The Kid Who Became President (5 page)

“But I haven't
done
anything yet!” I complained.

“You apparently do nothing rather well,” Honeywell said. Then he handed me a piece of paper. It was a bill — for ten thousand dollars.

“What's this for?” I asked.

“Food, helicopters, limousines, taxis, telephone calls …”

“You mean the president has to
pay
for all that?” I assumed that the president didn't have to pay for anything.

“Personal expenses are paid for by the president, sir.”

“Pay it,” I sighed.

Honeywell then handed me another piece of paper. It was a separate bill for three thousand dollars.

“The First Lady bought some clothes this weekend,” he said.

It cost a fortune to be president, I realized. But thinking it over, it was worth it. I had just enjoyed the greatest weekend of my life. Being president of the United States was
fun
!

After my friends left the White House on Sunday night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about all the fun we had. Usually when I can't sleep, I pace. I started walking up and down the long hall that runs the length of the second floor.

As I passed the Lincoln Bedroom, I heard a noise. It sounded like papers rustling. I stopped in my tracks to listen. Yes, it was definitely coming from the Lincoln Bedroom. Somebody was in there!

Lincoln! It had to be the ghost of Abraham Lincoln! Everybody was asleep. Lincoln's ghost supposedly lived in the Lincoln Bedroom and came out from time to time. I was frightened, but I wanted to see him for myself.

Slowly, I turned the doorknob. Hesitantly, I opened the door a crack and peeked inside.

It was my dad. He was unloading office supplies and stuff from a big cardboard box.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Setting up our home office.”

“In the Lincoln Bedroom?”

“It's the only bedroom that isn't being used.”

Before I won the election, Dad was a salesman. He sold corrugated cardboard boxes for a company in Wisconsin. My mom was in sales, too. She sold carpet tiles. They both really loved their work, and they weren't sure they were going to move to Washington, because it meant they would have to give up their jobs. In the end, they decided it was more important to be with me.

“Your mother and I decided to start our own business,” Dad informed me. “See?” He held up a piece of stationery that read,
WHITE HOUSE BOX AND CARPET TILE COMPANY.

“You're going to sell cardboard boxes from the White House?” I asked, incredulous.

“And carpet tiles,” he added. “Plenty of people start businesses in their homes nowadays.”

“But they don't live in the White House, Dad! It's not cool.”

“Are you ashamed of what your mother and I do for a living?” Dad asked, a little hurt. “No.”

“Did you expect us to give up our careers when you became president?”

“No.” I hadn't really thought about what my parents were going to do, I had to admit.

“Judson, do you understand how capitalism works? Do you know what free enterprise means?”

“Uh, selling stuff?”

“It's more than that, Judd. It means we live in a country where people compete freely to provide things they think other people want. That's the basis of our American way of life. It's why our standard of living is so high. The government didn't
tell
me to sell cardboard boxes or some other guy to open a restaurant. I discovered there's a need for cardboard boxes, so I'm filling that need. I sell boxes, and I'm proud of it. Starting this business out of the White House is my way of being a good American.”

Dad always finds a way to make it seem that life itself revolves around cardboard boxes. He once spent an hour explaining to me what the world would be like if we didn't have cardboard boxes. I won't bore you with the details, but basically civilization collapses because we don't have anything to put stuff in.

“I see what you mean,” I sighed. “But if Abraham Lincoln's ghost shows up one night and tells you to get your stuff out of his room, can you move your home office someplace else?”

“Sure, son,” he chuckled.

“Okay, Mr. President, let's get cracking!” Chief of Staff Lane Brainard said cheerfully when he walked into the Oval Office the first thing Monday morning.

The weekend had been great, but I was excited and anxious to get to work doing good things for America.

“Lane,” I began, “when I was campaigning, I promised the children of America the first thing I would do as president would be to abolish homework. So we should start working on that right away.”

Lane looked at me with a blank expression on his face.

“You're joking, right, Moon?”

“No, I'm totally serious.”

“You don't honestly think the president has the power to abolish homework, do you?”

“Well, yeah,” I admitted.

Lane threw back his head and laughed. “You think the president just dreams up new laws and suddenly everybody has to obey them?”

“That's not how it works?”

“Moon, with all due respect, get a clue! This is how it works. Our government is sort of like a tree. There are three big branches. The first is the Executive branch. That's you, the president. The second is the Legislative branch. That's the Senate and House of Representatives, which make up Congress. The third is the Judicial branch. That's the Supreme Court. You follow me so far, Mr. President?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you don't have to call me Mr. President.”

“It shows respect for the office, Moon.”

“All right, all right,” I groaned. “How do you know so much about the government anyway?”

“It's all in the Constitution, Moon. You see, the Founding Fathers of the United States had a revolution against the King of England. So they made sure that our president couldn't get too high and mighty. They worked it out from the start so that the president is no more powerful than Congress. There are strict limits to what you can do.”

“What if I want to sign a peace treaty with some other country?” I asked.

“You've got to get the approval of Congress first,” Lane explained.

“What if I want to appoint a Supreme Court justice?”

“You've got to get the approval of Congress.”

“Well, what if I want to declare war on some foreign country?”

“You've got to get approval,” Lane said. “Only Congress has the power to declare war.”

“That's not fair,” I complained.

“It's perfectly fair,” Lane said. “Because it works both ways, Moon. If Congress wants to pass a law that
you
don't like, you can veto it. The Congress has to get the president's approval to do stuff, too. See, it's a system of checks and balances. That way, no one branch can force its will on the others. If one of the three branches is weak, the whole tree falls down. Get it?”

“Wait a minute,” I declared. “If the president can't pass any law he wants, why did you talk me into promising kids I'd make homework illegal?”

“To get votes!” Lane shouted. “So you would win the election!”

“But it forces me to break my promise,” I complained. “I don't want to be the kind of president who breaks promises.”

“Moon,” Lane said, throwing an arm around my shoulders, “don't think of that homework promise as a promise. Think of it as … an idea. A bad idea. It would never be passed by Congress, so we'll come up with some other ideas that will.”

“I feel bad about letting the kids of America down,” I said.

“Forget about them,” Lane said. “Kids can't vote anyway.”

“Then why did you have me make promises to them?!” I was shouting now.

Lane was about to answer when Honeywell came into the Oval Office. He handed me a copy of the
Washington Post.

“I thought you might want to see this, sir,” he said politely. Then he said he had to go assist Vice President Syers.

“Oh no!” shouted Lane.

The front page headline read:

 

SECRET SERVICE MAN

NEARLY DROWNS

AT WHITE HOUSE POOL PARTY

 

“How could they have found out about that?” I wondered out loud. “There were no reporters there.”

“The press has a way of finding out
everything,
” Lane sputtered. “One of the kids probably leaked the story.” He slammed his fist on the desktop.

“What's the big deal?” I asked. “It's kind of funny.”

“Moon,” Lane began, lecturing me, “people watch every move you make. You're in a fishbowl now. Everything you do is important. Everybody is going to judge you, criticize you, tape you, photograph you, read your e-mail. I didn't even want them to know you
throw
pool parties. It doesn't look presidential.”

“I guess I can't pick my nose in public anymore,” I quipped. Lane ignored the remark.

“We'd better start working on your image,” he said.

“But I already
won
the election,” I protested. “Why do I have to work on my image? Why can't we just do good things for the country? If I do good things for America, won't
that
improve my image?”

Lane snorted. It was the snort he always snorts when I say anything he thinks is horribly naive.

“I've got some ideas that will improve your image,” Lane said, pulling out a notebook. “Do you play golf?”

“Never.”

“How about jogging?”

“I hate jogging.”

“Well, I want you to take up golf and jogging.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because
all
presidents golf and jog,” he explained. “If you want to look presidential, you've got to lose that skateboard and get a set of golf clubs. Also, we need to give you a unifying vision.”

“A unifying vision? What's that?”

“It's a meaningless expression that sums up your presidency in three words or less. Kennedy had ‘Camelot' and ‘New Frontier.' Johnson had ‘The Great Society.' Reagan had ‘Morning in America.' You need something like that. What do you think of ‘New Millennium'?”

“I hate it,” I replied.

“It will grow on you,” Lane said, checking off something in his notebook. “Next, we need to figure out a way to make an emotional connection to show the public you care about people, without actually having you go out in public.”

“Why can't I just go out in public and show I care about people?”

“Because people might try to kill you,” he explained. “Now, in Franklin Roosevelt's day, he used to go on the radio every week and talk directly to America. It was called a Fireside Chat. It helped pull the country through the Depression. I think we should revive this idea.”

“You want me to go on the radio?”

“No, this is the Information Age,” he said. “I have a better idea — the Fireside Tweets. Once a week, we're going to have you go online and give ordinary citizens the chance to type questions to you. You know, have sort of an interactive conversation with America.”

“That's a great idea,” I said. “I'll be able to hear their problems, their concerns. I'll be able to keep my finger on the pulse of America.”

“Forget about that stuff,” Lane scoffed. “The important thing is that it will make you look like you care about the people.”

“I
do
care about the people!” I insisted.

“Well, it's more important to
look
like you care than it is to actually care,” Lane explained.

“I'll do both,” I said.

 

Lane said he was planning the first Fireside Internet Chat for that evening, so he had to go set things up. As he was leaving the Oval Office, Chief Usher Honeywell escorted Chelsea Daniels in.

I hadn't seen the First Lady since Inauguration Day. Chelsea had been spending most of her time shopping. She looked fabulous, as always. The Secret Service agents in the hall were trying to look at her without being too obvious.

“How's it going, Moon?” Chelsea asked as she breezed in. She plopped herself down in my chair and put her feet up on my desk.

“Call him Mr. President,” Lane corrected her as he walked out. “It's a sign of respect.”

Chelsea rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue. She hadn't been very friendly to Lane ever since he told her he wasn't going to help her become Miss America.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Daniels?” asked Honeywell.

“I was just dropping off some bills for Moon to sign,” she said as she tossed the receipts on my desk.

“I have to get approval from Congress before I sign any bills,” I joked as I examined the papers. “Ten thousand dollars … for
one
dress?!”

“It's an Oscar de la Renta dress,” Chelsea claimed.

“Then why don't you give it back to him?” I suggested. “You know, Chelsea, there are people in this country who are homeless, who are starving.”

Chelsea looked at me blankly. She comes from a very wealthy family, and I don't think she's ever met a poor person in her life.

“Moon, you're thirteen years old and you make four hundred thousand dollars a year,” she said. “What are you complaining about?”

“I wasn't planning to spend all four hundred thousand on your wardrobe!” I shouted.

“We had a deal, Moon. I would be your First Lady and you would give me an unlimited budget for clothes. Remember?”

“Yes,” I admitted reluctantly.

“You're not the kind of president who breaks his promises, are you?”

I thought about my campaign promise to abolish homework. Reluctantly, I handed the bills to Honeywell.

“Pay 'em,” I said. Satisfied, Chelsea got up to leave.

“Where are you going now?” I asked.

“Shopping,” she replied.

 

After Lane and Chelsea left, I had a general crummy feeling all over. I usually felt crummy after spending any amount of time with Lane or Chelsea, it occurred to me.

At noon, Honeywell wheeled Vice President Syers in for our afternoon meeting. She could push her own wheelchair, but Mr. Honeywell seemed to enjoy fussing over her.

“You look like a tomcat who's used up eight of his lives,” Vice President Syers said to me. “What's troublin' my favorite leader of the free world?”

“I don't know,” I complained. “I guess I thought being president would be different.”

I told Mrs. Syers about my conversation with Lane. I admitted to her that I never realized the president has to get the approval of Congress before he can do just about anything. I had been thinking I was the most powerful person in the world, when actually the president of the United States is pretty weak.

Mrs. Syers rolled her wheelchair up to my desk.

“You ain't no king,” she said, taking my hand. “You're a president. You can't do any old thing you wanna do.”

“What can the president do, anyway?” I asked.

“One day when I was younger,” she said, closing her eyes to remember more clearly, “President Roosevelt came on the radio and told us about Pearl Harbor being bombed. I remember it like it was yesterday. He said we were going to war. And just by the way he spoke, he made me understand why it was so important that we fight that war. And he made me believe we were going to win in the end. And everybody pitched in to help — men, women, and children. And we
did
win in the end.
That's
what the president can do.”

“So the president is sort of the nation's cheerleader?”

“Cheerleader and quarterback,” Mrs. Syers replied. “Did Lane tell you about executive power?”

“No, what's that?”

“It's special power the president has in a time of emergency. In 1803, Thomas Jefferson used his executive power to buy the Louisiana Territory from France. It doubled the size of the country. Jefferson saw the chance, and he took it. He didn't get permission from Congress. He used his executive power. And Abraham Lincoln didn't get anybody's approval to free the slaves. He felt it was right. The nation was ripped apart by war. So he used his executive power, and it had the force of a law.”

“So executive power is sort of like having super powers.”

“You might say that,” Mrs. Syers replied.

“But we're not at war now,” I pointed out.

“Thank goodness,” Mrs. Syers said. “There's no emergency, so you don't need to use your executive power. But you have the power to
inspire
us. You nudge the country in the direction you think it oughta go. You can't force it. But you can nudge it. That's how you do good in the world.

“At any moment,” she continued, “something terrible could happen. God forbid it ever does. But if it does, you, only you, have the ultimate power to launch a nuclear attack. Just by pressing some buttons in that briefcase. That's your executive power.
You
got the power to determine the fate of the world. Still feel weak?”

“I'm glad we talked,” I said. “I want to do some good in the world, like we talked about after the election.”

“Then you got to stand up for what's right.”

“What's right?” I asked.

“That's for you to decide,” she explained.