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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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It was quiet again, and Meg knew that if she didn't say something, Beth would take silence as condemnation.
She paused for a couple of extra seconds to think of the right words. “If you care about him, and you're sure he's going to be nice to you, then, yeah, maybe it's a good idea.”
Which must not have been the right words, because they just kind of—hung there.
“But,” Beth said.
It was impossible to dissemble around Beth. “But, it kind of sounds like you just want to get it over with more than anything else,” Meg said.
“What's wrong with that?” Beth asked. Defensively.
An excellent question. “Nothing's
wrong
with it,” Meg said. “In fact, sometimes I wish I'd gone that way with Josh.” And it was—very, very faintly—within the realm of possibility that she still
might
, if the post-Prom parties were as rowdy and devil-may-care as she suspected they were going to be.
“I don't get why you didn't,” Beth said. “He's a really sweet guy, he's
crazy
about you, and he would have made sure that it was romantic and all.”
Yes. All three of those things were true. Meg sighed. “And I was still going to break up with him, no matter what, so it wouldn't have been fair.”
It was silent for what seemed like a very long time.
“So, you think you'd have been using him, and I'd be using Stuart,” Beth said.
Maybe. Meg frowned. “Well, it's not exactly cruel and unusual punishment.” She
hoped.
“But—yeah. Potentially.”
There was yet another pause.
“You know,” Beth said, finally. “I kind of wish our mothers knew that we're actually taking this stuff
seriously
.”
Oh, yeah, that sounded like a great idea. “What, are you
kidding?” Meg asked. “My mother and I talk openly, and comfortably, about sex all the time.”
Beth laughed. “Thanks, Meg. Now I'm going to have major nightmares tonight.”
Yes, she probably was, too.
After they hung up, she was lying on her bed, reading
As I Lay Dying
, when her mother knocked lightly on the open door, and then came in.
If there was a God, the President had no plans to discuss any form of sex in any way whatsoever.
“What are you reading?” her mother asked.
Meg held up the book.
“Are you enjoying it?” her mother asked.
Meg shook her head.
Her mother smiled, sitting down on the end of the bed. “You know, you can occasionally take a
break
, Meg.”
This, from the woman who averaged less than four hours of sleep a night?
“How's Beth?” her mother asked. “Have you talked to her lately?”
Was that a friendly question—or a pointed, probing one? Not that she thought White House flunkies were quite capable of listening in on people's private conversations, and then running straight to the President and telling her everything, in a—futile—attempt to curry favor. “Fine,” she said, cautiously. “Waiting for graduation, mostly.”
Her mother nodded. “Well, I hope you'll get to spend some time with her this summer.”
Okay, so it had been a random query, without any apparent ulterior motives. “Are we going to go up there at all,” Meg asked, “or just to Camp David?”
“I don't know,” her mother said. “I thought we might try for a
week or two in August. And, among other things, we'll have that trip to Geneva in July.”
Meg grinned. “You make it sound like a vacation.”
“The glass is half full,” her mother said.
“Wait,” Meg pretended to reach for a pen, “let me write that down.”
Her mother smiled.
Speaking of which. “What are you going to say in your speech?” Meg asked. Her mother had been invited to give the main address at her graduation—about which, Meg was both embarrassed and pleased.
“You mean, at the school,” her mother said.
Meg nodded.
“Oh, I don't know,” her mother said. “About how you all have only just begun, and can choose many paths on the highway of life, I suppose.”
Meg looked at her uncertainly. “That's a joke, right?”
Her mother shrugged. “Shouldering adult responsibilities, seeing graduation as both an ending and a new beginning—”
“Now I
know
you're kidding,” Meg said, almost positive.
“Well, what would you expect me to say?” her mother asked.
“I don't know.” Meg frowned. “I was kind of hoping you'd tell some jokes.”
“Jokes.” Her mother frowned, too. “I see.”
“We could get Jon Talbot's father to come,” Meg said. Who was an extremely conservative Senator from Alabama, and not one of her mother's favorites.
“I'll think of some jokes,” her mother said.
Good. Not that her mother didn't always tell jokes—too many, her advisors worried—in her speeches. “You won't say stuff about
me
, right?” Meg asked.
“I expect I'll have to
mention
you,” her mother said.
Talk about embarrassing. If there had been a cool cloth handy, she would have put it on her forehead. “You won't say you're proud of me or anything, will you?”
Her mother laughed. “If you think about it, there would be a lot more commotion if I went, and
didn't
speak.”
Meg nodded. Either way, though, it was going to be something of a circus.
“I think it will be more low-key than you expect,” her mother said, apparently reading her mind.
One could only hope. “Do you really think so?” Meg asked.
Her mother hesitated. “Well—”
“Neither do I,” Meg said.
IT WAS THURSDAY, and Meg woke up in a very good mood. A
hell
of a mood. The switchboard, which she used as an alarm clock, only had to call once, even. And, it was sunny.
“Yes,” she said to Vanessa, who stretched and purred. “We
do
need to put on ‘I Love Rock and Roll.'” She clicked on to one of her favorite playlists, and “I Love Rock and Roll” came on. Loudly.
She decided to wear her Williams sweatshirt—half because she liked it; half because it would annoy her parents a little. And this wasn't a day to wear an
un
ripped pair of jeans.
The playlist was a rowdy one, full of songs like “Respect” and “Brick House” and “We've Gotta Get Out of This Place”—including the hilarious Partridge Family version, and as she got ready for school, she sang them to Vanessa.
Who didn't seem to be overly impressed.
At the Presidential Dining Room, she stopped in the doorway, seeing that the rest of her family was already at the table.
“Good morning, my little subjects,” she said.
“Oh, Christ,” Steven said. “Not that again.”
Neal shook his head. “Not
that
.”
“Good morning,” her parents said, her father frowning at Steven for swearing.
Meg stayed in the doorway. “The proper greeting is, ‘Good morning, dear Queen.'”
Her family continued eating breakfast.
“
Well
,” she said, and swept to her seat.
“What are the odds of Her Majesty returning to her chambers and putting on something more presentable?” her father asked.
Meg pushed up one sweatshirt sleeve, amused. “The Queen is content, as is.” She picked up her orange juice, then stopped, looking around the table. “No kippers? I
say
, you Americans are a savage lot.”
Both of her parents laughed.
“What
are
the odds of your going and changing, Meg?” her mother asked.
“I like to think I change and grow every day,” Meg said, and very solemnly sipped some juice.
Steven pretended to throw up, Neal giggling and imitating him.
“Anyway,” Meg said, sipping, “this particular queen feels that comfy is as comfy does.” She glanced up at Pete, the butler who was waiting by her place. “Just a mimosa, please.”
Her father's eyebrows went up.
“Remember the time difference,” she said. “I'm
accustomed
to a cocktail right about now.”
Her mother sighed, pushing away her morning news summary. “Don't you have homework or something that needs finishing?”
Meg shook her head sadly.
“What your mother means,” her father said, “is that maybe she's trying to concentrate.”
“No news is good news,” Meg said, and reached across the table to grab the Lucky Charms box away from Neal, the two of them scuffling slightly.
“Neal, give your sister the box,” their father said, sounding tired.
“She should ask!” Neal said.
Her mother frowned at her. “She
should
ask.”
Meg sat back, folding her hands in her lap. “I guess the colonies have had a bad effect on me.” She smiled at Neal. A—monarchial—smile. “Will you please pass me the cereal, sweetpea?”
“What a jerk.” Steven pushed away from the table, putting on
his Red Sox cap—their father wouldn't let him wear it when they were eating—and grabbing his knapsack. “Later.”
“No royal kiss?” Meg asked.
“No way,” he said.
How disrespectful. “No
presidential
kiss?” she said.
“Right,” he said, and grinned sheepishly at their mother. They weren't big on hugging—at least, she and Steven weren't—but, since her mother had been shot, they were all a little more careful about trying to say pleasant good-byes. “Um, see ya.”
“Savage.” Meg checked her watch—and saw that it
was
kind of on the late side. “I'd better get going, too.” She grabbed a handful of Lucky Charms from the box. “Mmm, can't tell you how happy I am about the extra marshmallows they added.”
“Charming,” her father said, watching her.
Meg grinned. “Want to see
charming
?”
“No,” her mother said quickly.
“Your loss,” Meg said, and took another handful for the road. For the car, anyway. “Um, let's be careful out there,” she said, which was her good-luck-charm good-bye. Courtesy of
Hill Street Blues
, which she watched with her father sometimes, when he was feeling nostalgic.
“No presidential kiss?” her mother asked.
Oh, please. “Elected officials kiss
queens
,” Meg said. “Not the other way around.”
Her mother stood up, her expression amused.
“That's okay,” Meg said. “You can owe me.”
“Are you staying after today?” her father asked.
Meg nodded. “For a while, maybe. Then, I thought I'd come home and—”
“Tennis,” her mother said.
Meg shrugged. “Kind of tough to find a cricket game around here.” She picked up her knapsack. “See you later.”
Her regular classes had pretty much wound down, since they
were all supposed to be spending most of their time working on their big senior projects—she had elected to do a four-week immersion course in Chinese, because—well—the school offered it, and she had always been too busy taking French classes to give it a try, and—not that she liked politics, or had any career ambitions in that direction, or anything—but, learning a little Chinese seemed like a good idea. A guy from the State Department had been coming over to the White House for a couple of hours twice a week to tutor her, but she was also sitting in on first-year classes full of wide-eyed—or irredeemably smart-ass—ninth and tenth graders, and spending a lot of time in the language lab.
Of course, she wasted a good chunk of the day hanging out, aimlessly, in the senior lounge, too.
Josh was writing a piano concerto for
his
project, and since she'd promised to wait for him while he met with his advisor after school, she sat in an auditorium in the Arts Center for a while, watching a rehearsal of the original play her friends Alison, Gail and Phyllis were doing for
their
senior project. Then, she went back over to the main building, since she was going to meet Josh by her locker.
The halls had pretty much cleared out, and she sat down on the floor. She was going to do a couple of pages in her Chinese workbook—oddly, even though her normal handwriting was disgraceful, she had been told that her Chinese script was quite deft—but, she sent Beth a quick “
I hear the Copley Plaza is nice”
text, instead.
Aware of Dennis lurking nearby, she looked up.
“I told Josh I'd wait until he was finished,” she said. “Then, I'll be ready to go.”
He nodded.
“Twenty minutes, maybe,” she said.
He nodded, withdrawing slightly.
Beth had already sent back a snide, but cheerful, response, and
they were still texting back and forth when Dennis came back over, frowning.
“Let me have that for a minute,” he said, indicating her watch. “There's some kind of signal problem.”
She glanced at it automatically. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, holding his hand out. “I don't know—maybe you banged it when you were in the gym.”
Instead of going to lunch, she had played some basketball with Josh and Nathan and Zachary, and a few other senior guys—and it had been a fairly rough and clumsy game, during which she had landed on the floor more than once. So, yeah, she'd probably mangled the damn thing. With luck, it wouldn't be too expensive to replace.
She handed the watch to him, her arm feeling strange without it.
Looking
strange, too, with the watch-shaped mark on her wrist. She grinned, pushing her sleeve back down. “You want me to be like, extra careful?”
He didn't really respond, adjusting his earpiece.
So what else was new. She went back to texting.
“Hi,” Josh said, jogging down towards her, wearing his cleats and carrying his glove. The baseball season had ended, but the guys were scrimmaging pretty regularly, anyway, because they were very gung-ho—and still disappointed to have come in second in the MAC Tournament.
She wrote “
Off to the Hay-Adams! Details to follow”
, and then signed off.
“Feel like watching us play for a while?” he asked.
It was tempting, but she shook her head. “No, I'm going to go home and work on my serve.” She reached over to snap the elastic strap he used to keep his glasses on when he played sports. “What's next—clip-on sunglasses?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Don't tell anyone.”
She laughed, and as he put out his hand to help her up, she took it. Briefly.
Today was a side exit day, and he walked her down towards the driveway below the tennis courts, where her car would be waiting, Dennis behind them, Chet just ahead of them.
“You want to come over tonight?” she asked. “Hang out for a while?”
“Sure,” he said. “Eight okay?”
He was carelessly forgetting a very crucial detail. “If you come at seven,” she said, “we can watch the beginning of the Red Sox game.”
“Ooh, yay,” he said, and took his time—obviously just to annoy her—putting his Nationals cap on. “Hit lots of aces.”
“Hit lots of home-runs,” she said.
He adjusted the cap. At length. “You
know
who's going to be hitting home-runs.”
As always, Nathan. She grinned. “Well, have fun chasing them.”
As she walked outside, she glanced back to see if he was still there—which he was.
“Tie your shoes,” Dennis said.
“What?” She looked down, so used to wearing them loose—except when she was actually
playing
tennis—that tying them never occurred to her. “Okay.” She bent down.
“Wait until you get to the car,” Chet said, without turning.
She shook her head. “It'll only take a—”
Now, he turned. “Wait until you—” He stared at her left arm. “Meg, where the hell's your—”
Out of nowhere, there was an explosion up ahead of them, followed by a second one, and then a third, as two cars and a van came speeding through the smoke, veering right up over the sidewalk at them.
“Get her inside!” Chet said, his gun already out, blocking her.
Meg stared, too stunned to react as men in masks burst out of
the cars and fired automatic weapons. The smoke was worse, but she saw Chet stumbling back, blood spurting from his chest and neck, and horrified, she turned to try and find Dennis, who was face-down on the pavement, blood spreading out underneath him. There was more shooting—the agents from her lead car?—and then, another explosion.
The school door was opening—Josh!—and she had just enough time to yell “Get down!” before she felt herself being lifted right up off the ground and thrown into the van, the impact of the metal flooring jarring up through her hands and knees. Men piled in after her, still shooting as the van skidded away.
The door slammed, the light dimming, and the van was loud with mask-muffled shouting, the air so thick with the smell of nervous perspiration and halitosis that she couldn't breathe. Her arms were being wrenched up behind her, tight metal digging into her wrists, and then, she was on her back, a man straddling her, aiming what looked like a machine gun at her face.
“Where else you bugged?” he shouted.
She just stared, breathing hard, too scared to move.
He hit her across the face with the gun. “Tell me!”
She felt bright, sickening pain first; then, blood rolling down the side of her face. He hit her again, harder, and she felt tears—it couldn't be blood from her
eye
—joining the trickle of blood.
“Answer me!” he yelled.
“I—” her vision was blurred by warm liquid—“I—”
She felt rough hands ever ywhere—and
fists
—and then one of the hands dug in, viciously, between her neck and shoulder, and she groaned, her heart beating so hard that she couldn't really hear anything else.
“Tell me!” he yelled again.
BOOK: Long Live the Queen
7.15Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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