The Kid Who Became President

by Dan Gutman

  “Mom, I don’t even have teeth in my underwear.”

  “Don’t be smart with me, young man. I can still put you in time out.”

  “Mom, I could put you in jail.”

  All in all, I was getting along with my parents pretty well. They seemed to be dealing with the fact that I was more powerful than they were. The White House Box and Carpet Tile Company turned out to be a good move after all. It gave them something to do, so they couldn’t spend too much time telling me what to do.

  A big part of the president’s job, I discovered, is to host parties. There’s a dinner party at the White House just about every week. Now, my idea of a good party is to order a pizza and invite some friends over to play video games. But when people like the Queen of England and the president of Venezuela are coming over, they expect something a little fancier. Fortunately, that was an area in which First Lady Chelsea Daniels was an expert.

  When it was time for my first state dinner in the White House, I put Chelsea in charge of everything — invitations, seating arrangements, menu, music, everything. When she was finished, the State Dining Room looked spectacular.

  “This will be the greatest party of my life,” Chelsea said excitedly as the State Dining Room was being readied for the big night.

  “There will be important people from all over the world here tonight,” Honeywell said as he helped me put on my tuxedo. “So be careful not to do anything that might offend anyone.”

  “What do you think I’m gonna do,” I asked, “wipe my nose on the King of Spain?”

  “Some foreign countries have unusual customs,” he replied, ignoring my remark. “Don’t let King Fahd of Saudi Arabia see you eating with your left hand. In his country they consider that unclean. And snapping your fingers is vulgar to the French. If you give the thumbs-up sign to the Afghani ambassador, he’ll think you’re cursing him out. Don’t mention World War II to the German or Japanese diplomats, and don’t bring up apartheid to the South Africans.”

  “I don’t even know what apartheid means,” I said.

  “Good,” Honeywell replied, buttoning my shirt. “Make sure you don’t yawn in front of Colombian President Pastrana. And whatever you do, don’t compliment the Moroccans on their clothing. They’ll take them off right there and give them to you.”

  It was too much to take in at once. “Let’s just get this over with,” I moaned. My tux was about as comfortable as wearing a suit made of barbed wire.

  We went up to the beauty salon, on the third floor, to get Chelsea. For a brainless airhead who only cared about the way she looked, I had to admit she looked terrific. She was wearing a dark blue strapless dress, embroidered top to bottom in pearls and sequins. Seeing her took my breath away.

  “Moon,” Chelsea smiled, taking my arm, “in a tuxedo you look … almost handsome.” I think that was the first time Chelsea Daniels said anything nice to me.

  Honeywell gave us the signal, and Chelsea and I walked down the big staircase to greet our guests in the Diplomatic Reception Room.

  There were more than a hundred people milling around, all dressed in tuxedos and gowns. Kings and queens. Presidents and their wives. Princes and princesses. Diplomats and ambassadors. The most powerful people on earth. If a bomb were dropped on the White House at that moment, I thought, well, it would level the place and I’d be dead.

  Soon, everybody was escorted into the State Dining Room for dinner. I was seated between my mother and Chelsea. Dad was at another table, where I saw him hobnobbing with the prime minister of Pakistan and Vice President Syers.

  The chattering of dozens of different languages filled the room. I spotted Secret Service Agent Doe in the corner, keeping a watchful eye on things. Honeywell hung around a few feet behind me. Whenever anyone came over to greet me, Honeywell would quickly whisper the person’s name in my ear.

  I looked down at the place setting before me. It was frightening. There were three glasses, two plates, a cloth napkin, four forks, three knives, two spoons, and a few scattered utensils I couldn’t identify.

  “This is a perfect example of government waste,” I pointed out to Chelsea. “We could save the taxpayers millions of dollars by getting rid of some of this useless silverware.”

  “Relax, Moon,” Chelsea whispered. “You start with the fork farthest away from the plate. As each course is taken away, you pick up the next fork. Once you pick up a utensil, it should never touch the table again.”

  Chelsea didn’t know anything about anything, but she seemed to know everything when it came to dressing, shopping, and fancy dinner parties.

  “Sit up straight, Judson,” my mother whispered. “And get your elbows off the table. Everybody’s watching you.”

  “I’m the most powerful man in the world, Mom,” I said, putting my napkin on my lap. “I’ll put my elbows wherever I want.”

  “Don’t tilt your chair back,” Chelsea whispered.

  “Stop waving your napkin around like a flag,” Mom muttered under her breath. “And stop picking your teeth. You want everyone to think the president of the United States is a pig?”

  Everything I did seemed to be wrong, so I decided to just sit there like a statue.

  “Show a little life, Moon!” Chelsea whispered. “You’re the host.”

  When everybody was seated, Premier Li Peng of China stood up and raised his glass. Everybody quieted down.

  “I’d like to propose a toast to the president of the United States,” he said in perfect English. “May he rule in peace and prosperity. Gan bei.”

  “What’s gan bei?” I whispered, turning around to Honeywell.

  “Bottoms up, sir.”

  “What’s in the glass?” I whispered. “Grapefruit juice,” he whispered back. “You’re too young to drink alcohol.”

  “I’m allergic to grapefruit juice.”

  “Sir, it would be an insult to Premier Li and his country if you refuse to drink with him.”

  “But I was taught not to give in to peer pressure.”

  “Sir,” Honeywell said with some urgency, “it could cause an international incident if you refuse.”

  Everyone in the room was staring at me. I stood up, raised my glass toward the Chinese premier, and downed it. Everyone burst into applause. The juice was awful.

  When I went to sit back down, Honeywell whispered, “It is customary for you to propose a toast in return, sir.”

  “Do I have to?” I choked.

  “Just sip it,” Honeywell suggested.

  I stood up again.

  “I, too, would like to propose a toast,” I announced as a waiter filled my glass. “To my honored guest from China, and all my guests. May we live in healthy, happy, and peaceful times. Ben gay.”

  “I believe you mean gan bei, sir,” whispered Honeywell. “Bengay is an ointment for sore muscles.”

  “Gan bei,” I announced.

  After the toast, the waiters brought around little salads. Everyone sat around awkwardly. I was really hungry, but nobody else was eating yet. I didn’t want to look impolite by eating before the others. My stomach was growling and the lettuce was wilting on my plate.

  “When do we eat?” I asked Honeywell. “I’m starving.”

  “It is traditional that guests do not touch their silverware until the president begins to eat, sir.”

  I looked around the room. Everyone was watching me. I picked up my fork. Everyone picked up their forks. As soon as I dug in, so did everyone else.

  I finished the salad in about five seconds and was ready for more food. The waiters swooped in with the next course. Everybody oohed and ahhed over the food, but it looked gross to me. I asked the waiter what it was.

  “Beef bouilli with horseradish sauce, Mr. President.”

  “It’s delicious!” Chelsea beamed. “Just taste it, Moon.”

  I tasted it. It tasted as gross as it looked. I thought I was going to die.

  “What else have you got?” I asked.

  “Sir, the next co
urse will be squash soup, followed by poached salmon with egg sauce. Then we will be bringing out roast supreme of duckling à l’orange with raisins and crab claws with dill mustard sauce. Finally, dessert will be our pastry chef’s specialty, marzipan en surprise.”

  I started to feel a little nauseous.

  “Do you think I could get a Big Mac?” I asked the waiter. “I don’t like any of that stuff.”

  “A Big Mac, sir?”

  “It’s a burger. Two all-beef patties, special sauce —”

  “Moon, you don’t ask for fast food at a state dinner!” Chelsea scolded me. “You’re humiliating me!”

  “Well, I’m not eating this stuff,” I told her. I asked the waiter to get me some french fries, too. “That ought to make the president of France happy,” I pointed out.

  The waiter hurried off. While I waited for my burger to arrive, a few people came over to greet me. In each case, Honeywell told me who each person was as he or she approached.

  “Mr. President,” Honeywell whispered, “the man walking toward you is Supreme Ruler Raul Trujillo, friendly dictator of Cantania, a small nation in South America.”

  “Ah, Supreme Ruler Trujillo,” I said, extending my hand. “It is a pleasure meet you.”

  He didn’t put out his hand, and he didn’t say the pleasure was all his. I pretended to brush some invisible lint off my pants with the hand he wouldn’t shake. Trujillo looked a little drunk. He just stared at me.

  “So,” I said, struggling to make conversation, “do dictators do a lot of … dictation?”

  “I see the United States has sent a boy to do a man’s job,” Trujillo said gruffly but in surprisingly good English.

  “Uh, yes,” I replied. “We kids figured grownups had more than two hundred years to mess everything up, and now it’s our turn. How did you like your salad?”

  “I’m sure you realize, President Moon,” Trujillo sneered, “that without your planes and guns and bombs, my country would crush yours like an insect.”

  “In that case,” I replied, “I’m glad we’ve got all those planes and guns and bombs.”

  Trujillo didn’t laugh at my joke. He grunted and walked away, muttering, “Until we meet again, President Moon.”

  I grabbed Honeywell. “I thought you said that guy was a friendly dictator.”

  “He is,” Honeywell replied. “You should meet the unfriendly ones.”

  My burger finally arrived and I wolfed it down in seconds. There were no fries and I was still hungry.

  As the waiters finally cleared away the dishes, the Marine Band set up their instruments and began to play. A few couples got up to dance. Chelsea looked around awkwardly.

  “Mr. President,” Honeywell whispered, “it is customary for the president and First Lady to dance.”

  “I don’t know how to dance,” I said. “And I don’t feel so well.”

  “Didn’t you ever take dancing lessons, Moon?” Chelsea complained.

  “If I ever took dancing lessons,” I told her, “the guys at school would have beaten me to a pulp.”

  “Just fake it,” she said, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me up. I handed the football to Agent Doe so I could dance.

  I stepped on Chelsea’s feet a few times, but I don’t think I caused any internal bleeding or anything. We danced over to my mom and dad. They seemed to be having the time of their lives.

  “How was dinner, Dad?” I asked.

  “Great!” he exclaimed. “I just talked the president of Pakistan into buying fifty thousand cardboard boxes.”

  “Let’s dance over near the bathroom,” I told Chelsea.

  “Why?”

  “I think I might have to barf.”

  “That’s disgusting!” Chelsea said before dashing back to the table.

  After dinner, everybody was mixing and mingling. They all wanted to meet me, and I did my best to be polite. But it was hard, because I was tired and hungry. No matter what I did, somebody always seemed to get mad.

  The ambassador from Paraguay got upset when I crossed my fingers, which is apparently some kind of obscene gesture in his country. I offended the prime minister of Taiwan just because he saw me blink. The Grand Duke of Luxembourg got mad when I refused to kiss him on the cheek, and he walked out of the White House in a huff.

  The party was starting to break up when a guy with a white apron and one of those big chef hats marched over to me.

  “I don’t care if you’re the president!” he shouted. “You are uncouth! You show me no respect by refusing my food! I quit!”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am the king of marzipan!”

  “I don’t care what country you come from,” I said. “When am I going to get those fries I asked for?”

  He tore off his apron, threw it on the floor, and stormed away.

  By the end of the evening I had unintentionally insulted people of just about every race and nationality. A few of them looked like they were ready to declare war on the United States.

  “You ruined my party!” Chelsea sobbed, running upstairs.

  I never did get my french fries, and I was still hungry. When everybody had left, I sneaked downstairs to the White House kitchen to grab a bite to eat. I was poking around the cabinets and couldn’t find anything good.

  There must be something yummy in the refrigerator, I figured. The door to the fridge was enormous, about the size of a garage door. I had to use all my strength to open it.

  The light went on and I walked into the fridge. Just about every food you can imagine was in there. I had my choice of cakes and pies, steaks, burgers, chicken, everything. I rubbed my hands together to keep them warm.

  And then the door shut behind me and the light went out.

  Front page of the Washington Post, June 23:

  FOREIGN RELATIONS CHILL

  AS MOON LOCKS SELF

  IN WHITE HOUSE FRIDGE

  I was locked in the White House refrigerator for about an hour — in the dark — until I found an emergency alarm switch. Security guards came running from all over and pulled me out, shaking and shivering. I’ve had more embarrassing moments in my life, but I couldn’t think of any.

  After the state dinner disaster, more bad news arrived. First, a horrific hurricane ripped through Florida, tearing the state up. There was billions of dollars’ worth of damage. Thousands of people lost their homes. A photo on the front page of the Washington Post showed somebody’s house actually flying through the air. That’s how bad the storm was. Lane said I should go to Florida to show the people down there that I was concerned.

  Next to the photo of the flying house was an article about First Lady Chelsea Daniels. That was the second bit of bad news.

  FIRST LADY HAS WORTHY CAUSE:

  HERSELF

  the headline read. The Philadelphia Inquirer also had an article about Chelsea, with the headline:

  FIRST LADY PUTS FIRST LADY FIRST

  It seems that some investigative reporters had followed Chelsea around for a week to see what she did all day. They found out that she pretty much went from store to store, spending a fortune on designer clothes for herself.

  “This looks bad,” Lane said. “There are people who lost everything they owned in the hurricane, and here’s the First Lady, who only cares about how she looks.”

  As Lane and I were reading the article, Chelsea happened to flounce into the Oval Office and fling more bills on my desk.

  “Ta ta, boys,” she said.

  “Did you happen to see today’s paper?” I asked before Chelsea could leave.

  “Why read the papers?” she asked. “They only print bad news.”

  I showed her the Washington Post headline. She glanced at it briefly and slammed it on my desk angrily. “How dare they write such lies about me!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you have these newspapers shut down, Moon? You’re the president.”

  “We have freedom of the press in this country,” I informed her. “Newspapers can write whatev
er they want. Maybe you should read the Bill of Rights.”

  “I don’t read bills,” Chelsea said. “I just give them to you to pay.”

  That got Lane mad. “Not only do you waste the president’s money,” he shouted at Chelsea, “you make him look bad.”

  “Don’t blame me if Moon looks bad!” Chelsea shot right back. “I didn’t get sick at a dinner party and lock myself in a refrigerator! I didn’t drown any Secret Service agents! I’m the only thing that makes Moon look good around here.”

  She had a point, I had to admit. Just about everything I did seemed to backfire, create negative headlines, and hurt my approval rating.

  “Chelsea,” Lane said more gently, “in the past, First Ladies have devoted themselves to good causes. Barbara Bush worked for literacy. Rosalynn Carter helped the mentally ill. Nancy Reagan fought drugs. Michelle Obama fought childhood obesity. It would make you look good — and the president, too — if you had a cause like those First Ladies.”

  While Chelsea pouted and Lane fumed, I looked at the newspaper. Suddenly, I got an idea.

  “Hey, instead of me going to Florida to console the hurricane victims,” I suggested, “why don’t we send Chelsea?”

  “Moon, that’s brilliant!” Lane piped up.

  “Ugh!” was Chelsea’s response. “Hurricane victims are such a downer. And they’re filthy. Why can’t I go to Milan and comfort the victims of the spring fashion shows?”

  “Don’t you realize how dumb you seem?” Lane exploded. “The American people think you’re a brainless, selfish airhead.”

  Chelsea just stared at Lane. I don’t think anyone ever talked to her that way. She’s so pretty and rich, people always let her get away with things that regular people couldn’t, I guess. She looked shocked.

  “What if I went down to Florida,” she said meekly, “and delivered designer clothes to the hurricane victims?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Lane asked, dumb-founded.

  “Have you ever seen hurricane victims on TV?” Chelsea asked excitedly. “They look terrible, all dressed in rags. I’ll go down there and deliver clothes to the people whose clothes blew away in the hurricane! Just because they have no homes is no reason they can’t make themselves look fabulous.”