And that was before I heard the screaming.
As the elevator doors slid open, a high-pitched “I am going to kill someone!” echoed from behind the double doors at the end of the hall.
And then I was one hundred percent certain that the man beside me didn’t know the truth about my sisterhood, because he didn’t draw his weapon; he didn’t even flinch as a second Secret Service agent opened the double doors and whispered, “Peacock is angry.”
Instead, he walked toward the screaming girl—even though she was a Gallagher Girl.
Even though her name was Macey McHenry.
Before that day, I’d never been to Boston. I’d never had a Secret Service escort. And I’d definitely never been a VIP (or the friend/roommate/guest of a VIP) at a national political convention. But walking into what I’m pretty sure was the hotel’s second-nicest suite, I added another first to the list: I’d never seen Macey McHenry as mad as she was then.
“Really, Macey, I think it’s an adorable little puff piece.” Cynthia McHenry’s cool, mannered tone could not have been more different from her daughter’s. “He’s the only son of a future president. . . . You’re the only daughter of a future vice president. . . . If people want to read about the possibility of a White House wedding eight years from now, I don’t see any reason to stop them. Really, I don’t know why you have to be so dramatic.”
Right then I made a mental note that if Mrs. McHenry thought Macey was too dramatic then she should probably never be left alone with the better part of our junior class.
