enough to cross his eyes at her.

“Ah,” their mother said, from the doorway. “There you all are.” She came in, tall, and as ever, beautiful, in a blue silk dress, slimly belted in at the waist, and wearing graceful high heels.

No wonder her father hadn’t kissed Miss Cherry Blossom.

“Guess what, Mom?” Neal said. “We played kickball! All day!”

“Well, that sounds productive,” she said.

“Did you play kickball, too?” Meg asked.

Her mother nodded. “Yes, indeed. Hank and I were out in the Rose Garden for hours.”

Hank, being the Vice President, Mr. Kruger.

Watching her cross the room, Meg meditated vaguely about the fact that she would probably never meet another woman with her mother’s skill on high heels as long as she lived. Meg generally fell off espadrilles, forget high heels. She also fell off things like sneakers and Topsiders, and if it happened in public, would pretend that she suffered from a severe inner ear problem.

“Hey, Prez,” Steven said.

“Hi.” Their mother smiled at him, as she bent down to accept the hug Neal offered.

“Madam President,” Pete said from the door, “may I bring you anything before dinner?”

Her mother decided on a scotch and soda—
and
a double espresso, which was not an unusual combination for her, and her father asked for a beer. Pete left, returning a few minutes later with the drinks, and a platter of crackers and artisanal cheeses—most of which
did not look American
. The voting public would, presumably, be appalled.

Their mother let out a sigh—which meant she was planning to relax for at least five full minutes. “I must say, I’ve been looking forward to this all afternoon.”

“More than another round of kickball?” their father asked.

“Surprising as it may seem, yes.” She closed her eyes for a brief, apparently rejuvenating, second, then opened them, looking at Meg and her brothers. “So. Tell me what you all did in school today.”

“Dickens,” Meg said.

MEG SAT IN
bed that night, patting Vanessa and reading a very trashy, but entertaining, political conspiracy novel. She was supposed to be working on her college essays, but after an hour on the phone with Beth—who kept saying things like, “How about we blow off this whole college thing and just go to Colorado or someplace and be disreputable for a few years?”—she wasn’t in the mood anymore. Besides, questions like, “What message, in twenty-five words or less, would you send to the inhabitants of another planet?” were kind of holding her back. What did they want her to write? “Hello from Earth. Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.” Of such answers, college acceptances were not made. Not that the President’s daughter wasn’t going to get into any school where she deigned to apply. Terrific. Nice to be accepted, or rejected, on her own merits—or lack thereof.

Someone knocked on the door and she considered hiding her book and running to her desk to hunch industriously over essays—but figured she wouldn’t be able to pull it off.

“May I come in?” her mother asked.

It would be sort of fun to snap “Hell, no!” and see what happened. “Yeah,” Meg said. “Sure.”

Her mother opened the door, closing it behind her. The President, in her lounging gown. Yes, Virginia, Presidents
do
wear bathrobes.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

Meg held up her book and her mother nodded.

“The man has a very depressing view of it all,” Meg said.

“The man is not completely off-base,” her mother said.

Meg arched one eyebrow, putting on a “pray, continue” expression.

“Oh,” her mother waved that aside, “I’m just tired. Long day.”

Meg flipped her right hand over to use as a make-believe notepad. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Her mother grinned. “No, thank you, Doctor.”

Meg kept the notepad ready. “Do you feel alone? Friendless? Persecuted?”

“You read a few too many books, my dear,” her mother said.

“Yeah, I finished a really swell one yesterday.” Meg reached onto her night table for
Witness to Power
. “It was about this President named Nixon, see, and—”

Her mother sighed.

“It was really good,” Meg said.

“I can imagine.” Her mother sat at the bottom of the bed, with top-notch posture. “How’s everything going?”

“Fine, thank you,” Meg said politely. “And you?”

Her mother leaned over to cuff her. “Seriously.” She recrossed her legs. “How are things going?”

Had she and her mother talked much lately? Not really. Less so than usual, since the President had been on the road a lot and had, among other things, only gotten back from Ottawa late the night before. Meg tried to think of her recent Life Highlights—other than beating Melissa Kramer, about which she had preened a bit during dinner. “Josh asked me to the Homecoming Dance.”

“Big surprise,” her mother said.

Meg nodded. “I said yes.”

“Even bigger surprise,” her mother said. “What are you going to wear?”

Because, naturally, it was semi-formal. “Can I borrow your Inaugural gown?” Meg asked.

“Well,” her mother said, “don’t you think it might be just a trifle sophisticated?”

Meg sat up straight, trying to look as mature as she could in her “What’ll Ya Have” t-shirt from the Varsity in Atlanta. “Maybe a trifle.”

Her mother nodded. “I’m sure we can come up with something more appropriate.”

“I prefer black evening wear,” Meg said.

Her mother looked dubious. “We’ll see.”

Which almost always meant no. Meg shrugged. “I’m not leaving the house in pastels.”

“Oh, but I had my heart set on rose,” her mother said.

Did she need to repeat the obvious? Meg frowned at her. “I’m not leaving the house in pastels.”

Her mother laughed.

“Well, I’m not,” Meg said.

“Fine,” her mother said. “We’ll just have the dance here.”

It was a potentially humorous concept, but Meg sighed deeply, anyway.

“In all seriousness.” Her mother leaned back against the bedpost, folding her arms, and Meg pictured the caption that would go with that pose: the President, caught in a rare moment of leisure. “I thought we might discuss your interview.”