“Thank you,” her mother was saying into the telephone. “We'll be down directly.” She hung up. “Do the three of you want to go get washed up for dinner?”
“No,” Neal said, and giggled.
“Hell, no,” Steven said.
Their father frowned at them. “Go get washed up.”
“So, wait.” Meg looked from her parents to her brothers. “Am I like, the swing vote here?”
Her parents shook their heads.
When it was just the five of them, they almost always ate in the private Presidential Dining Room on the second floor. The furnishings were, so Meg was told, American Federalâwhich seemed to mean mahoganyâand the room had the usual dramatic White House chandelier. The antique wallpaper was blue, with scenes from the American Revolution painted on it, and none of them liked it much.
“So. How was practice, Steven?” their mother asked, coming back into the room after her third low-voiced conference with aides out in the West Sitting Hall.
“Okay,” he said, through a mouthful of roast beef. “I was mostly shagging, because Coach wants me to pitch on Friday.”
Their father narrowed his eyes. “You went six innings yesterday.”
Steven shrugged. “So, he had me taking it easy today. Can you pass me the carrots, Meg?”
Meg helped herself, then handed the dish across the table to him. The White House butlers preferred to do all of the serving themselves, but had figured out, early on, that her family was much more relaxed whenever they got the chance to be at least a
little
bit normal. The butlers had become extremely skilled at replenishing their food and drinks so discreetly that, most of the time, Meg almost forgot they were there.
Although no one really talked about it, her parents weren't very happy about Steven playingâthe Secret Service had advised against it. After her mother had been shot, all of their security had gotten much tighter, and because tennis courts were so exposed, Meg had had to drop off the team at school. For the same reason, the Secret Service hadn't wanted Steven to play baseballâeither at school, or in his league, but he had gotten so upset that her parents had finally had to allow it. Much to Meg's relief, their security in general had relaxed a little in the last few months, going back to its pre-shooting level. Which, God knows, was intense enough. She had no intention of permanently giving up competitive tennis, but she wasn't looking forward to the discussion about it with her parents. They were beginning to drop not-so-subtle hints, but so far, she had mostly managed to avoid the subjectâand predictable confrontation.
“Your mother asked you a question,” her father said, sounding amused.
“She did?” Meg looked at her mother. “You did?”
Her mother grinned. “I did.”
“Oh.” Meg shook her head. “I'm sorry, I'm justâI mean, latelyâI don't know.”
“It's called senioritis,” her father said.
Or post-AP-exams exhaustion. No doubt, the
DSM
would soon recognize PAEE as a legitimate phenomenonâand high-strung students everywhere would be overmedicated accordingly.
“No way,” Steven said. “She's always been like this.”
Neal laughed. “
Always
.”
“Yeah, well,” Meg served herself quite a large baked potato, “wait until I go away to school. You guys'll be like, crying all the time, because you miss me so much.”
“No way,” Steven said. “We'll have parties every day.”
“Wakes, more likely.” Her cat, Vanessa, had come in to sit behind her chair, and Meg slipped her a piece of roast beef, her father
lifting his eyebrows at her. “I mean,” she straightened up, “you won't have anyone to tell you swell jokes, or help keep the country running smoothly, or explain words you don't understandâ”
Her parents laughed.
“Yeah,” Steven said. “And all the flies and bugs that follow you around'll leave.”
Meg nodded. “Well,
of course
they're coming with me. I wouldn't go anywhere withoutâ”
“One bad thing,” Steven said, grabbing the salt shaker out from underneath Neal's hand. “We won't be able to get any good drugs anymore.”
“Told you you'd miss me,” Meg said.
“Well, goodness knows I'll miss the dinner repartee.” Their mother nodded her thanks as Felix, one of the butlers, poured fresh coffee into her cup. “Meg, have you gotten any further in your thoughts about what to wear to the Prom?”
To which, yeah, she and Josh were still going. Asâpals. Chums. Compatriots. “I'm going to make something out of my curtains,” Meg said, managingâjust barelyânot to laugh at her own humor. The clothes-making scenes in
Gone with the Wind
and
The Sound of Music
were probably her two favorite movie jokes ever. And the time Carol Burnett wore the curtain dress with the rod still in it.
“Is that a no?” her mother asked.
Oh, the President was quick. Very quick. “Yeah,” Meg said. “It's a no.”
SHE SAT IN her Secret Service car the next morning, trying to finish her English homework, typing wildly about conscience and conflictâand just generally being so god-damn thematic and ponderous that she was boring the hell out of herself.
“Try and hit red lights,” she said to her agents.
Chet, who was driving, laughed; Dennis didn't. Par for the course. She had her regular detail of agents, including two who served as fairly traditional bodyguards, and several others who rode in the lead or follow cars, manned the command centers and holding rooms, and did advance work and logisticsâand whatever else happened to come up during a given eight-hour period. They were assigned the same group of agents for six weeks at a timeâand then, the agents would usually go off to do two weeks of various training cycles before resuming their assignments. She was on her third detail since her mother had taken office, because every six months or so, the Secret Service would rotate in a new group. Steven and Neal were both actually on their
fifth
details, because apparently, the Secret Service was convinced that younger pro-tectees were inclined to get too attached to their agents. Since Neal mostly just ambled around pleasantly in his own little world, and Steven
hated
being guarded so much that he didn't always cooperate, she didn't think it was an issue for either of them.
For her part, she was looking forward to her next detail, because while Chet was fun, and most of the others were friendly and tried not to be intrusive, Dennis was too damn intenseâso attentive that he made her nervous.
“Sorry, Meg,” Chet said, slowing to make the turn onto the
school grounds. They always varied the entrances and exits, and today was apparently a parking garage day. “Did my best.”
Meg saved the document to her flash-drive, and then closed her laptopâwhich her parents had paid for in full, but had been issued by the NSA or DIA or something, because it was extra-light and secure and high-tech, and
very
cool. “I can probably finish up during homeroom.” She opened her knapsack to put the computer away. “In the end, we are all alone. Each, our own judge.” She looked at Chet. “What do you think?”
He laughed.
“The most frightening demons may, in fact, be within ourselves,” she said.
He shook his head, pulling in behind the lead car. “Your poor teacher.”
Who had given them the damn essay assignment in the first place and was, therefore, ineligible for sympathy. “Exploring the hidden darkness can beâ” Meg unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the car, not sure what it could be. She swung her knapsack over her shoulder. “Revealing.” She frowned. Illuminating? No, too obvious.
Her agents didn't like her to stand around when she didn't have to, so she headed directly into the schoolâDennis, as always, a little too close behind her. She walked more slowly, hoping that he would back off, although he almost never did.
Seeing Josh on his way down one of the side halls, she stopped to wait for him. Sometimes, to give him grief, she called him Mr. Shetland, and today was no exception.
“Nice sweater,” she said.
He smiled back. “Thought you'd like it.” Before, he would have put his arm around her, or taken her knapsack for her or something, but now, he just stood there, looking uncomfortable.
Feeling pretty ill-at-ease herselfâalthough it had been her idea to “de-escalate” things in the first place, Meg coughed. “Well,” she said.
“Yeah.” He straightened his glasses. “Anything new?”
She shook her head. “Not really. I talked to Beth last night.” Beth was her best friend back in Massachusetts, where her family
really
lived. Or had, anyway. Either way, she and Beth talked a lotâand emailed and texted each other constantly, too.
“What's going on with her?” Josh asked.
That was a perfectly ordinary question, but somehow, it felt stilted. “Not much,” Meg said. “She's going to the Prom with that Harvard guy.” Beth was nothing, if not a social success.
“Are they getting serious?” he asked.
“No, I don't get that feeling,” Meg said. In fact, mostly, the guy sounded like a putz. A
college
putz, but still, a putz.
Behind her, Dennis had moved closer again, and she folded her arms, not wanting to turn around and yell at him.
Josh noticed and put his hand on her waist, steering her ahead more quickly.
“Thanks,” she said.
He hesitated, then dropped his hand, putting it in his jeans pocket. “Why don't you talk to him about it?”
Which both he and Beth had suggested more than once. Meg sighed. “He's just doing his job.”
“Yeah,” Josh said, “but he's not supposed to bother you.”
Having agents
at all
was bothersome, so it was really just a question of degree. “I'm probably overreacting,” she said, her arms still folded.
Josh glanced over his shoulder. “Tell your father, or Preston. I'm sure it wouldn't be a big deal for you to get someone else.”
Mr. Gabler, who was the Special Agent in Charge of the Presidential Protective Detail, would probably be able to come up with a plausible reason to send Dennis off for some form of specialized training, but she didn't want the guy to suspect that the President's daughter had been complaining bitterly about him, since it would hurt his feelings. “I guess so.” She sighed again. “I don't know. This rotation's almost over, anyway.”
“In other words,” he said.
Yeah. She nodded, and stopped as they got to her locker. “Did you do your English yet?”
“The demons of darkness are potent, but elusive,” he said.
Meg laughed. “Yeah. I did it, too.”
Â
JOSH CAME OVER after dinner that nightâromance or not, he was still her closest friend in Washingtonâand they ended up in the West Sitting Hall, which was considered the First Family Living Room, and had furniture from their house in Chestnut Hill and everything. Having a
familiar
non-museum quality couch around, as well as two easy chairs from their old den, was very comforting.
He was wearing another Shetland crewneck, this one sort of deep-sea blue, and she touched his sleeve. “Gosh, this is
so
nice,” she said.
Josh looked sheepish. “It's kind of cold out tonight.”
In Washington, in May. Right. Jorge, who was one of the butlers, had brought out Cokes and some homemade, still-hot potato chips for them, and she leaned forward to take a sip from her glass. “How was practice?”
Josh shrugged. “Okay. Nathan hit so damn many home-runs that the rest of us got stuck chasing them around half the time.”
Meg grinned. Their friend Nathan, who was about as big as the average NFL linebacker, left nothing to understatement when it came to sports. He played first base and hit clean-up on their school's team, Josh played second, and another good friend of theirs, Zachary, was the center fielder. Because of this, Steven approved of all of them.
“Did you find anyone to hit with?” Josh asked.
Meg nodded. “Mr. Carlton, from CBS.” A cameraman, who was a pretty damn good player. One great thing about the White House was that she never had any trouble finding singles partners.
“Did you beat him?” Josh asked.
She allowed herself a small grin. It was important to be a good sport. “Yeah.”
He grinned, too. “Badly?”
“No. Two out of three,” she said.
Which didn't mean that the guy hadn't been upset about it. Threw his racquet, even, when he thoughtâmistakenlyâthat he was safely out of view.
“Hey,” she said. “Want to go look at dresses?”
“Mmm, boy,” he said, with no enthusiasm whatsoever.
“I meant, my
mother's
dresses. You know, for the Prom. You can help me figure out what to wearâI'm sure she'll let me borrow one.” Well, sort of sure. Meg stood up. “Come on.”
He hesitated. “I don't know. I kind of don't think I should go into your parents' room.”
“They won't mind,” she said. “Besides, they're not going to be home until pretty late.”
He looked worried, but followed her into the Presidential Bedroom Suite.
Actually, her parents had very strict rules about the two of them hanging out in bedrooms together. Not that she and Josh had ever doneâmuchâthat was particularly controversial. Even by nervous parents' standards. Since her social life outside the White House was completely in the public domain, and the odds of
really
being alone in the Residence were pretty slim, neither of them had ever really been able to relax enough to get too carried away. As time wore on, Josh had gotten more and more frustrated about this, while sheâin many waysâhad been kind of relieved. It had made life significantly less complicated.
“What,” Josh said, smiling at her.
“I'm sorry.” She shook her head. “I was justâ”
“Thinking,” he said.
Yeah.
Her mother had so many clothes that they were kept all over the place, including the storage area right between her room and Steven's, as well as up on the third floor, but the closets opening off the master bedroom and dressing room were a good place to start. When he saw the neat rows of suits and dresses, and skirts and blouses and gownsâand
shoes
, his mouth literally fell open.
“Jesus,” he said.
“Want me to do my Daisy Buchanan impression?” Meg asked.
He laughed.
“Is that a no?” she asked.
“Big no,” he said, then pointed at the large tags on all of the hangers. “What are those?”
Visible evidence of White House OCD. Meg shrugged. “They always write down when and where she's worn the outfit so, I don't know, she doesn't repeat.”
“Hunh.” He leaned forward to study one of the tags. “Who are âthey'?”
“I don't know,” she said. “The Cast of Thousands.” Although, in this case, it was probably the social secretaries. She and Steven always called the White House staff the Cast of Thousandsâfor obvious reasons. She held out one of her favorite gowns, a dark sapphire-blue, very simply cut. “What do you think?”
“I don't know,” he said. “When was it worn last?”
She grinned. Josh was pretty cute, when he wanted to be. Sometimes even when he
didn't
want to be. “Well, hell, I don't know, either,” she said, and checked the tag. “Right after Labor Day. At a thing for NASA.”
“It's nice,” he said.
An extreme understatement.
He pulled out a strapless black dress. “This one's pretty.”
“No
way
would she let me borrow that,” Meg said.
“Why?” He looked at it again. What there
was
of it. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Meg put the black dress backâwhich had only been
worn at her mother's birthday party up at Camp David almost a year earlier, with just a few of her parents' very closest friends in attendanceâand took down a white one, with a scoop neck and three-quarter sleeves. “This, she'd let me wear.”
“Kind of bridal,” he said.
“Yeah.” She hung it up, taking out a shimmery golden dress. “How about this?”
He shook his head.
“She looksâmonarchialâin it,” Meg said.
“Is that a word?” he asked doubtfully.
She frowned. “I think so.”
“I
don't
think so,” he said.
She made a mental note to look the word up later, although she almost never remembered to do things like that. “She looksâqueenly.”
He laughed. “Got it.”
“In fact, sheâ” Meg stopped, suddenly hearing her parents out in the bedroom.
“I thought they weren't home,” Josh whispered.
“I guess they're back,” Meg said, and raised her voice, since she could hear her mother approaching the closet. “Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, hi.” Her mother paused in the act of taking her hair down when she saw Josh. “Hello, Josh.”
“Um, hello, ma'am,” he said, looking embarrassed. “We were justâ”
“He wanted to try on some of your clothes,” Meg said, helpfully.
“Oh.” Her mother smiled. “Are there any you'd like to take along with you?”
Josh blinked a few times, now looking mortified. “Uhâthey're all very nice.”