The 51st President ✓(Book Four)

Chapter Five

It's funny how fast our plans can change. Today- I was supposed to be answering letters from the American people, and some from overseas. Today, we are honoring the Vice President of the United States.

I'll still find time to answer those letters afterwards, just not as many. Now, I'm pacing back and forth across my sitting room while a speech writer goes through and crosses out parts of my eulogy. As much as we want this to be for the family, who agreed to have a state funeral with full honors- it's not.

This has impacted hundred of millions of people. Those hundreds of millions of people will be watching, hanging on to every word that is said. This needs to be perfect. She deserves nothing less.

The speechwriter crosses out another, larger section.

"What's wrong with that one?"

"It's too personal. People don't want to know about their dead Vice President's grandchildren." He shakes his head. "You've got plenty of your own personal stories about her. What's one more we could put in to replace it?"

I lean against the wall, wracking my memories of her for something funeral-friendly. She was a woman who could be composed and (mostly) constrain her potty-mouth in public, but would let it go free as soon as she was away from cameras.

No. That would be a story to tell away from the cameras. She would also donate millions of dollars to various charities every week- almost ninety percent of her income from the book. That was the type of person she was. Far better than I am- and far better than I will ever be.

"I could...talk about her donations."

"Good- try to remember that we're... almost out of time so you won't be able to read my hand writing." He says as he scribbles stuff down.

I watch him, only now observing how he works. We haven't had another chance to work together yet- this is our first. I believe it's a universal feeling when I say how depressing it is. Most president's get to use their speech writers for state of the union addresses promoting unity- mine isn't for another few weeks.

I don't even know this guys name, and here he is helping me write a eulogy. "Uhm...what's your name?"

"Namibia, Ma'm." He smiles. "Feeling sentimental today?"

"A little bit." I shrug. "This whole...funeral things is...fucking depressing."

"Yeah, I don't remember ever-" I hear the signature beep of a fingerchip scanner, and then the double doors open. Lilith steps in, nods her head- and that's how I know it's time.

I move from my spot on the wall. Namibia hands me the redacted and scribbled on script, and I thank him. He follows behind me- not to go the funeral, but to prepare a speech for Morgan's press conference later on. When we pass by her office, he waves goodbye- and I turn the corner.

The White House stylists stops me for a second before I go outside. She fixes a single wrinkle around my waist area and touches up a spot on my forehead where I sweated her masterpiece off, then steps back- satisfied.

I take a deep breath as the marines open the door for me. As soon as I walk out, I hear the signature clicks of a thousand professional grade cameras and a few iPhone's in there. I'm suddenly glad the stylist stopped me.

I couldn't begin to count how many reporters are on White House grounds today if I tried. I make a few small comments on their questions here and there, but for the most part- ignore them as I walk across the south lawn. Like the last time, a few members of my security team are waiting at the helicopter. Except now- I'll be traveling without staff members.