Chapter 5: Sickness, Secrets, and Belonging

When we were thirteen, Lillian caught a bad cold.

It was the kind of illness that swept through the academy like wildfire. One by one, kids started sniffling, hacking, and missing class. Lillian looked pale, wrapped in her scarf, voice hoarse as sandpaper.

Before she got sick, she came to class as usual.

She tried to tough it out, scribbling notes and sharing candy, but her cough grew worse. Natalie offered her the last of our cough drops, and we promised to save her seat at lunch.

Most of the academy didn’t escape. Even the teacher got a high fever, tried to keep teaching, but ended up fainting, nearly putting a hole in the floor.

Mr. Daniels was reading aloud when he suddenly pitched forward—bam!—scaring us half to death. We rushed for help, adrenaline kicking in. D.C. may be tough, but the flu is tougher.

The staff rushed to call the doctor.

Within minutes, a nurse arrived with a rolling cart of medicine and thermometers. The nurse’s accent was pure New Jersey, all business and big earrings.

Natalie got sick too.

Her face flushed, she barely spoke above a whisper, which was a miracle in itself. She wrapped herself in two blankets, but still shivered.

She drank medicine like water, making a face at the taste. The doctor said, “Miss Natalie is pretty sick. She needs to sip this slowly, just half a spoon at a time, to get better.”

Natalie scrunched up her nose, eyes darting from the doctor to the First Lady, who stood over her like a guard dog. I tried not to laugh, but failed.

Natalie gritted her teeth, wanting to gulp it down, but with the First Lady watching, she had to drink it slowly.

She glared at the spoon, as if willing the medicine to vanish. Every swallow was a battle—her stubbornness shining through.

I thought it was weird, and wanted to ask the doctor.

I wondered why she couldn’t just chug it and be done. But before I could speak, I caught a hushed conversation in the hallway.

But as I stepped outside, I overheard the Vice President’s son and ambassador’s daughter whispering.

They stood just out of sight, voices low but animated.

He said, “I told the doctor to say that to Natalie. Grandma will make sure she drinks it slowly.”

He grinned, proud of his clever plan. Politics started early in D.C.

His sister grinned, clearly pleased.

She mimed zipping her lips and giggled. Natalie’s reputation for chaos had reached legendary status.

“She’s got a tongue so sharp Ben wants to hide, and even Caleb doesn’t dare cross her. At least while she’s sipping medicine, she gives us a break.”

I snorted, imagining Natalie’s frustration at being sidelined by a spoonful of syrup. Peace and quiet—a rare commodity in our circle.

“People say Aubrey and Natalie are a pair of trouble magnets—just don’t let them hear it.”

If only they knew half the stories from Savannah. Still, I grinned, feeling oddly proud.

So that’s your game.

They thought they could outsmart us, but I had to admit—the plan was working. Natalie hadn’t started a single fight all week.

I almost laughed.

Sometimes, being the trouble magnet wasn’t all bad. At least life was never boring.

Good people—if only you hadn’t dragged me into it too.

They should’ve known I was an accomplice by choice. The medicine wasn’t the only thing I’d swallow for Natalie.

The medicine was bitter and had to be sipped slowly. Natalie was out of it for days, too busy outsmarting the First Lady to scold anyone.

She’d whine and fake sleep, but the First Lady saw right through her. Still, it kept her quiet, and the rest of us enjoyed the break.

Our classmates were as happy as if it were Christmas.

Everyone swapped get-well cards and enjoyed a few days of relative calm. It was the most peaceful the academy had been since our arrival.

The cold lasted two weeks before we finally got back to class.

When the fever finally broke, Natalie celebrated with a full stack of pancakes and a triumphant, "Told you I’d survive."

The academy was as lively as ever, with minor squabbles every few days and big ones every week—like a zoo.

The halls rang with laughter, shouts, and the occasional shriek. The teachers had a rotation for "referee duty." I kept a scorecard for fun.

At fourteen, we got birthday gifts from our classmates.

Lillian knitted us matching scarves, and Caleb brought cupcakes from a bakery downtown. Even Ben chipped in with a cheesy greeting card and a grudging smile.

The First Lady made us each a bowl of mac and cheese. Watching us eat, the wrinkles at her eyes looked especially gentle in the lamplight. She patted our heads one by one.

I never thought comfort could taste like cheddar, but in that moment, it was everything I needed. The cheese was gooey, the pasta just right. I nearly cried with happiness as she ruffled my hair.

“It’s been years since I cooked for anyone. You two are lucky.”

She looked at us with a fondness that made my heart ache. For the first time, I believed we belonged here.

Natalie pulled me to kneel and hug the First Lady.

It was a spontaneous gesture—awkward at first, but then perfect. The First Lady’s arms were strong and soft. I squeezed my eyes shut and hugged her tighter.

She pulled us in, her eyes crinkling, and hugged us tight—like we were her own, no questions asked.

As the family’s reps in D.C., the President didn’t like us much. Even when he smiled, he seemed gloomy, making us uneasy.

He rarely visited, and when he did, the air grew thick with tension. His smile never reached his eyes, and I always wondered if he saw us as burdens or threats.

If not for the First Lady’s kindness, we’d have lived in constant fear in D.C.

She was our anchor. Without her, D.C. would’ve been nothing but rules and cold, echoing halls.

The First Lady’s eyes grew moist.

She blinked quickly, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. I pretended not to notice, but Natalie squeezed her hand.

That year, she went to church to pray more often than before.

Every Sunday, she’d dress us up and march us down the pew. The choir would sing, and she’d light candles for us, murmuring our names in her prayers.

Each time, she brought Natalie and me, tying ribbons with our names on the prayer tree.

The tree sparkled with hundreds of ribbons—some faded, some new. She tied ours with extra care, whispering wishes for safety, happiness, and a place to belong.

Over time, all the D.C. bigwigs knew the First Lady favored us, and treated us more kindly.

Invitations arrived for dinners and fundraisers. Even the snobbiest senators’ wives smiled at us, eager to curry favor. It felt strange—being noticed, respected.

Though the President wasn’t her biological son, he was a good son in name. At her birthday party, to please her, he gave Natalie the honorary title of Junior Ambassador and promoted me to Youth Delegate.

There was applause, flashbulbs, and congratulatory handshakes. The titles felt heavy, but also like armor—proof we’d earned our place.

The tension between the First Lady and the President eased that day, and the party was full of warmth and family feeling.

For once, laughter filled the room instead of whispers. We danced with our classmates, sneaked extra slices of cake, and clinked sparkling apple cider in toast.

Not long after, news came from Savannah.

A big brown envelope arrived with my name in Dad’s shaky handwriting. I could smell the salt marsh and magnolia blooms as I tore it open.

The general asked Natalie all about D.C., and mentioned lots of little things from home.

He described the new church steeple, the neighbor’s runaway dog, and how the twins had painted the porch with chalk. It felt like a hug from home.

The eldest daughter was married and doing well with her husband’s family. The younger twins had grown a lot, always talking about visiting their sister in D.C. Even the family dog Natalie once raised had puppies.

Natalie’s face glowed as she read the letter. She laughed out loud at the dog story, then sighed wistfully at the news of the twins.

She leaned by the window reading the letter, beaming.

Sunlight caught in her hair. She looked older somehow, more at peace. I watched, heart heavy with longing for my own family—a family that never sent letters.

I watched her from across the room, a little jealous.

I tried not to show it, but I knew Natalie noticed. She always did.

If only my dad would get struck by lightning, but no such luck—he was probably getting ahead in Savannah thanks to me.

It was a mean thought, but honest. I’d left him to his new life, and now he was free to parade his new wife around town, while Mom’s picture gathered dust on the mantle.

He drove my mom to her grave, couldn’t wait to bring his girlfriend into the house, tormented me for years before I finally left with Natalie for D.C. without looking back.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d lie awake, replaying old fights, wishing I’d said more—or less. I wondered if he ever missed me, or even noticed I was gone.

I regret not catching him at home the day I left. Otherwise, I would’ve given him twice as much laxative as my stepmom.

Natalie snorted when I told her, and promised me next time we visited, she’d help me spike the coffee herself.

Natalie’s eyes lit up when she saw me, waving: “Aubrey, come look! My dad and big sis sent something for you!”

She dangled a small package—peach preserves, my favorite. I ran over, tackling her in a hug. The taste of home never felt so sweet.

I couldn’t help but laugh, running over, leaving my sadness behind.

We tore open the jar and ate it straight with spoons, giggling like little kids again.

“Coming!”

For a moment, Savannah wasn’t so far away after all.