My heart twisted. I bit my lips hard and tried not to leak stupid tears all over my newly blown-straight hair.
Mom and I were inching toward the White House, but I couldn’t get that image of Sara and Becks running off with Prya and Paisley out of my head.
Remembering the look in their eyes, I thought maybe they had changed more than I’d ever imagined.
Mom lowered the SUV’s window to show her ID and badge to the security officer when we finally reached the White House gate. Armed guards walked around our car and slid a giant mirror underneath it that Mom said was to check for bombs. Like a spy movie? Cool, right?
But instead of feeling cool, I was flat-out miserable.
Mom guided the SUV into a parking space, then let out a sigh.
“Look, baby, I know your feelings are hurt and you feel like your friends betrayed you. I get that. But when we get inside, and you meet my good friend Letitia, who moved heaven and earth to make this happen, could you please do your old mom a favor and pretend you’re having a good time? For me?”
It took a few seconds of deep breathing and several attempts at swallowing the lump in my throat before I could answer her. The first thought that came to mind was, Sure, Mom, no problem. I’m an excellent faker.
Maybe it was time for me to stop worrying so much about faking, and get real about wanting to explore all the possibilities.
“I’m good, Mom,” I said with a smile. And I wasn’t faking one bit.
We were in the White House kitchen. Holy cow! I thought seeing the kitchen at Uncle Al’s restaurant was impressive. It was nothing compared to this!
And it turns out I had a lot in common with the First Lady.
Can you believe I just said that?
I’d imagined that when she was in the White House she wore diamonds in her ears and pearls around her neck. I pictured her being all glamorous. Sure, she seemed nice on TV, but when you’re married to the President, you sorta have to act that way.
But the First Lady wasn’t snooty-acting at all. She wore overalls. Cute overalls, but still, overalls. She wore a pale yellow sweater underneath and plain white Vans sneakers. Made me wish I hadn’t taken my aunt’s advice and had worn my regular high-tops, rather than these toe-pinching boots. Although, I had to admit, with the pleated skirt and black tights, the leather jacket and raspberry scarf, I did feel kinda sophisticated and cool.
“Come and let me look at you,” she said, reaching out for my hand. “My goodness. Such a beautiful young lady.” She glanced at Mom and said, “You must be very proud.”
Mom smiled her best proud-mama grin, then the First Lady glanced back at me. “Letitia tells me you love to bake and plan to own your own bakery someday.”
And before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Well, I do like to bake, but maybe I’ll do something else when I grow up, like being a journalist or even an artist! But Miss Delicious says learning good leadership skills prepares you for success in life, so I was hoping to bump into your husband today and get leadership advice.”
There was silence.
Mom, Letitia, and the First Lady stared at me. Mom’s face was a mixture of alarm and super-duper embarrassment. My eyes went totally huge. I’d just contradicted the First Lady. And I made it look like Miss Letitia didn’t know what she was talking about. AND it came out sounding like I didn’t care about meeting her—the First Freakin’ Lady—because I’d rather meet her husband. Nice job, Justice.
So imagine my surprise when everybody started laughing—really, really laughing.
“Sweetheart, I know William is around here somewhere, and if anybody could offer a few tips on leadership, Lord knows it would be him. As for the part about not knowing what you want in life, honey, you’ve got plenty of time.” Her accent was softer than Red’s, with a hint of honey.
She slid onto a stool at the large granite counter, getting comfortable. “This is my favorite room in the whole house. Want to know why?”
I nodded. Mom sat down and I perched myself on the stool between them. Miss Letitia stood beside the First Lady, clutching several calendars and day planners. And a clipboard. Hmm.
“When I was little, I used to cook with my mama all the time.” Her feet barely reached the floor. (Neither did mine.)
“All the while I was growing up, I was convinced I’d be the next great chef. Don’t tell anybody.” She leaned in like I was her best friend, curling her fingers around mine and making me feel as though we’d known each other forever. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.
“Whenever I get a free moment around here, my favorite way to unwind is to spend time watching the cooking shows on TV. I was beyond devastated when they canceled Miss Delicious’s Delicious Dish!”
“Me, too!” I cried.
She grinned, squeezing my fingertips. “Anyway, when I was a sophomore in high school, I took an art class. I still remember my teacher’s name, Mr. Gasparini. He was a great artist. His passion inspired me. By the time I was a senior, all I could think about was art. So I wound up going to art school. Now, because I’m married to you-know-who, I have the greatest job in the world. I get to be an advocate for arts programs and artists everywhere.”
I asked: “Um… ma’am, I mean, Miss First Lady, when you finally realized you loved art more than cooking, did it… I mean, did you feel… I don’t know… feel like you were failing? I mean, did it scare you to change your mind?”
Her smile started in her eyes and made her whole face shine. “Of course! Oh, my goodness. It sounds like we’re so much alike. I was very determined as a girl. I thought I knew exactly what I wanted. But the more I exposed myself to new things, the less sure I became. It took a while for me to accept that changing my mind could be a good thing.”
“Me, too!” I said. Mom just laughed, shaking her head. She was wearing her Oh, Brianna face.
And with that, we were off on our tour through the White House. The First Lady joined us, which none of us expected, and she even let me interview her for our school’s blog. Mrs. G. was going to have a heart attack.
The house held so much history. In the Blue Room was an enormous Christmas tree. It was decorated with glittery and glass balls with painted faces and scenes.
“Can you believe it? Sixth graders in Muskegon Heights, Michigan, made those ornaments. They were in danger of losing their art budget, but thanks to our efforts, we were able to save the program for the children.” The First Lady grinned. I’d heard of Muskegon. A little town just about as far west of Detroit as you could get without falling into Lake Michigan.
She continued, “Every year that we live here, working with all the volunteers who help make our house come alive at this time of year is one of the biggest honors imaginable.” She explained how First Ladies had been coming up with Christmas decorating themes since Jacqueline Kennedy did it in 1961.
“I’ve heard of her,” I said.
She linked her arm with mine. “She was considered one of our most stylish First Ladies, so of course, a young woman of such style would have heard of her!” She winked and I giggled like an idiot. But she didn’t seem to mind.
We moved on, soon returning to the kitchen to meet Alexander Quimby, the White House chef. He came over and we talked about recipes.
The First Lady said that in addition to her passion for art, she had a passion for healthy eating. Mr. Quimby told me that the president had a much broader view of what it meant to be healthy and his challenge was trying to make food that was tasty enough for the Commander in Chief—that’s another name for the President, I found out—and healthy enough for the First Lady.
“We’re having a huge baking event in a couple of weeks,” Mr. Quimby said. “Gingerbread houses.” He showed me pictures from previous years. They were amazing.
Then he pulled out a tray of cookies and sat the platter in front of us. They were the best chocolate chip cookies ever!
“You have to give me the recipe for these cookies!” I blurted out.
&nbs
p; Chef Quimby laughed. “Tell you what. You share your top cupcake recipes and I’ll think about passing along my cookie recipe.”
I took another big bite of cookie and licked my lips. “Deal!”
Next thing I knew, Mom, the First Lady, Chef Quimby, and I were posing for pictures together while eating Christmas cookies. How cool is that?!
By the time our visit was coming to an end, I needed a few minutes to myself to take it all in. I asked Mom if I could go to the restroom, and Miss Letitia directed me to follow her. We went around the corner, but the restroom she took me to was under construction.
“Take the elevator right here to the next level. You’ll see it right there,” said the maintenance dude.
I hesitated. I didn’t really need to use the bathroom. And truth was, sometimes elevators creeped me out. I guess the maintenance dude figured it out, because he grinned and said, “You’ll be fine, miss. Go on.”
He was right, of course. Smooth ride, one floor up. The restroom was nicer than my bedroom. I instantly took out my phone and snapped several photos.
Drawing a deep breath, thinking about everything that had happened throughout the day, I did the only thing I could do:
A happy dance!
Watching my reflection, I bounced around and around, grinning like a kid in a candy store. This had gone from the worst day ever to the absolute best!
With everything that happened at the Capitol, I was sure I’d be scarred for life. Now, after meeting the First Lady and talking to her, I felt like everything that happened might just turn out okay. And changing my mind about my future was okay, too. I made myself stand up straight, and stared into the mirror.
You are a leader. You are a young woman. You are an entrepreneur. You are president of the whole sixth grade!
I tossed cold water on my face, dried off, and drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. I did my best imitation of the First Lady’s relaxed and confident stride into the hallway and pressed the down button on the elevator. When the security dude looked at me, I gave him my most mature presidential nod.
The bell for the elevator dinged and I got on. I was so lost in thought, I didn’t notice who was already on the elevator.
“Hey,” said a voice.
“Hey,” I answered. It was a boy about my age. Maybe a year older. A man stood next to him. The boy was glancing up from his tablet and the man looked like he was just chilling.
The elevator began to move, then, abruptly, it jerked. Someone shrieked like a little girl. (Hmm… it was probably me.)
We stopped moving.
When the lights flashed on and off, the elevator shook. Almost immediately, my knees shook, too. Already it felt like the space was getting smaller and smaller.
Is it getting hot in here?
I pressed my back against the wall and bit my lip. All the cookies I’d eaten bubbled in my throat. I sank to the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest.
Did I mention? I was confident about a lot of things… but I really—REALLY—hated tight spaces.
The man looked at me. “You okay?”
I just stared. Then a voice came through the speakers:
“So sorry about this, folks, but it appears there’s been a hiccup in the power. Hold tight!”
The boy knelt down beside me. “It’ll be okay,” he said. I glanced at him. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t tell from where. He had close-cropped hair and skin the color of pale caramel. Then, for the first time, I caught a whiff of chlorine.
The man started talking into his sleeve. A hidden microphone. All I heard was “mumble, mumble, mumble” then “Yes, sir, we’re trapped inside. Yes, sir, Neptune is secure.”
17
Neptune
It was the President’s nephew. Code name Neptune. He looked a little older, more laid-back than in the photo Becks had saved on her phone. He slid down to the floor. We both sat with our backs to the wall, our knees bent. He looked at ease, though I was ready to barf.
He didn’t sound like a big shot when he talked. I felt myself redden. It was so embarrassing, being in there with him. Not, like, romantic or anything. It was just that here I was, having the greatest day ever, then I had to go and step into a lethal deathtrap elevator and start shrieking like a preschooler. AND THEN I’m looking this boy in the face but remembering that stupid photo of him in those skimpy swim trunks.
He told me his real name was Frederick Douglass London. He said he was named after the famous African American abolitionist Frederick Douglass. “Most people either call me London or Neptune.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
He said, “For what?”
I gave him a “nice try” look. “You know,” I said. He didn’t seem to mind, though.
I think the Secret Service guy, on the other hand—I knew from Mr. G.’s class that that’s who protects the president and his family—was afraid I might have a heart attack and explode dork guts all over the President’s nephew.
A little time passed, then Neptune asked for my phone number. I raised my eyebrow at him, but gave him the number. After that we started texting each other.
He was smart. Smart enough to know that if I was trying hard to concentrate on typing, I wouldn’t flinch every time I heard a clink or moan of the motors and gears.
Neptune’s fingers danced across the keypad.
NEPTUNE: Everybody’s afraid of something.
ME: Not really.
NEPTUNE: Really.
ME: So, what are you afraid of.
NEPTUNE: Public speaking.
I looked at him. Laughed.
I said, “No way!”
“Yes way.”
I pulled my clipboard out of my book bag. “I’m working on a speech. I’m not afraid of speech giving, but I’m sure no fan of speech writing.”
He laughed. “I’d rather write a speech than give a speech any time. What’s yours on?”
I let out a deep sigh. Lights flickered and the Secret Service dude mumbled into his shirt some more. Neptune was so chill, he could have been taking a nap. I knew he was talking to distract me from my terror. Every so often we could hear dings and pings from the workmen. To me it sounded like they were slapping the elevator around to keep us from falling to our deaths.
Inhale. Exhale.
NEPTUNE: Hard to give a speech when you don’t know what it’s about.
ME: I know the topic. Just hard to know where to start. In D.C. for a leadership conference. Class presidents expected to discuss power with purpose…
NEPTUNE: You’re class president?
ME: President of the whole sixth grade.
NEPTUNE: That’s legit.
ME: They let you use slang in the White House?
NEPTUNE: Just in the elevator. Or underwater.
We looked at each other and started laughing. The Secret Service dude rolled his eyes. He said, “Are you two really text talking when you could be talk talking?”
“Talk talking? That’s a good one, Adam,” Neptune said. He looked at me, and typed:
NEPTUNE: Ignore him. What’s your purpose? As class president.
ME: So far my biggest goal has been raising enough money for trip here.
I looked at Neptune and said, “What I stand for beyond that… what we hope to accomplish, that’s what I’m not sure about. I wanted to do my speech on entrepreneurship. About the power of owning a business and making money and saving money, the importance of that.”
His fingers stopped moving. He looked at me. “So why not do it?”
I shrugged. Something about it just didn’t seem quite right.
We spent the next few minutes texting back and forth some more. I told him how my classmates made me feel heartless because I wanted to grow up to earn a lot of money. He said he wanted to earn a lot of money, too.
NEPTUNE: So you want to be a businesswoman?
I turned to look at him and said, “I am a businesswoman!”
He gave a half grin. “Is that right? Wh
at kind of business?”
ME: Cupcakes. Sell at a local bakery.
NEPTUNE: Want to be a pro chef?
His question led to another pause. I explained how I used to want that more than anything, but now I wasn’t sure.
I did know one thing for sure, though. “I… want to make a difference.”
He said, “You can do both, you know. Make money and make a difference.”
“I like motivating people. The problem is, I also like the idea of having millions and millions of dollars in the bank.”
“Why is that a problem? A lot of wealthy people do a lot of good. Look at Bill Gates or Paul G. Allen. They give away millions and millions of dollars.”
“Well, one of the classes I really like is journalism. I love storytelling. But I don’t know if I want to be a reporter, or an author—or both. Maybe even a filmmaker.”
He paused to think for a minute. “Last year, Aunt Kaye held a luncheon on literacy here at the White House. The woman who wrote the Harry Potter books…”
“J. K. Rowling?”
“Yeah, her. She was here. She gives a lot of money to charity, too. There are a lot of ways to make a difference, Brianna Justice. You just have to pick one.”
A voice came through the speakers again. “It’ll only be a couple more minutes, folks.”
Neptune and I sat in silence for a few seconds. Then I caught him looking at my clipboard.
“What?”
“Um, you know you could keep all your notes and dates and schedules in something like this,” he said, waggling his tablet in my face.
I sighed. “Yeah, that’s what everybody tells me.”
“So, why don’t you have one?”
“My aunt Tina says there’s nothing like using good old-fashioned tools. She says there’s nothing wrong with paper and pencil.”
He rolled his eyes and laughed. When he laughed, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He was sitting so close, I could feel the muscles in his body contract and expand. I realized that he felt warm, and sitting next to him was… comfortable. Nice.
President of the Whole Sixth Grade Page 13
