Confessions of a First Daughter (8 page)

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?”

“No. Well, I mean, yes. I guess so. I really like him, and he’s so gorgeous. But sometimes he…makes me uncomfortable.”

“Then you have to tell him to stop. Don’t let him sweet-talk you into anything you don’t want to do.”

“I don’t want to lose him.”

“I don’t care how popular Konner Tippington
thinks
he is, he has to respect you.”

“Konner respects me,” I answered hotly.

“Well, I don’t trust the boy. After four years watching him in action at AOP, I can safely say that Konner’s world revolves around Konner.”

“Hey, that’s pretty harsh.”

“I’m not sugarcoating it for you, Morgan. But he’s your boyfriend, not mine. Now come on. It’s almost seven o’clock and you’re not even dressed.”

I dropped it because I didn’t want to hear what other thoughts Hannah held on the subject of Konner, and truthfully, I was tired of arguing with the whole world.

Hannah had taken my paisley wrap dress and added some retro fringe to the sleeves. It was amazing. She also let me borrow her knee-high suede boots, then I topped the whole outfit off with a macramé wrap we’d found in a D.C. thrift shop.

“Wow.” In the full-length mirror, I gazed at myself in wonder. Was that me? The dress hugged my curves, and the boots’ stiletto heels added inches to my height to make me seem willowy.

Hannah studied me critically. “Yep, I’m good.”

I sashayed down the back stairwell feeling like a supermodel, Hannah following. Max was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, muttering into his com.

“Is the car ready?” I asked from the second step.

Max turned. His eyes widened. “Yeah. I mean, yes.”

“Great.”

He didn’t move.

Hannah and I exchanged glances. “Maybe we should, like, go or something,” I added, eager to dispel the tingly feeling that shot through my stomach when I realized that I’d rendered Max speechless.

He swallowed. Hard. Then he said into his mic: “Tornado’s ready to leave the farm. Pull the Beast around.”

I gave Hannah a hug. “Remember what we talked about,” she whispered. “Don’t let Konner pressure you into anything you don’t want to do.”

“He won’t,” I whispered back. “Konner’s sensitive.”

Hannah stopped an eyeroll just in time.

Max kept his gaze firmly out the window as we drove to Georgetown to pick up Konner.

When my boyfriend stepped out of his house, my heart beat a little bit faster. With his blond hair gelled back and the collar of his crisp blue shirt opened at his muscular throat, he looked like a model. He was perfect, and he went out with
me.

“Whoa, babe, you look hot tonight.” Konner slid next to me in the limo and gave my thigh a squeeze. “Tonight’s gonna be great.”

“I think so, too,” I murmured, careful to keep my voice down so Max couldn’t hear. For some reason, I was uncomfortable with Max overhearing my conversation with Konner.

Konner pulled me super close and started nuzzling my hair. “Mmm, you smell good.”

I drew away a tad, already feeling the pressure. “Thanks.”

D.C. at night glimmered magically as we drove into Adams Morgan, where the best ethnic restaurants in D.C. could be found—killer Korean barbecues, Ethiopian mesobs. As we approached Mikyasa, I noticed a crowd of people milling in front of the restaurant.