The World: According to Rachael (5 page)

“Samuel.” I nod in his direction as I stop in front of the entrance to the First Family’s private living quarters. “The President and First Lady are expecting me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he confirms as he double-checks the typed list. “Just a moment. There’s another guest who’ll be here shortly.”

“Oh, okay,” I reply a bit perplexed. I’m not usually kept waiting. Glancing at my watch, I note that I’m right on time—nine o’clock.

“Hi,” a confused male voice says behind me. “Is this where I’m supposed to be? This place is a maze.”

“Graham Jackson?” Samuel asks.

“Yes,” the voice replies.

The smell of Ivory soap with a hint of woodsy cologne causes me to turn my head just enough to check out the man entering my peripheral vision.

This guy is way too pretty
.

He offers me his hand when he arrives at the double doors. “Graham Jackson. I’m Drake’s lacrosse coach and history teacher.” He looks like he should be starring on some contrived soap opera instead of teaching and coaching high school kids. He’s wearing dark jeans that appear to have been painted on his body. I might actually see the outline of his thigh muscles. His white, tucked-in Brooks Brothers polo accentuates his dark olive complexion. His wavy mahogany hair falls nicely against his prominent cheekbones, and shows off his strong jaw. He’s maybe in his early thirties, or he could be in his late twenties.

But then he smiles. His clear blue eyes light up, and one single dimple appears under his right eye. Is this guy for real? Something that I’ve learned in my thirty-eight years on this planet is if they’re pretty, they’re either gay or way too high maintenance for my taste.

“Rachael Early, White House Chief of Staff,” I reply as I shake his hand. I bet all his female students have had at least one wet dream starring their history teacher.

“I know,” he says with a shy smile and a dip of his chin. “I watch and read the news. You’re better looking in person.”

For some reason, I find his comment, or maybe it’s how he delivers it, disarming, and I laugh. “Usually, I hear, ‘I thought you were taller.’ I’ll definitely take better looking.” I change the subject off of my appearance. “You here for fight night?”

“I am.” He nods. “Drake invited me after we started talking about MMA versus boxing at practice.”

Samuel interrupts, “You can enter now.” He opens the heavy door—probably not heavy for him—allowing us access to the First Family.

I’ve made this walk thousands of times in the seven years that my boss has been commander and chief of the United States of America. It’s a long, narrow hallway with crystal chandeliers hung about every twelve feet. The walls are painted cream and taupe. The wood floors are covered with a carpet runner that is also colored in shades of neutrals. There are no doors or windows or artwork adorning the walls—the only thing to focus on is the shiny, wood carved double doors at the end of the long hall.

I walk with purpose toward the entrance to the First Family’s apartment, but I glance back and see that Graham is a few steps behind me. His eyes are wide, and he appears to be a bit awed.

“Taking it all in?” I ask. He and I both know that I don’t mean the plain hallway. Very few people are invited to the First Family’s private quarters. “I tend to forget just how excited I was the first time to see this part of the White House.”

His cheeks brighten. “Uh … sorry,” he apologizes, as if I’d caught him doing something embarrassing.

My heart warms as I recall the first time that I made this walk. It was a week after President Jones won the election. The outgoing First Family invited the Jones family, and by proxy me, to the White House for an informal visit. They gave the upcoming First Family a tour of where they would be living for at least four years and hopefully eight. It looked very different then. They were formal people and their quarters reflected it. The Jones boys were then ages ten and twelve. Shelby Jones’ first priority was to preserve all the beautiful antiques by placing them in storage, and buying new furniture with stain guard and rip protection. “It’s kind of amazing, huh? I need to remember to reflect more on what a privilege it is that this beautiful, historical building is where I work.”

The doors open when we near, and the First Family’s house assistant, Marta greets us with a warm smile. “Ms. Early, Mr. Jackson you’re right on time. All the guests are in the viewing room.”

“Very good, Marta.” I smile as Graham and I follow her through the formal living area and to another set of double doors. Marta opens one of them to reveal a room that’s already rowdy with excitement. The screening room reeks of testosterone, pizza, buffalo sauce, popcorn and yeast-infused beer. Past Presidents watched documentaries on the strife of slaves, and indie films that enriched and opened their minds. President Jones, the Speaker of the House, Senator Mansfield, and White House Press Secretary, Evan Atkins, are flopped on one of the sectional sofas, screaming at the large screen that takes up the upper two-thirds of the wall. If I had just awaken from a coma, one would think that these guys were a bunch of neighborhood buddies who decided to buy the fight at the guy with the nicest TV’s home. Drake and two other teenage boys that I’ve met before are stretched across the other sectional sofa in the room.

I note what they’re wearing and realize that my jeans, sweater, and high-heeled boots might be considered overdressed.

Shelby, the First Lady, rushes to greet us looking every bit the mid-American housewife. She pulls me into a tight embrace and kisses my cheek. “Rachael, you are so darn gorgeous. Just look at you,” she says, squeezing me tightly.

I really adore her. Shelby Jones is a beautiful and very elegant woman. She’s in her early fifties with bright red hair, pale, freckled skin, and looks like she could run a marathon without getting winded. The air she puts off is sophisticated and poised. However, I’ve seen Shelby catch bullfrogs at night with her boys, and peel and eat pounds of crawfish and shrimp at their annual Easter boil.

“Hey Coach Jackson,” Drake says leaping to his feet. “Let me introduce you to everyone.” Drake is the youngest of Shelby and Langford’s children. He’s a junior in high school this year. I’ve known the kid most of his life, and we enjoy teasing each other whenever possible.

Drake joins the three of us, who are still standing by the entrance. I glance over at Graham. Poor guy looks like a fish out of water. I don’t blame him. It is a bit of an intimidating room.

“You know the guys, of course,” Drake says motioning to his friends that barely can take their eyes off of the screen to acknowledge their teacher. “This is Senator Mansfield, but I call him Brett.”

Brett Mansfield, always the politician, stands to shake a future voter’s hand.

“Next is Evan Atkins.” Drake points to the White House Press Secretary. Evan is a few years older than me. He wears tortoiseshell glasses, has a mop of dirty-blond hair, and is very thin. He’s one of my only real friends here in Washington.

Evan barely raises his hand in acknowledgement as something gruesome happens during the fight, which causes the room to cringe.

He points at Jim Nelson, who is dressed in a pair of track pants and a campaign T-shirt. “That’s the Speaker of the House.”

I add, “Wow James! I see you got all dressed up for the occasion.”

He raises his middle finger without glancing in my direction.

“This is my dad,” he says motioning toward the very un-presidential appearing President, who’s shoveling a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Langford does have the good sense to stand up and shake his son’s lacrosse coach’s hand, after wiping his buttered fingers on his cargo shorts.

“Of course, you know my mom.” He gestures towards Shelby who looks like she has a Christmas-worthy secret that she’s dying to share.

She coaxes him over with open arms. “Come here and give me a hug.”

He awkwardly bends down and gives her a very polite and reserved hug.

Graham exhales when he joins his players and students on the couch while Shelby and I claim a loveseat near the granite bar at the very back of the room. Without anyone asking me if I’d like a drink, a Sam Adams is passed in my direction. Am I that predictable?

I open it using my college ring and take a long drag from the bottle. Saturday night is the only day of the week that I allow myself beer. The cold liquid runs down my throat. It’s so good I let out a little moan. I needed this first sip, after my evening with Roan.

“So Rach,” Drake yells over the fight commentator, whose voice is booming through the speakers. “What’s our wager?”

I pretend to think about it for a moment, but I’ve been planning this since I saw fight night appear on my calendar. “Hmmm … Drakey.” This is the nickname his older brother, Simon, gave him when he was little. “Silva wins, and you have to come check out Texas A&M over Thanksgiving break.”

A small smile parts Drake’s lips. Last time he lost a bet, I made him clean the windows in my house. “And if he loses?” he asks.

“Well, you still have to visit A&M over Thanksgiving, but I’ll help you with that history paper you’ve been complaining about.”

Graham chimes in, “You mean the one that’s due after Thanksgiving break, and that should have already been started?”

Drake doesn’t even have the good sense to sound sheepish. “That’s the one.” Then to me he says, “Awesome. You’re the best, Rachael.”

The fighters make their way to the ring, and all the focus in the room shifts back to the screen, except for Shelby’s. “So Rachael, how’s everything?” she asks, distracting me from the two men who begin the match by doing a very boxing-esque dance.
Hmm … Boxing is still a very relevant sport.

She doesn’t mean is the White House functioning like a well-oiled machine. What she’s really asking is whom am I currently dating. It’s her personal goal in life to see me married off to the first guy who can afford to pay two cows and an acre of land for me. I’ve explained to her at least a thousand times that I don’t have time to date. My day begins at five a.m. and ends around ten p.m. That doesn’t leave much time for movies, long dinners, or any other activity that requires me to get to know someone.

Instead of explaining this again, I reply, “I assume that you’re asking about the Yankee baseball player. Well, he was a fun distraction from real life, with the added bonus of annoying my best friend’s husband, but he’s been gone for a few months.”

“No, not him. I just assumed he was a fling. What about Roan Perez?” she asks conspiratorially, her eyes growing with excitement.

“The President respects him, but I think he’s an asshole. Every event we attend together, he sneaks off with some girl after he’s flirted shamelessly with me. He’s a horn dog that would like nothing better than to get into my pants. Not. Going. To. Happen.”
Well, maybe
. The fact that he’s most likely very skilled in the bedroom is a positive for me, since I might be spending a few months meeting him at different Washington hotels.

I watch Shelby’s face fall, as if I’d told her that the tooth fairy wasn’t real. “Well, that’s a shame. He’s really very handsome.” She looks around and makes sure that no one is listening, and they’re not. Everyone is engrossed in the fight, like I wish I were, instead of having this horrible conversation.

“I walk the halls of the White House. It’s crawling with cute men.” She points at Evan, which makes me cringe. Dating Evan would be like dating a bratty brother. “Surely, there’s one that has caught your eye.” She tucks her legs under her and leans in to me, no longer pretending to be watching the fight at all.

This is one of the things that suck about being me. I want to watch the fight. I like sports of all kinds. In fact, I would much rather talk sports than discuss my love life.

The President, who I should have known was listening to this exchange, speaks up as he drops a chicken bone on his paper plate. “For the love of God, Shelby, do you want a sexual harassment lawsuit against my administration?” He picks up a paper napkin and begins to clean his bright orange fingers. “She’s their boss. She can’t date, fornicate, or even have a beer with someone who works for her. And God forbid that she date a member of the press. That’s all my administration needs, is that headache.”

Evan nods in agreement.

“You know, she will not be their boss in a year as of this Tuesday …” Shelby drops that little bomb.

The air in the room shifts, becoming heavy with her words. Drake and his friends are too young to understand the ramifications of Shelby’s statement and keep watching the fight. But even Graham looks away from the screen and meets my eyes. If I’m not mistaken, I detect a hint of sympathy.

The desire for my beer is suddenly gone. The Tuesday of which she speaks of is the first Tuesday in November. Why does it matter? It marks the last year that the President is, well, the President. It also means that it’s the last year that I have a job. Sure, the new president will not be sworn in until January, but the first Wednesday in November next year marks our transition to the new administration.

My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in as I begin to shred the paper napkin in my lap that used to be wrapped around my sweaty bottle. Imagine achieving your ultimate goal in life, and having it taken away from you all before the age of forty. That’s the reality that I wake up to every morning. There’s the line of a song that hits particularly close to home. It’s “every breath leaves one less to my last.” The song is about death, but it also applies to my looming unemployment.

I don’t betray my terror. I look at the President and smile. “We have a lot to do in the next three hundred and sixty-seven days, don’t we?”

Langford, being smarter than the average guy, knows when to take his cue and drop this conversation. The men turn back to the fight and resume their commentary. But before he focuses back on the match, he gives his wife the “I hope Rachael doesn’t eat you alive” look.

Shelby, who is not oblivious to what just transpired, does what any good politician’s wife does and changes the subject. She leans in and whispers in my ear, “What about Coach Jackson?” She moves out of my personal space, but is still close enough for only me, and most likely the President to hear as she begins to babble. “He’s so cute. All the moms think so. He’s the boy’s lacrosse coach and teaches history. He’s a few years younger than you. He went to George Washington Law, but found his passion in teaching and coaching. I just know that you’ll …”