Okay, this place was creeping me out. It was bad enough that we couldn’t turn on our cell phones or use the tennis court. But disappearing pictures?
This just in: The White House is haunted!
“Holy Potomac!” someone exclaimed.
I nodded. “You can say that again.”
Then I looked at José. “Wait a minute. Did you say that?”
“Uh, no.”
Annie shivered. “I did not either.”
“Then who did?” I asked.
We glanced nervously at each other, then slowly turned around.
Standing in front of us was George Washington. He was posed just like in the painting, but he was real!
“Does anyone know how long I’ve stood like this?” he asked.
“A long time,” said José, staring.
“A very long time,” I added.
“More than two hundred years,” said Annie.
Washington stretched and grunted. “That explains it. I thought I was feeling a little stiff .”
He was standing in the room with us, but we still didn’t believe it.
Annie said, “You are the person in the painting!”
José did a couple of moves that looked like Washington’s poses. “You look like this on the dollar bill . . . and this on the quarter.”
I added, “My mom bought me a really cool pair of jeans on your birthday.”
Washington smiled. “How festive!”
I’d never seen a picture of him smiling. He looked goofy but nice. I told him, “You should smile more often.”
“Let’s make an agreement,” he said. “I’ll smile more if you do something for me.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Treat me like a normal person. I really am, you know.”
Annie said, “A normal person? Oh, sir, we could not do that.”
He sighed. “When people are around me, they’re so stiff and proper. Sometimes I want to just, you know . . . relax. Take it easy.”
José gave a hoot. “Get down, Mr. President! You the man!”
He shrugged. “The man? Well, I suppose I’m one of them.”
Washington looked friendly and a little bit sad. Okay, he was the president, but to me he seemed like . . . well, a George. Later, when I talked to Anna and José, they said the same thing. All of us thought of him as George, but of course we would never call him that to his face.
I turned to George. “Tell us, Mr. President, how did it feel to stand in that pose for such a long time?”
“It was difficult,” he said. “I stood in that frame every day and every night, in the summer and in the winter, even when my nose itched! I did it because, although I never spent a night in this building, I believe this house belongs to everyone. These walls don’t just talk—they shout! My pose was a gesture of hospitality, welcoming one and all into the nation’s home—your home, where all of you belong. You do feel that you belong, don’t you?”
We looked at each other, then back at him. “No,” said Annie.
Now it was George’s turn to stare. “You don’t? Why not?”
Annie said, “It’s so big.”
I said, “It’s so old.”
José said, “It’s so . . . educational.”
George stretched out his arms, as if he were trying to give the place a hug. “Do you know how much thought went into building this house? It’s perfect!”
Annie glanced around. “The White House, it’s beautiful, but . . .”
José jumped in. “It’s like a party we haven’t been invited to.”
“A party?” said George, perking up. “I love parties. Let’s find one, shall we?”
As he spoke Ms. Letter came flouncing into the room, leading the tour group. George quickly went back into his pose. We struck poses too, trying to stand perfectly still.
“Children of today,” Ms. Letter was asking the group, “weren’t the scalloped saucers absolutely fantastic? And how about those fabulous flora and fauna salad plates?”
As they moved into the next room Mr. Flower looked around. “Those missing kids—they have to be around here somewhere.”
Searching the place, he walked right past us! Unfortunately, I was just thinking about George and how his nose had itched. Sure enough, mine starting itching too. There was no stopping it.
I sneezed!
“Bless you,” said George.
Mr. Flower stopped and stared at him. “General George Washington?”
George decided to try out one of his smiles. “Hey, I like smiling,” he told me. “It feels good.”
“Sir, it really is you!” exclaimed Mr. Flower.
“At ease, soldier,” said George.
Mr. Flower cleared his throat. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but why aren’t you in your frame?”
George said, “I am inviting my befuddled children on a very special tour of the White House, so they relish its perfection and learn to feel comfortable here.”
“Speaking of comfortable . . .” said José. He dropped his pose with a sigh of relief. So did Annie and I.
“Sir, did you say your children?” asked Mr. Flower, glancing at us. “I didn’t know you had any.”
George shrugged. “It’s a metaphor. I’m their founding father.”
“Well,” said Mr. Flower, “‘your’ children are out of control. They left the tour. They broke rank. They disobeyed orders. Children of today—come with me! You are busted!”
Busted? In the White House? When my parents found out, I would be so grounded.
Just then, George pointed across the room. “Oh, look. The pastry chef!”
Mr. Flower whirled around. “Where?”
“Run!” George told us.
He tore out of the room. For an old guy, he sure could go fast!
“This way!” he yelled.
We followed him around a corner and down a hall, through three or four different rooms. The place was like one of those mazes, where you try to get out and can’t. The good news was that Mr. Flower didn’t know where we were. The bad news was that we didn’t either.
Can you say lost?