Confessions of a First Daughter Read online

  Mom beckoned me over to the sofa and turned to Padma. “Why don’t you ask the kitchen to send up a snack? Some of Nigel’s gingersnaps should get Morgan and me through the afternoon.”

  “You got it, Sara.” Padma shut the door behind her.

  I plopped on the couch and Mom sat next to me. “I’m so sorry about all this, Morgan. But I promise I’ll do everything in my power to get the press off your back.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  She brushed a lock of hair from my forehead the way she used to when I was little. “You’re growing up. I didn’t really realize until I saw that photo in the Gadfly.”

  “Mom, gross! Those are gel enhancers! Hannah used them for my costume.”

  “No kidding? Maybe Hannah could let me borrow a couple, and I’ll send your father out in his coconut bra to the next National Press Club luncheon. That’d really give them a story.”

  “Don’t even think about it. You know he’d totally do it!”

  Mom laughed a hearty honk of a laugh. I hadn’t heard one of those from her in I don’t know how long. “We could put the photo on our Christmas cards. The party donors would have a heart attack.”

  “So would Nana.”

  We busted up. Nana Abbott came from a starchy Connecticut blue-blood line. Every teapot wore its cozy at Nana Abbott’s house.

  A chirping cut across our laughter, and the red button on the phone on Mom’s desk blinked.

  Instantly, Mom switched into president mode, and rose. “I have to take this call, honey. Just a minute.”

  “No prob.” I’d gotten used to getting my mom’s attention in bits and pieces over the years.

  She snatched the phone off its cradle. “Sara Abbott here.”

  Padma came in with a tray of cookies, a pot of coffee for Mom, and a soda for me. Reluctantly I took a gingersnap and nibbled. I didn’t want to spoil my appetite before my date with Konner tonight, but Nigel’s cookies were too amazing to pass up. He’d drizzled dark chocolate over this batch.

  While I ate, I listened to fragments of Mom’s phone conversation.

  “I’m not signing the bill if Congress loads more pork-barrel spending in it,” Mom said. “Tell the speaker of the House that the bill will be DOA if I see one more congressional pet project attached to it.”

  Mom said she found it ironic that when she was in Congress, she thought the president didn’t compromise enough. Now that she’s the president, she feels that she compromises too much.

  I was reaching for another gingersnap when Sally Kempton, Mom’s rail-thin, chain-smoking communications director, tapped on the door and opened it. “Press conference in thirty minutes,” she mouthed from the doorway.

  Mom nodded without missing a beat in her phone conversation. Three seconds later, she’d hung up. “Why don’t you come with me?” she said, sliding her arms into the suit jacket she’d draped over the back of her chair.

  “Really?” Mom never asked me to go to presidential press conferences—not after that time she caught me snoozing while she gave her stump speech. It wasn’t my fault; I’d already heard the speech a gazillion times when we’d been on the campaign trail.

  “It would be great to have you in my corner. Abbotts have to stick together, don’t we?”

  As much as I wanted to be angry with her, to blame her for this mess, I couldn’t help but feel a little—okay a lot—proud of my mom. “Yeah. We do.”

  I followed Mom to the Brady Press Briefing Room. The sight of camera crews and reporters milling about made my stomach automatically lurch, and I hurried after Mom into the peanut-sized green room where Humberto was waiting.

  I twirled in the makeup chair while Mom and Humberto huddled in the corner and went over last-minute talking points. Dion, Mom’s makeup artist, walked in and came toward me. “Okay, Sara—oh gosh! Morgan? Sorry, hon.”

  “That’s okay. I’m getting that a lot lately. Must be the hair.” Honestly, tomorrow I was going to get the bob hairstyle cut off. Shaved off. Whatever it took.

  “Well, I’m going to take it as a compliment,” Mom said with a smile, shooing me out of the makeup chair. Humberto seemed to have vanished. He has this way of being everywhere and nowhere. It’s kind of freaky, actually.

  Dion got out the makeup brushes and a can of hairspray. “You should, Sara. You and Morgan could be twins.”

  “It’s nice to know I won’t need any Botox injections for a while,” Mom joked.

  “Everyone take a deep breath,” Dion warned, and sprayed Mom’s hair with a cloud of aerosol.

  After the coughing subsided, Humberto poked his head in. “They’re ready, Sara.”

  “Showtime.” Mom stood up. She straightened her shoulders, and suddenly Mom disappeared and I was looking at the president of the United States.

  In the crowded press briefing room, cameras and video monitors whirred while reporters peppered Mom with questions. From my seat in the wings, I got a good view of the media circus. I recognized a few of the reporters. Mom answered even the most aggressive reporters calmly, and I marveled at how she kept her cool. From her position at the blue lectern bearing the presidential seal, Mom pointed to reporter after reporter, careful to give each one a chance to ask a question.

  “Yes, Helen?” Mom pointed to an older woman wearing an outrageous yellow-checkerboard suit.

  “Chet Whittaker made good on his threat to kill your micro-loan program for those below the poverty line. What are your plans for the initiative now?”

  Ah, the Whittakers. Brits, my nemesis, and Chet, the leader of the opposition party.

  “To try again,” Mom responded firmly. “The opposition party feels that money spent on the poor is money wasted. We feel differently. Next session we’ll work harder to convince the congressional delegates that this legislation is needed. Tom?”

  Tom Agoletti of The New York Times rose. “There’s been criticism of your administration’s new offshore drilling regulations. The oil companies in particular have launched a media blitz against it. Will you hold hearings on the issue?”

  Mom rubbed her ear. I could tell she didn’t like the question. “Change is always hard at first, Tom. We feel confident that the CEOs of the Big Three oil companies will agree that reworking our country’s energy policy is the right thing to do.”

  It occurred to me that Mom just gave one of her famous (the opposition party would call it infamous) non-answer answers.

  “Yes, Jerry?” she said to her least favorite reporter from The Washington Post.

  Jerry Shutz stood and stabbed his pen aggressively at Mom. “President Abbott, the situation in the African tidal basin is getting more fragile. General Mfuso’s ruling military junta has threatened civil war unless the opposition party gives up its demand for free elections. There are also rumors that Mfuso has purchased a supply of yellowcake uranium. What is the American response to the threats?”

  Mom cocked her head to one side. “We shall protect our strategic interests in the region. But diplomacy is always our first resort. I’m confident we’ll reach an accord between General Mfuso and Bishop Welak of the Democratic People’s Army. Then we can bring peace to the region.”

  Chairs scraped, papers rustled. The press conference was wrapping up.

  “Do you have any comment about your daughter’s picture in today’s Gadfly?” someone called out.

  Mom’s brown eyes zapped the room. “It was an outrageous breach of my daughter’s privacy. I’ll remind all of you that she is an eighteen-year-old girl. How would you feel if that happened to your daughter? I’ll tell you how you would feel—furious!”

  The press room went uncomfortably silent.

  Mom nodded to Humberto and stepped away from the lectern. Reporters rose from their chairs. The press conference was over.

  “Wow, Mom, you spanked them hard,” I said admiringly as we took a shortcut through the Cabinet Room on our way back to Mom’s office.

  “No one harasses my kid and gets away with it.” She wrapped her
arm around my waist and we strolled past the long oval table that Mom and her Cabinet staff sat around while they decided the fate of the world.

  Mom paused in front of the door connecting the Cabinet Room to the Oval Office. “Hard-won experience tells me this kerfuffle will blow over soon…but…”

  Mom paused.

  I tensed. She was getting ready to drop a bomb.

  “…do you think you could back out of the musical?”

  “What!?” My voice rose to a screech. “But I’ve been working on it for weeks now!”

  “You know I hate to ask it,” Mom said hastily. “But even though we’re doing what we can with respect to the media, I’m worried they’ll still find a way to disrupt the performance. Or worse, drag your classmates into the bad publicity. You know we can’t control everything.”

  “I know,” I muttered.

  “I just don’t want you to be the target of any more negative press. Or compromising photos. They will follow you around for the rest of your life.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Part of me knew that Mom was right. I didn’t want the media to ruin the show and I’d hate it if reporters dug up dirt on one of the other cast members or printed some crazy photo. But the other part of me stubbornly refused to go there. I’d worked hard on my role, and I didn’t want to give it up.

  Mom gave me her special megawatt smile. “Thanks, sweetie. You go ahead in. I’ll be back in a minute; I forgot that I have to check something with Humberto. Have another gingersnap.”

  My stomach growled. Why did she have to mention the cookies? And why did she have to ask me to give up the musical? Drama was the only thing I was good at. I needed something in my life that I didn’t totally screw up.

  Inside the Oval Office, I snatched another gingersnap off the tray and trudged to the three floor-length windows behind Mom’s desk. The window right behind the desk sported a killer view of Capitol Hill’s white dome gleaming gold in the afternoon sun.

  I munched the gingersnap and thought about Mom’s request. I ran a hand over the surface of the Resolute Desk where Mom signed executive orders that changed the fate of the world—and here I was upset about backing out of some stupid school musical even though my presence could put my classmates in jeopardy with the press. The welfare of others comes first.

  I sat in the leather chair and tried to imagine what it would be like to be the president of the United States with the unlimited power of a mighty nation at my fingertips. Wars ended, humanitarian aid rendered, stock market crashes averted—hey, look, Mom kept a tube of Mentos in her desk drawer….

  I put my feet up on the desk’s surface and popped a mint. If I were the president, what would I do…?

  I’d outlaw the color pink and anything else that reminded me of Brittany. Perhaps I’d have the FBI investigate “Speech Gate.” It’s got to be illegal to snag someone’s class-president speech, right? I’d make Hannah the nation’s style ambassador. And I’d ban lilies so I could be safe from sneezing fits.

  I giggled. That would be a gross abuse of presidential power, for sure.

  The phone on Mom’s desk rang. The LCD screen flashed COS Room for the chief of staff’s office. Probably Mom checking on me from Humberto’s office.

  I cleared my throat and picked up the line. Let’s see if I could freak Mom out. “Sara Abbott here.”

  “Sara, we’ve got a problem.” Humberto’s voice carried a sense of urgency. “It’s Mfuso again. He’s threatening to move his troops to seal the border if we continue talks with Bishop Welak—”

  “Hold up, Humberto. It’s me—Morgan!”

  “Morgan?”

  I felt myself go hot. He was going to kill me! “I…I thought it was Mom calling me, and I wanted to play a joke on her. I’m really sorry.”

  Silence. Then: “You really sounded just like her. Where is she?”

  “I thought she was with you. Please don’t tell her what I did, Humberto. I don’t need any more trouble today.”

  “I won’t tell if you promise not to answer the Oval Office phone again, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  I hung up and heaved a sigh of relief. Humberto was first and foremost loyal to my mom, but he kept his promises. And there would be no problem holding up my end of the bargain. That brush with Mom’s reality scared the bejeezus out of me. I didn’t want to know half the stuff that went on around here.

  Padma tapped on the door and entered. “Morgan, your mom’s been called away to an emergency session with the Joint Chiefs. She apologizes, but she’ll be gone for a few hours.”

  Disappointment flooded me. Then anger. Mom couldn’t pick up her cell phone and call me herself? She knew I was waiting for her. I couldn’t believe she sent Pads to dismiss me like I was some deputy aide.

  I stalked out of the Oval Office. I tried to tell myself that the president had responsibilities to the country. But I couldn’t help being resentful. It’s like everyone else came first. For a moment during the press conference, it felt like Mom had made me her priority. But just like that, I’d gone straight to the bottom of her list again.

  Max waited for me in the West Colonnade overlooking the Rose Garden, where I was about to leave the protective zone of security in the West Wing. His sky-blue shirt set off his eyes, and I had to admit he looked pretty good for a Secret Service agent.

  I gave Max a nod and tried to forget about, well, everything. “Wassup, Ball and Chain?”

  Max’s lips twitched. “The advance team just came back from a sweep of that sushi bar you want to go to tonight…hey, is anything wrong? You look upset.”

  “No. Yeah. Nothing.” Guess I wasn’t that great of an actress. “Just the whole daughter of the president thing.”

  “Like what?” he asked as we continued walking. “Not only did my mom blow me off for a meeting that just happened to crop up ‘unexpectedly,’ but she asked me to give up something really important.” I felt sick when I even thought about the musical now. “She thinks being in AOP’s drama production will bring more bad publicity.”

  He paused before responding, “She’s probably right, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, and that just makes me angrier. Why is she always right?”

  “She is the president,” he answered.

  “You think I’ve forgotten? I’ve been taking a backseat to the presidency ever since she got elected.”

  “Hey.” Max stopped my headlong charge through the Cross Hall. “Your mom is making decisions that can affect the lives of millions of people. Maybe even the survival of the planet. Why don’t you cut her some slack?”

  “Are you lecturing me on how to feel now, Agent Jackson? I’m not allowed to get ticked when my mother sloughs me off? I thought one of Erikson’s stages of psychosocial development was a sense of individuality. Well, this individual is pissed off.”

  Max’s blue eyes held mine for a moment. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have a mother like yours, Morgan. Maybe someday you’ll understand.”

  The silence between us went on a beat too long.

  “I gotta get ready for my date tonight,” I said. “Konner doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

  “I bet he doesn’t.” Max headed down the hall toward the motorpool to get the Baby Beast ready, and I headed upstairs to my room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Something about the way he said “I bet” in relation to Konner bugged me.

  I was about to call down to the motorpool to ask if a different agent could escort me and Konner to the sushi bar when my cell phone bleated.

  “It’s Mr. Escobedo, Morgan. You weren’t at rehearsal today.”

  Ulp.

  “Everything all right?” he continued. I could tell he was trying to hide his annoyance.

  I took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say, but Max’s words about my mom rang in my ears.

  “Uh, I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Escobedo, but I have to drop out of the production.”

 
The silence on the other end of the line was way worse than one of his yelling fits.

  “My mom thinks that my recent negative publicity is going to adversely impact the musical.” There, that sounded pretty professional. Even if it was killing me to say.

  “It’s a theatrical production at a high school. Surely the press has better things to do than to breach security at AOP for a candid shot of the president’s daughter.”

  “You’d think.”

  “Well, I’ll give your role to the understudy. Though I wish you would have let me know you were dropping out today so she could have had a decent dress rehearsal before the curtain goes up.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Escobedo, but it’s not my fault—”

  “The show goes on, Morgan. With or without you.”

  He beeped off. I threw my phone on the bed. That. Sucked.

  Thank god Hannah would be here soon. She’d promised to come over and help me get ready for my date with Konner. I took a hot shower and tried to ignore the hole in my chest over giving up the musical.

  I’d just finished moisturizing my legs and plucking a few stray hairs out of my brows when Hannah finally showed up.

  “Where’ve you been?” I asked.

  “Blame your hunky Secret Service agent.” Hannah unloaded a curling iron, hairclips, and a can of hairspray from her massive handbag. I half expected her to haul a hairdresser’s sink out of there, too. “He wanted me to sign into the White House visitor’s log, then he had to scan my bag for bombs or anthrax. Took forever.”

  “Sorry, Han, he’s driving me crazy.” Hannah listened to me vent about the three Ms causing me grief: Mom, the musical, and Max. She crimped my hair out of its boring blunt cut and wove it into a mystifyingly awesome cloud of curls.

  She tucked jeweled butterfly clips here and there among them. “Konner’s not gonna be able to take his eyes off you tonight!”

  “It’s not his eyes that I’m worried about.”

  Hannah suddenly got really interested in one of the clips. “Is he pressuring you?”