When Audrey Met Alice

by Rebecca Behrens

  “It’s Secret-Agent-Chef, one word, at mail dot com.” I smiled, wondering if the address was in response to my CIA confusion when Debra and I first met.

  Maurice went back to cooking, and I sat down at the counter in shock. I felt terrible for Debra, and a little guilty—for taking up so much of her time when she could have been with her own daughter, and for selfishly thinking of how much her being gone would affect me. I caught a whiff of butter and lemons from whatever Maurice was making, and I felt a pang for Debra’s soft voice and warm hugs.

  Without Debra to confide in anymore, I read more and more of Alice’s diary. Kind of obsessively. My breakthrough came from the entry in which she wrote, “Fill what’s empty, empty what’s full, and scratch where it itches.” Alice sought life out. She filled what was empty—she didn’t wait around for someone else to make her feel better. I wondered how Alice could rebound from bad things so quickly. In one entry, she was pining after Edward. In the next, she was so over him, making jokes about breaking his and other heartlets. I tend to sink into my loneliness and linger in it like a warm bath. Maybe I need to live more like Alice. I took a paint pen and wrote “WWAD” on an old bangle bracelet—What Would Alice Do?—to remind me to stop waiting to feel better, and fill what was empty. If “To Thine Own Self Be True” was Alice’s motto, WWAD would be mine.

  In my mopey state, I’d slacked on finding a way to get what I wanted—freedom to go on the school trip. Now more than ever, I needed to go so I would have time with Quint. I’d sort of exhausted my parents with pleas to attend already, so I decided to go to the only other person who could make New York happen for me, Denise Colbert. It was time to do what Alice would do: give Denise my very best elbow-in-the-soup treatment.

  • • •

  I caught her in a hallway in the West Wing, just before six. “Hi, Denise,” I said, smiling brightly. She nodded and waved, still hustling down the hallway in her sensible heels. I followed after her.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  Denise raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have homework to do, Audrey? It’s a school night.”

  “Finished it.” I smiled again and batted my eyelashes at her. I don’t think I’m doing this right. This feels more like being flirty than persuasive, which is so wrong. “I thought I could give you a hand. I’m really good at collating.” That was true—in my mom’s early campaign days, I spent hours collating papers for her campaign manager. I am also great at affixing stamps and checking off names on mailing lists.

  Denise sighed but stopped moving. She absentmindedly tapped a pen on the file folder she was holding. “I suppose you could help me organize a few things in the file room. Make some copies. But, Audrey—you don’t have to do any work. We have plenty of staff.”

  “I’d love to help! I find the work you all do around here fascinating, just truly incredible.” I leaned toward her, my elbow resting on top of the file cabinets lining the hallway. It was a little high, so I had to stand on my tiptoes a bit so my hand could casually cup my forehead. I didn’t exactly have a soup bowl to lean into.

  “Okay.” Denise gave me a weird look. “I’m going to pull a few files and ask you to make copies, then.”

  “Fantastic! Stunning!” I said, clapping my hands. I felt like an idiot, like I was troweling it on way too thick. Really, showing any enthusiasm for boring office tasks would be exaggerating. I followed Denise down the hall to a room with more file cabinets and a large copier.

  Denise started pulling out files and handing pages to me. I stood next to her and held them in a neat stack. “So what are you working on lately?” I asked.

  “Clean-energy initiatives, mostly.”

  I widened my eyes. “Tell me more!” I feel like the only thing I’m convincing her of is that I’m a weirdo.

  Denise coughed. “We think that would be a good secondary platform for your dad to pick up. Given his science background.”

  “That’s very interesting.” I nodded and grinned. There was my chance. “I was thinking about a platform for myself, actually.”

  “Is that so?” Denise’s eyebrows raised, and she stopped shuffling through the file she was holding. “Like what?”

  “The arts, maybe?” Denise nodded, without a lot of enthusiasm. I continued anyway. “So my school has this spring trip to New York. I could go and see some performances, or go to a museum—it could be part of my platform. Getting kids interested in the arts.”

  Denise shook her head, her sleek hair swinging back and forth in front of her face. “You could go to a museum in D.C.; the National Gallery, maybe. But New York is out of the question.” Denise straightened her hair and returned to flipping through the folder. “In the first place, I’m not sure how your mother feels about you doing your own public appearances.” The little glimmer of hope I had faded. I felt crushed by her lack of interest, and a little insulted that my mom didn’t think I could do my own appearances. It’s her fault, for never giving me a chance to prove myself.

  “Okay, I think that’s enough for you to copy for now,” Denise said. I had a fat stack of pages in my arms. “Give them to my assistant whenever you’re done. Thanks for the help.” With that, she spun on her heel and was out the door. I was left with a lot of photocopying to do and the sense that the elbow-in-the-soup treatment had failed me.

  • • •

  May 29, 1902

  Diary—

  I am going to have to ensure that no one ever finds this diary because if some person does read this, and tells my stepmother that I have been proposed to, it will be “Off with her head!” for poor Alice. Yes, I am the recipient of a marriage proposal. Actually, I received two. It is quite a long story.

  Two days ago, Edward Carpenter, formerly known as my beau, currently known as a fool, arrived at the White House. Sadly for Carpenter but (given the tumultuous nature of our courtship) probably best for both of us, Charles de Chambrun and a Knickerbocker gent in my circle, J. Van Ness Philips, have already swept in and swiped my interest from Edward. All four of us attended a dinner, during which those three relatively handsome young men all vied for my attention. (A scene straight out of one of my wildest dreams.) We were seated far down the table from my parents, so fortunately they didn’t overhear when Van Ness, after a bit too much of the whiskey I had smuggled to the dinner inside my long gloves, loudly turned to me and proposed marriage. I hadn’t imbibed the whiskey myself, but still I could not control my laughter. Poor Carpenter appeared stricken, slowly turning as red as the wheels of a steam fire engine as it dawned on him that he had real competitors.

  The next day Carpenter and I went for a long walk in the gardens. He stammered and stuttered, and it took him over two and a half hours to explain to me how he felt about me. Poor Carpenter, I did love him once upon a time, but now I can only see how twitchy he gets when nervous, how his nose is actually slightly crooked to the left (in addition to his woefully lopsided smile), and how his Adam’s apple pops out of his neck in a most distracting and unappealing way. Recall that letter he slipped me at dinner in Cuba? I no longer think his admission that he “has nothing to say” is part of a clever pun. It’s close to an unfortunate truth. Yet here are the points that he managed to sputter out:

  –That he wishes to call me “Alice” when we are alone together (not “Miss Roosevelt”)

  –That he is madly in love with me

  –That he would like to marry me (Personally, I feel that this was brought on more by the spirit of competition more than anything else. I saw how he used to look at Janet.)

  I told him positively no. I told him that we were behaving like two idiots and that he could not possibly ask me to marry him. He tried to interrupt me and make his case again, but I wouldn’t hear it. I bid him adieu and wished him well, but sternly. If he hadn’t acted so idiotically, I might have felt remorse. But I didn’t then, even if I feel a smidgen now.

&nbs
p; I received notes this morning from both Carpenter and Van Ness. It’s all very foolish of them. Of course at my age I am not in a position to accept their proposals, much as I might welcome the attention of a White House wedding and a husband to help me escape out into the world. Further, our society set has rules about these sorts of situations. Once a lady refuses a proposal of marriage, the man must accept it at once and refrain from asking again or otherwise pursuing her. To continue writing her, practically begging—it’s simply not done. Those boys know that. For that reason, I really can’t pity either of them.

  Who would have thought earlier this spring, when my stepmother read that newspaper article about dueling suitors and got so angry at me, that the article was prescient? Certainly I didn’t. I will do my very best to make sure that Edith never finds out about this little incident, and God forbid my father does. If they were upset about fictive multiple suitors, I imagine if I had to admit that two men really did propose to me within twenty-four hours, my parents would never, ever let me see the world outside my room again!

  To Thine Own Self Be True,

  Alice

  June 7, 1902

  Diary—

  Alice is in big trouble, Diary dear. Thankfully, however, it’s not because my stepmother found out about the proposals. Trouble started last week when Maggie and her Murad cigarettes came over. The scent of the “Turkish delights” must’ve wafted out of my room and across the hall to Edith’s sitting room. All of a sudden my door burst open and Edith stormed inside, shrieking something about “being unladylike” and “filthy cigarettes.” She snatched them right out of my hands and threw open the window. Then she called my father in from his office. Similarly displeased, he gave me a very blustery impromptu speech about how “no daughter of his would be smoking under his roof.” I snidely pointed out that it wasn’t actually his roof—it belonged to the government and the American people and he and I were temporary tenants—but that only made him turn a redder shade and sputter. Finally, I adopted a chastened expression and professed that I would never smoke under his roof again.

  Maggie was set to return home, but I gleefully said, “Wait, Mags my dear—I am only allowed not to smoke for one particular preposition regarding the roof of the White House: under. Should I be smoking over, around, through, on top of, adjacent to, etcetera, I see no reason why that’s breaking the statute.” Maggie’s red-painted mouth curled into a grin. “How do you suppose we get on top of it, then?”

  All us kids like to climb out our windows down to the grounds below, so I figured that from the attic level it would be easy to climb out and go up. We hurried up into the attic and opened the first window we came across. I went first, being more limber than Maggie. I swung myself out, grabbed the edge of an eave, and had Maggie lean out and push as I pulled myself up. Once I was entirely on the roof, I pulled her arms as her legs kicked up the wall toward the roof. The roof of the White House is flat, much like an unfinished terrace, so there was little danger of us slipping and sliding off into the shrubbery below.

  We settled near to the edge and happily struck a match against some brick. However, one of the Secret Service men on the grounds happened to hear us laughing and looked up. Eventually my father and stepmother were called outside and stood, hands on hips, ordering us to come down immediately. (Well, Edith was wringing her hands.) Needless to say, another talking-to followed. It won’t stop me from doing as I please, though. My parents ought not to be so controlling of me and so concerned with my “public image.” Someone must teach them a lesson about letting a girl live her life!

  To Thine Own Self Be True,

  Alice

  June 19, 1902

  Diary—

  I have escaped the melodrama surrounding Philips, de Chambrun, and Carpenter, and the repercussions of my little protest on the roof—by escaping to my beloved Chestnut Hill! I was so eager to get away that I packed my steamer trunk days in advance of the trip to Boston. My father teased me by asking if I was adopting President Harrison’s view of the White House as a jail. I countered that actually, a jail hasn’t got the same staggering number of rules. Or watchful eyes. Or snooping maids. I might’ve hurt Father’s feelings.

  Now that I am away, I do miss my siblings, and I suppose I miss my father and stepmother too. In some ways, I am able to feel more like a part of my family while I am missing them. It’s normal to feel lonely when you are away from your loved ones, but it’s queer to feel lonely while surrounded by family. That’s often how I feel at home. Here in Boston I am rightfully the center of attention around my friends and my Lee relatives.

  One wonderful thing about Chestnut Hill is that neither the press nor the Secret Service men trail me here. Those men have started paying more attention to my whereabouts in Washington—I suspect per Edith’s request. It’s really a bother to have them accompany me when I choose to walk into town to shop or go out for a dinner party. Lord knows I love how the reporters and photographers fawn over me, but there is a real freedom in being able to leave the house in Chestnut Hill without one of them around to extrapolate rumors from my choice of shoes or take a picture of me with mussed hair.

  Last week, my friend Lila and I drove to one of the Pops concerts. We didn’t go in my runabout but a larger automobile that Lila’s father owns. How I love driving; I love the dusters one wears, I love the noises autos make, I love the freedom of traveling at the speed of a team of horses. Or more. I have gotten another speeding ticket.

  I may have the funds to buy a fancier automobile because Grandpa Lee has agreed to raise my allowance. That’s bully good! I will be able to shop madly and keep up with the likes of Lila here and Maggie back in Washington. You might think that because I am the First Daughter, I must not want for anything. It’s true that I have received all manner of loot as gifts, from foreign dignitaries and my “fans” alike. But despite our pedigree, my family does not have the same wealth as many of my well-heeled friends, and I have spent through my allowance countless times already trying to keep up with them. It’s hard for me, because I have to fill my role as “princess” and look fashionable and live lavishly. I am afraid of what people would say if the newspapers reported that I rewore an old garment. Edith and I have altered old dresses such that not even the sharpest newspaper columnist can keep track of what I’m wearing, which is important. People love thinking of me as some kind of American royalty. If I stopped being glamorous and worthy of breathless newspaper stories, I worry I’d revert to plain, lonely, poor Alice.

  To Thine Own Self Be True,

  Alice

  Chapter 11

  The next weekend, practically the whole school headed off to Ashland to watch the Friends team kick butt at Science Olympiad. Quint was going, which I found out when I ran into him on my way into sixth period that Friday. Running into him in the halls was enough to make my month. The second I saw his dark curls from across the hallway, my heart started to do the hootchy-kootchy.

  “Hey, Audrey!” he panted. He must’ve run down from his locker to catch me in the hallway. “How was Minnesota?” Have we really not had a chance to talk since we got back from break?

  “It was awesome to be home.” I smiled. “How was your break? Did you stay here?”

  “No, my family always goes up to Vermont. Skiing and stuff.”

  “Sounds fun! I love skiing. Well, cross-country at least.” Other students were rushing past us, so I inched a little closer to Quint to stay out of their way. He smiled at me and leaned in.

  “Are you going to Ashland this weekend? For the Science Olympiad?” My heart sank. Of course not.

  “No, I can’t. Sadly. Why—are you?”

  He nodded. “My buddy is on the team. It sucks that you can’t go. I thought maybe you would because it’s an official school thing or whatever.” He shrugged. “Speaking of which—any word on the class trip? You’re coming, right?”

  “I’m…y
es. I am totally going,” I lied. What am I thinking? I don’t have permission yet.

  “That’s great news!” Quint leaned in and gave me a half-hug. “I have to run to class. See you around?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Although I have no idea where you’ll see me other than right here in the hallway, unless you find a way to teleport yourself into 1600. I lingered in the hallway, thinking about the stalled state of Operation Class Trip. I was out of ideas on how to convince people to give me permission. I felt the bracelet on my wrist and looked down at the letters WWAD. Alice Roosevelt would do whatever it took—even if that meant breaking all the rules. Maybe I would have to do that too.

  • • •

  On Saturday afternoon, 1600 was quieter than usual. Both my parents were on a trip to the West Coast, and they’d taken a lot of staffers with them. By midafternoon I was wandering the halls aimlessly, missing Debra. I poked around in the library, trying to find any pictures of Alice stored in there. I didn’t find any originals, but one of the books about the Roosevelts had a picture of her standing next to a weird-looking car, and the caption said it was her “Red Devil.” I smiled; I could picture Alice zipping around like a race-car driver, sort of a proto–Danica Patrick.

  I’m still over two and a half years away from a license, even two years from getting my learner’s permit. Not that it matters because if my mother is still president, there’ll be no way on earth I’ll get to start driving. It pissed me off, thinking about how the freedom of the road is another typical teenage freedom I won’t get to taste. Harrison used to take me out in his sports car, and we’d drive down lonely country highways at incredible speeds. He promised to teach me how to drive when I got old enough. But how will he do that if I’m in D.C.? Who knows when I’ll get any closer to driving a car than driving a go-kart? In fact, I can’t even drive a go-kart anymore; the Secret Service deemed amusement parks high-risk locations for me.

  Go-karts…remind me of golf carts. The White House has a slew of them, for staffers and security to zip around the property. The carts are another part of the green initiative because they’re electric, and they charge with solar power. I took some training and now I’m actually allowed to operate them—with supervision. It’s so random that they let me, considering the eleventy-billion rules and regulations I’m subject to as a Fido. I dropped the picture of Alice I was still holding and bolted out of the library.