The President's Daughter Read Free Page A

as the Senate Minority Leader. Her mother picked up the phone. “Brian, hi,” she said, and went off into a conversation about some Select Committee hearing or something.
    â€œParty business,” Steven said, trying to make his voice deeper.
    â€œParty?” Meg said. “Who’s having a party?”
    â€œBoy, do we have a dumb sister,” Steven said to Neal, who laughed.
    Half an hour and six phone calls later, they were sitting down to dinner, observing her father’s very strict no-electronic-or-telephonic-devices-during-mealtimes rule as they ate the stew that Trudy, their housekeeper, had made and the salad Meg had had to finish making. On weekends, Trudy usually went home to her house over in Brighton.
    Their father frowned, which made him look like the stern, businesslike tax attorney version of himself. His smile, on the other hand, usually made him look more like a jolly lumberjack. “Steven, we’d better see about getting that hair cut tomorrow.”
    Steven groaned, and Meg laughed.
    â€œYou’ll probably be even better at basketball if it isn’t in your eyes all the time,” their mother said, reasonably.

    â€œMe, too?” Neal asked.
    â€œYou, too.” Their mother leaned over to cut his meat.
    He watched her, his elbows on the table. “Were you important today?”
    She made four quick horizontal slices. “Not really.”
    â€œDid you talk in front of everyone?” he asked.
    â€œI guess I always do, don’t I?” She handed him his plate, indicating with her eyebrows for him to move his elbows.
    â€œBoy.” He reached in front of Steven for the bread basket, saw his father’s expression, and sat back. “Would you please pass me the bread, please?” he asked politely.
    Steven grabbed two pieces, then shoved the basket along.
    â€œBoy,” Neal said, taking two pieces of his own. “I bet all those Senators listen to you.”
    Their mother smiled. “Some days more so than others.”
    â€œBoy,” he said. “You should be President.”
    She glanced at Meg, who had to fight off yet another shudder.
    â€œMeg, be a good munchkin and pass me the salt, will you?” she asked.

2
    AFTER THE USUAL fight with Steven over the dishes—the fight they always had when Trudy wasn’t around either to officiate or do them herself—Meg escaped upstairs with the excuse of homework, although mostly she just answered email, goofed around on the Internet, and called her best friend, Beth Shulman, to bring her up to date on the latest turn of events, getting a lot of “ Seriously ?” and “Wow, that sucks” remarks in return.
    Which were, of course, the exact responses she wanted.
    But, homework actually would not have been all that terrible an idea, since the next night there was a dance at school, and she and Beth and Sarah Weinberger and a few other people were planning to go and collectively stare at Rick Hamilton, which would undoubtedly be fruitless, but entertaining. Then, Sunday night was out, because her parents were having a dinner party for an ambassador and his wife, along with the governor, and a bunch of other political types. Party business, as Steven would say. Anyway, that would mean that they’d have to make appearances, be properly well-mannered and articulate children, and maybe pass hors d’oeuves. At least there would be maids and butlers and caterers around to serve dinner. Even with Trudy’s extensive tutelage, she and Steven would definitely have made a mess with dinner.
    â€œLooks like no homework this weekend,” she said to her cat, Vanessa, who was sitting on the side of her desk, washing.
    Vanessa purred, rubbing her head against Meg’s hand, and then, gave her a healthy swat with her right paw—which was pretty much the way life was with Vanessa.
    They had five animals, and technically, that meant each member
of the family