Part 29 (1/2)

”No,” I say, dragging out the word. ”I have business to attend to.”

The driver raises an eyebrow. ”What's a girl like you-”

”Stop right there.” That's what really drives me crazy about the sixties. The s.e.xism, the condescension, the way everyone's a.s.sumption is that I'm just a dumb little girl who needs help or guidance. ”It's really not your place or your right to ask why I'm in Was.h.i.+ngton.” I press my lips together and meet his stare. ”Why aren't you driving yet?”

He tosses his hands in the air in mock surrender and s.h.i.+fts the car into drive. We pa.s.s a movie theater. There's a poster advertising the recent release of Cleopatra. Liz Taylor is looking at me with expertly painted cat eyes. The whole look is smoldering and intense, and now I miss Yellow.

A little while later, we're on Pennsylvania Avenue.

”Where would you like me to drop you, your highness? Are they expecting you at the gate?”

”This is fine,” I tell him. We're about a block away.

The cab driver doesn't argue. He pulls over. I pay the fare and hop out. He's shaking his head as he drives away. I turn toward the White House.

The crisis is like a dark, heavy cloud that hangs in the air with no breeze to blow it away. Two men hustle by me, and I catch one of them whispering about retaliation. The next group that pa.s.ses me murmurs something about an ExComm. I push past a woman saying something about the Kremlin. I try to block it out. Block it all out.

I slow down when I get to the demonstrators. There's a mob of them. Hundreds. On the periphery is a girl with ironed brown hair, wearing black capri pants and a summery white sweater, and holding a sign that reads ”Don't Invade Cuba.” She looks at me and nods. I bite my lower lip and look past her to a man holding his ”Invade Red Cuba Now” sign in front of his head.

Well, glad to see there's some agreement.

I look again. The guy arguing for invasion is vastly outnumbered. There are mothers pus.h.i.+ng babies in strollers, holding signs that say ”Negotiation Over Annihilation” and ”President Kennedy, Be Careful.” I wade through the crowd toward a group of college-age guys. Their black signs with white type say ”No War with Cuba” and ”Hands Off Cuba” and ”Stop Bases, Stop Blockade.” Other groups are carrying the American flag.

And in the crowd, wearing a short-sleeved, white dress s.h.i.+rt and high-waisted, pleated pants, is Tyler.

I run in the opposite direction.

There's a line outside the east gate and a sign pointing toward the White House Visitor's Office. Wait, they are still giving tours? I glance at the guards eyeing the protestors, then the yards of tall black gate going all the way around the White House. The tour is my only chance to get inside, so I queue up at the back of the line.

I have no idea if the line is longer or shorter than usual. Frankly, I'm still shocked they haven't canceled the tours.

I'm in line behind an older couple. The husband is talking about Cuba and how they shouldn't be here, and the wife is whining that she hasn't waited seventy years to visit the White House to be thwarted now. Block it out. All of it. The protestors, the supporters, the frightened people on the street, the group of young men in army uniforms shouting for the president to finally strike.

The line moves inch by inch, foot by foot. I shuffle and wait, shuffle and wait, all the while looking over my shoulder. But I don't see Tyler again. Finally, when I'm about seven people from the ticket window, the man inside leans out.

”Sorry, folks, it's noon. We're closed for the rest of the day. You can come back again on Tuesday. We open at ten.”

”What?” I shout. ”No!”

It's Friday. This mission will be long over by Tuesday.

Everyone in front of me turns to stare, their own grumbling forgotten.

”Please, sir,” I beg, pus.h.i.+ng my way up to the window. ”This is important. It's for a school a.s.signment.”

”Sorry, miss, but we're closed.” He starts to slide the window shut, and I reach my hand in to grab it.

”You don't understand. I need to be on this tour. If I'm not, I'll fail.” He has no idea how true this is.

The man shakes his head. I keep my right hand on the window and reach into my bra as inconspicuously as I can with my left. It's time to speak the universal language. I pull out a twenty and slide it through the window.

”I can't afford to fail, sir. Please. I'm begging you. Let me on the last tour.”

The man looks from me to the money, then back to me again. There's more where that came from. I'll give him whatever it takes. But twenty does it. He slips it into his pocket, and jerks his head toward the group of people about to follow a guide inside. I ignore the protests of the seven people I cut in front of and tear off after the tour.

One step at a time, I tell myself. First, you get inside. Second, you get to the West Wing. Third, you find Ariel. Fourth . . . you'll think of something.

I join the group of twenty or so people inside. It's a mixed bunch. Older married couples, parents with young kids, groups of friends, a few stray loners. And me. I hang in the back, staying as invisible as possible.

Meanwhile, I keep my eyes peeled for anything I can use to get me from the East Wing to the West Wing and for any sign of Tyler. Nothing, so far.

”In here, please,” our guide says. He's probably in his mid- to late-sixties, and short, with thin, white hair. There's a proud gleam in his eye that tells me he loves this job. It makes him feel important. That's going to make things harder. I know his type. He lives to micromanage and tell people no.

The guide gestures for us to follow him into a room with a peach-and-white tiled floor, past an enormous bust of President Lincoln. There are framed photographs and portraits on the walls.

”This is the East Garden Room,” he says slowly. ”I'm sure you noticed the bust of President Lincoln, the work of American sculptor Gutzon Borglum, who is most famous for creating the monumental images of four presidents at Mount Rushmore. You will also find a number of historic photographs on the walls. Please do take a minute to look around.”

No, I don't have a minute to look around. I poke my head out of the room and into a long corridor that leads-I get my bearings-west. My heart picks up its pace. There's a group of three men and one woman walking down the corridor, heading toward us. I don't know who they are, but the men are talking fast, and the woman trails behind them, furiously scribbling in a notebook. And then I notice she has some sort of badge clipped to her blouse.

Bingo.

That badge might not get me to the West Wing, but it will get me closer.

I step back into the East Garden Room and pretend to stare at a cl.u.s.ter of pictures on the wall. I'm out of the way now, but that group is going to round the corner and run smack into me in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

”Oh!” one of the men says as he collides with me. ”Uh!” The man right behind him launches a shoulder into his. I stumble backward and think of falling to the floor but decide against it. Even now, half of the people on the tour are looking at me.

The woman rushes forward. ”Are you all right?” she asks the men, ignoring me. I stare at her badge. ”PRESS” is written on it in large letters. Perfect. So perfect! I pretend to stumble and b.u.mp into her. I put my hands out and knock the notebook to the floor. ”Ah!” I cry, and she and I both dive for it. I lean into her, s.n.a.t.c.h the badge, and slip it into my pocket.

Then I step back. ”Sorry,” I mumble, keeping my head down. ”I didn't see you.”

The first man who collided with me stands up straight. He gives me one brief nod like he's accepting my completely fake apology. And then they're gone. Through the East Garden Room and away from me.

I shove a hand into my pocket and tighten my fist around the press badge. I can't believe I have it. The tour guide sidles up next to me. ”Are you all right?” he asks in his dry monotone.

I keep my eyes on my feet and try to channel Yellow. Naive and innocent. ”Is there a restroom nearby I could use? I just want to compose myself a bit.”

He points behind me. ”But the tour is continuing immediately down the east corridor toward the lower residence floor. We have schedules to keep.”

”I'll catch up.” I raise my eyes but don't meet his gaze. ”Please, sir, I'll only be a minute.”

”Very well.” Then he looks past me and raises his hands. ”This way, please. If you will all follow me, you will notice the windows that look out onto the east garden. The first lady worked with famed designer Rachel Lambert Mellon to landscape the lawn. Take special note of the topiary trees . . .” His voice fades as he leads the group away.

I dash toward the bathroom and pull the press badge out of my pocket. My name is Joanne Mulroney. I'm with Life magazine. Whoa. Life magazine. That was big-time in the 1960s. What if Joanne Mulroney is too high profile, too well known by everyone in the White House?

Then I shake my head. Stop being so pessimistic. This is perfect. I clip the badge to the front of my dress. Then I pinch my cheeks a few times to get some color into them, which makes me look older. I throw back my shoulders and practice a confident smile in the mirror. One that's friendly but a.s.sertive.