Confessions of a First Daughter Read online

  Confessions of a First Daughter

  Cassidy Calloway

  To Megan and Morgan Thie—Dream big and laugh often!

  With special thanks to Kathleen Bolton

  Contents

  Chapter One

  I wonder if my mother ever feels like throwing up…

  Chapter Two

  Of course! How could I have been such a moron?

  Chapter Three

  Ms. Gibson, AOP’s guidance counselor, appeared at my side. She was…

  Chapter Four

  “Denny! What’s going on?” I yelled.

  Chapter Five

  There was a long moment of silence. Mom perched on…

  Chapter Six

  I rushed out of the Oval Office, down the center…

  Chapter Seven

  Morning came too soon, as usual, but the thought of…

  Chapter Eight

  How could this have happened?

  Chapter Nine

  Somehow I got through the rest of the afternoon, though…

  Chapter Ten

  When that fire lit Mom’s eyes, watch out.

  Chapter Eleven

  Something about the way he said “I bet” in relation…

  Chapter Twelve

  Midnight came and went on my googly-eyed digital clock before…

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Because it’ll never work,” Mom said. “Truman and Kennedy didn’t…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mom’s private line chirped again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Luckily, the reception was to be a low-key affair at…

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Secret Agent Man is getting us into Vex? With Prince…

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I told you to keep the fun low-key, Morgan.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “How’d it go with the guidance counselor?” Max asked as…

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Oh my god!” I ran over to him. “You’ve got…

  Chapter Twenty

  The rest of the week passed in a blur, and…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Max entered Mom’s suite and shut the door behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Due to the miracle of the White House staff’s professionalism,…

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Panic exploded through me while Max, under Hannah’s direction, cleared…

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hannah snuck into the bathroom under Secret Service cover, and…

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  We cut through the traffic knotted around Dupont Circle and…

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  I wonder if my mother ever feels like throwing up before she delivers an important speech.

  Breathe. Swallow nausea.

  Just. Breathe.

  I clutched the stage curtain to steady myself and poked my head out so I could scan the empty auditorium. I wasn’t prepared to take center stage just yet. I pulled back, telling myself that I wasn’t making the State of the Union address beamed by satellite to seventy-four countries including the Antarctic Research Station (annual budget $17.5 million to study the effects of global warming on penguin migratory patterns). Nor was I laying the equivalent of a diplomatic smackdown to a terrorist warlord. My speech before the Academy of the Potomac’s student body wouldn’t be enshrined in the Smithsonian Institution next to Lincoln’s top hat and Prince’s electric guitar. I’m not running for president of the United States. My mom already has that job.

  But right now getting elected senior class president seemed a lot more difficult.

  And Mom’s opponent had been the aw-shucks governor of Wyoming. She didn’t have to deal with running against Practically Perfect Brittany Whittaker.

  Backstage lounging in a chair, “Brits,” as her fawning posse calls her, was coolly examining her Wetslicked lips in a jeweled Chanel compact. Snapping the mirror shut, she picked an invisible piece of lint from her designer suit, which was in a tasteful shade of charcoal, of course.

  I really wished I’d listened to my best friend, Hannah, when she suggested shopping for a new outfit. But I was too busy stressing out over this speech and greeting the new Mongolian ambassador with Mom and Dad to shop.

  Now I looked like my grandma dressed in a basic black suit that the White House’s social secretary picked up for me at Staid Fashions or something. It didn’t even fit. But I guess that’s why safety pins were invented.

  I tucked my hair behind my ears. It looked boring, too. I’d let it return to its natural shade of mud brown instead of the magenta I’d been experimenting with. In politics, it’s important to look as neutral as possible. Someone might have a prejudice against magenta, after all.

  Out front, I could hear chairs grumbling and students chatting as the herd entered the auditorium and took their seats. It sucks to have to make a speech to a group that’s basically being forced to hear it. It sucks even more when they’re waiting for you to screw it up, just to enliven another bleak afternoon at AOP. After three years, my classmates know they can count on me to provide regular entertainment value on the goober front.

  Well, not this time. No, sir. Morgan Abbott has her game down today.

  Be prepared. It’s my mom’s favorite mantra, and for once I listened to her. I made a list of the things that could go wrong, and then came up with a Plan B. The secretary of state taught me that little trick.

  Plan B Checklist

  Gym shorts under my skirt (in case the safety pins keeping my skirt around my waist give out).

  Spare notecards in pocket. (Who could forget the mishap in my sophomore year, when I’d forgotten my notecards and had to babble aimlessly for three minutes?)

  Vocal cords limbered. (Those voice-projection exercises from drama class will pay off if the microphone goes on the fritz.)

  Key points scribbled on hand (in case Plans A and B wash out and I go blank).

  Yep. Nothing’s going wrong today.

  Mrs. Hsu, the principal, tapped me on the shoulder. “We’re ready to begin, Morgan.”

  “Great. Fine. Let’s get this party started.”

  Mrs. Hsu gave me a funny look. “You’re not going to be sick, are you?”

  “Maybe later,” I told her.

  “That’s the spirit, kiddo,” she answered absently as we walked over to Brittany. “Brittany? Ready, hon?”

  “Of course.” Brittany eased out of her chair like a cat stretching in the sun. “You look really lovely today, Mrs. Hsu. That red is the perfect shade for you.”

  “Oh? You think so?” Mrs. Hsu smoothed the front of her dress, the one she’d probably been teaching in since 1982, and gave Brittany a wide smile. “Would you like to go first? I’m sure Morgan wouldn’t mind.”

  Mrs. Hsu looked at me.

  “Do you?” she asked.

  “Uh, no. Guess not,” I said, even though I was dying to get my speech over with.

  Brittany’s pink-frosted smirk should have alerted me to the fact that her feral mind had kicked into action. But right then I was crazy-busy reviewing the points of the three-tiered platform my father had helped me develop. We took our cues from the presentations he used to give when he was the CEO of Abbott Technology. He’d made Abbott Technology number 312 among the Fortune 500 companies, so he must’ve been doing something right.

  The bullet points on my notecards, which I’d rewritten last night after stupidly losing my originals, flashed through my mind:

  Improved Academics

  Lobby for more cours
es designed to improve SAT scores, which will carry more weight on college applications

  Positive School Environment

  A proposed World Cultures Celebration Day (Hannah and I could do our Bollywood dance routine in front of the school)

  Diverse Social Opportunities

  More community outreach projects. Recycling soda cans in the cafeteria isn’t the only way we can help right here in the nation’s capital—volunteering to read to kids at the D.C. library’s annual literacy drive is one of countless things we can do.

  Brittany and I walked onto the stage, where we took our seats. The auditorium’s microphone squealed painfully over Mrs. Hsu’s request for everyone to get settled. I glanced over at Special Agent Denny Kublinski, standing in the corner of the auditorium, stage left. Even from here, I could tell that the Venti-sized macchiato he downed at lunch, his third of the day, was making him jittery. It seemed like his Starbucks addiction had increased proportionally with the time he spent assigned to me. As Denny scanned the crowd, his face held no emotion, but I knew he had to be bored out of his mind.

  As I stared out at the sea of faces, a flash of electric blue caught my eye. Hannah, never the wallflower, wore her Anna Sui silk mini with boots dyed a matching neon shade. She tossed the Foxy Brown Afro she was sporting this week and gave me a thumbs-up. I wished she could give me some of her legendary self-confidence. Hannah takes crap from no one, not even the president’s daughter. I think that’s what I love most about her. That and her maniacal urges to make me over à la a Fix This Hot Mess reality show. It’s fun being her guinea pig.

  We both know I need all the help I can get.

  I searched the back of the auditorium where the jocks were known to hang. Sure enough, there was my boyfriend, Konner, doing a fist-bump with one of his basketball buds. He ran a hand through his mane of blond hair, and my stomach flip-flopped. Last week his hair was slicked back and he was all Mr. GQ. This week he was controlled mayhem. I’m fully aware Konner’s the hottest guy at AOP. His going out with me mystified the entire school, myself included.

  Konner got his cell out and began speed texting. I willed him to look up—I needed a little moral support right now—but his eyes never left the phone’s screen.

  “Testing, testing,” Mrs. Hsu said over the shriek of the AV system. “I want to remind everyone that voting takes place tomorrow morning in the cafeteria. Now we’ll hear from our two fine candidates for senior class president. Candidates, you each have five minutes to address your constituents. Brittany, you’re first.”

  Adrenaline surged through me. Here we go.

  Brittany glided to the podium and gracefully lowered the microphone to the level of her mouth.

  Blah, blah, giggle, happy to be given this amazing opportunity, obligatory brownnosing…I tuned Brittany out as I feverishly went over my bullet points for the millionth time. Improved Academics. Positive School Environment. Diverse Social Opportunities.

  “Here it is”—Brittany’s voice rose as if she were about to announce the winner of American Idol—“my platform, my Sweet Strategy for Success….”

  A dozen of Brittany’s posse members, wearing hot-pink T-shirts, started handing out chocolate bars. Hannah took one and let it dangle between her finger and thumb as if it were radioactive plutonium. She held it up for me to see.

  My eyes zeroed in on the acid-pink custom wrapper. Huge, black block lettering blared:

  IMPROVED ACADEMICS

  POSITIVE SCHOOL ENVIRONMENT

  DIVERSE SOCIAL OPPORTUNITIES

  The realization of what had happened ran me over like a Jeep Wrangler.

  Omigod.

  Brittany Whittaker had stolen my election platform.

  Chapter Two

  Of course! How could I have been such a moron?

  The incident in AOP’s tech center yesterday flashed through my mind: Brittany and a trio of her minions knocking over my backpack; her insincere apologies while helping me pick up the mess. She’d even complimented my choice of T-shirt that day: Kung-Fu Hamster.

  Hadn’t I learned from my mother to expect, even plan for, dirty tricks in politics? But there’s a difference between shady antics and outright theft.

  I listened in horror to Brittany’s honey-glazed voice ooze all over my platform.

  “My first Sweet Strategy—I call it the Godiva—is to lobby the school’s administration to offer more courses designed to improve SAT scores, which will carry more weight on college applications. Not everyone is Ivy League material. They need all the help they can get.” Here she glanced over to where I sat, frozen, and gave me a pitying look through her perfectly Maybellined lashes.

  Out in the audience, I saw Hannah’s jaw sag. Even she couldn’t believe Brittany’s blatant thievery, and Hannah was the one who called Brittany the evil love child of Lord Voldemort and June Cleaver.

  Mentally, I IM’ed her:

  CookieMonster: OMGAAAWD!!! Whatamigonna do?

  Fashionista: Dunno. U got more notecards?

  Obviously, the answer was a big fat NO.

  Brittany sailed on. “Our school environment is also important. Security is such a concern these days. And in Washington, D.C., it’s true that certain special people have their own Secret Service agent. But ordinary people like you and me have the right to safety that’s not at the expense of the taxpayer.”

  Over on stage left, Denny adjusted his earpiece. I doubted he realized he was about to become a major obstacle to my election to class president.

  Numb, I listened to Brittany finish delivering my platform to the entire senior class, even down to the World Cultures Celebration Day. Mrs. Hsu beamed at her and Brittany blushed when the auditorium erupted into applause and whistles. Her bubblegum posse chanted her name and then tossed Hershey’s Kisses in the air to renewed cheers.

  You know that moment when you realize that everything in your life has been leading to one point? A point at which you could either blow it big-time or rise to the challenge? This was my moment:

  Class president or class dork.

  Gracefully, Brittany sat down next to me and demurely folded her manicured hands together.

  “Top that, fat ass,” she hissed. “Not even Mommy President can save you now.”

  My scathing comeback to Brittany would have to wait. Brits had just given me an idea. Think: WWPAD—What Would President Abbott Do? I rose and approached the lectern. Mrs. Hsu was having a tough time getting the room to settle down, but the Hershey’s Kisses helped as people started to stuff their faces.

  I set my notecards on the podium, unclipped the mic, and moved to the edge of the stage. I’d watched my mom do this hundreds of times. Talk to people like they are your friends. Talk with them, not at them. And open with a joke…

  “Let’s give Brittany a round of applause for bringing the treats, folks. I know the chicken parm served in the cafeteria today skirted the line between food and science experiment.”

  Laughter, a scattering of claps.

  I took a deep breath. “Look, you and I know the deal. You’re expecting me to stand up here and give you a bunch of campaign promises that have been focus-grouped to find out which ones will gain the maximum support. Getting chicken parm off the menu would yield votes from the anti-chicken-slash-vegetarian-slash-easily-nauseated demographic.”

  More laughs. I felt my muscles loosen.

  “But I’m not going to do that. You know why?”

  I let the moment hang. Just like Mom would.

  “Because we all know you can’t trust politicians.”

  The room had gone quiet. I had their attention now.

  “We all want a better life. We want tasty cafeteria food, more social activities, and an opportunity to do good in the world. We want a chance to get into the college of our choice. But you know what?”

  Silence.

  “No one can promise to give that to you, least of all a politician. You have to get it yourself.”

  I cocked my head to one side and
raised my free hand. This was more than WWPAD. I was really hitting my stride. I was Morgan Abbott, daughter of President Sara Abbott, the first female, and youngest-elected, president in American history. I was one of a long line of women who defied the odds. My mother’s campaign slogan came to my lips.

  “Change starts with one person and one person only: you.”

  All eyes were glued on me, and for once I didn’t feel weird. I felt great. Like I’d found my calling.

  “I’ll only make one promise to you. That you’ll have a memorable senior year. And if you honor me by electing me your senior class president, we’ll figure out how to make that happen together.”

  It was so quiet, you could hear the air conditioner hum. For one awful second, I thought I might have bored them into a coma. Then Hannah punched the air and started clapping, and a groundswell of applause rose and filled the auditorium. Soon everyone was standing. Well, except for Brittany’s pink witches cabal. They looked like they were about to retch up the toadstools they’d had for lunch. I saw Brittany wrinkle her nose as if she’d stepped in dog poo.

  I felt a flush creep up my cheeks. Maybe I had pulled this off after all.

  I reclipped the microphone, then picked up my useless notecards and shoved them hard into the waistband of my skirt.

  Big mistake.

  The notecards went in and the pin I’d used to hold up my skirt popped open, stabbing me in my waist. I clutched my side, trying to hold back a wail of pain, but at the same time I noticed that I’d started peeing notecards. They dribbled to my feet, where I promptly slipped on them. As I went down, I grabbed for the podium, which left my skirt free to puddle around my ankles…and it did just that, while the glass of water on the podium tipped over onto the front of my blouse.

  Applause turned to laughter.

  “Classic Abbott!” someone yelled.

  Great. Leave it to me to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory.

  Agonized, I glanced at Hannah. She stared at me in horror.

  Then I remembered another rule of Mom’s: When there’s disaster looming, step in front of the speeding train, wave a warning, and do your best to avert a wreck. If you’re lucky, you can prevent the train from derailing. Or if all else fails, at least you’ll die trying.