The 51st President ✓(Book Four)

Chapter Two

It's one that fits every occasion, after all. Reporters about questions as we walk, so I decide to give them something. "Yes?" I turn to face one.

"What was your reaction to learning about the death's of former president's Lauren and Kyle Wells?" A microphone is placed a few inches away from my mouth.

"Same as everybody else's. I was..more shocked than anything."

"And will you be attending the funeral?"

"No." I shake my head. "They...are holding a private one for close family and friends only, but I will...continue to think about them. Both taught me...so much of what I know about running a country."

I try to give an answer that will please the Illuminati and the public. Everything I just said was true, so I feel like I did a pretty good job.

I ignore all other questions as we board the helicopter. This ride may only be ten minutes, but the next will be hours. Unless something comes up while I'm on it, I don't plan on holding meeting in air.

We land before I've had the chance to form a coherent thought. An agent offers his hand for me to get out, and I reject it. I get how important my safety is, especially now- but I'm not helpless.

Just ahead are the steps to Air Force one. When I grab onto the railing, an agent standing at the top steps aside to allow me in- though it's twenty more seconds before I get there. After Tao and Ethan have also gotten in, the stairs are disconnected and the door is closed.

I take my designated seat. This is the third time I've ever been on Air Force one- but the first of my presidency. The luxury surrounding me is enough to make anybody fall asleep.

So when I lay my head back, that's exactly what I do.

———

When I open my eyes, I'm in my old bed at my mom's house. Confused- I sit up. I haven't been here in years, not since they got divorced. My dad didn't even try to get custody, because he knew he'd loose. My mother was smart enough to get a prenup, and the house was in her name- so he really got fucked over.

Not that I feel bad for him- he deserves every struggle he has. He was horrible to both of us, was almost always high- at least I got that from him. I guess he's not as bad as some. Around the time I turned twelve, they really started fighting- but made an effort to stick it out "for this kids." The truth is that everybody became so much happier after they separated.

I haven't spoken to either of them in months, not because I'm angry- but because I've been so busy with the transition and inauguration planning. I know that I could call my mother whenever I want and have a conversation like we speak every week.

The smell of her cooking wafts up my nose now. I look down and see that I'm in my pajamas, swing my feet over the edge of the bed- and let my nostrils do the steering. When I open my bedroom door, the smell becomes stronger.

I walk down the hallway still looking like I belong in a graveyard. The light from one of our windows hits my eyes, and I make a guttural sound I didn't think could come out of humans. I keep them closed until I reach the kitchen, which always has a steady stream of lighting.

My mother stands over the stove, flipping some loaded hash-browns, while my dad's making a fruit salad. I smile. It's not often that I see them getting along. When they do, it's almost always to support me. This is just a normal Saturday.

  I sit done at the island, and grab for the coffee pot. "Morning Sleepyhead-" My mother says. "Meg Haines from the D.C Times just called. She asked if you'd be willing to do an interview."