International Relation(ship)s

Chapter 1

It's quite funny, actually, when you think of the White House, it is likely that the first images that enter your mind are those of rigidity, formality, perfect paint-work along with meticulously made curtains, not a stitch out of line, flooring made of the most expensive wood money can buy. Clay thought this too for quite a while, even for the first weeks he spent residing in the world-renowned building it felt more like a museum than where he was going to live. It didn't quite feel like home until one Friday evening when he discovered on his late-night amble that the bottom-left corner of the second sheet of wallpaper from the window wasn't fully adhered to the chipped ivory paint it was meant to smother.

What was so notable about this, you may be asking. Well, I'll tell you, dear reader, it was not that the taut-pulled illusion of perfection had been shattered; he had figured that out on the day he moved in, distracting himself with the endlessly fascinating cracked trails in the titanium-white paint on the ceiling of his room whilst trying to assemble the best possible answer to an essay. Nor was it a metaphor, showing him some sort of Disney moral that even the strongest familial bonds become unstuck under the pressure that presidency can bring. In fact, it was nothing of the sort. It was what hid underneath that truly eased him into life as the First Son:

Just don't let them find out.

The bedrooms generally reserved for the First Family were the East and West on the second floor. First designed as one, quite frankly, enormous state bedroom for some important European, it can be assumed that whomever decided to split it into two separate rooms had the same view as most would; even for royalty, it was a little excessive. Clay had the East, Niki the West, and in what Clay viewed as some sort of twisted irony, it was the same configuration as their old house in Florida, the key to which lay permanently in the centre of his chest and, along with the chain from which it hung, was always hidden from view. It was personal, only for him to see, to feel, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Whenever he felt stressed, the cool metal would draw him out of his anxious state and back to reality, imprinting the sharp edges of the key to his chest as he held it there. It wasn't just some meaningless accessory, it was a good luck charm filled with sentiment, a reminder of the boy he once was.

Back in Florida, their rooms were smaller than the bathrooms in the White House, Clay's constantly filling up with increasing piles of schoolwork and lacrosse gear; Niki's walls always bearing magazine-cutouts of her current celebrity crush, hiding the hideous teal colour she'd insisted on when she was 7 and regretted every moment since. Their rooms in the White House, like them, were rather different. Clay's room was calculated and neat, every manilla folder and ring-binder having its own respective place, the previously-satin pink walls (Sasha Obama's choice) now sporting a muted mint green. There were always piles of textbooks, books he read for pleasure (which were often still academically focused), and notepads crammed with pages of meticulously detailed notes. Niki's room belonged to a Pinterest board with the level of interior decoration that one would aspire to have but know deep down that they would never reach. On her windowsill were empty bottles of her favourite soda, now used as vessels for the plants she cared so dearly for. Her guitars hung on the wall above her bed, and next to them were shelves filled with trinkets from her past.

They were aware that it was unusual that they, the president's children, still lived in the White House - normally once they reached 18 it was time to move out and, unsurprisingly, never back in, but Clay had started at Georgetown University around the same time that his mother was sworn in so it only made sense for him to take residency at the White House rather than wasting money on a flat down the road. Niki still had another year of high school, but after that, as a result of a multitude of coincidences, she ended up at Georgetown too.