Confessions of a First Daughter Page 12

  I remembered Mom mentioning at the press conference how the opposition party, led by Brittany’s dad, Chet Whittaker, killed the micro-loan program. I made a mental note to talk to Mom about it. After she solved the problem of nuclear proliferation in Africa, that is.

  Coms buzzing with Secret Service lingo chattered out in the hall. Max entered the kitchen, followed by a female agent I recognized from my father’s detail.

  The agent’s eyes swept the kitchen with the Secret Service once-over. “You brought Tornado here?” she said to Max in an are-you-nuts? tone.

  “I wanted to come,” I blurted out when Max didn’t reply. He’d gone all stoic and agenty like he knew the hammer was going to drop and the only thing he could do was let it conk him on the head. “I made him take me here.”

  Max winced.

  The agent paid no attention to me. She put her hand on the com button. “Tornado’s on the move. Bring the Beast up.”

  “Wait a minute—” I interjected, as the agent began herding me out of the kitchen.

  I didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye to Trisha because, before I knew it, I was inside the darkened interior of the limo. It drove off. Without Max.

  Usually the agents are pretty good about keeping me in the dark when something was going on. But all the way home I could hear their whispers about Special Agent Jackson’s breach of protocol. Procedures had been violated. The president’s daughter was placed in a vulnerable situation.

  In other words, Max had gotten into serious trouble. Over me. He might be demoted. Or worse—fired.

  I felt terrible.

  That evening I wandered around the family wing, restless. I flipped on the TV to a cable political show. The two guests were arguing about Mom’s Africa policy. The situation there was rapidly getting worse. Innocent people were being slaughtered on both sides. The region was at a standstill. American interests compromised. And all of it was being blamed on my mother for canceling the peace summit.

  I wanted to call the show’s hotline and tell them that my mom was working her butt off to bring the warring juntas to the table. But they wouldn’t be interested in hearing it. Cheap shots and political hit-jobs brought ratings.

  Besides, Mom and I had a plan.

  I just hoped the “Tornado” didn’t wreck Saturday like I always did.

  Chapter Twenty

  The rest of the week passed in a blur, and Saturday morning Mom woke me super early to get ready for our swap.

  I rubbed sleep out of my eyes. “Have you been up all night?”

  “Pretty much,” she answered. Amazingly, her exhaustion didn’t show…those youth genes of Grandma Fortescue’s were working overtime.

  Our plan today was pretty simple: The president (aka me) would remain in the residence wing with the pesky “bug” that had flared up again. Aides would communicate to the president via emails and coms to avoid getting sick.

  “I’ve made notes on last week’s legislation agenda,” Mom continued. “All you have to do is send them down to Padma throughout the day so it’ll seem like you’re working, and she’ll funnel them to the appropriate staff members for you. It’s the same with emails. I draft them and she sends them out. Humberto will be with me at Camp David, but that’s just a quick helicopter ride away if you have a true emergency. If anyone calls—”

  “I’ll tell them I’ve just been violently ill and to call tomorrow.”

  A smile played around Mom’s lips. “Maybe you could say you’re still feeling unwell and would like to stay in for the day.”

  Yep, that sounded better.

  “By the way, there’s a package for you. It arrived last night.” Mom handed me a distinctive pink-and-green-striped box from Mimi’s boutique. “What did you buy at Mimi’s?”

  “Nothing, actually.” I opened the box. The violet silk minidress lay nestled inside layers of tissue wrap.

  Knock ’em dead, said the note on a piece of Mimi’s pink stationery.

  In all the excitement about going to the homeless shelter, meeting Max’s mom, getting him in trouble, and tackling the task of impersonating Mom, I totally forgot about the homecoming dance tonight.

  What was happening to me? My brain was mush.

  I quickly told Mom about the dance and how I’d be going with Konner. “But I can cancel if you need me to. Helping you with the Africa peace accords is way more important.”

  “Hmm, you’re willing to cancel on Konner?” Mom raised a brow. “Actually, I don’t think you have to. I should be back from the talks at Camp David in time for you to go to the dance. I need to be at a banquet tonight anyway, and our African guests need to be on their private jets home.”

  Oh yeah. Tonight was the American Business Leadership Council banquet that Nigel had been slaving over for the last week.

  I arranged to meet Mom in the White House residence around six that night, which would give us both plenty of time to get ready for our post-summit parties. Then I headed down to the kitchen. Max had been unusually humorless and by the book with me since the incident at his mom’s homeless shelter—well, more by the book than usual—and I hated it. A plan brewed in my head to get us back on friendlier footing.

  Nigel had already arrived at the early hour and was organizing the day’s prep. “Morgan, bit busy today. Can you get your own breakfast, luv? We’ve got to melon-ball fifty watermelons by noon for the banquet tonight.”

  “Of course! As a matter of fact, that’s the reason I’m here. Don’t worry, I won’t get in the way of your staff.”

  “Are you whipping up your famous blueberry muffins?” asked Maria, the head sous chef.

  “Yep.”

  “Delicioso. Save me one, would you?”

  I promised I would. Blueberry muffins were my specialty.

  I was just pulling a batch out of one of the ovens when Max strode in at the beginning of his shift.

  Time to put my plan into action.

  “Would you like a muffin?” I asked him sweetly.

  Like my mom, Max looked like he had only had about three hours of sleep last night. Unlike my mom, he couldn’t hide his exhaustion. He’d nicked himself shaving and his hair was rumpled. In fact, he looked like a college freshman who pulled his first all-nighter. “No, thanks,” he answered, and headed to the coffee urn.

  Nigel guffawed from the prep table. “You may want to rethink that, mate. Morgan’s a bloody good cook.”

  Rather than argue, Max took a steaming muffin. “Mmm, it is good,” he said around a mouthful.

  “You sound surprised,” I said, amused.

  “I am, actually.”

  “Max, I know I’ve said this before, but I’m reeeeallly sorry about forcing you to take me to your mom’s shelter. Sometimes I get too amped up and forget about the rules.”

  “It’s all right, Morgan. You don’t have to apologize for who you are.”

  “I just wanted to help you out—”

  “Morgan, it’s not your job to help me with my personal problems. You’re my protectee, nothing more. Nothing less.”

  I stared at him, speechless.

  “On Wednesday, I forgot about that,” he continued, and scrubbed his face with a weary hand. “But don’t worry, it won’t happen again. Thanks for the muffin.”

  He headed out of the kitchen with the half-eaten muffin, probably over to the West Wing and the Secret Service offices down in the basement.

  I took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe how much his words hurt. I was just a job to him. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Nigel bumped into me on his way to the walk-in refrigerator with a tray of mini-quiches. “I hate to ask you this, Morgan—”

  “I know. You need me out of the way.” I surveyed the kitchen. Five chefs labored over an impressive array of ingredients: farm-fresh vegetables, exotic fruits, seafood caught last night and shipped within hours to the White House’s provisioning center where it could be inspected for safety and quality. Beef from the Rocky Mountain plains, and quail from
a special game farm in Virginia. The pastry chefs were creating a marzipan wonder in the pastry kitchen: a mini rendering of the White House.

  I thought about what Max’s mother would be serving the residents in her homeless shelter. Some sort of meatless pasta, maybe. Canned peaches if they were lucky.

  Escorted up the back stairwell by Max, Hannah arrived an hour later to transform me into Mom. Though no one was supposed to actually see the president today, better safe than sorry. You never knew when an overanxious aide or staff member might burst in unexpectedly, and Abbotts always kept a Plan B in their hip pocket.

  We snuck into Mom’s bedroom and pulled a couple chairs up to her dust-free, crumb-free desk. Pens and pencils had been placed in a coffee cup that said NO. 1 MOM next to her open laptop computer. Paper clips had their own little tray.

  “I should try to get organized,” I said. “Then maybe Ms. Gibson wouldn’t get on my case so much.”

  “She does really seem to have it out for you.” Hannah picked up a framed photo of me, Mom, and Dad at the Grand Canyon last year. What the photo didn’t show was the detail of Secret Service agents standing just outside the shot. “You should send Gibson an email from the president telling her to cut you some slack.”

  “Yeah!” I activated Mom’s laptop with a swipe of my finger—another innovation from Abbott Technology—and played along.

  TO: june.gibson@AOP.edu

  FROM: s.abbott@whitehouse.gov

  SUBJECT: Morgan’s grades

  Ms. Gibson,

  It’s come to my attention that my daughter, Morgan, has been called to your office twice since the beginning of school for her poor grades. As you know, being the daughter of the president of the United States can be stressful and can impact her concentration levels. How about you give her a break? I know she’ll do her best to get her grades up in future.

  Sincerely,

  Sara Abbott

  President

  United States of America

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

  Washington, D.C.

  “Classic!” Hannah crowed. “That would totally scare Gibson.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Quickly I deleted the email. “Doesn’t seem like much intimidates her. Anyway, I guess I should get to work. I’ve got a country to run. Time for you to transform me from teen tragedy to world leader.”

  “As you wish, Madam President.” Hannah exaggerated a bow and then broke out her makeup bag and got to work while I sat at Mom’s vanity and tried not to grimace at the wig tape Hannah wrapped around my hairline.

  “Are you nervous?” Hannah asked as she combed a snarl out of the wig she was about to put on my head.

  “Nervous?”

  “Yeah, you haven’t said a word in over five seconds.”

  I snorted out a laugh. “Hannah!”

  Silence.

  “Come on, Morg, give. Something has been bothering you the last couple of days.”

  “It’s nothing. Just…Max has been really cold to me ever since the homeless shelter incident.” Of course I’d filled Hannah in on the grim details earlier.

  Hannah stopped mid-comb. “Really? I thought he was kinda crushing on you.”

  “Pffft. That was your imagination.” And mine, too, I added silently.

  Hannah shook her head. “No. I’m pretty good about knowing stuff like that. Plus, you don’t see how he stares at you when you’re not looking.”

  I squashed a surge of hope. Maybe Max did like me at one point—but that point had passed. He made that clear. I was a job to him. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  “Let’s forget about Max,” Hannah said quickly, studying my sad expression. “You’ve got the awesome power of the presidency at your fingertips, which has got to be way more of a rush than worrying about what some guy thinks of you. What would you do if this gig was yours permanently?”

  Hannah was trying her best to make me feel better. Aww, Hans! “Okay. If I were president, what would I do…I’d twist arms until the micro-loan program for the poor got the votes needed in Congress, for one. Or I’d make the White House feed the people at the homeless shelter instead of the executives of the American Business Leadership Council. Like those guys need another free meal.”

  “No kidding,” Hannah replied. “Half my mom’s expense report consists of restaurant tabs she’s picked up. I heard her complaining about it yesterday.” Both of Hannah’s parents were well-connected D.C. lobbyists. Their main occupation consisted of wooing influential powerbrokers.

  I pulled Mom’s laptop toward me. The screensaver dissolved to the email page I’d opened earlier. “I’d send those fat cat business leaders to the shelter and force them to see how the other half lives.” Idly I typed an email under the president’s address: “President Abbott requests that the ABLC venue be changed to the Northside Homeless Advocacy Center….”

  “Hey, you’d better stop messing around with that,” Hannah warned.

  I slammed the laptop shut, knowing it would automatically turn off. “You’re right. I don’t need any trouble today. Let’s order a movie. That’s something we can do without putting the entire planet on alert!”

  I threw on one of Mom’s tracksuits and emailed Padma one of the preapproved legislative drafts Mom had worked on last night to keep up the charade that “the president” was upstairs working. Then Hannah and I ordered up a sappy epic love story, which we watched on the flat-screen TV from the comfort of my parents’ king-sized bed. The phone rang a couple of times—all incoming calls from the kitchen. It was probably one of Nigel’s assistant chefs calling to see what “the president” wanted for lunch, but we were too choked up watching the movie to even think about food. I let Mom’s voice mail pick it up.

  We were still wiping our eyes as the credits rolled when Mom’s phone rang yet again.

  “Don’t answer it,” Hannah sniffled.

  “But I have to,” I said, catching the name on the LCD screen. I blew my nose. The last three hours had just flown by. “It’s Sally Kempton, the communications director. Don’t worry, I can handle it.”

  I cleared my throat and hit the com button. “Sara Abbott here.”

  “Sara, you’re a genius!” Sally’s voice sang out over the com. “Moving the ABLC banquet to a homeless shelter is a terrific idea. It will show the American people your strong commitment to your domestic platform, which will offset the hit you’ve taken over the Africa debacle. You’ll go up six points in the polls, at least!”

  “Hey, Sally, hold on—”

  “I’ve blasted a media release about tonight, and it’s already landed on the afternoon-drive talk radio segments. People are going nuts for this plan!”

  What!

  My mind jumbled. “But—but how is this possible?”

  “Well, Padma did have to work pretty quickly to pull this all off but after she saw your email and sent your message to Nigel Bellingham—”

  “My email?”

  “Yes. You’re still happy with this protocol, aren’t you? Padma always copies your drafts to relevant staff members as per your instructions. The kitchen called for clarification until they realized that you were probably knocked out from cold medicine.”

  All those unanswered phone calls. What had I done?

  Sally plowed on, oblivious to my shocked silence. “Nigel wasn’t all that crazy about the change, but he spoke to the social secretary about rejiggering the arrangements for tonight at your request. Of course, Clovis didn’t loooove the idea of moving the banquet to a homeless shelter, either, but she’s a pro. They’re making it happen.”

  “Hang on, hang on.” I put my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and turned to Hannah, practically frozen in panic. In about one millisecond, I was going to have a total and complete meltdown. Padma sent the draft? I was just fooling around with that email about changing the venue of the ABLC banquet. I didn’t mean for Padma to see it, let alone send it out!

  Oh god. What was Mo
m gonna say?

  “What’s going on?” Hannah mouthed. She’d taken one look at my face and scrambled off the bed to hover next to me.

  “I’ve accidently moved the banquet,” I whispered back.

  I swallowed despite my dry mouth. “Is there any way we can stop this?” I whispered into the mouthpiece to Sally.

  “What’s that, Sara? I didn’t catch that last bit. Hold on, there’s a call coming in for you. It’s Trisha Jackson on the line. Do you want to take the call?”

  “Well, I—”

  In a second, Trisha Jackson’s voice entered the line. “This is truly an honor, Madam President. We can’t thank you enough for all you’re doing to help our residents.”

  “Uh…”

  “You know, last week I thought I’d have to close the shelter down for good. Funding just isn’t available these days. We’ve been struggling for so long to keep the doors open. But I believe in miracles.”

  Think fast, think fast! “You do?”

  “What you’re doing will increase the profile of the shelter and help us raise more money. It’ll keep more families off the streets. Thank you, Madam President. Thank you.”

  Trisha’s voice choked up.

  What could I say? Forget it, Trisha, it’s just another horrible mistake courtesy of Morgan Abbott, the biggest screwup in Washington, D.C.?

  Sally got back on the line. “I’ve got to get this Jackson woman on a media tour ASAP. She’ll get you two more percentage points, at least. I’m telling you, Sara, this idea is genius!”

  Oh, it was something, all right. But genius wasn’t the word I’d use.

  Somehow I got rid of Sally and hit my mom’s private cell phone number with shaky fingers.

  The call went straight to voice mail. Humberto’s, too. They were probably deep in a delicate negotiation with the African juntas.

  I sent Humberto a text message:

  CALL ME FASTER THAN WARP SPEED OR I CAN’T BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN TO THE ABLC’S ANNUAL BANQUET.

  I couldn’t bring myself to leave the same message for Mom. She had enough problems as it was. And she had trusted me not to mess everything up this time. This was a disaster.