Authors: Ellen Emerson White

The President's Daughter (30 page)

BOOK: The President's Daughter

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“Maybe they should hang a wall-sized mirror up for you,” Meg said, “and then you can just sit and stare into it all day long.”

Her mother turned, looking a little sheepish. “Hi.” Then, she looked worried. “There's nothing wrong, is there?”

“Nope.” Meg sat down behind the desk, putting her feet up, enjoying the feeling of power. Maybe there
was
something to public
office. Something that went well beyond the simple concept of
service
.

“How was school?” her mother asked.

“Not bad.” Meg picked up her mother's phone without pushing any buttons down. “God-damn it,” she said into the receiver, “I told you that I wasn't to be disturbed. I'm entertaining.” She listened for a second. “Yeah, well, get on the stick, or I know someone who's going to be increasing my unemployment figures. Yes, they are
my
figures.
Everything
is mine.
I
am in charge.”

“Having a nice time?” her mother asked.

Meg sighed impatiently. “Miss, please. I'm really terribly busy. If you'll justâoh!” She let her eyes dawn with recognition. Lots of recognition. “The interviewâof course. Good God, I'm sorry.” She studied her mother, then leaned forward to scan imaginary papers on the desk and nodded. “Yes, you're in luck. We
do
have an opening for an exotic dancer. If you wouldn't mindâ”

“You're invading my space, small, pesky child,” her mother said.

“Well,” Meg said, huffily, “we
are
a mite presumptuous, aren't we?”

Her mother laughed. “We are, indeed.” She motioned abruptly for Meg to get out of the chair.

“Boy,” Meg said, standing up. “Some Presidents sure are grumpy.”

“I'm not grumpy.” Her mother sat down, swung her own feet onto the desk, and then grinned. “I'm possessive.”

Meg nodded. “That's for sure.”

Now, her mother got up, too. “I hate to do this to you, brat, but I have to ask you to leave, okay?”

“Boy,” Meg said, kicking at the carpet. “You don't even want to talk to me.”

“Perhaps we can find a more opportune time,” her mother said. The phone on her desk rang, and she picked it up. “Thank you, I'll be right in.” She hung up, glancing into the silver stand of her engraved pen and pencil set, checking her hair again.

“You look fine,” Meg said. “I mean, considering how old you are.”

“Thank you.” Her mother frowned at the phone, as it rang again. “Do you still hate being the President's daughter?”

“Maybe,” Meg said, in a bet-you-wish-you-knew voice.

Her mother nodded. “That's what I figured.”

Meg grinned and moved in to give her a hard, reassuring hug before leaving. “Are you coming to dinner tonight?”

“
Maybe
,” her mother said.

Meg shook her head. “No, really, I mean it.”

“Sure,” her mother said, her smile bright with far more joy than happiness. “I'll be there.”

A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK
An Imprint of Macmillan

Originally published in the United States by Scholastic Press

First Feiwel and Friends Edition: August 2008

www.feiwelandfriends.com