Chapter 6
Last night, after the incident with the pizza, I went straight to the Residence after learning that Tita Karra and Gabriel had already left the party.
Tita apparently had to get back to Mystic Hollow for business and to drop her godson back home. For a good hour I wrestled with the idea of calling Tita so I could get Gabe’s number.
I wanted him to know how much I appreciated the Titanic reference. And I wanted him to know how wrong he was to order pineapple on pizza. Seriously? Who does that? Gabriel Calabrese.
After knowing him a whole two hours I pretty much ignored my security detail and could’ve created an embarrassing story for Mom. Gabe’s not a good influence.
Fortunately, I’ve checked all the papers, and the ones that mention me focus on me and Oliver.
Our About Town profile has a predictable photo of me and Oliver dancing at the state dinner.
The caption: Here’s something the ENTIRE country has been predicting for years!
FDOTUS and her date, Second Son Oliver Darby, looking cozy.
Is it time to officially crown them “Abliver”?
Abliver? Really? Sounds like a body part.
It’s hard to know what’s more annoying, the media already dubbing us a couple or the fact that this is something the entire country has predicted for years…That’s me, boring, predictable Abby.
No pics of me dancing with Gabriel, or the pizza incident.
“Earth to Abby,” Elle says. She waggles her brows. “I’m sorry you and Oliver weren’t feeling well and had to bail from the party for the rest of the night.” Her voice is anything but sorry. My eyes narrow, not appreciating her innuendo.
“For goodness’ sake, don’t people have better things to worry about?” Mom’s voice cuts through the air before she even appears in the kitchen in her plaid pajamas and silk robe. “Abby. A pizza delivery? Really?”
She holds up her phone—a photo of my face frozen mid-scowl at a pizza box. Must have been when I discovered it had pineapple. “But I searched online. I didn’t see anything about the pizza,” I mumble.
Her hands fly to her hips. “Honey, maybe I have an entire press team monitoring news for me twenty-four seven.”
I sigh. She’s got me there.
Mom continues, “They’re calling it Pineapplegate.”
“Pineapplegate,” I squeak.
My mother groans. “Abby, it’s bad enough you ordered a pizza without running it through the proper channels.
You know food deliveries are handled by designated staff.
It’s not as simple as a delivery driver pulling up and handing over a pizza!
” she continues. “But why of all the nights did you have to order it the same night we served pizza at the White House to the Italian prime minister?”
My stomach roils with guilt. “Mom, I’d hardly call the garden salad on bread pizza. I was hungry, and wanted gooey cheesy pizza pizza.”
She tilts her head the way an eagle studies its prey. I’ve always felt bad for anyone who gets that look of hers. Pity it’s me this morning. Her eyes narrow. “Did you. Because you very visibly are making a yuck face in this photo,” she says.
I inhale deeply. “You know how I feel about pineapple.” My hands cover my face. “I’m sorry, Mom, I wasn’t thinking about the optics.”
“No, you weren’t thinking,” she says. I cringe when she goes quiet. I can practically see her brain calculating my punishment. Woe to the person about to get punished by President Alzona.
Dad pops into the kitchen grinning ear to ear in his Real Men Bake Cookies T-shirt.
He makes a show of an exaggerated double take when he sees everyone.
“I wasn’t expecting a full house this morning.
Abby, it’s nice to see you awake. Heard you and Oliver weren’t feeling well last night,” he teases as he heads to the coffeepot.
When no one responds, he sighs. “What did I miss?”
Mom sniffs. “You got here just in time.”
Dad wrinkles his nose and pats the chair next to him. I scoot my cereal bowl over and join him.
“Last night’s state dinner made quite the impression,” Mom says. She unfolds the front page of the newspaper tucked under her arm. The top image is her and the prime minister’s formal greeting. The headline is favorable, even complimentary of my mom’s diplomacy skills.
“This looks fine. Great coverage, even,” Dad says. “They’re focusing on your trade deal. Good job.”
She shows him her phone next. Dad’s eyes widen. He reads, “ ‘While the president excelled with honoring our guest’s country, First Daughter Abigail Cary-Alzona was caught carrying out her own brand of diplomacy by ordering a pizza pie despite being served one during the state dinner.
“ ‘In a blow to the guest country, Cary-Alzona ordered an American-style pizza alongside her boyfriend, Oliver Darby.’ ”
I protest aloud, “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Dad continues reading the article.
“ ‘She then tipped the delivery boy with a ridiculously expensive Cartier watch.’ ”
Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “Why would you do that?”
I stammer as I realize my error. “I felt bad for the delivery boy and wanted to give him a tip. Oliver has given me so many watches and bracelets, I guess I didn’t think much of it.”
“Honey, most people your age don’t own a watch that costs more than their entire wardrobe, let alone leave it as a tip.” I flush. Oliver gave me that watch. He gives me lots of presents—usually stuff I suspect his parents don’t want.
Mom closes her eyes. “Abby, you can ask the chef to make you whatever you want.”
I inhale slowly. That’s exactly what Oliver said. “I know. I just wanted to do something normal. Something a regular teenager would do,” I say, my voice sounding small and defeated.
Silence. My parents exchange worried glances. Elle catches my eye and mouths something. I squint and realize she’s saying, “Bucket list.”
No. She wants me to tell them about my list? So they know I want to do “normal” teenage things? Yeah, that’s not going to happen when they’re already upset about me ordering pizza. I’m sure the other items on my list will light their fuses, and I’ve experienced enough fireworks this morning.
My dad sighs. “How did you even know how to order a pizza?”
I bite my lip. “I used an app.” I’m pretty certain if I mention Gabe that’ll create more questions and headaches. Better to omit that part.
Elle groans. “An app? Then a tip was probably automatically included in your order, dummy.”
“Elle,” Dad warns, then squeezes my hand. “It’s okay, honey, you’re a teenager. You’re allowed to make mistakes now and then.”
Mom takes a deep breath. “I’m not angry, sweetie, just surprised. This isn’t like you.”
I stare into my cereal bowl, where my milk is turning pink and orange from my Froot Loops—one of my few vices. I feel so lousy about disappointing Mom. She sacrifices so much, and here I am embarrassing her because I wanted a pizza.
No, if I’m being honest, I wanted to prove to Gabe that I could be normal—but why? Caring what he thinks of me over my responsibilities isn’t like me at all. I sigh. My cereal’s gone soggy, which feels like my life right now.
By lunch, it’s clear that my pineapple story is gaining steam.
The pizza delivery boy has now spilled the beans about what happened, alongside memes that flood social media comparing me to Marie Antoinette saying let them wear gold as I toss a Cartier watch.
Leave it to Elle to very sagely point out that it’s the opposite of Marie Antoinette because I was giving my wealth away.
By Sunday morning, apparently “Pineapple Princess” is all over the news shows. Dad and Mom enter my room. They look serious.
I sigh, sitting on my bed. “I’ll take the bad news first.”
My mom and dad exchange glances. “Let’s not cast this as good or bad, just a change in direction,” Mom says.
“Mom,” I say. “Don’t spin me.”
Dad takes a deep breath and sits at the foot of my bed. “What your mother is trying to say is that we’re postponing your Hawaii plans.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, are you saying I’m not going to Hawaii?”
Dad doesn’t smile as he nods. I scoff. “But I have that big community service project planned with Senator Sina. I was going to be in charge for once. Like, I’m actually leading the event.”
I look back and forth between my parents, wondering if they fully understand how terrible this is for me.
Senator Sina’s charity was going to be a huge component of my college application essays.
Mom rubs my arm. “It seems there’s some issue with pineapple growers and, well, we don’t want Patty to be looked upon negatively in her home state. ”
“She’s canceling because the pineapple growers are upset with me?”
My dad shrugs. “Apparently the pineapple community is very influential.”
The ground feels like it’s sinking beneath me. “Why can’t I just stay at the hotel with Oliver? We have a bunch of activities planned,” I say, picturing the escape and freedom we’d enjoy at his private resort.
Mom sighs. “I talked to Ben and we both agreed that maybe a breather between you two would be good.”
My jaw drops. “Mr. Darby wants me to take a break from Oliver?” I snicker. But the look in Mom’s eyes is totally serious. I guess Oliver’s dad wasn’t happy about his son being pulled into Pineapplegate with me. And I bet Oliver is happy he didn’t ask me to be his girlfriend.
My mind reels. What is happening? How in twenty-four hours has my perfectly planned summer itinerary been trampled and killed like a congressional bill being sent back to committee?
I flop back on my bed, staring at the white ceiling.
How many other First Kids have looked at that same ceiling in disappointment?
I doubt Malia, Chelsea, or Barbara ever messed up.
I could see Jenna maybe…she seems like fun.
“But the good news,” Mom says, perky, “is that instead of staying here at the White House, Tita Karra’s invited you to stay with her in Virginia.”
“So at least you’ll be out of the house,” Dad chimes in.
Virginia? With Tita Karra? I shoot up so fast my head spins. “Wait—so instead of Hawaii, you’re shipping me off to Tita Karra’s?” I squint. “Wasn’t she back in the Bay Area?”
Mom and Dad exchange looks.
“You know Karra. She’s working on a new project in some small town…” Dad’s voice trails off.
The color drains from my face. “Mystic Hollow,” I say.
Dad brightens. “That’s right. Mystic Hollow. And from the sounds of it, it’s the perfect place for you and Elle to enjoy some good old-fashioned outdoor time for a few weeks. Karra says there’s a lot of activities you two can do: horses, kayaks, campfires.”
“Dad, since when am I into kayaks?”
“It’ll be peaceful; you can catch up on your reading,” he says.
Mom folds her arms across her chest. “Think of it as a retreat, a chance to unplug from all the hustle and bustle of DC.”
My eyes narrow. “Okay, what you mean is that it’s secluded and tucked away from the press.”
“As if that’s a bad thing,” Mom says, her lips pressed thin.
I’m being grounded without them explicitly saying so.
As if being secluded in Mystic Hollow isn’t enough, it’s also where one cranky Gabriel Calabrese resides. After ruining my summer with his ridiculous pizza idea, he’s the last person I want to see this summer, or ever.