When Audrey Met Alice Read Online Free Page B
Author: Rebecca Behrens
was another thing that I liked. I couldn’t wipe the hint of a smile from my face.
It reminded me of what life used to be like, in Minnesota, when I’d had plenty of friends, including a crush with serious potential. Paul Clausen of the sparkling blue eyes, few zits, and white-blond hair. He loved to hike at Itasca and wanted to become a large-animal vet. He had known me since kindergarten and didn’t care that my mom was a politician. I know Paul liked me too, and it seemed inevitable that we’d start going out. And then the campaign happened, and things got weird and then I moved.
I hadn’t felt anything like what I used to feel around Paul until today. Somehow, Quint holding my hands…it was stupid, but I felt a sliver of that giddiness again. But what good could come of liking Quint? I couldn’t risk jeopardizing my one real friendship in D.C. with a crush. He’d get tired of all my First Daughter drama, and forget about me like Paul did. Plus, Denise would totally freak out about me dating because she tries to act like I am still a little kid. She even thought that my jazz dance involved too much “gyrating” and that I needed to switch to ballet. A First Boyfriend was totally not part of her perfect public image for my family. Conclusion: Boyfriends are what normal people with normal lives have—not Fido s.
• • •
After dinner I brought my nightly cookie fix to my room and settled in with a good book. After a couple of hours of reading, I glanced at the clock and saw that it was only 10:00 p.m. I had that itchy feeling I’d been getting a lot lately, like the walls of my room were slowly closing in and my clothes were too tight and there wasn’t enough air left for me to take a deep breath. Time for some tea . I shut my book and hopped up off the rug. I had a box of lavender chamomile somewhere in the Family Kitchen. I padded down the short hallway to the kitchen, pulled out the teapot, filled it up, and set it on the stovetop.
While I waited for it to whistle, I wandered into the Family Residence Dining Room. Seriously, there are as many dining rooms in 1600 as members of my family: the State Dining Room, Family Dining Room, and the Family Residence Dining Room. Plus, in warm weather we can eat up on the Promenade or take breakfast in the Solarium. Whenever my family eats together we eat in this dining room, but I hadn’t poked around its nooks and crannies—even during the traditional scavenger hunt that the staff hosted for me and my Minnesota friends right after we moved in. I wandered around, stopping to open an ornately carved door, which to my disappointment only led to a closet. Once upon a time, this room had been a bedroom too. Another room type that 1600 has way too many of, at least for my family of three.
The closet was empty but for some boxes, and I started to push them aside, wondering what was in them. Books, maybe? One got caught on a plank of wood that was raised higher than the rest. You’d think they’d have higher standards for carpentry in the White House . When the box finally came free, I noticed that the plank was a slightly different color than the others, lighter and smoother but not varnished. I bent down to look more closely at it. There was something written on the short end of the piece. I kneeled down and wiped the dust and crud off it, revealing a crude inscription. It looked like it said, EAT UP THE WORLD, 1903.
I sat back on my heels, wondering why someone would use a written-on piece of wood to patch the floor in the White House. Unless that was intentional, duh . The way the plank was raised—I could pry it out, maybe. I slid my fingernails under the raised edges— So long, purple nail polish —and pulled. Nothing. I pushed down as hard as I could on the un-raised side of the plank, and voilà! The raised edge popped up a little higher. When I tried prying at it again, it grudgingly snapped up and away from the rest of the floor, releasing a little
It reminded me of what life used to be like, in Minnesota, when I’d had plenty of friends, including a crush with serious potential. Paul Clausen of the sparkling blue eyes, few zits, and white-blond hair. He loved to hike at Itasca and wanted to become a large-animal vet. He had known me since kindergarten and didn’t care that my mom was a politician. I know Paul liked me too, and it seemed inevitable that we’d start going out. And then the campaign happened, and things got weird and then I moved.
I hadn’t felt anything like what I used to feel around Paul until today. Somehow, Quint holding my hands…it was stupid, but I felt a sliver of that giddiness again. But what good could come of liking Quint? I couldn’t risk jeopardizing my one real friendship in D.C. with a crush. He’d get tired of all my First Daughter drama, and forget about me like Paul did. Plus, Denise would totally freak out about me dating because she tries to act like I am still a little kid. She even thought that my jazz dance involved too much “gyrating” and that I needed to switch to ballet. A First Boyfriend was totally not part of her perfect public image for my family. Conclusion: Boyfriends are what normal people with normal lives have—not Fido s.
• • •
After dinner I brought my nightly cookie fix to my room and settled in with a good book. After a couple of hours of reading, I glanced at the clock and saw that it was only 10:00 p.m. I had that itchy feeling I’d been getting a lot lately, like the walls of my room were slowly closing in and my clothes were too tight and there wasn’t enough air left for me to take a deep breath. Time for some tea . I shut my book and hopped up off the rug. I had a box of lavender chamomile somewhere in the Family Kitchen. I padded down the short hallway to the kitchen, pulled out the teapot, filled it up, and set it on the stovetop.
While I waited for it to whistle, I wandered into the Family Residence Dining Room. Seriously, there are as many dining rooms in 1600 as members of my family: the State Dining Room, Family Dining Room, and the Family Residence Dining Room. Plus, in warm weather we can eat up on the Promenade or take breakfast in the Solarium. Whenever my family eats together we eat in this dining room, but I hadn’t poked around its nooks and crannies—even during the traditional scavenger hunt that the staff hosted for me and my Minnesota friends right after we moved in. I wandered around, stopping to open an ornately carved door, which to my disappointment only led to a closet. Once upon a time, this room had been a bedroom too. Another room type that 1600 has way too many of, at least for my family of three.
The closet was empty but for some boxes, and I started to push them aside, wondering what was in them. Books, maybe? One got caught on a plank of wood that was raised higher than the rest. You’d think they’d have higher standards for carpentry in the White House . When the box finally came free, I noticed that the plank was a slightly different color than the others, lighter and smoother but not varnished. I bent down to look more closely at it. There was something written on the short end of the piece. I kneeled down and wiped the dust and crud off it, revealing a crude inscription. It looked like it said, EAT UP THE WORLD, 1903.
I sat back on my heels, wondering why someone would use a written-on piece of wood to patch the floor in the White House. Unless that was intentional, duh . The way the plank was raised—I could pry it out, maybe. I slid my fingernails under the raised edges— So long, purple nail polish —and pulled. Nothing. I pushed down as hard as I could on the un-raised side of the plank, and voilà! The raised edge popped up a little higher. When I tried prying at it again, it grudgingly snapped up and away from the rest of the floor, releasing a little
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