Confessions of a First Daughter (5 page)

Sous chefs and sauciers moved in smooth choreography over the eight-burner stove. Flames leaped and meats sizzled. Mom and Dad were hosting a dinner of congressional delegates that night and the kitchen was in full swing.

I scrabbled in the cookie jar for a handful of Nigel’s famous white-chocolate gingersnaps. Brittany’s snarky remark about my fat ass floated through my mind. I shrugged. She could kiss my fat ass for all I cared.

I wolfed down a cookie. “Put me to work, Nigel. I need some distraction.”

“Everything okay, Morgan, luv?”

Nigel could always be counted on to listen. I opened my mouth to tell him about my bad day when I caught sight of a figure in a gray suit and tie hovering over by the coolers, trying to stay out of the way of the busy kitchen staff.

“What’s he doing in here?” I asked Nigel.

“Who? Agent Jackson? He’s new on the detail, he tells me. Cracking chap, too. He helped Maria lug in a crate of oranges without being asked. That boy has manners.”

I didn’t want to hear about Agent Jackson’s manners or see the guy more than I absolutely had to. I turned my back on him. “Could we get rid of him? I think I’m allergic to him.”

“Sorry, luv. Rules are rules.”

I snorted. “Rules are made to be broken.”

Nigel chuckled. “I’m sure she didn’t mean that, Agent Jackson.”

I spun around. The guy was right behind me! Ugh! The expression on his face was one I recognized from every Secret Service agent ever assigned to me. Calculation, with a hint of tension.

I felt guilty for a moment about my earlier allergic comment, not that he’d care—I was just a job. I quickly turned and began spooning mushroom mascarpone filling into fresh ravioli squares while Nigel crimped the sides and listened to me blab about Brittany stealing my election platform and the horrible session with Ms. Gibson. The debacle in the prop room with Konner I kept to myself, especially with Agent Jackson hovering around. Some things were too embarrassing to talk about. Everyone probably already knew anyway. The First Daughter has no secrets.

Every time I glanced up, I found Agent Jackson standing with hands folded before him, feet planted in the solid stance that they must teach all agents at Secret Service boot camp. Every so often, he would mutter into the wireless mic clipped to the lapel of his suit.

“Copy that,” he said at one point. “Tornado’s in the kitchen.”

Tornado. My Secret Service code name.

“It’s under control. She seems calmer now. Bellingham’s keeping her busy and—”

Calmer? Busy?
Was I three years old now?

I was so sick of every action I took being dissected by the Secret Service, the media, the office of protocol, or Brittany Whittaker, like I was a lab experiment or a mutant life-form.

Agent Jackson was scribbling something in a pocket notepad when I murmured “See ya around” to Nigel and ducked out of the kitchen. I’d had enough of surveillance and com reports on my actions for one day.

I slipped off my flip-flops and booked as fast as I could across the center hall. My bare feet slapped on the marble floor as I skidded into the Map Room. The White House cleaning staff had recently rearranged the Victorian furnishings to better display the collection of historic maps, so I miscalculated the Chippendale table’s new location and hit my bare toe against the wooden leg. Biting back the pain, I steadied the wobbly Chinese vase—certain to be a priceless artifact—and hopped across the thick Persian rug to the door connecting to the Diplomatic Room.

I opened the door. Agent Jackson stood on the other side.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

Shooooooot.

I tried to stay cool. Hard to do when your toe kills and you’re out of breath. “Where I’m going is none of your business.”

“Uh, yes, it is. Starting today, where you go is my entire world.”

I edged into the Diplomatic Room. The oval-shaped room happened to be my favorite because it showed some style: A crystal chandelier threw sparks against the walls, which sported a landscape panorama of nineteenth-century Americana. The handwoven blue-and-yellow rug bore emblems from each of the fifty states. Best of all, one of the panels concealed a secret passage that led directly to the South Lawn. If I could just get to the panel…

“Do you mind?” I said coolly, inching toward the panel. “You’re in my personal space.”

“I apologize.” Agent Jackson took a step back before deliberately moving in front of the secret passage panel and planting himself in front of it.

Damn
it
!

Nonchalantly I strolled to the opposite end of the room. Two could play this game. I opened the door that led to the China Room, and before Agent Jackson could move, I slammed it shut behind me. This door had a lock on it. Ha-ha.

I threw the lock home and darted across the room, which was decorated in royal red and white to better display the massive collection of china plates from the previous presidencies. I waved at the portrait of Mrs. Calvin Coolidge, who smiled approvingly down at me. I always liked Mrs. Coolidge, because she showed mad 1920s flapper style.

I opened the connecting door to the Vermeil Room, a space that had to remain a boring shade of yellow and green to complement the White House’s collection of gold-plated silver. Stodgy Duncan Phyfe—furniture that nobody seemed to like—was warehoused here.

Agent Jackson stood, arms folded, under a portrait of Nancy Reagan. “Are we going to play this game all afternoon, Morgan?” he asked wearily.

I ground my teeth over a curse word.

“Why don’t you make this easy on both of us and stop trying to run away?” he continued.

“I’m not running away, I’m trying to get a little privacy. How would you feel if you had agents tripping on your heels all day long?”

“You know as well as I do that the second you leave the secured confines of the third floor, an agent has to shadow you at all times to maintain your bubble of security.”

“God!” I couldn’t help yelling. “I’m in The Bubble twenty-four-seven. The Bubble is suffocating me. I’m sick of it!”

“The president thought you might feel that way after what happened today with the perimeter detail. That’s why she wanted me to tail you this afternoon—so you wouldn’t breach security.”

I wanted to die. Right after I killed my mom for being a blabbermouth. It could be a double state funeral. “Mom told you about what happened at rehearsal today?”

“Of course not.”

The agent’s baby face gave no hint of what he was thinking. The perfect Secret Service agent.

“I read the report.”

No. Nononononoooooo. Somewhere in the bowels of the Secret Service agency, people were reading a report on the X-rated misadventures of Morgan Abbott.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. You win. I’ll head upstairs to the family wing.”

“Excellent.”

“You can take a coffee break or something.”

“How about I go with you instead?”

“I’m not going to run away.”

“I appreciate that. And maybe you can appreciate that I’m only doing my job. Think of our mutual understanding as reaching detente.”

“Like Nixon and China?” I answered scathingly. “Another landmark negotiation treaty?”

“Exactly.” He smiled a little in spite of himself.

I sighed. “If I’m stuck with you for the rest of the day, I’m gonna put you to work.”

A flash of alarm cracked through his impassive expression. It was only for a second but it was satisfying to watch.

I turned the screw. “You can help me study for my psych test.”

“Bring it,” he said with a touch of relief. “I have a degree in psychology. And criminology.”

“Really?”

“And political science.”

“Three bachelor’s degrees? How’s that possible? You’re only twenty, right?”

To my surprise, a flush crept across his face. “I’m, uh, able to process information at a rapid rate. Numbers, equations. Situations. Something I was born with.”

“A genius, huh?”

He brushed off my remark. “Nah. I’m just able to focus.” Ouch. Lack of focus was definitely my problem, according to Ms. Gibson.

I didn’t want to admit it, but Max Jackson impressed me. My new Secret Service agent was Einstein with a gun.

We headed upstairs to the family wing and I grabbed the books in my room while Max waited for me in the Clinton-era kitchenette at the end of the hall. The table there was big enough to spread out all my books. Per my request, the kitchen sent up two orders of Nigel’s killer cowboy burgers with onion rings instead of the healthy grilled fish scheduled for tonight’s dinner. Max then drilled me on Erikson’s eight stages of psychosocial development, but my brain felt like it couldn’t get past the second stage.

“That’s it,” he said when I was able to successfully diagram the psychosocial stages on a chart. “I think you’ve got it nailed.”

“Really?” I felt a level of confidence for an upcoming test that I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Max pushed back from the table.

“Where are you going?” I asked. “Do you want another soda? Or I could have the kitchen send up a batch of Nigel’s cookies?”

“No, thanks. I need to do some paperwork before I punch out.”

I glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten p.m. Mom and Dad would be coming up from the congressional dinner pretty soon.

“The night detail is already in place,” Max went on. “I’ve got to be back here bright and early to take you to school.”

Now I felt bad, because agent rotation usually occurred at seven p.m. Max stayed an extra three hours past his shift to help me study.

“You’ve been a big help.” I gave Max a sincere smile. It was nice having a Secret Service agent who acted nearly human.

To my surprise, Max scowled. “I’ll be waiting downstairs with the Baby Beast at eight sharp. I’d appreciate it if you weren’t late tomorrow.”

Just like that, the friendly agent had turned back into a Secret Service robot. “Who told you I was late in the mornings?”

“It’s legendary in the agency.”

I slammed my psych book shut. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll be on time. I’ll even be early, because I want to pick up my boyfriend on the way.” That last bit came to me out of the blue, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea.

Max refused to be baited. “Great. See you tomorrow.”

“Excellent. See ya.”

I waited until he left the room. Then I pulled out my cell phone and flipped it open. I needed to text Konner to tell him I’d be picking him up tomorrow and then I needed to call Hannah—we had to strategize about tomorrow’s election. Oh, and she
had
to hear about my new Secret Agent Man.

Chapter Seven

Morning came too soon, as usual
, but the thought of Agent Jackson telling the other agents that Tornado was late again made me get up after hitting the snooze button only twice. I ran a comb through my hair, pulled on my favorite
GUMBY RULES THE WORLD
T-shirt and jeans, and texted Konner a reminder that I’d swing by in the Baby Beast to pick him up on the way to school.

Agent Jackson, wearing his gray suit and probably a government-issue tie, nodded a greeting as I got in the car. He made no comment when I told the driver to stop by Konner’s house in a historic area of Georgetown. Obviously he was all business now. I settled back into the leather seats of the Baby Beast and focused on the specially reinforced smoked-glass windows while we fought the traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue.

As soon as we pulled up to the expensive line of brick row houses, Konner bounded down the steps from his front door. He loved driving in the motorcade almost as much as I hated it.

“Hey, babe!” Konner smacked a kiss on my temple. “You look hot today.”

“Thanks.” I glanced at Max, but Special Agent Jackson kept his attention squarely on the GPS unit in his hand.

“Can we turn on the TV?” Konner asked. “I wanna catch the score from the Redskins game.”

“Sure.”

Konner hit a button on the panel, and a mini TV screen lowered from the limo’s roof. ESPN
Sportsnet
blared into the car as we headed north toward the Chevy Chase district, where long ago, the first headmaster of Academy of the Potomac bought the land that would become the site of the school. Little did he know that one day, that land would become the most coveted patch of real estate on the Maryland border.

Konner slung his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” he said. “How about we try going out again tonight? You can have the White House social secretary hook us up with reservations to Mikyasa. I hear it’s the hottest sushi bar in the Metro area.”

“That’d be great,” I said happily. “Agent Jackson can send an advance detail this afternoon to sweep the place. Can’t you, Agent Jackson?”

Max nodded. He was studying Konner with a face clean of expression. Konner didn’t notice. But I sure did.

“Let’s pull over here,” I said when we were about a block away from the Academy.

Konner rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Morgan, what’s the big deal about driving through the gate?”

“You know I don’t like pulling up in a chauffeured limo. I already get enough negative attention as it is. Besides, it’s really nice out. Let’s get some fresh air before we’re cooped up inside all day.”

A sound of annoyance rumbled in Konner’s throat, but he swallowed it down. “Hey, bro, could you get the door?” he said to Agent Jackson.

“Konner!” I exclaimed.

Max’s face never changed. “Maybe now would be a good time to explain some ground rules to you, Konner. I’m here to protect the daughter of the president of the United States. Period. I don’t open car doors, I don’t carry backpacks, and I don’t get called ‘bro.’ Are we clear?”

“Sure, Jackson. Sure.” Konner slid out of the limo. I quickly followed. “Man, the new guy is touchy,” Konner whispered.

I cringed and hoped Max didn’t hear that.

Konner and I made a date to eat lunch together before he took off to meet his posse. Hannah was waiting for me on the front steps like always. Last-minute campaigning for class president would be hot and heavy today, and Mom taught me that you needed to hustle for every single vote. Hannah carried a bag of buttons we’d made last weekend. I thought her leather fringe vest loaded with
VOTE FOR MORGAN
buttons was sweet.