Chapter 12: Power Struggles

In the fifth year of the former First Lady’s tenure, I turned ten.

I still went about my daily routine, making jokes.

This day, while I was joking, Jacob suddenly raised his voice to the former First Lady: "Since you think this is wrong, why won’t you allow me to investigate thoroughly?"

His voice echoed through the dining room, sharp as a whip. My joke hung in the air, forgotten. I watched the tension spark between them, a silent battle I didn’t understand.

I perked up my gossip-loving ears, but before I heard anything, the former First Lady said, "Natalie, that’s all for today, you can go back now."

Though I wanted to listen, my life was more important.

Because usually, if you overheard something the former First Lady didn’t want you to hear, you’d be in big trouble.

Once, someone who eavesdropped on her was fired on the spot.

Word spread quickly among the staff—if you valued your job, you kept your head down. I learned to retreat gracefully, making sure not to draw any attention.

In the evening, I lay comfortably on the couch reading my storybook.

Mrs. Greene, who served the former First Lady, came over with a takeout bag in her hand.

She wore sensible shoes and always had a gentle smile. The sight of the takeout bag made my stomach rumble with anticipation.

Seeing this familiar setup, I understood at once.

Every time Jacob and the former First Lady argued, he wouldn’t eat, and I would be the one to deliver his meal.

When I entered the outer room with the food, I didn’t see Jacob. I put the bag on the table and prepared to go into the inner room to find him.

He definitely hadn’t gone out, because Mr. Nelson was still waiting outside.

Mr. Nelson, Jacob’s aide, was a mountain of a man with a surprisingly gentle voice. His presence meant the president was still inside, sulking or brooding or both.

The inner room was pitch black. I called Jacob’s name, but no one answered. I wanted to turn on a lamp.

Jacob suddenly said, "Don’t turn it on."

He startled me. I followed his voice and found him squatting by the bed.

The room smelled faintly of old wood and cologne. I squatted down next to him, heart pounding from the dark.

I squatted opposite him, looking at him. He rested his head on my shoulder and said, "Natalie, don’t look."

His voice was muffled, barely more than a whisper. He sounded smaller than I’d ever heard him.

I patted his back.

I said, "Jacob, if I hug you, you won’t be sad anymore."

Just as I was immersed in my own loving fantasy, Jacob suddenly pushed me away and said, "Natalie, are you trying to strangle me?"

I really wanted to tape his mouth shut.

He looked at me, then returned to his usual composed and calm demeanor, changing his face so fast.

Could this be a required skill for all presidents?

I stood up and stretched my knees, saying, "Come out and eat, I’m starving."

That’s right, my room doesn’t have a small kitchen. Every time they argued and Jacob wouldn’t eat, I couldn’t eat either.

Sometimes I really want to hit Jacob.

But I don’t dare, because he’s the president.

Sometimes, I wondered if being president made you impossible to argue with—or if it just made everyone else too scared to try.