“No… nothing… ”

“What d’you mean nothing? What happened? You’re at the bike rack… you’re going to the sleepover… ”

“It’s really nothing,” she insists, stepping backwards. “Listen, I really should go.”

“Nora, it’s just a childhood story. What’re you so scared-”

“I’m not scared,” she insists.

That’s when I see the lie.

For the past two months, Nora’s spent every day in full election mode-from three-hundred-person luncheons with big donors, to sitting next to her mom at satellite-televised rallies, to, if she’s in a real good mood and they can get her to cooperate, giving interviews on why college kids should mobilize and vote-she’s been the youngest and most reluctant master of the grip-and-grin. That’s what she’s known since sixth grade. But today… today she got caught up in a real moment; she was even enjoying it. And it scared the hell out of her.

“Nora,” I call out as she heads for the door. “Just so you know, I’d never tell anyone.”

She stops where she is and slowly turns around. “I know,” she says, nodding me a thank-you. “But I really have to go-you know the game-sitting Presidents have to look strong on foreign policy.”

I think back to Bartlett in the front photo.

Nora’s almost out the door. Then, just as she’s about to leave, she turns my way and takes a deep breath. Her voice is a hushed reluctance. “When we got to the bike rack, my mom was sitting there, waiting for me. She took me home, my dad told me he was running for Governor, and that was it. No sleepover at Melissa Persily’s-I’m the only one who missed it. The next year, Melissa started calling me ‘It.’ As in, ‘There It is,’ and ‘Don’t let It come near me.’ It was stupid, but the class sided with her. That was junior high.” Without another word, Nora regrabs the doorknob. The Prime Minister’s son awaits.

“Don’t you ever get sick of it?” I ask.

Once again, it’s a chance to open up. She offers a weak smile. “No.”

It doesn’t take much to see through her answer. But instinct still made her say no. On some level, she doesn’t trust me with everything just yet. I’ll get there eventually. She said it herself. Whatever else is going on, I’m dating the First Daughter of the United States.

I walk into Trey’s office sporting a Cheshire cat grin. Ten minutes later, he’s yelling at me.

“Stupid, Michael. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

“Why’re you getting so nuts?”

“Who else have you told about this? How many?”

“Just you,” I answer.

“Don’t lie to me.”

He knows me too well. “I told Pam. Just you and Pam. That’s it. I swear.”

Trey runs the palm of his hand from the light brown skin of his forehead to the back of his shortly buzzed afro. His small hand moves slowly across his head-I’ve seen it before-he calls it “the rub.” A quick rub is like an embarrassed little laugh or snicker, used when a dignitary trips or falls in the middle of a photo-op. The speed slows down as the consequences grow, and the slower the rub, the more he’s upset. When Time ran an unflattering profile of the First Lady, the rub was slow. When the President was rumored to have cancer, it was even slower. Five minutes ago, I told him what happened with Nora and Caroline. I check his hand to clock the speed. Molasses.

“It’s only two people. Why’re you making such a big deal?”

“Let me make this as clear as possible: I love the fact that you’re moving up in the world, and I love the fact that you trust me with all your secrets. I even love the fact Nora wants to climb in your pants-believe me, we’re going to be getting back to that one-but when it comes to something this big, you should keep your mouth shut.”

“So I shouldn’t have told you?”

“You shouldn’t have told me and you shouldn’t have told Pam.” He pauses a moment. “Okay, you should’ve told me. But that’s it.”

“Pam would never say anything.”

“How do you know that? Has she trusted you with any of her stuff?”

I know what he’s driving at when he asks that question. He may only be a twenty-six-year-old staffer, but when it comes to figuring out where to step, Trey knows where all the land mines are.

“I’m telling you,” he says, “if Pam doesn’t share it with you, you shouldn’t share it with her.”

“See, now you’re being too political. Not everything in life is tit for tat.”

“This is the White House, Michael. It’s always tit for tat.”

“I don’t care. You’re wrong about Pam. She doesn’t have anything to gain.”

“Please, boychick, you know she loves you.”

“So? I love her too.”

“No, not like that, Magoo. She doesn’t just love you.” He puts his hand over his heart like he’s doing the Pledge of Allegiance, then quickly starts drumming against his chest. “She wuuuvs you,” he croons, rolling his eyes. “I’m talking the pretty pink dreams: teddy bears… ice-cream shakes… happy floating rainbows… ”

“Get over yourself, Trey. You couldn’t be further from reality.”

“Don’t mock me, boy. It’s just like what the President does with Lawrence Lamb.”

“What do you mean?”

Instinctively, Trey leans back in his chair and cranes his neck to check the rest of the reception area. He shares an office with two other people. Both of his officemates’ desks are by a window, sectioned off by a few filing cabinets. Trey’s is by the door. He likes to see who’s coming and going. Neither of his co-workers is in today, but Trey can’t help himself. It’s the first rule of politics. Know who’s listening. When he’s satisfied we’re alone, he says, “Look at their relationship. Lamb sits in on all your meetings, he’s in on all the final decisions, his title’s even Deputy Counsel, but when it comes to actual legal work, he’s nowhere to be found. Now why do you think that is?”

“He’s a lazy, toothless bastard?”

“I’m serious. Lamb’s there to keep an eye on you and the rest of your office.”

“That’s not-”

“C’mon, Michael, if you were President, who would you rather have watching your back: a group of strangers from your staff, or a friend you’ve had for thirty years? Lamb knows all the personal stuff-that’s why he’s trusted. The same goes for us; it’s been almost four years since I first spoke to you on the campaign, but this place moves in dog years. Yet with Pam… ”

“I appreciate the concern, but she’d never say anything. She’s from Ohio.”

“Ulysses S. Grant was from Ohio and he had the most corrupt administration in history. It’s all an act-those Midwesterners are ruthless.”

“I’m from Michigan, Trey.”

“Except for the ones from Michigan. Love those people.”

Shaking my head, I say, “You’re just mad because I told Pam first.”

He can’t help but leak a smile. “I want you to know, I’m the one who kept your name out of the papers. I didn’t tell anyone you found the body.”

“And I appreciate that. But right now, I want to talk about Nora. Tell me what you know.”

“What’s to know? She’s the First Daughter. She’s got her own fan club. She doesn’t answer her own mail. And she’s severely yummy. She’s also a little bit of a headcase, but, now that I think about it, that actually turns me on.”

He’s making too many jokes. Something’s wrong. “Say what you’re thinking, Trey.”

He runs his hands down the length of his cheap maroon-striped tie. With his scuffed tasseled loafers, knockoff John Lennon glasses, and his stiff navy jacket with the gold button covertly safety-pinned in place, he’s a few dollars short of the model young prep. It’s amazing, really. He’s got less money than anyone on staff, and he’s still the only one wearing a suit on Saturday.

“I told you before, Michael: You’re in trouble. These people aren’t lightweights.”

“But what do you think about Nora?”

“I think you better be careful. I don’t know her personally, but I see her when she comes in to find her mom. In and out: always quick; sometimes upset; and never a word to anyone.”