White House Autumn (29 page)

After the movie—which Steven and Neal decided to watch again, Meg and Josh walked around, ending up in the solarium.

They put on
The Sound of Music
—which was Meg’s favorite movie in life—and sat together on the couch to watch. But, once it started, Meg felt unexpectedly restless.

“What’s with you?” Josh asked. “I thought this was your favorite movie in life.”

“It is,” she said. “I just—I don’t know.”

He put his arm around her and she moved closer, running her hand along the side of his jaw, which felt smooth, but solid. That was good—men were supposed to have nice, strong jaws. Actually, it was probably a good idea for
everyone
to have a solid jaw, but she only noticed it, one way or the other, with men.

“When was the last time you shaved?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. About two weeks ago.”

Golly. “That must be pretty potent after-shave then,” she said.

He grinned, but didn’t elaborate.

“You have hair on your chest, though,” she said. Just enough to enjoy, but not so much that he seemed
furry
—which she thought was an ideal compromise. “That means there’s still hope.”

He nodded.

“You want me to shut up and watch the movie?” she asked.

He nodded again.

“Okay.” She was quiet for a scene or two, watching the nuns, but then—once they were off-screen—she turned her head to kiss his neck, working her way up to his mouth. His attention abruptly left the movie, and his other arm came around her.

“I’ve seen this movie about six hundred times,” he said.

And she had seen it at least twice as many times as he had.

They kept kissing.

“Oh, wait.” Meg tried to sit up. “I want to watch this part.” She grinned at his expression. “Of course, it’s not
imperative.”
.

“Jerk,” he said, and started tickling her, which made both of them laugh.

She was really never ticklish—except around the opposite sex.

And doctors. For some reason, doctors always set her off. Her pediatrician had once said that he loved to treat her, because she made him feel like such an amusing person.

“Cut it out,” she said, laughing weakly.

He stopped right away, which she thought was nice. When it came to tickling, some people just didn’t know when to quit.

“Of course, if you’d rather watch the movie,” he said, kissing her.

She kissed back. “No, thanks. Unless you’d rather.”

He shook his head, and for a few minutes, things started getting pretty intense—enough so that she began to worry that one of her brothers, or—even worse—her father or Trudy, might come in without thinking to knock first.

“Hey, wouldn’t this be a good time to hear some jokes?” she asked. “I know some really good jokes.”

“Can I hear them after?” he asked, concentrating on what he was doing.

And, quite frankly, she
liked
what he was doing. “After what?” she said.

He started tickling her again, and she agreed to stop being a pain. But suddenly, all of this seemed terribly funny, and after another minute or so, she pulled away.

“Do you mind if I wear your glasses for a while?” she asked.

He lifted himself onto one elbow to look at her. “Are you getting in a weird mood?”.

She nodded.

“Your weird moods drive me crazy,” he said.

She shrugged. “I don’t have them that often.”

“Often enough,” he said.

“Boy, what a grump.” She hugged him, pulling him back down.

He moved so that he was mostly on top of her. “I’m not a grump.”

“Yeah, you are. Grump, grump, grump, grump—” She decided to stop talking. Funny to think she had gone through a period when
the concept of French kissing was too gross to be believed. Ah, the wisdom of ten-year-olds. Or like that song Lauren Bacall sang in
To Have and Have Not.
“How Little We Know.” She loved
To Have and Have Not.
In fact, maybe she would be Lauren Bacall for a while. “Steve?” she asked, her voice low and sexy.

Josh frowned down at her. “Steve?”.

“Aw, come on, Steve,” She pushed his cheek playfully. “Don’t be mad, Steve.”

“I’m not,” he said.

She pushed his other cheek. “You’re mad. Admit it, Steve.” She folded her hands behind his head. “Kiss me, Steve.”

He grinned. “Are you doing
To Have and Have Not,
or
What’s Up, Doc?”
.

Clever question. “Surely,” she said, “my deep, seductive rasp answers that all by itself?”.

“Go down another half-octave,” he said.

People with relative pitch were so very picky. “Whatever you want, Steve,” she said, deepening her voice.

He nodded. “Much better.”

She tried to kiss him the way Lauren Bacall would. Only now that she thought about it, Lauren Bacall—and anyone else—would probably be wise to stay away from Josh.

Not that she was possessive or anything.

“Got a match, Slim?” Josh asked, being Humphrey Bogart.

She almost said, “Us,” but that would sound so stupid that she might not ever live it down. It was the kind of remark she might
think
to her heart’s content, but was much too cool to
say
.

Sort of like “I love you.”

“Was you ever bit by a dead bee?” Josh asked, still playing
To Have and Have Not
.

Meg didn’t answer, touching his face, moving her hands back through his hair. People talked about “I love you” being really trite,
but if that was true, why was saying it such a big deal? Or—more accurately—how come
she
was such a coward about saying it?.

“Hey.” Josh tapped her cheek. “Wake up. You missed your cue.”

“Yeah.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

He shifted onto his side, and she adjusted her position accordingly, her arm trapped under his weight.

“You think a lot,” he said.

“Not really,” she said. “It just takes me longer.”

He laughed, brushing her hair away from her face. Long hair had a tendency to get in the way of amorous encounters, she’d found. “You’re cute.”

“Thank you,” she said. “So are you.”

“Thank you.” He raised himself slightly. “Your arm must be falling asleep.”

“Kind of, yeah.” She extricated it, then looked at his eyes, every dot of the light brown pigment familiar. “I love you.”

He blinked. “Because I saved your arm?” he asked, sounding as if he were only half-kidding.

“No.” Although she liked her arm. “I mean, not
just
that. I mean—well, for lots of reasons. I mean—I don’t know. I just love you.” She closed her eyes. “I have to rest now.”

He laughed, and she smelled after-shave as he bent his head to kiss her. “I love you, too,” he said. “Very much.”

THE LAST HURDLE
, Meg figured, was the
People Magazine
article. Preston had set the new one up for Thursday, when she didn’t have play rehearsal—she was helping run lights, which had turned out to be more fun, and less geeky, than she would have predicted—so she could come home right after school and prepare. Get psyched, as Nathan would say.

She woke up in an excellent mood that morning, so cheerful that she wore the Williams sweatshirt she had gotten when she and her father had visited colleges back in September.

“Oh,” her mother said, when she walked into the Presidential Dining Room for breakfast.

Meg grinned at her. “Nice shirt, hunh?”.

Her mother seemed to be amused, but didn’t actually smile. “Perhaps, if it’s really necessary to wear a slovenly outfit to school, it would be preferable if it said
Harvard?”
.

Yeah, right. Good luck to her and the Boston Red Sox. Meg sat down, taking the Cheerios box away from Neal, pouring herself some, and reading the back.

“Dad!” Neal protested.

“Meg, give him the box,” her father said patiently.

Meg sighed the deepest sigh she could manage, and handed it across the table.

“Yeah, thanks,” Neal said, scowling.

Meg smiled very graciously at him. “You’re welcome. Il
n ‘est rien.”
.

Steven snorted. “French. How totally dumb.”

“
Tu es un chien laid,”
Meg said. Ever so graciously.

Her parents looked at her.

“What?” Steven asked. “What did she call me?”.

“A handsome and talented basketball player,” their mother said. What a diplomat. Her sling had been off for about three days now, and she could use her left arm, albeit gingerly.

Meg helped herself to some toast.
“Il est un grostesque
—”.

“Is she calling me gross?” Steven demanded, looking from one parent to the other.

Meg nodded.
“Mais oui. Tu es un
—”.

“AU right,” her father said, laughing. “Enough already. Eat your breakfasts.”

“
Forse, è la figlia che non è bella,”
her mother said.

They all looked at her.

“
Francamente, es embarazoso ser visto con ella,”
she said.

“My God, she’s speaking in tongues,” Meg said. “Call a priest!”.

“
Je suis le Président,”
her mother said pleasantly, and winked at Meg’s father.
“Je peux n’importe quoi je veux.”
.

“Mom, what are you saying?” Neal asked, Cheerios box forgotten.

Their mother shrugged. “That you are one of my two favorite sons.”

“But
I’m
the very favorite child,” Meg said.

Steven shook his head. “No way. You’re too ugly.”

“You’re about ten times uglier,” Meg said.

“Yeah, you wish, chick,” he said. “Your whole room’s full of broken mirrors.”

Whoa, good one. Meg saw that he was going to try to help himself to the last English muffin, and carefully timed her movements so that she could snatch it right out from underneath him. “Because you sneak in there when I’m not around.”

“No way,” Steven said—and grabbed the English muffin from her hand. “You’re
so
ugly—” He paused for effect.

“How ugly is she?” Neal asked, already laughing.

“So ugly,” Steven said, “that the Queen was like, throwing up the whole time she was here.”

Their father put down his fork. “Steven, the Queen hasn’t been here.”

“That’s ‘cause she’s scared she might throw up,” Steven said without hesitating, and even Meg had to laugh.

Their mother nodded. “I’m afraid it’s true. I’ve invited her several times.”

Meg stopped eating her cereal. “How come everyone’s picking on me all of a sudden?”.

“Because you’re so ugly,” Steven said.

Meg considered that, then took a bite of toast and jam, following it with a bite of cereal, then chewing to make a very unpleasant mess and opening her mouth to show it to him.

“Stop right there,” her father said, but he didn’t sound very irritated. “You know I don’t like that game.”

Meg closed her mouth and nodded sadly. From across the table, Steven showed her an equally disgusting mouthful, and she laughed so hard that she had to gulp half her orange juice to stop choking.

“Now, just stop it,” her father said. “I really don’t like that.”

“Stop choking?” Meg asked, laughing. “I don’t like it much, either.”

He frowned at her, but she could tell that he wasn’t at all mad. “Try to behave like a mature young woman.”

Steven laughed raucously, chewing his purloined English muffin.

“I notice he didn’t
call you
mature,” Meg said.

Steven shrugged. “That’s ‘cause he didn’t feel like he had to. He knows I’m a man.”

“
Munchkin
man,” Meg said.

Their mother sighed. “Isn’t it about time for all of you to go to school?”.

“Not me!” Neal said.

“No, not you,” their mother agreed. “But, it seems to me that it’s time for your brother and sister to leave.”

“Boy,” Meg said. “Can tell when
we’re
not wanted.”

Steven nodded. “Yeah, really.
Neal’s
the favorite.”

“I am not!” Neal said.

Meg pushed her unfinished cereal away. “Boy, let’s go find an audience who will appreciate us, Steven.”

“Try the zoo,” their father said.

“Wow, they don’t even love us.” Steven clapped Neal on the shoulder. “Take notes on what they say about us, son. We’ll quiz you later.”

“You know, I bet you would,” their mother said thoughtfully.

Meg and Steven laughed evil laughs.

At school, her good mood got better, and she had so much trouble
sitting still—and keeping quiet—in her classes that she got yelled at three times. This amused her even more. The choir was selling Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa cards now, which weren’t as much fun to throw, but they made do with crumpled pieces of paper.

None of their teachers enjoyed this.

At lunch, they were even rowdier, throwing around French fries and Zachary’s olives. They got yelled at some more, and spent the rest of lunch being as dignified and elegant as possible—except when they were laughing like hell. Mr. Murphy got so mad during their Political and Philosophical Thought class that he almost kept them after school, but luckily, he didn’t. Having to call Preston and tell him that she would be late to the interview because she had detention would be kind of embarrassing.

After her agents dropped her off at the private elevator, Meg making jokes with them, she went to change into conservative clothing, and was ready twenty minutes early. She paced up and down the Center Hall, as pleasantly jittery and keyed up as she was before tennis matches on days when she
knew
she was going to play well.

The chief usher intercepted her near the Yellow Oval Room. “Mr. Fielding is on his way upstairs,” he said.

“Oh. Thank you.” She walked—ran—swiftly down to the East Sitting Hall, where they were going to hold the interview this time. Humphrey was asleep on the low table in front of the couch, and she lifted his front paws to dance with him for a few seconds.

“Good afternoon, Miss Powers,” Preston said.

She released Humphrey, who began washing to recover his dignity. She just blushed. “Um, good afternoon.”