president.”
God, maybe I really was born to be a politician. Because I just told a whopper of a lie.
Max intervened with an air of someone who’d had his last nerve worn out. “We need to roll,” he told me, and shooed me into the car.
“Cute outfit today, Morgan!” the reporter called after me before Max shut the limo’s door.
The car swung away from the curb. Outside the gate, crews from nearly every news outlet had camped out. Paparazzi ran after the limo to fire off shots, but they wouldn’t get anything through the smoked glass windows.
I slouched into the leather seat, bone weary. Today had been another rough one.
As we approached the White House, Max’s wireless com chirped and Max instructed the Secret Service driver to pull around to the south entrance.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Unwanted media has camped by the north entrance,” Max answered. “They’re on the street with high-powered cameras trained on the driveway.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “Why?” Then I knew. They wanted another photo of me wearing a crazy outfit.
“Don’t worry,” Max answered shortly. “I know another way in.”
“You do?” But I didn’t have time for more questions. We quickly changed directions and pulled into the south entrance by the White House’s press briefing room.
“Are you insane?” I screeched. “The press room’s crawling with reporters!”
Max muttered into his com before he turned to me. “I’m hiding you in plain sight, Morgan. By the time they realize you’re right under their noses, you’ll be gone. Plus it’s the fastest way in. But we have to move quickly.”
“Okaaaaay.” It seemed like a long shot, but I didn’t have much choice. The car had already stopped.
I have to give Max his props, because his plan worked like a charm. Before the pool reporters even had a chance to register my presence, I’d slipped through them.
Max escorted me to the back stairs leading to the third-floor residence.
“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “Can I get you to promise you won’t make any unauthorized excursions outside of secured areas?”
“Like I’d give the press another shot at getting a horrible photo of me? Not a chance.” I slung my backpack on my shoulder and started up the stairs. Then I paused. “Thanks for everything today, Max. You really came through for me.”
To my surprise, he stalked away without another word. What was up with him?
Upstairs in the family quarters, nineties grunge rock music blared from the workout room. Dad was home.
“Puddin’ Pop, can you come in here?” Dad yelled before I had a chance to sneak past.
I cringed at hearing the nickname Dad would probably be calling me for the rest of my life. An image of me at the ripe old age of sixty flashed through my mind as my ninety-year-old father called me Puddin’ Pop from his hovercraft wheelchair.
“Can you turn down the moldy oldies?” I asked as I entered the workout room.
Dad set down the barbell he’d been pumping—he needed to keep in shape for all the surfing he liked to do—and ran his hand over the touchscreen pad of the high-tech sound system invented by Abbott Technology. The guitar riff mercifully died. Dad wiped his sweaty face with a workout towel. His black hair still curled thick and only a couple of lines creased the corners of his eyes.
“Puddin’ Pop, I know today must’ve been rough for you,” Dad began.
“You saw the paper?”
“Of course. Your mother is outraged. So am I. The Gadfly crossed a line when they went after you.”
“Reporters were waiting for me at the school gates today.”
He got up off the weight bench and gave me a sweaty hug. “I know this is tough, but believe me when I say this will pass. Remember what happened during the campaign when Mom was ready to secure the nomination? The coconut bra incident?”
I nodded miserably. Someone had found photos from Dad’s days as a fraternity brother in college. Photos of
God, maybe I really was born to be a politician. Because I just told a whopper of a lie.
Max intervened with an air of someone who’d had his last nerve worn out. “We need to roll,” he told me, and shooed me into the car.
“Cute outfit today, Morgan!” the reporter called after me before Max shut the limo’s door.
The car swung away from the curb. Outside the gate, crews from nearly every news outlet had camped out. Paparazzi ran after the limo to fire off shots, but they wouldn’t get anything through the smoked glass windows.
I slouched into the leather seat, bone weary. Today had been another rough one.
As we approached the White House, Max’s wireless com chirped and Max instructed the Secret Service driver to pull around to the south entrance.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Unwanted media has camped by the north entrance,” Max answered. “They’re on the street with high-powered cameras trained on the driveway.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “Why?” Then I knew. They wanted another photo of me wearing a crazy outfit.
“Don’t worry,” Max answered shortly. “I know another way in.”
“You do?” But I didn’t have time for more questions. We quickly changed directions and pulled into the south entrance by the White House’s press briefing room.
“Are you insane?” I screeched. “The press room’s crawling with reporters!”
Max muttered into his com before he turned to me. “I’m hiding you in plain sight, Morgan. By the time they realize you’re right under their noses, you’ll be gone. Plus it’s the fastest way in. But we have to move quickly.”
“Okaaaaay.” It seemed like a long shot, but I didn’t have much choice. The car had already stopped.
I have to give Max his props, because his plan worked like a charm. Before the pool reporters even had a chance to register my presence, I’d slipped through them.
Max escorted me to the back stairs leading to the third-floor residence.
“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “Can I get you to promise you won’t make any unauthorized excursions outside of secured areas?”
“Like I’d give the press another shot at getting a horrible photo of me? Not a chance.” I slung my backpack on my shoulder and started up the stairs. Then I paused. “Thanks for everything today, Max. You really came through for me.”
To my surprise, he stalked away without another word. What was up with him?
Upstairs in the family quarters, nineties grunge rock music blared from the workout room. Dad was home.
“Puddin’ Pop, can you come in here?” Dad yelled before I had a chance to sneak past.
I cringed at hearing the nickname Dad would probably be calling me for the rest of my life. An image of me at the ripe old age of sixty flashed through my mind as my ninety-year-old father called me Puddin’ Pop from his hovercraft wheelchair.
“Can you turn down the moldy oldies?” I asked as I entered the workout room.
Dad set down the barbell he’d been pumping—he needed to keep in shape for all the surfing he liked to do—and ran his hand over the touchscreen pad of the high-tech sound system invented by Abbott Technology. The guitar riff mercifully died. Dad wiped his sweaty face with a workout towel. His black hair still curled thick and only a couple of lines creased the corners of his eyes.
“Puddin’ Pop, I know today must’ve been rough for you,” Dad began.
“You saw the paper?”
“Of course. Your mother is outraged. So am I. The Gadfly crossed a line when they went after you.”
“Reporters were waiting for me at the school gates today.”
He got up off the weight bench and gave me a sweaty hug. “I know this is tough, but believe me when I say this will pass. Remember what happened during the campaign when Mom was ready to secure the nomination? The coconut bra incident?”
I nodded miserably. Someone had found photos from Dad’s days as a fraternity brother in college. Photos of
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