Dawn Schafer was early.
This was not something she could often boast; Dawn was a very leisurely, laid-back person accustomed to operating on a West Coast schedule. She wasn't used to pencil skirts and high heels, suit jackets and panty hose, nor was she used to the (barely) prescription glasses Claudia had insisted made her look more sophisticated. They had worked spectacularly, though; despite her natural bronze glow and long, sun-bleached waves of hair, one would never guess that she had walked off a plane from Sacramento in Chacos mere days ago.
She blinked and adjusted the glasses on her face, focusing on her surroundings. The press briefing room was empty except for a lone female reporter with a mess of brown hair hunched over in her seat, muttering to herself and writing so intently her nose was nearly pressed to the paper. Her back was to Dawn, who was standing against the far wall, and Dawn wondered what she could possibly be writing about minutes before the press briefing, though she didn't dare interrupt to ask. The woman's phone went off and she snapped it from her belt loop irritably, barely glancing at it before dropping it in her lap and muttering a stream of what sounded very much like profanity.
Dawn silently vowed never to become this woman.
Other journalists began to trickle in, and Dawn was made increasingly aware of how awkward it was of her to be standing silently at the back wall near the doorway. She strode over to the nearby table and poured herself a cup of coffee, throwing in cream and sugar at random and trying to look like she knew what she was doing.
"Dawn Schafer? They told me you didn't drink coffee." Dawn looked up to see a light-skinned black woman smiling at her. She straightened up.
"Not usually, no. But I'm not usually up this early, either. It's three in the morning in California." She took the first sip of coffee of her life and grimaced. The sugar was sickly sweet and she could taste the fat from the cream, thick and-dear God, what was in this? She set her cup down on the table. "I'm sorry, you are-"
"Sandra Gonzalez, Washington Post. You're one from the Bee?"
"The only one, so far as I know," Dawn smiled. The Sacramento Bee had certainly earned accreditation from its five Pulitzer Prizes, but had never had a representative in the White House. She shook hands with Sandra. "How long have you been working with the Post?"
"Twelve years now, nine of them spent trying to work my way here," Sandra chuckled. She continued to talk, about what CJ Cregg had discussed on her first day, and what CJ was going to discuss today, and Dawn was taken aback by how informed she seemed. She certainly had done her research on Dawn. Sandra had read all of her articles for the Bee, knew she had received her college education from Stanford, acknowledged her past volunteer work for PETA, and was familiar with her stances on most major political issues. Despite this intimidating, and potentially disturbing, factor, Sandra was very easy to talk to, and Dawn quickly decided she was a good friend to have in the White House. She even reminded her a little of her high school friend Jessi, who was also very nice and, for lack of a better word, black.
"You're not got going to want to sit there," Sandra said after ten minutes, when Dawn excused herself to find a seat, "That spot belongs to The Times. CJ will call you out on it; she's done it before." Dawn stood up.
"She cares that much about the seating arrangement?" she joked.
"She cares about her loyalty to the big publications, " Sandra replied seriously. "Here," she scanned the room, "You'll probably want to take that seat over there." Dawn followed her gaze to an empty seat behind the reporter that Dawn had noticed earlier, who was still muttering to herself, though no longer writing. "Take the seat behind Pike."
Pike? Dawn sat down slowly, staring at the mass of red frizzy hair in front of her.
"Mallory?"
Mallory turned at the sound of her name. "Dawn?" Her eyes widened. She was wearing the same style of glasses she had when they were kids, round thick ones that almost took up the whole of her small face. She looked tired, there was ink smudged on the bottom of her cheek. Her hair really was quite untamed, making her already small build look even smaller in comparison to its vastness, and Dawn couldn't help but notice that, save the braces, Mallory really hadn't changed at all since the eighth grade.
"Wow, Mal, you look the same as I remember! How have you been?" Mallory stiffened; she had always been self-conscious about her appearance.
"Ah, no, I'm, uh, I've been good." She appraised Dawn without actually looking her in the eye. "You look-golden." The last word was spoken with obvious distaste and this wasn't lost on Dawn. She adjusted her glasses uncomfortably. Was this the same sweet Mallory she had left behind in Stoneybrook?
"So, uh, you're a journalist," she offered lamely, to break the deafening silence.
"Clearly."
"Well, I can't say I'm surprised." Dawn laughed, "We always knew you'd be a writer of some sort." Mallory's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"I can't really say the same about you."
Dawn noticed the tone of the conversation was escalating and was careful to keep her voice light and friendly. "What do you mean by that?" Mallory shrugged.
"Just that you've been trying out a lot of careers lately, from what I've heard. Non-profits. Activism." Her eyes finally met Dawn's and she smiled. "I guess I shouldn't ask why you're here, but how long you're staying."
Dawn stared. What had come over Mallory? She tried to think of any instance in the past where she had wronged or hurt Mal, but none came to mind. But even if she had, it would have been years ago. She hadn't seen Mallory since she was fourteen years old, for God's sake; what kind of person held a middle-school grudge? She was arranging a diplomatic response to this unforeseen hostility when the door in the front of the room banged open and CJ Cregg strode into the room, followed by a handful of her staff. Mallory hastily turned around.
The cameras flashed as CJ purposefully approached her podium, looking as if she hadn't sat still for a moment since she got out of bed that morning. Any malicious thought in Dawn's head dissolved immediately as she took in the powerful aura of CJ Cregg behind her podium. She really was as tall as everyone said-at least six feet-but oddly graceful, presiding over the press room with the utmost sense of knowledge and public responsibility.
"Good morning, everyone," CJ said briskly, but not without warmth, " As we speak, the senior council is meeting with several Republican congressmen to discuss President Bartlet's plan to increase tax incentives on cigarette purchases from 3 percent to 7 percent. The tax was not included in last spring's Federal Budget, and the President would like the issue put back on the table." A brunette woman with a round face in a pastel pink business suit handed CJ a note. "I've just been informed that last night at 10:43 p.m., the President received a phone call from Syrian President Bashar Assad. President Assad confirmed that the alleged bombing of Syrian weapon centers on Thursday was a rumor and that he has no reason to believe that Israeli terrorists are plotting any attack of the sort."
"CJ!" the cry was instantaneous. Hands shot in the air, cameras flashed, and CJ Cregg inhaled for the first time since she had begun the briefing.
"Sandra," she pointed.
"CJ, does President Bartlett plan to publicly support Syria should Israeli terrorists prove to be a threat?"
"The Syrian President has indicated that the Israeli terrorists are not a threat, and the White House doesn't respond to the hypothetical. David." The man whose chair Dawn had tried to sit in spoke.
"CJ, is it wise for the U.S. to continue trade with both Syria and the Israelis while there is a threat to foreign security?"
"Threat to foreign security?" CJ said, incredulous at the question's strong wording. "We have no reason to believe that the bombing actually occurred, or, if it did, that Israeli terrorists were behind it. In fact, we have every reason not to believe it." The cry for the press secretary's attention surged again, and Dawn watched CJ continue to answer questions with a flawlessness that could only be accomplished by a public relations demigod. She showed no sign of weakness, left no response open-ended, and Dawn was captivated. So captivated, in fact, that the room was on its fourth question before she realized that she hadn't been writing anything down. She started and leaned forward to scrawl in her notebook.
"CJ!" Dawn looked up as Mallory's hand shot in the air. "Can we trust President Assad when he makes these claims, given past events when he has lied to President Bartlett about foreign threat?" CJ frowned.
"That's not quite how I remember it, Mallory, you'll want to check your history on that one." CJ's gaze turned back towards the room, ready for her next question, when Mallory spoke again.
"CJ, you cannot deny that President Assad's judgement has been faulty in the past when it comes to foreign security detail. Do you find it strange that President Bartlett-"
"I find it strange" CJ cut in, irritated, "to be told what I can and cannot deny about security detail." She inhaled again. "Yeah, Danny." Dawn looked over the notes she had prepared for the briefing, and discovered an entire page on ethanol subsidies-a topic no one had breached. She looked around, unsure. Should she ask about it? She couldn't be the only one with this information. She fingered the ID badge she wore on a lanyard around her neck and glanced at Mallory who was still seething from the reprimand she had received.
"CJ!" Dawn called loudly, taking off her glasses and tucking them into her breast pocket. The press secretary met her gaze. "CJ, I have from two sources that President Bartlet is meeting with Republican leadership today to negotiate a change in ethanol subsidies for farmers in Iowa. Can you confirm?" CJ hesitated at the abrupt change of subject.
"You're the new one from the Sacramento Bee?"
"The only one." The room laughed and CJ smiled.
"Welcome to the White House." She shook her head, "No, ethanol subsidies haven't been a topic of discussion for quite some time. The tax breaks expired last year."
"Yes, but my sources say that Republican leadership is looking to revisit the plan in an effort to work towards environmental protection."
"Republicans, working toward environmental protection? That doesn't sound like them." The room laughed and so did CJ, nodding at the dark-haired woman who had given her the note. The woman walked quickly across the room to Dawn as the press clamored for CJ again.
"CJ would like you to come with her after the briefing," she said. Dawn, startled, nodded. She closed her notebook and started to put her bag together, as Mallory hissed her disapproval.
"She only picked you because she's mad at Danny Concannon."
"What?" Mallory rolled her eyes.
"Danny Concannon? Writer for The Post? He won the Pulitzer last year, he's very skilled... though sleeping with the press secretary couldn't have hurt." she added nastily, almost to herself. "That's one step to stardom I hope you're willing to take." Dawn knew the remark was sarcastic and she was surprised to find that her heart rate increased. She busied herself with her bag.
This did not escape Mallory. "Oh wow," she said softly. "I'd heard you were living with Claudia, but I never thought...of all people..."
Dawn was taken aback. "I don't know what that has to do with anything," she stammered, flustered completely. "I...you...I'll see you later." She cursed herself for not having anything more to say in her defense and hurried across the room to stand by CJ's dark-haired assistant.
She shifted her weight in agitation. Sure, twenty-seven was probably too old to still live with a girl you used to babysit with when you were thirteen. But Claudia Kishi was a great roommate. Sure she had some clingy habits, like preparing candlelit dinners and texting Dawn six times a day, but she was always playing really awesome music and decorating the apartment, and she always came home with hilarious stories from the elementary school art class she taught. Neither of them made enough money to afford a single apartment in D.C. and they had fun together, damn it. Who was Mallory, with her still-frizzy hair and pretentious personality to say anything about anybody? Dawn doubted that anyone in the club had even spoken to her since graduation, except for Jessi and maybe Abby. But even less people in the club spoke to Abby.
"That's a lid, folks." CJ closed her notebook and the room chirped its thanks. CJ smiled as she watched the reporters shuffle out of the room; the love for her job was unmistakable. Dawn's heart raced as she watched her get her papers together and step down from the podium. How did one start off a conversation with CJ Cregg? She willed herself to calm down and straightened her posture as CJ walked toward her.
"Miss Schafer," CJ nodded, and, without stopping, strode out the door. What? Dawn looked at the assistant, who indicated that she should follow. She complied.
"It's Dawn," she said at CJ's back.
"Welcome to the West Wing, Dawn. Have you had the tour?" Dawn picked up her pace so that she was just behind CJ's right shoulder.
"No, I flew in from California about two weeks ago. This is my first time to D.C." CJ looked at her over her shoulder.
"No kidding? Any different from Sacramento?" CJ turned left and Dawn continued straight. She doubled-back.
"Things move a lot faster here." CJ laughed good-naturedly.
"I'm sure they do." They entered an open room with cubicles. "Here's where the White House press works. You'll generally come in from that door over there. Toby Ziegler's office, Josh Lyman's. Don't talk to them; they rarely have anything of interest to you that they can actually discuss. Plus they tend to be cranky."
"DONNA!" someone bellowed from inside an office. Dawn jumped and looked around; no one else had so much as blinked. A blonde woman (Donna, presumably) stood up from her cubicle and opened the door to the office.
"...informal briefing first thing in the morning," CJ was saying, "just to go over anything we might have missed from the night before. Other than that, stay out of my office unless you clear it with Carol."
"Right," agreed Dawn. Who the hell was Carol? They arrived at an office on the left corner of the room and CJ marched swiftly behind her desk, dropping her notebook on the couch against the side wall as she passed it. She remained standing, searching through the papers on her desk.
"...tax increase, Syria, secret service," she mumbled to herself, opening a file and almost immediately closing it. "You'd think I'd have something on it somewhere." She moved an entire stack of files to her chair and leafed through the remaining stray sheets of paper. She picked up a yellow note and frowned. "CAROL," she called, and the dark-haired woman from the press room appeared at the doorway. Ah, thought Dawn, Carol.
"Carol, what is this?" CJ held up the piece of paper and peered at Carol over her glasses.
"That's a message from Ben."
"I can see that. Why is it on my desk?"
"He's called twice this morning."
"It's seven-thirty."
"He said he's calling again at ten." CJ straightened up and stared at her assistant.
"Well, call him back and tell him to stop calling," she said, "Remind him that this is the White House, not a...," CJ gestured emptily, searched for words, "...dating hotline." Carol looked like she was trying to suppress a smile.
"You want me to tell him that?" CJ sighed.
"Tell him I'll call him on my way home today."
"Are you actually going to call him on your way home today?"
"Maybe. If the restraining order hasn't come through by then. Also, get Leo and ask him if there's something he neglected to tell me this morning. Something about ethanol and Republicans and the president." Carol nodded and left. "Make sure you call Ben before ten," CJ called after her, "I'll give you a raise for every time you mention the words 'restraining order.'" She turned her attention back to her desk.
"You have a stalker?" Dawn asked, still lingering near the doorway.
"Ex-boyfriend," she said distractedly, skimming through a four-page packet. She crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash. "Have to admire his persistence, I suppose." She gestured that Dawn should sit down, and Dawn complied.
"Is he looking to get a Pulitzer?" she joked. CJ looked up at her over her glasses.
"Ben?"
"The joke in the newsroom is that people you sleep with end up with Pulitzers." CJ gave a half-smile.
"I've heard worse things about me in the newsroom," she said. "It's a more fascinating statistic that people who sleep with me end up dead." CJ had either found what she was looking for or had given up. She took off her jacket and hung it on the coatrack, and placed a thin notebook from the top of her desk into a drawer. She moved the stack of files in her office chair back to their place on the far corner of her desk, and sat down, transferring a small stack of papers to the cabinet to her left. She opened yet another notebook, took out a pen, and for the first time since the briefing, looked Dawn directly in the eye. Dawn noted that this was the second time she had ever seen CJ Cregg remain still for more than ten seconds.
"So, Dawn," said CJ, a slight smile tugging at her lips, "tell me about ethanol."