The President’s Girl

Andrea Goyan

 

I didn’t start out as a revolutionary. Just a boy who identified as a girl.

▱

The black liner goes on thick and smooth, but like always, I struggle with the fake lashes. Hate them! It’s a nightmare to get the adhesive right, but I get it done. Today, I know we’ll be on camera. There’ll be close-ups.

▱

The first time I told my parents about “God’s little mistake” (my mother’s euphemism, not mine), it was an accident. I was 8, hiding in my closet dressed in my sister Grace’s blue-striped dress with a matching hairband when my father found me. Seemingly blind to what I was wearing, he caught me in a fierce bear hug and went crazy about my hair.

“We’re going to the barber!” he said. “You look like a girl.”

“So?” I said, squirming to get away.

“So … you’re getting it cut.”

I screamed, “No! I am a girl!”

My father squeezed me tighter and said to my mom, “I told you Disney Princess movies weren’t good for the boy.”

But then my mom grabbed Dad’s hand, shook her head, and her eyes got all buggy. They were so big I was afraid they might pop right out of their sockets, so I stopped. Stopped struggling, stopped speaking, stopped breathing. The room was silent.

“No, Robert,” she said. “That isn’t it.”

What followed were years of therapy, gallons of hormone treatments, seven surgeries, and then what did I do at 20?

Joined the Military.

My father was apoplectic.

“You put us through all that trouble, and you’re just going to wear fatigues?”

To this day, he doesn’t get that who I am has nothing to do with what I wear.

Back then, a military career was tricky for transgender people. But there were ways around it … ways to change what it states on your birth certificate. Mom called it the brilliance of living in a democracy. Dad just sighed and said, “Way too many fucking loopholes.”

▱

I sit topless at my vanity, looking at the breasts I fought so hard to obtain. I cup them in my hands. Almost perfect. If I had to do it over, I’d go two sizes smaller, but there wasn’t any doubt they’d opened more doors for me than my other assets combined.

I catch the hooks on my bra and slip myself into its sheer supportive nothingness. When they initially fit me into one of these special Pearl numbers, I’d felt vulnerable, but resolute and subversive. That was the first time I met him. The day I understood the breadth of my mission.

▱

The Oval Office was impressive. Heavy gold curtains framed the windows, and the parquet floors were exquisite. Dressed in a conservative blue suit, I sat on—no surprise, a gold sofa. My legs were crossed at the ankles, my hands in my lap, my nails freshly manicured. The President perched on the edge of the Resolute desk, reminding me of an animal ready to pounce.

“Wow, just wow,” he said, fanning his ruddy face with a stack of photos from my Sports Illustrated bathing suit spread.

I knew they’d been touched up to hide a lot of things, but it didn’t matter. I’d get the job because A: I was beautiful, and B: I was beautiful. It’s easy to trap a bear if you know how to bait it.

I lowered my eyes and said, “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“I mean, I saw these and said, ‘She’s got to be one of the Pearls. Sign. Her. Up.’”

“It’s an honor.”

“Did you see the outfits?”

Smiling, I said through clenched teeth, “A portfolio arrived at my hotel last night.”

I’d glowered over the models dressed in miniskirts, heels, and low-cut blouses. Tacky expensive fuck-me outfits. I’d even expressed my concerns to my CO. “Relax,” she’d said. “This is how we’ll bring him down.”

“And?” he said, hopping to his feet.

He moved closer and loomed over me. His breathing was short and rapid, and pockets of saliva bubbled at the corners of his mouth.

“Here to serve, sir,” I said.

He laid his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. My body went rigid.

“Of course, nothing improprietary is expected …”

I cringed, as much at his fake word as his touch. I rested my hand on top of his, easily enveloping it, and said, “Of course not.”

He slipped his hand away.

“My Pearls are gorgeous, the most beautiful girls in the world. Really, really pretty. I mean who’s going to shoot something that beautiful, right?”

“And the Secret Service?” I said.

He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Losers in suits and sunglasses. Look, I’m not a homophobe, but a bunch of men hovering … Bad. Really, really bad. Besides, they’re called ‘Secret’ service, right? Who knows what they’re planning?”

“Don’t you think, sir…”

“I do. Think. But that’s not your job. Yours is to look pretty.” He held up a decanter filled with amber-colored liquid and raised his eyebrows. “Drink?”

“No, thank you, Mr. President.”

He turned to his aide, a blonde woman dressed in gold who, seated against the curtains, was so well camouflaged I’d forgotten she was in the room with us.

“Pumpkin, fetch a glass of water for Bunny.”

“Margaret,” I corrected.

Pumpkin gasped. Her eyes flitted to my face before she scurried away.

He laughed. “Margaret … Bunny. Names are subjective, don’t you think? I like Bunny for you. Really, really like it. You’ll change your name to Bunny.”

Margaret was my grandmother’s name. I’d taken it shortly after her death when I was 16. I wanted to scream, “NO,” but I had a job to do.

“Certainly, sir,” I said.

He flopped into the desk chair. Watching him stroke the leather armrests repulsed me.

“So, people love the Pearls. They love them. They’re asking why it’s never been done before. I tell them it’s because I wasn’t in charge. I’m the best. Leader of the free world. I deserve gorgeous women surrounding me, and the women like it. You agree, of course.”

There it was: the hubris that would be his undoing.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Do you know how to use a gun?”

“Actually, sir—”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re a ten, so I don’t care.”

I paused for a moment. If he’d taken more than a cursory look at my pictures, he would’ve noticed I was featured in a special edition about Women in the Military.

“Thank you, sir. But, so you know, I’m a sharpshooter…”

“A girl sharpshooter! Now that’s something I’d like to see.”

“I’d be happy to show you—”

He yelled, “Pumpkin?”

His aide ran back inside, and I realized that I recognized her from his campaign trail. Her name was different then.

“Yes, Mr. President?” she said.

“See that Bunny gets her uniform.”

▱

I’m waxed smooth, and my skin glows like polished marble. Lustrous. I am, after all, a Pearl. We are stunning, white, and have matching shades of bleached blonde hair. Cursory talk of adding an iridescent Black Pearl to the strand was scrapped. The official reason? The first lady only wears Akoya classic white pearls. The truth is no African American woman could be conned into the job. After all, Pearls stand between one of the biggest targets in the world and whizzing bullets. Disposable flesh shields. But I’m not complaining. His delusions gave us this opening. I pop my hormones and crack my neck.

Dad would be happy to see me in these threads, I think, slipping my blouse’s top button from its loop to show more cleavage. He always says, “You cut off your dick … You could at least dress like a woman.” To which my mother quips, “Now, Robert! I wear pants.” And Grace (if she’s around) grumbles, “It still not fair you’re prettier than me.”

I squeeze into my skirt, struggling to close the zipper over my bulging belly. That’s last night’s pasta dinner. I shouldn’t have eaten so much, but I might never eat at Tony’s again … or see my sister … or my parents. I wish they’d been there too, but I couldn’t invite them without raising a red flag.

Tears prick my eyes, and I dab at them with a tissue. No smears!

▱

Grace and I waited for a table in the tiny foyer, sipping wine. A tall, well-dressed man pinched my breast as he passed us.

“Fuck!” I said.

“You wish,” he said, wagging his tongue at me.

“Gross,” Grace said, raising an arm to block him. “Hey, asshole.”

I caught her wrist. “Don’t.”

“Really? What the fuck, Maggie?”

“Gotta choose my fights, Sis.”

“Since when?” She stared into my eyes. “Shit, you’re serious. The Prez is rubbing off on you.”

I shook my head. When I felt the muscles in her arm slacken, I released it. We watched as the man sauntered over to a group of friends at the bar and was greeted with huzzahs and back slaps.

“Our world, where assholes reign,” I said.

“You have regrets … moments like this? I mean, if you could go back in time …”

I pursed my lips. I hated it when people think it was a choice. Think I came into this world with all the right parts, the better ones, and that now I’m inferior. I just had the crap timing to become a woman when the country wanted us all to behave like little girls. Shit. Maybe it’s always been that way. But, believe me, the dream of becoming a woman never included assault scenarios. Or dressing up like someone’s fantasy trotting around on the heels of a despot.

I wished I could tell Grace about my real job, remind her there was more to me than skimpy outfits and choreographed stage moves. I was a Trojan horse, not actually part of the dirty dozen who flanked the President whenever he left the White House. The twelve denizens, who, in private, he referred to as his sex-sciples.

When Grace first saw a picture of me as a Pearl, we were also at Tony’s, sitting at our favorite table.

“My God,” she said. “You’re a Fembot.”

“Pearl,” I’d corrected. “Short for President’s Girls.”

“Spelled?”

“P-E-A-R-L.”

Grace made a loud buzzing sound, slapped her palm down on the table, and said, “Stupid!”

Same fire danced in her amber eyes that night as last night.

“If I could go back in time …” I said to her. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

She slugged my arm. “Mom’s little Angel.”

I laughed.

Our mother grew up in the 1970s. When she found out I had a concealed carry permit, she started calling me Angel, as in Charlie’s Angels. I told her it was demeaning. I was nobody’s angel. She’d smiled and said, “You’re mine.”

▱

I carefully draw the red line around the border of my lips and marvel that in reality, Mom isn’t far from the truth. I do work for an agency run by a person whose face I’ve never seen, and I follow my orders to the letter without fail.

No matter what happens, my family will be proud. I’ll go down a hero. Go down, literally or figuratively. Either way, history’s gonna record my actions positively. Maybe then, my father can finally rest easy when his boy who became a girl becomes a national hero.

I fill in my lip color and study my reflection. My hair weave needs tightening, nothing an up-do won’t conceal. After today … who cares?

The audience hasn’t entered the auditorium as we Pearls arrive. I say hi to Crystal nee Karen on my left and Desiree nee Paula on my right. Desiree rubs her finger against her teeth to make sure they’re lipstick-free. The Pearls are so happy. I know my mission will destroy them. They’ll be dismantled, and I’ll never see any of them again. Oh, well.

I check the magazine on my weapon. All Pearls sling sniper rifles on pale pink straps over our shoulders. Mine just happens to be loaded.

A whistle blows. Showtime. We line up.

Pumpkin claps her hands. “Girls! Inspection time!”

He enters.

The twelve of us stand with ridiculous smiles while the President oozes among us.

“Santa may have reindeer,” he says, “but I bet they never got him hard!”

It isn’t funny, but we Pearls giggle because he expects it.

“Candy, Sugar, Brandi … even your names make my mouth water …”

His breath is warm on my face and he smells like old man.

Pumpkin whispers in his ear and dabs sweat off his forehead.

He nods, leans in, and kisses me on the lips with just a hint of tongue, before exiting into the wings. We won’t see him again until the crowd’s seated.

The Pearls separate to flank the edges of the stage. Once on my mark, I stand perfectly still as people filter into their seats. My gun rests in a relaxed grip. Sweat prickles my forehead. I hope my base doesn’t streak.

Ever since I joined the military, people have asked me what it’s like to know you might die. I ask them, what’s it like to know you’re gonna live? Do you make bold choices? Are you willing to make sacrifices to live the life you deserve? I do. I am. Hell, I’ve been sacrificing since I was born.

I glance to the rafters. It’s where our operative’s fortified. He’s found the opening for his weapon, slipped the muzzle through the loophole … I suppress my laughter. Another fucking loophole.

I could wax poetic about the infinite ways to twist the meaning of that word. A freaking loophole in the election process got us here to begin with and hell, one in my very DNA got me—

The music starts.

My back stiffens.

Rafter’s job is to kill the President. Mine is to kill Rafter before he’s caught and questioned. I doubt he knows about that part of the plan. Hell, for all I know I’m in someone’s crosshairs too. But I took an oath and today I’ll fulfill it. It’s my patriotic duty.

Is the operation moral? Soldiers don’t get the luxury to dwell on those issues, but as a transgender woman … let’s just say I can live with it.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States …”

He catches my eye as he steps onto the stage. I wink and run the tip of my tongue over my top lip. He stutter-steps, smiles, and give me a thumbs-up before waving to his fans.

I turn away, look to my target, and wait for my cue.

 

Andrea Goyan is a writer, actress, and Master Pilates Teacher. Her short stories can be found in two anthologies, “Believe Me Not: An Unreliable Anthology” and “It’s About Time.” As a playwright, she’s had over a dozen of her pieces produced by theatres and festivals in Los Angeles, where she lives with her husband, a dog, and two cats.