Confessions of a First Daughter Read online

  Led by Max, a team of Secret Service agents cleared a path through the gathering for my entrance.

  Adrenaline gushed through me as I took the stage.

  Like Mom says: showtime.

  “Thank you all,” I said once the applause died down. I remembered to cock my head to the side.

  “You may have wondered about the change in venue for the White House’s annual tribute to the American Business Leadership Council.”

  My eyes swept the crowd. Heads nodded. Some vigorously. Some really vigorously.

  Over by stage left, Humberto uncharacteristically chewed at a thumbnail.

  “Sometimes seeing is believing,” I continued. “And I believe we’ve neglected to see what has been right under our noses. Homelessness. Hunger. Right here in the richest nation on earth, and in the shadow of political power.

  “I’ve been trying to address the inequalities in our great nation. Micro-loan programs, grants for children in poverty, urban health-care centers, these initiatives have long been the cornerstone of my administration. But the other day, someone opened my eyes to the fact that I haven’t been doing enough.”

  I let the moment hang.

  “Trisha Jackson, the director of this amazing program, and countless other unsung heroes, have shown that it isn’t enough to propose solutions, and I hope that others will agree. Solutions take action. And solutions take partnerships with people who can help. That’s why you’re here today.”

  The audience went really quiet. I prayed that was a good sign.

  “I hope now that you’ve met some of the residents of this shelter, you see that people are as great an investment as a stock IPO or a takeover buyout.”

  I lifted my right hand and stabbed the air in front to me to make my point. It was totally a Mom thing to do.

  “My motto has always been that change starts with one person, and one person only. Today, change starts with you. I hope you will join me in transforming our country. For the better.”

  Sweat tickled under my wig. No one was saying anything. Maybe they’d seen through my disguise. Maybe I’d given myself away somehow.

  A crash of applause made me jump out of my skin. In amazement I watched as crusty reporters took notes feverishly. The guests behind them were applauding. Trisha Jackson held a tissue to her nose while Tobias patted her shoulder.

  Hannah was doing a happy dance over by the buffet table. I glanced at Humberto. He was nodding, pleased. Thankfully, the queasy expression on his face had vanished.

  Max. My eyes found his.

  The smile he gave me rocked me down to my socks.

  I remembered Dad’s rule: Leave them wanting more. I stepped away from the podium—phew!—and hurried into the protective cocoon of my Secret Service detail, leaving Humberto to field more questions from journalists. The detail whisked me away from the stage.

  I wasn’t really sure where we were going. The adrenaline had worn off, and I started trembling. Blindly I let the detail, headed up by Max, guide me to the next staging area.

  Which was…the stinky bathroom again.

  A homeless person in a rank trench coat and floppy hat slouched against the door.

  “Excuse us,” Max said firmly. “We need to secure the area.”

  The homeless person raised her head.

  “Mom!”

  “Shhhh, honey. Let’s step inside where we’ll have some privacy. Agent Jackson will make sure no one disturbs us.” Mom nodded at Max, who ushered us both inside the bathroom.

  I wanted another one of Max’s rare smiles, but he’d gone all hard-core agent again, stern expression and hard eyes. Maybe I’d imagined that awesome look he’d given me at the end of my speech.

  Once inside the bathroom, Mom hugged me hard. “You were wonderful, Morgan. I think you’ve given the best speech of my administration.”

  “Really?” A glow of pride lit me up.

  “Hijacking a presidential banquet and moving it to a homeless shelter is not the way I would have handled it, but your crazy plan may have just saved my micro-loan initiative. After tonight’s news cycle, Congress would be foolish not to sign the micro-loan legislation. How did all this happen, anyway?”

  “It’s a long story. Let’s just say the Tornado strikes again.” I pulled off the wig and Mom rumpled my hair.

  “Morgan Abbott, politics might be in your future. After all, we’re cut from the same cloth.”

  “Awww, thanks, Mom.” We beamed at each other. “How’d the peace talks go?”

  “Really well. Not only did General Mfuso agree to deliver the yellowcake uranium to the U.N.’s International Atomic Energy Agency, they’re also one step closer to holding democratic elections. I’ll have another important announcement to make. Might as well do it now, since the press is already here.” Mom began unbuttoning the trench coat. “Ready to become Morgan Abbott again?”

  “So ready.” I did a double take when Mom shrugged out of the coat. “Is that Mimi’s purple silk mini?” I gasped.

  “Sure is. I thought since we’re swapping, you should get ready for your homecoming dance.”

  “But I thought—”

  “You’ll have time to make it, sweetie. We’ll get the sirens and flashing lights going on the motorcade so you’re not stuck in traffic.”

  “Mom! Isn’t that taking presidential prerogatives too far? You always said we should be careful not to throw our weight around this town.”

  “I think you’ve earned a little weight-throwing tonight.” Mom slipped into her suit and fluffed her hair. “I’ll send for Hannah. You two stay here and get ready for the dance. Humberto is arranging for additional time with the press outside the shelter so I can announce the African peace deal. It’ll be a perfect time for you two to sneak away.”

  She encircled me in another a big hug. “I’m really proud of you, Morgan.”

  I hugged her back. We did make a good team.

  “Back at ya, Mom.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Hannah snuck into the bathroom under Secret Service cover, and she and I got ready for the homecoming dance. By the time she threaded neon-pink hair extensions into my flattened hair, I began to feel like myself again. The violet silk mini also worked wonders.

  “I hope Konner won’t be mad that I’m super late for the dance,” I said.

  “Guess he’ll have to learn to deal. Now hold still.” Hannah carefully settled a line of false eyelashes on my lid and blew the glue dry. “When I’m done, no one will ever suspect that a half hour ago, you were the president of the United States.”

  “Thank gawd.” I waited until Hannah finished gluing the other eye with false lashes. “I couldn’t have pulled it off without you, Hans. I know it’s hard to be my friend sometimes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, all the paparazzi issues, and, uh, me impersonating the president, and hanging with someone continually on academic probation—”

  “Hang on, who hooked me up with Prince Richard—helloooo? And who makes me laugh basically every day I’m with her? And is the nicest person I know? Yeah, real punishment, Morgan.”

  We grinned at each other.

  “Thanks for being there for me,” I said.

  “That’s what BFFs are for,” she replied. “Now back to important business.”

  Hannah’s mad skills with makeup transformed me into a vixen with smoky eyes. She made herself look super killer in a scarlet jersey number she’d pulled out of her Louis Vuitton travel bag—wrinkle-free fabric, she explained. She twisted bandeaus through her hair and dusted us both with a hint of body glitter.

  I regarded us in the scratched mirror. We looked awesome.

  “Let’s go get our dance on,” I said to her, excitement bubbling up. I was soooo ready to cut loose on the dance floor. Freedom!

  Max’s jaw loosened when we emerged from the shelter’s bathroom. This time I could feel myself blushing.

  “You look…” He cleared his throat. “Beautifu
l.”

  We stared at each other for a couple of heartbeats.

  Max seemed to mentally shake himself. He got back on track and the detail swept us out of the shelter.

  “Not bad, sistah,” Hannah whispered to me.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked innocently.

  “You know what I’m talking about. You’re making Max’s job hard.”

  I guess I didn’t think of it that way.

  Out front, journalists and camera crews surrounded Mom and peppered her with questions.

  “—when did the breakthrough between the Mfuso and Welak juntas occur—”

  “—will there be a formal announcement of the cease-fire soon—”

  “—what sort of aid will the U.S. render to the war-torn area—”

  Mom held up her hand and the journalists quieted. “A formal announcement will be made tomorrow, but yes, a cease-fire between General Mfuso and the Democratic People’s Army has been agreed upon. The secretary of state will provide details on the negotiations. It’s not a solution, but it’s progress.”

  What Dad calls journo-flurry erupted again, with more questions being thrown at Mom.

  Mom had called an end to the questions and was beginning to ease away from the bank of microphones. Brittany Whittaker stepped out of the shadows of the shelter, a big bouquet of those horrible lilies in her arms. With a plastered smile, she asked Parker, my mom’s Secret Service agent, if she could give them to my mother.

  “Sure,” Mom said when Parker started to shake his head. “You’re one of Morgan’s classmates, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am,” Brittany said. Then her sugary voice changed. “But YOU are not the president, you’re—Morgan Abbott.”

  Her manicured talons reached out and yanked my mom’s hair.

  Max says that Secret Service agents are trained to tackle first, ask questions later. I couldn’t really get a good look at Brittany under a dog pile of agents and the blinding flash of a thousand cameras capturing this particular Kodak moment.

  “Did I just dream that?” I asked Hannah as we entered the Baby Beast.

  She was laughing so hard, I thought we were going to have to hospitalize her. “If that was a dream, don’t wake me up.”

  I regarded the swarm of camera crews jostling to get a photo of Brittany down on the ground. “I guess she’ll find out tomorrow that not all publicity is good publicity.”

  “Karma, baby. Karma.”

  Chapter twenty-five

  We cut through the traffic knotted around Dupont Circle and the never-ending gridlock on K Street with the presidential motorcade in full-on siren mode. Konner wasn’t answering his cell, but that didn’t surprise me. He’d be in his element at the homecoming dance, hanging with his buds, basking in his popularity. I sent him a text message and hoped he’d check it before I got there.

  We arrived at the front doors of the Academy of the Potomac’s gym an hour late.

  Max professionally cleared a zone around the car door, shooing away the people who were trying to gawk at the interior of the Baby Beast (no, we don’t have a microwave oven or a rocket launcher inside presidential limos) before he helped Hannah and me out of the car.

  Konner was nowhere to be seen.

  But surprisingly I wasn’t disappointed at all. Only slightly ticked off. I mean, Konner had made such a big deal about taking me to the dance. The least he could do was meet me at the door.

  Inside the gym, Brittany’s decorating committee had gone a bit over the top. It looked like the colors pink and purple had thrown up in there. Petals from wilted flowers dribbled over the gym floor, where they were stomped to pitiful brown bits. Colored gels over the lights turned everyone’s skin an insane shade of green and yellow.

  “Whoa. I think Alice got lost on her way down the rabbit hole,” Hannah said over the music pumping through the gym’s loudspeakers. “Too bad Brits isn’t here. She’d really enjoy how she’s made the whole school look like they have impetigo.” She pointed to a group of classmates gathered around a cell phone replaying a downloaded video of the president’s press conference at the point when Brittany got tackled to the ground. “I’m not sure she’d like that very much, though.”

  “Max says they took her down to the Central Detention Facility,” I said.

  “The D.C. jail? Wow,” Hannah said.

  “The Secret Service doesn’t mess around if you attack the president. But I’m sure Congressman Whittaker will spring her pretty quickly.”

  The music switched to a slow song. Couples jostled and rearranged into clusters.

  Leaving me a clear view of Konner draped all over Mya, the head cheerleader.

  He held her hips and the two of them slowly swayed. She didn’t seem to mind the way his eyes were locked on her boobs, which mounded over the edge of her low neckline.

  Someone nudged him and whispered in his ear. He sprang away from Mya so fast she stumbled. “Pig!” she yelled as he sauntered toward me.

  “Hey, babe.” Konner raised his arms all gangsta, then lowered them around my shoulders. “I’ve been waiting forever for you to show up. I missed you.”

  Hannah rolled her eyes. “Ugh. I feel my dinner coming up. I’ll catch you later, Morgan.”

  “Okay, Hannah.” I pushed Konner away. “So you’ve been missing me?”

  “Yeah. Hey, I hope you’re not getting the wrong idea about Mya. She felt bad for me because you were late.”

  “So she was just being nice.”

  Konner gave me one of his lopsided grins. “Yeah. Being nice.” He lowered his mouth to mine, but I jerked away.

  Puzzlement glimmered on his brow. “Don’t get mad, babe. Look, I got you a corsage and everything because you’re so special to me.”

  He opened his suit jacket and pulled out a crushed corsage.

  Lilies.

  My abused nose began tickling immediately. “Get those things away from me.”

  “Why? I thought all girls liked flowers.”

  “Because I’m allergic to lilies, Konner! Ahhhhh—” I let loose a huge sneeze. I took the corsage and threw it at his chest.

  “Man, Morgan, why are you getting so worked up?”

  I gave a disbelieving laugh. “You don’t know me at all. You’ve never even tried to get to know me. The only thing I am to you is the president’s daughter. A trophy, not a girlfriend. I see that now.”

  “Hey. Don’t go mental just because I forgot you have an allergy. I can’t be expected to remember everything about you.”

  “We’re finished, Konner. And this time it’s for good.” I spun around and began walking away.

  “Oh yeah?” Konner called after me. “Well, I’ve had enough of you and your mind games, Morgan Abbott. It’s over.”

  “Whatever.”

  I reached Max, who had stationed himself by the doorway as usual. I didn’t have to say anything to him. I realized now that I never had to say anything to Max. He always understood.

  “Ready, Morgan?” Max held his elbow out and I took it.

  “Yes. Take me home, Max.”

  “You got it.”

  I sent Hannah a text message from the limo:

  i’m outtie text when u want limo to p/u up

  ok wat about Konner?

  it’s over

  u ok?

  i’m better than ok—talk tomorrow, ya?

  ya. g’nite

  nite

  Max said nothing as the sparkly Washington skyline slipped past. I knew we had to talk, but right now, I just needed to think. So much had happened in the past few weeks, I felt like a different Morgan Abbott. Maybe I grew up a little. Maybe I learned that I could handle whatever life as the nation’s First Daughter could dish out.

  Back at the White House, quiet hushed along the corridors. Most of the staff was still detailed at the media event at Trisha Jackson’s homeless shelter, while Mom was putting in some overtime with the secretary of state to implement the peace accords she’d hammered out with the A
frican military juntas.

  I was sitting in my room when my cell phone chirped. A text message appeared:

  Meet me in the East Room

  Max. It had to be.

  Feeling breathless and tingly all at the same time, I ran barefoot down the Cross Hall’s red-and-gold carpet, still wearing the violet silk mini. Portraits of Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford gazed down at me, and I wondered if my mother’s portrait would eventually hang between one of the neoclassical pillars. The first female president in two and a half centuries of male presidents.

  That was gonna be awesome.

  At the entrance to the East Room, I patted the marble head of President Lincoln sitting atop an obsidian pillar. “What do you think, Abe? Did Mom and I pull it off today?”

  “I think you pulled it off.”

  I jumped clean out of my skin. “Max!”

  He was leaning against the doorway to the East Room. He’d taken off his tie and unbuttoned his collar, and his hair stood up in a way that made my heart stutter just a teensy bit. Okay, a lot.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said.

  My heart switched into overdrive.

  Next to the Red Room, the East Room was my favorite. The room was huge. Mom hosted major events here: concerts, balls, banquets. Gold wallpaper coated the walls, and matching gold drapes swagged over the tall windows overlooking the South Lawn. I used to Rollerblade across the parquet floors until the White House usher put a stop to it after I crashed into the priceless Steinway piano and left a barely noticeable dent on one of the legs.

  Tables from the aborted ABLC banquet had been pushed against the wall, leaving the floor in the middle of the room cleared. The crystal chandeliers had been dimmed to a romantic glow.

  “What’s that music?” I asked when I heard the sounds of a slow pop song drift through the room.

  “I’m sorry you had to leave your homecoming dance early,” Max said.

  “Don’t be. I’m not sorry.”

  “So you and Konner…?”