Confessions of a First Daughter Page 13

  “Morgan?” Hannah broke into my thoughts. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  Max stood at the door with his hands behind his back, Secret Service–style. Ever the professional. But his words were anything but.

  “Morgan. Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Max entered Mom’s suite and shut the door behind him. “Do you have any idea what havoc your antics are causing down below?”

  “It’s not my fault, Max! It just…happened!”

  “Just happened? Just happened?”

  Holy guacamole. Max was livid.

  “Calm down, Max—”

  “How can I calm down when you basically hijacked a White House function and moved it to my mother’s homeless shelter?”

  “She seems okay with it,” I muttered defiantly.

  Max’s face turned red. “Of course she would! That shelter is her life. I spent half of Wednesday night trying to get her to the emergency room so she could get stitches in her arm, and the other half trying to keep my job—which is to protect YOU!”

  He rubbed the back of his neck in agitation. “I almost got fired because of the breach of protocol. I’m barely hanging on to this detail as it is. I don’t need any more problems, Morgan.”

  Oh.

  “C’mon, Max.” I had to lighten the atmosphere between us. “Moving the banquet to your mom’s shelter can’t be that bad. Think of all the good we’re doing.”

  I actually thought the blood vessel pulsing in his neck might pop. “Let me break it down for you, Morgan,” he said with exaggerated patience. “The Secret Service has gone into level-four action to sweep the Northside Homeless Advocacy Shelter for tonight’s unscheduled event. Normally it takes at least forty-eight hours to secure a location for the president! The kitchen is in an uproar and half the chefs want to quit. The White House butler is having a nervous breakdown because he was just informed that the banquet he and his staff have worked for over A WEEK to set up in the East Room—complete with Kennedy AND Eisenhower china—is being moved to a run-down homeless shelter.”

  I started to hyperventilate.

  “Chill out, Max,” Hannah interjected. “She didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “Of course she didn’t,” Max said sardonically. “She never means for anything crazy to happen to her. It just does. No wonder she’s gone through three different agent details in the past year.”

  Ouch. That hurt. But what could I say? It was true.

  “Maybe it’ll all work out,” I managed to squeak out. “I think your mom is amazing. So is the work she does.”

  Max made a visible effort to calm himself. “She is amazing. But my mom isn’t brokering a secret peace deal between two warring African military juntas while trying to prevent nuclear proliferation. That plan is in jeopardy now because you’re leaving The Bubble to go to my mother’s shelter, where you could be exposed for impersonating the president.”

  “Mom should be back by then,” I started, but my explanation was cut short by the buzz of the presidential com. “It’s Humberto,” I said, glancing at the LCD screen. “Thank god. I’ll get him to put the kibosh on the whole thing.”

  Easier said than done. Humberto told me to hold tight until he got back from Camp David. By the time he arrived at Mom’s suite, it seemed like he’d aged about twenty years since that morning.

  “Okay, let’s go into damage-control mode.” Humberto checked his BlackBerry and ticked down the list of events for the night with the stylus. “Plan A is to cancel the event—”

  YESSSSS.

  “—which we can’t do because all the major cable networks and C-SPAN will be covering it live. If we cancel, it’ll look like you—I mean, your mother—doesn’t really care about the homeless. The talking point on the Sunday political chat shows will be that the whole thing was a diversion to distract from the president’s failure to broker a deal between General Mfuso and Bishop Welak.”

  NOOOO.

  Humberto pecked at the screen of his BlackBerry again with an air of someone used to putting out fires. “Plan B is to roll with it. We have no choice. We’ve rescheduled the press conference for after the dinner to give Sara plenty of time to get up to speed.”

  Humberto snapped his PDA shut and headed to the door. “But your mom is running late so you’ll have to impersonate her for the first hour or so until she gets there. And you better be pretty convincing tonight because if word of this swap leaks, at the very least it’ll be the end of your mother’s administration and her political career.”

  Yikes.

  “I’ll be ready,” I said to his back with more confidence than I felt.

  “Let’s hope so.” Humberto swept out of the room.

  Hannah draped an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t stress, Morgan. You can do it. I know you can. Plus I’m gonna make the president look kick-ass tonight.”

  I hugged her back. “Thanks, Hannah. But not too kick-ass. Remember, it’s my mom we’re talking about.”

  “Trust me. I can make a boring power suit look fly.” She headed into the walk-in closet muttering something about blue blouses with brown suits, leaving me alone with Max.

  The silence grew pretty loud between us. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. “Say something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Yell at me some more about how much I screw everything up. About how this plan is never going to work. That I’ve put my mother’s political career in jeopardy. Anything.”

  Max sighed heavily before running his hand through his hair in a way that made my stomach tingle. “I should yell at you some more…but I can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  “No. Because in truth, I think you’re a pretty amazing person.”

  “I’m…what?”

  Max had been gazing at me with a slight smile. “Despite the fact that you drive me completely nuts and are the biggest security challenge in the entire Secret Service detail, I have to tell you that I really admire what you’re doing.”

  Warmth crept through me. “You do?”

  “Absolutely. You’re helping your mom bring peace to Africa. And despite your antics, you’re helping my mom feed the homeless.”

  He came right up to me. “I’m proud to be the one protecting you, Morgan. Even if you’re a walking disaster sometimes.”

  I gave a shaky laugh. Max’s long eyelashes swept down over his blue eyes. I leaned in. He’s going to kiss me, I thought.

  His com chirped and the soft expression on his face disappeared as he stepped back. “Jackson here,” he said into his wireless mouthpiece.

  My heart was booming against my chest.

  He turned back to me and I thought for a moment he was going to talk about what almost happened. He didn’t. “Come on, Morgan, it’s showtime. You need to get ready.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Due to the miracle of the White House staff’s professionalism, when the guests arrived at the South Portico for the banquet they were whisked off in a fleet of buses to the Northside Homeless Advocacy Center as if the whole thing had been planned for months.

  The guests—members of Congress, titans of American industry—had dressed in their best for a White House banquet. I tried not to think how funny they would look milling around Trisha’s shabby building in their expensive business suits and couture dresses, rubbing shoulders with the homeless. The president must keep a straight face in every situation. Even the hilarious ones.

  After I texted Konner that I’d be late to the dance and I’d catch up with him later (he wasn’t as bummed as I thought he’d be), I’d arrived at the homeless shelter in the Big Beast, aka the seven-car presidential motorcade, early to avoid having to make a grand entrance. Secret Service agents had set up a security station at the entrance and were sweeping guests with metal detectors.

  I steered clear of a huge floral arrangement of my mom’s signature white lilies displayed at the end of the buffet t
able. I’d forgotten that the social secretary made sure lilies were present at President Abbott’s off-site events—that is, the ones that I wouldn’t be attending. The last thing I needed was the disaster of a runny nose and itchy eyes to complicate my impersonation of Mom.

  After “meeting” Trisha Jackson (she was over the moon) as the president, I insisted I help serve the buffet, mostly because I didn’t want to talk to anyone of importance, like the speaker of the house and my dad’s business partners. Humberto agreed. Not only was it a prudent move, but it had the advantage of being a terrific photo op. Behind the safety of chafing trays, I dished up Nigel’s jerked pulled pork to an array of street people and gussied-up guests.

  The shelter regulars didn’t look all that pleased with their new dinner guests. I suppose they didn’t appreciate the metal detectors or the security searches, either. They seemed to keep to themselves and many opted to take their trays to a private dining room Trish had set up for those guests who preferred to eat in peace.

  Humberto hovered discreetly behind me, just in case any awkward situations cropped up. One did, in the shape of the opposition leader, Chet Whittaker, who came to my station for a splat of Caribbean coleslaw to go on his biodegradable plate.

  “Clever idea,” he drawled in his southern accent. “No one would suspect this is a political stunt.” An easy smile showed his capped teeth.

  Humberto leaned toward me to whisper an appropriate reply, but without waiting, I said: “Well, if you’d quit blocking my micro-loan initiative for the poor, I wouldn’t have to resort to ‘stunts.’” I smiled sweetly, too. “Chet.”

  Humberto’s jaw clicked shut. Congressman Whittaker got the hint and moved on. I wouldn’t let Brittany’s dad intimidate me any more than his daughter did.

  The volume inside the echoey building rose, and I couldn’t help grinning when I saw Tobias and the CEO of Wall Street’s biggest hedge fund arguing good-naturedly. Trisha was running around making contacts. Max watched his mom fondly for a moment before he caught my eye.

  It was going to be okay, the look said. We were going to get through this. He smiled at me.

  I returned the smile and fought a quivery feeling.

  As I tried to get my heart to beat normally again, I heard a familiar high-pitched voice, whining a little distance away from me.

  “What is this? Paper plates? Plastic forks? I thought I was going to the White House for dinner, not charity time at the soup kitchen. Ugh, I hope I don’t get a communicable disease.”

  Brittany Whittaker. Cripes.

  And like the spoiled brat that she was, she never shut up. “Ew, that man over there has no front teeth! This place stinks and I think I saw a cockroach. God, I can’t believe I’m going to be late for homecoming because of this. You owe me big time, Daddy.”

  “Simmer down, sugar.” Congressman Whittaker turned a shade of cooked salmon when he realized I’d overheard his daughter’s griping. He laughed uncomfortably. “Heh, that’s teenage girls for you, eh, Madam President? They think the world revolves around them. I’m sure you understand, given that you have a daughter the same age as my Brittany.”

  I probably should have smiled and agreed with Congressman Whittaker. Yesiree, looking back on the moment, I should have kept it zipped and maybe everything would have turned out differently.

  But instead I said, “Well, Chet, my daughter, Morgan, might be the same age as Brits, but she wouldn’t dream of insulting her hosts with an inflated sense of entitlement.”

  Brittany’s mouth hung open wide enough to expose the piece of gum she’d been smacking. Congressman Whittaker’s brows rose up to meet the front of his hairpiece. “Brits?” he said.

  Uh-oh…

  I tried to cover. “Yes, isn’t that your nickname in school, Brittany? At least that’s what my daughter calls you. She talks about you all the time.”

  “She does?” Brittany’s face brightened as she flashed her signature suck-up smile. “Morgan talks about me? With you?”

  “She says she really admires your…political skills,” I fibbed.

  I glanced around desperately and caught Humberto’s eye. Help!

  He hurried over. “Important phone call for you, Madam President. You should take it immediately.”

  I gave the Whittakers an apologetic smile. “Duty calls,” I said, and got the heck out of there.

  “Thanks, Humberto.” I sighed in relief.

  “Yeah, yeah.” But he grinned at me.

  Max approached in the quick-casual way that Secret Service agents train for six months in order to perfect. I didn’t like the look on his face. “Foxfire’s detail just called.”

  Foxfire. Mom’s Secret Service code name.

  “The talks went on longer than expected,” Max said, listening carefully into his earpiece. “They’ve left Camp David but they’re running late.”

  “Well, that’s a good sign, isn’t it?” Elation raced through me. Mom was going to pull off the biggest challenge of her administration. GO, MOM!

  Humberto and Max exchanged glances. “It means that you’re going to have to deliver the press briefing,” Humberto said.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I kept waiting for Max to say, “Yeah, just kidding.”

  But he didn’t.

  I rubbed my left ear, Mom-style. “Did anyone see the white-chocolate gingersnaps?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “You’ve certainly perfected your impersonation of the president,” Humberto remarked wryly, handing me a BlackBerry with some notes for the press conference.

  “I sure hope so,” I muttered.

  “I brought someone in to help you,” Max said. “We need her expertise if this is to be successful.”

  I turned. “Hannah!” I cried, about to throw my arms around her, but then I remembered who I was impersonating. I extended my hand instead.

  “Hey, now!” Hannah shook my hand all formal-like. “I heard someone’s going to give a press conference to be broadcast from coast to coast. I’ll get you camera ready.”

  “Thanks, Hannah. I know you’re missing out on the homecoming dance.”

  “Pfft. Don’t worry about it. That’s what friends are for.”

  Over Hannah’s shoulder, I saw Brittany Whittaker eyeing the two of us suspiciously. Then she started toward us.

  Without thinking, I shrank behind the buffet table.

  Big. Mistake.

  In all the excitement, I’d forgotten to tell Humberto to get rid of the lily displays. Immediately, itchiness prickled my eyes and my nose started running like crazy. Oh geez, this was the last thing I needed right now!

  “What the—” Hannah flinched as I blasted a sneeze.

  A couple of shelter residents inched away.

  “Hannah—help!” I felt my eye makeup running down my cheeks. Another violent sneeze, and the jig would be up.

  “Bathroom.” Hannah firmly steered me away from the buffet.

  Through the watery haze of my allergy-induced tears, I caught sight of Brittany watching us.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Panic exploded through me while Max, under Hannah’s direction, cleared the shelter’s closetlike (and let’s be honest, smelly) bathroom for presidential use. He set the Secret Service detail to guard the door while he fetched Hannah’s makeup kit.

  “Brittany knows I’m not the president.” I mopped my nose with a wad of industrial-grade toilet paper. “She knows!”

  “Morgan, maintain.” Hannah took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. “Brittany Whittaker doesn’t know jack. Her teeny tiny mind can’t handle anything more complicated than gossip and brownnosing.”

  “Yeah, but being evil is second nature to her. She knows I’m the one allergic to lilies, not my mom.”

  “She’s not going to put two and two together. And if she did, she’d come up with five.”

  I spluttered out a reluctant laugh.

  “Even if she did figure it out,” Hannah went on, “what’s she going to do? Wh
o’d believe her? She’d look like an idiot if she ran around claiming that you were impersonating your mother. I’m in on the secret, and I don’t even believe it sometimes.”

  I began to calm down. Hannah made perfect sense. Right. Who would believe Brittany anyway?

  A few seconds later, Max arrived with Hannah’s makeup kit. “The press conference is set,” he said through the cracked door. “We’re just waiting for the president.”

  “Tell them I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Mentally I shoved Brittany out of my head and reviewed the talking points Humberto had given me, thankful that I’d gotten used to memorizing lines on the fly from drama class. Concentrate, Morgan! I needed to pull off this press briefing and the biggest role of my life. So much was at stake: my mom’s secret peace mission; our swapped identities; a chance to breathe life into Mom’s micro-loan initiative, which would give Trisha Jackson the tools to help those who needed it most.

  It all hinged on this press conference.

  It all hinged on the Tornado.

  I emerged from the bathroom, freshly made up.

  Humberto met me at the door. “Don’t forget to link the micro-loan program to your mom’s domestic platform.”

  “Okay—”

  “Try to get a mention in about urban health-care centers.”

  “Got it.”

  “Close with your mom’s slogan.”

  “Check.”

  I headed to my Secret Service detail, waiting to lead me to the stage.

  “And don’t forget to breathe!” Humberto hissed after me.

  At his prompting, I took a big breath. Feverishly, I reviewed the talking points one more time and tried not to remember the disaster I made of my last big speech in front of the senior class. Wig on tight. Smile of confidence plastered on my face. Heart pounding like a drum. Check, check, and check.

  The back half of the shelter had been roped off for the press briefing. A small stage complete with flags and a podium stood under the glare of temporary stage lights. Chairs for the press lined the floor in front of the stage, but the banquet guests—rich and poor alike—gathered around to hear “my” speech.