"Madam President?" one of her aides said, standing near the entrance to the courts. Her mother picked up another one, holding it with her index finger and thumb. "Is this quality time we have going here?" she asked, dropping her balls into the yellow metal basket. Her mother bent gracefully for one as Meg scooped up six or seven, using her sweatshirt front as a sort of pouch. "Yeah," Meg said, and leaned down to pick up some of her tennis balls. She had never wanted to pursue the issue further, and even though she’d been wearing it for well over a year now, she still wasn’t used to it. She hated watches, but apparently hers was some kind of security thing, because the Secret Service had requested that she keep it on at all times. Meg looked up at the sky to try and guess what time it was- not that she was exactly Nature Girl-then remembered that she had on a watch. "Besides," her mother said, "I expect your father and brothers are waiting for us." Then, she checked the bottom of her sneakers, suddenly noticing that the soles were white, grey and black-and no one had bugged her about it, either. Wear white soled shoes on the court-but, she had a sneaking suspicion that no one would have the nerve to call the President out on that one. It had been quite a while since her mother had had enough energy to play.
Her mother looked down at her dress and high heels. "Do you feel like hitting a few?" she asked, already pretty sure of the answer. "I don’t know, I’m trying to get more on it." Meg walked back to where her mother was standing, the number of agents-and general onlookers-having swelled considerably. "Is it my imagination, or is there like, a head of state behind me?" she asked without turning around. Leaning back to serve, she noticed that everyone around the court-her Secret Service agents, National Park Service people, a couple of reporters-was standing much straighter, indicating that the President was somewhere nearby. She put the jug down and reached into her ball basket.
She picked up the jug of water she kept on the baseline and drank some, studying the other side of the court. One nice thing about living in the White House was that there was always someone around to call lines. A gardener near the fence lifted seven fingers, and she nodded her thanks. She lowered her racquet, having served the last in another series of ten balls. Her theory had always been-when in doubt, delude oneself. Despite the fact that it was May, and she was holding a tennis racquet. IT WAS ALMOST dark, but Meg kept her sunglasses on because they reminded her of skiing.
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