White House Autumn (27 page)

She shook her head. “But—”.

“Relax,” he said.

His arm was comforting on her shoulders, and she cried until she was too tired to keep going, except for an occasional weak gulp.

“Better?” he asked.

“I guess so.” She wiped her sleeve slowly across her eyes, a few stray tears still coming out. “I don’t understand why he would hurt her.”

Her father sighed. “It’s the position, Meg. Not the person. You know that.”

No, she had been told that; she didn’t
know
it. “It’s not fair,” she said.

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “I just—I don’t know what to tell you, Meg.”

No, there weren’t any logical answers for this one. She was too tired to lean forward and take any Kleenex from the box on the table, and her father handed her several tissues. “She has three more years,” she said. Or, maybe,
seven
.

Her father nodded.

“Well, what if—” She stopped, guiltily.

He sighed again. “You can’t spend the rest of her term worrying about it. I mean, in many ways, that would be equally destructive.”

She looked up at him, feeling like Neal. “So, you think everything’s going to be okay?”.

“Well,” he said, “insofar as things can be controlled.”

Which wasn’t very far.

“The Secret Service does a damn good job,” he said. “People only hear about it on the few occasions when they
can’t
prevent something.”

“You mean, things have
almost
happened?” she asked.

Her father hesitated.

“Like if she’s going to speak somewhere,” Meg said, already knowing the answer, “and they switch locations. They must do that for a reason.”

Her father nodded reluctantly. “She gets a lot of threats, Meg. Unfortunately, it comes with the job.”

What kind of person would
want
a job like that? “Have there been—attempts?” she asked.

He moved his jaw. “Foiled ones, yes.”

Jesus. “Like what?” she asked.

He looked tired. “I don’t know. A man on a roof in Chicago. Someone carrying a homemade bomb in Denver. That kind of thing.”

The near-misses. Of which, there had been God only knew how many. If she wasn’t already worn out, she might have started crying again.

“Usually, your mother hasn’t even known about them, until afterwards,” her father said. “The Secret Service does a very good, very quiet job. But—they can’t always prevent things. No one could.”

No. Perfection—even when it came to something so incredibly important—probably wasn’t humanly possible. Which sucked, but there was no getting around it. She slouched down. “I’ve been really mean to them lately. Not speaking to them, or anything.”

“I imagine you feel differently now,” he said.

She nodded.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “They understand how you’ve been feeling, and they’re smart enough not to take it personally.”

“I hope so.” She looked at her gauze-wrapped hands. “Can I redo the
People
interview?”.

He nodded. “I think your mother’s probably right, and that it’s a good idea. I’ll have Preston set it up.”

They sat for a moment in silence.

Then, she let out her breath. “Dad? Can I ask you something?”.

“You may,” he said. Her parents were heavily into correcting their children’s grammar.

“If you were in a room with him,” she said, “and you had a gun, would you hurt him?”.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Like, remember when she broke her leg?” she asked. “And you like, tried to take that guy apart?”.

“I tried to slug him,” her father said defensively. “Not take him apart.”

That’s not how it had seemed at the time, but okay. “Yeah, but all he did was ski in front of her,” she said. “This is a lot worse.”

He nodded.

“So, would you hurt him?” she asked.

“I don’t think it would really solve anything,” he said, then smiled slightly. “That’s not to say that I wouldn’t mind punching him pretty hard.”

She wouldn’t mind hitting him herself.

“However,” her father said, his smile so wry that it was almost a grin.

“Yeah.” Meg frowned down at her gauze. “Can I take this junk off? I mean, it’s only a couple of scrapes.”

He glanced around—at the White House, in general, it seemed—and this time, he did grin. “Sure,” he said. “Just put on a Band-Aid, if you need one.”

SHE HAD BARELY
gotten to her bedroom when the telephone next to her bed rang—which was when she remembered that her cell phone was in her knapsack, and that she had no idea where
that
was. Still down in the Medical Unit, maybe?.

She picked the receiver up. “Hello?”.

“Hey, kid,” Preston said, sounding amused. “I just got a call from the Southeast Gate—seems your friend Josh is practically breaking it down, trying to get in here. You want me to have him sent up?”.

Meg smiled. “Yeah. And ask them not to give him too hard a time, okay?”.

She went downstairs to wait for him, and after a few minutes, he was finally escorted in, driving an unfamiliar car.

He jumped out, looking very upset. “My God, you
are
hurt!”.

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just a scrape.” Or two, or three, or four.

“What happened? Nick Goldstein called and said he saw your agents knock you down, then drive away about a hundred miles an hour—” He stopped, not waiting for an answer. “My God, your poor face! Are you all right? What happened?”.

“I’m fine.” She put her hands on his shoulders, seeing that he was literally shaking with worry. “A car backfired, that’s all.”

“Don’t
worry?”
he said. “Jesus, I called your cell about ten times in a row, and you never picked up, and then—I mean, I thought—Meg, you might have been—”.

“I’m fine. Come on.” She sat him down on the steps leading up to the South Portico. “Everything’s okay.”

“Jesus Christ. I thought—I mean, I about had a heart attack. I really thought—” He shook his head. “Are you
sure
you’re all right?”.

“Yes.” She put her arms around him, feeling his heart pound against her chest. “Shhh,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”

They kept hugging, Meg feeling his heartbeat and breathing gradually slow down.

“Okay?” she asked, her mouth next to his ear.

He nodded, turning his face to kiss her, a
long
kiss that left both of them breathing harder than was probably a wise idea, right there on the stairs, with plenty of witnesses.

“Whose car is that?” she asked.

He grinned sheepishly. “My piano teacher’s. I guess I kind of freaked.”

Clearly. Meg looked at him dubiously. “And he trusted you to drive?”.

“If he hadn’t, I swear to God I would have smacked him,” he said.

Meg laughed. “You, and my father.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your father wants to smack my piano teacher?”.

“No, he—” She stopped, seeing his grin. “You jerk.” She leaned forward to hug him some more. “Can you come upstairs, or do you have to get the car back?”.

Josh frowned. “I don’t know. I mean, I should probably—I’d rather come upstairs.”

“Look, take the car back before
he
has a heart attack,” she said.

“Yeah. I guess.” He looked worried again. “Are you
sure
you’re all right? I mean, all those bandages—”.

“You know how they are around here,” she said.

“Yeah.” He kissed each of her hands, her cheek, and then her mouth, staying at her mouth the longest. “I’m going to call you as soon as I get home, okay? More than once, probably.”

Meg smiled, hugging him tightly. “It’s okay with me.”

SHE GOT SEVERAL
other phone calls, including one from Beth, who had seen a news headline on the Internet. Apparently, the story was being reported in more than a few places, even though
there wasn’t any film or anything. Meg assured everyone that she was fine, and that it was no big deal—but, getting the phone calls felt nice.

Her mother didn’t hear about it until she came upstairs for dinner, and she was very concerned. This spread to Steven and Neal, who bent over backwards being kind to her. Steven even held her chair for her. Meg felt like a fool, and escaped to her room shortly after the meal to work on her college essays. In theory.

Instead, she picked up
A Moveable Feast,
pushing Vanessa off her pillow, so she could lie down. It was a book by Ernest Hemingway, about his days in Paris, hanging around with people like Gertrude Stein and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and—one assumed—spending every free moment drinking and carousing. It must have been kind of fun to be a lost generation. Maybe someday, she and Beth should spend some time being officially disaffected.

After a while, Neal showed up, holding a mug of cocoa.

“Meggie?” he said, from the hallway.

“Don’t be dumb,” she said. “You know you can come in.”

He carried the mug over, smiling and setting it down on her night table. “It’s to help you work on your essays.”

Meg flushed and pointed at her book. “I was just sort of
reading
essays, first. Like, to warm up.”

He nodded, believing her.

“Thanks for the cocoa,” she said. “Aren’t you going to have some, too?”.

He smiled, and she noticed the chocolate mustache. “We did.”

“Yeah, I see,” she said.

He stood there, smiling at her, and he was so cute that she smiled back.

“I have to go to bed now,” he said. “But, will you play pool tomorrow?”.

She laughed. “Sure. Why not?”.

He reached up to hug her. “I’m glad you aren’t hurt,” he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

A sentiment she shared. “Me, too.” She ruffled up his hair, which was freshly trimmed. “I like you, even though you’re an ugly peasant.”

He giggled. “You’re the ugly Queen.”

“I’m the
beautiful
Queen,” she said.

He made a face, and then giggled again. “Blech.”

“Come on.” She started to lift him up, but he was too heavy. “You’re
a. fat
peasant.”

“I’m not fat,” he said.

“Well, you’re getting big, then.” She headed for the door. “Let’s go get me some Oreos, so I can work, and you some Oreos, so you can sleep.”

Once they had eaten a few cookies, and her father showed up to haul Neal off to brush his teeth, she went to see what Steven was doing, and found him on his bed, reading. Definitely a member of her family.

“You busy?” she asked.

He didn’t look up. “Don’t you knock?”.

“No,” she said. “Just wanted to tell you good-night.”

He shrugged. “Good-night.”

Since he probably wouldn’t hit her while she was already bruised, she decided to take a chance and walk all the way into his room.

“I kind of want to be alone,” he said.

“Want a cookie?” she asked.

He glanced over and took two from her, leaving her with one.

“That was singular,” she said.

He stopped chewing. “You want it back?”.

“No, thanks.” She sat on the bottom of his bed. “Today was kind of scary.”

“
Kind of?” he
said.

Yeah. “Remember when Trevor died?” she asked. Trevor was the German shepherd mix they had had before Kirby. “You know how it
was really bad at first, and then, it was only bad sometimes? Like if you remembered it all of a sudden, and you would feel like crying all over again?”.

“I
still
remember it pretty often,” he said.

So did she, actually. Trevor had been one great dog.

“What,” he said, “and all of this is going to be like that?”.

She shrugged. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”.

“Swell,” he said.

“Swell?” she asked. “What is this, 1950?”.

He sort of smiled—and sort of scowled. “You always say it.”

“That’s different,” she said, “I am the Queen.”

He groaned. “Oh, Christ. Not that again.”

“You’re just jealous,” she said.

“Yeah, right.” He took her last Oreo, then stopped when the cookie was already in his mouth. “Did you want this or anything?”.

She shook her head. “Not now that it has peasant germs.”

“You only
wish
you had some of my germs,” he said.

She nodded. “Every time I see the first star.”

“Bet you wish on your birthday, too,” he said.

“Yup, every year.” She punched him lightly on the shoulder and then stood up to go work on her essays.

“You look fine,” he said.

“Fine?” she asked, confused.

He gestured towards his own cheek. “Your face. In case you thought you looked ugly or something.”

“Oh.” Self-consciously, she touched the scrape. “Thank you.”

He shrugged and picked up his book again. “Wasn’t lying or anything.”

With luck.

She crossed the hallway to her room, where her cocoa was quite cold. It still tasted perfectly good, though. She brought it and Vanessa over to her desk, and pulled up the Universal College Application on her computer. Yeah, most of the schools where she was
planning to apply had additional essay questions of their own, but she should probably tackle the main one, first.

A life-changing event? Hmmm. A person she admired? Double hmmm. Her viewpoint on a particular current event?
Triple
hmmm.