No cell phones?
It had to be some kind of joke. I mean, my cell phone is like my second mouth. Or my third ear. Or my fourth nostril. Okay, that’s random, but you get the idea. I need my cell phone. And she was telling me I couldn’t use it?
She was short and chunky—my mom would say “full figured”—and when she talked, she sounded like a textbook. I am not kidding. Can you say boring? She was in charge of our tour group, which meant we were stuck with her for the next couple of hours. She had told us to call her Ms. Letter. Excuse me? That’s not a name. It’s a school supply.
No cell phones? What planet was she from? What kind of place was this, anyway? What had I gotten myself into?
I’m Diana, from the cool town of Hotlanta, Georgia. But you can call me Dee-Dee, or Dee. You can also call me Dimples, Lady Dee, or Diamond.
I live in the suburbs in a brand-new house with a brand-new yard. And since my dad’s promotion, we got a brand-new car and stopped mowing our brand-new lawn. My dad says he spent his youth mowing lawns, and he is never doing it again. So we pay for a fancy service to cut our grass every week.
We have four bathrooms, and one of them is mine. I’m an only child, which is great because I have my very own everything. If I haven’t mentioned it yet, I’ll tell you now. It rocks to be me!
Anyway, Ms. Letter was in charge of the tour, and she said no cell phones. She also said . . . well, I’ll let you hear for yourself.
“Before we begin this most exciting adventure,” she droned, “we need to go over some rules. Be aware of the exits. No food or drink. Do not chew gum or eat candy. All right? Good.
“Now, I’m Ms. Letter, and it is my pleasure to welcome and congratulate you for being here today. You’ve worked hard, and so you have been selected to come to Washington DC to tour parts of the White House where most people are not allowed. Yes, you are the ‘Children of Today’ learning the history of yesterday for the future of tomorrow. And I am so excited.”
Suddenly she stopped and clapped her hands. “Pop quiz!”
I groaned. We got enough of those in school.
“We are in one of the most famous places in the world!” she said. “What is the street address?”
Looking around the group, she pointed to a boy in the back. He had dark eyes, and his pants hung low. I think maybe she picked him because she didn’t think he would know the answer.
He looked up at her and grinned. “It’s 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”
She gazed at him, surprised. “And this house at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—what is it called?”
“It’s the White House, huh!” He spun around, did the splits, and came up smiling.
“That’s very . . . expressive,” said Ms. Letter.
Okay, the guy was different, but he was also kind of interesting. “Who are you?” I asked him.
He said, “Listen up, okay? And look this way, ’cause I am José from LA. And today, we’re going to play, and see the White House. Oh-heyyy!”
“No, I’m José!”
Ms. Letter watched him nervously. I think she was afraid she might be losing control of the group. “Children of today,” she said, “who ordered the White House built?”
A girl in front raised her hand. Her blond hair was woven into a braid, and she carried a guidebook and a little notebook that she scribbled in. Speaking with an accent, she put her words together in an unusual way.
“The president, General George Washington, picked design . . . but died before its completion. He is only president who did not live in White House. I read this in book. I write it in my notebook.”
“Very good,” said Ms. Letter. “And you are?”
“I am Anita Alicja Kalinowska. Or Annie. I am coming from Kansas City.”
Listening to her accent, José shook his head. “Dude, you are not really from Kansas.”
Annie smiled. “You right!”
“I knew it!” said José.
“I from Missouri,” she said. “That where my Kansas City located.”
Ms. Letter clapped her hands. “And now, children, the big moment has arrived. It’s time to begin our tour! Line up, please. Two neat rows.”
Rows? If I had wanted rows, I would have joined the marching band.
We lined up, and she led us down a hall. As we walked, she talked. “Tell me, children, what does the White House mean to you. Anybody?”
I said, “The fancy home of the president?”
Annie said, “A historical museum.”
José said, “An excuse to miss class!”
Ms. Letter sighed, and we kept walking. We went by a bedroom, and I tried to peek inside. The president is a regular person, right? He has a house. He has a cell phone. I wondered if he liked shopping for shoes.
I raised my hand. “Will we get to see the president’s shoes?”
“No,” said Ms. Letter.
“Can we read the books in library?” asked Annie.
“No,” said Ms. Letter.
José said, “Will we get to see top secret documents?”
“No!” said Ms. Letter.
“Then what will we see?” I asked.
“Furniture!” she said. “Antique furniture.”
They call them antiques, but really it just means old. The house was old. Ms. Letter was old. Looking around, I was starting to feel old too.
And I was getting older by the minute.
