I don't own anything.
America was a greedy place.
That's what Mercedes had determined at the age of 13 while in her Social Studies class. She remembered learning how Americans did everything based on money and power. Mercedes could still picture sitting in class gaining the information of the Mexican-American war, how they wanted territory and would stop at nothing to get it. Mercedes remembered at the age of 16 learning about Americans forcing Natives to learn their culture, their ways of life, only doing so by killing off their buffalo, just to sell their skin and make money. The Natives had used buffalo for their resources but Americans took that away from them.
America was power hungry.
But then she had also learned about slavery. Maybe it was the most shocking of all; then again, by that time during the later months of being 16, she couldn't say she was surprised at all. She was however, exasperated that the school system had failed to teach her theses things earlier on in life. As if it weren't enough that blacks had to bow down to whites, as if it weren't enough that even after they were freed, they were still slaves to the world of America. She remembered hearing about the system of Sharecropping, how former slaves were still cheated out of their money, out of their freedom.
As if it weren't enough.
But then, Mercedes remembered being a junior in high school, she would give a little smile to other races such as Hispanics, and a few whites in her school. She was a friendly person, always tried to make conversation until—until one day, she overheard some Hispanics talking about the African Americans, calling them ghetto, and maybe something else she couldn't remember or rather chose not too for their sake.
"Alex was right," some guy had said while looking towards a group of African Americans laughing loudly—having fun in Mercedes' eyes, "Prom is going to be so ghetto if it's a lot of them." But then he had looked towards her, because she had just so happened to be sitting at the same table as him, "No offense." He had said with a smile.
And that night when she had gotten home, Mercedes grabbed a dictionary,
Ghetto: a section of a city, especially a thickly populated slum area, inhabitedpredominantly by members of an ethnic or other minority group,often as a result of social or economic restrictions, pressures, or hardships.
The definition of ghetto hadn't defined any one particular race. But then again the dictionary also put a shadow over a lot words real meaning. So why had he thought of ghetto, and automatically thought of black people? Was it not possible for him and his group of friends to do the same that he thought her race would? Since that day, Mercedes had decided that she would no longer try to pretend that there wasn't racism going around in her school. Sure, they had been long past the slave days but it was obvious a lot of things needed to be taught.
Yet again, as if it weren't enough, Mercedes had one day given a personal lesson of African American history to a Hispanic girl she had grown too actually like.
"What did Martin Luther King Jr. do? she had asked,
"Who was Ruby Bridges?"
"What did the Freedom Riders do?"
"Who was Emmet Till? What happened to him?
Mercedes had responded to all of the questions gracefully, all the while wondering, "Shouldn't she have been taught these things already?"
Because as Mercedes remembered, she had been taught about African American history in Kindergarten.
Maybe it was because she went to a mostly black school, or maybe it was because of the school she just went to in general, but when she had asked the girl about her experience concerning African Americans, she replied,
"Oh, we got taught about it all the time. It was actually one of our main subjects."
So that might have been a lie or it could have actually been true. It was probably just what the young lady was taught right? Or maybe who she was taught by? Hispanic teacher, white teacher, black teacher—
The girl had wanted to know stuff that she should have already known while Mercedes was pursuing to learn more. But of course she couldn't at the time, no—not unless she went out to learn the information on her own because according to her English teacher, children were only taught what the government wanted them to know.
America getting attacked on 9/11? The whole world shall know and continue to know. America doing something similar to another country years before? American students will never know—unless they learned on their own.
As Mercedes had been sitting in class one day, she noticed something; the teacher had been paraphrasing Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" speech. Mercedes had noticed how since grammar school, they had been learning about the same speech the same people, never analyzing other speeches, not evening getting a mention of another one, or what about other famous African Americans? Ones that aren't talked about at all.
Wasn't it enough yet?
America stole, they lied, they cheated, and they did what they wanted.
And yet, America was nearly broke.
Not enough jobs, no way to pay the people, college costing thousands of dollars with no grantee you would even be able to pursue your career path. Taxes going up nearly every year, gas prices 6 dollars, barely enough money to pay for a few meals at the grocery store. Hell, even little kids complained about a bag of chips being 35 cents at a corner store. Mercedes herself had gone to college with a plan but came out lost. She'd majored in fashion designing because it was her passion, she wanted to make clothes for the little kids in places like Africa, maybe some celebrities here and there, but money was tight and she could barely get enough fabric to make two dresses.
To say she hated America may have been a little extreme; the place was beautiful in certain areas. Some of the people could be great when they wanted to be, but it was the lack of common sense and education that bothered her. Mercedes wanted to help people in any way she could, really.
But—she really did not like some things about America.
Which is why she had to give another thought as to why she was sitting inside of an office in the White House.
Mercedes did not like America—but money was tight.
"So let me get this straight," the head of security asked who had introduced himself as Noah Puckerman, "You're a fashion designer, but you're here to become assistant to the president?"
To this Mercedes had even tilted her head to the side, "Yes." She simply responded
"That makes no sense," he said while shaking his head and going over her application.
"A lot of things in this world don't make sense, but I fail to see how filing the presidents' paperwork, getting his coffee, and making sure he gets to every meeting on time can be difficult. I mean he is the president, yet something as waking yourself up in the morning shouldn't be so difficult, but again a lot of things don't make sense."
Noah only smiled.
He had been working with the president from the start and knew how much of a handful he could be, the job was something hell of stressful and sometimes the man tended to take his anger out on the staff. Chills ran up his arm just thinking of how he had yelled at his last assistant making her cry, to which he had fired her for. And then there was the time when an assistant was so nervous around him that she had spilled steaming hot coffee on him, to which he had yelled at her, calling her stupid—to which she ran out of his office making sure to quit before she left.
"Wait here a moment," Noah said before leaving out.
Mercedes nodded her head before looked around the huge office. She wasn't sure she would get the job; she didn't have much backing her up dealing with government except for her knowledge of a few things. But she wouldn't be upset either, there would be more opportunities. She had only heard about the job at chance of overhearing some woman complain of how much a dickhead the president was, Mercedes had snorted.
And Noah just so happened to be down the hall with an angered president hitting his head repeatedly on his desk,
"Is it that hard to get descent help around here? Who in the hell was that girl you sent in here Puckerman? The lady knew absolutely nothing; I would be surprised if she could locate her own ass."
Puckerman sighed, "Well maybe if you would stop shouting at them for making simple mistakes man. You're the president, how do you expect them to feel in your presence when you can have the whole military on their ass with a snap of your fingers?"
"I expect them to be able to do their damn job even if I were the devil himself!"
"Accurate comparison, sir."
"What do you even want? I have things I need to do."
"I've found you a new assistant and she's smart!" Puck stated before clapping his hands together.
"No, now that I think about, there's no way we could even pay for a new assistant. Especially one that's just going to quit on me after a week, I'm trying to save the United States money, not waste it anymore."
"I think she'll be worth it,"
"What makes her so different?" he sighed
"She looks tougher than any of your other assistants—I have a feeling she'll be good under pressure. Just start her off slow—then let the big stuff roll in—if she can handle then she stays—if she can't, we give her the boot."
"I like where that's going Puckerman, bring her here. Let's see if she even has the balls to be in the same room as me."
Noah nodded with a smile before making his way back to Mercedes. He had found her scanning a bookshelf; he smiled again before clearing his throat,
"He would like to meet you,"
"So that means I have the job?"
"That's what we're about to determine Miss Jones."
Mercedes stood straight, smoothing out her skirt and curls. She couldn't say that she didn't like the president, even though she didn't vote for him but he didn't have to know that. She made sure to role her shoulders before following him down the hall, Mercedes didn't fail to see over presidents lining the walls to which she figured that this had to be the main hallway. She had stopped briefly to look at President Obama's, proud that she had gotten the chance to see him alongside the wall with other presidents.
"So he determines if I'm hired or not Mr. Puckerman?" she asked
"Please, call me Puck. And yes, well you determine it actually."
Mercedes looked towards him confused, "What does that mean?"
"If you can take the heat so to say." He said before stopping at the entrance of two large double doors, Mercedes didn't need to ask if it was his office or not. But when Puck opened the door, her eyes scanned around from what she could see, what she didn't see was the president. But as Puck gently pushed her inside, she walked a bit further and that's when she was able to see him. His dirty blond bang covering his eyes as he held his head down, his back hunched over his desk writing ferociously. He hadn't seemed to notice her or Puck. Mercedes looked towards him, wondering what she was supposed to do, Puck only nodded in her direction.
Mercedes sighed before clearing her throat—to which the president didn't hear her, or he ignored her, she was thinking the latter. So, she tried again—and again until she had to roll her eyes,
"Excuse me Mr. President,"
"Ah, so she speaks." He stated while lowering his pen, "I was wondering when you'd stop making that obnoxious noise."
Mercedes shot her eyes to Puck, who only held his hands up in defense.
"Oh I'm sorry sir; I didn't realize I was trying to get the attention of small child by actually having to raise my voice at him. But if I get the job, I'll make sure to verbally gain your attention every time."
His head finally snapped up to Mercedes' satisfaction, he sent a glare towards Puck who had snickered before turning his gaze onto her, she stood her ground. Mercedes watched as his eyes went up and then down again,
"What's your name?" he asked,
"Mercedes Jones," she replied smoothly as if she hadn't just called him a child.
"Nice—I'm,"
"Sam Evans, President of the United States. Really sir, I would hope to know your name, and for you to give me more credit."
"I'm sorry Miss Jones, I wasn't aware that I didn't need to politely introduce myself because of it being the right thing to do despite how many people already know my name. But I'll be sure not to assume anything else."
For a moment Mercedes forgot that she was speaking to the president and that she was trying to get a job.
"Well I would have thought the president would know how to greet anyone that walks into his office instead of them having to pull a bullhorn out their ass just to get his attention. But I'm sorry again, as you said—no more assuming."
"Miss Jones, I'm not entirely sure you're aware of who I am."
"I actually am entirely sure, sir."
Noah looked between the two as they looked into one another eyes glaring. He had been in Mercedes' presence for about half an hour, and he was sure that she was the right person for this job, this was what Sam needed—someone just as determined and head strong as him. Maybe Sam saw it too, because Puck watched as his lips twitched into the slightest smile.
Sam nodded towards Puck before looking over Mercedes once more, which caused her to let out a little huff while placing her hands on her hips. After seeing that he was no longer going to speak, she turned to Puck who offered his hand out to her.
"Our president is an asshole," was the first thing she said once they'd left his office.
Puck chuckled, "He has his moments, but he's good at what he does,"
"So I'm guessing I didn't get the job? Sometimes my mouth gets me in trouble but I refused to take that kind of mess from anyone, president or not."
"Actually, I was just about to tell you that the job is yours."
"You're shitting me; did you not see what just happened?"
"Yes I did, which is why you're hired. Right now I'd like for you to go home and pack some things, I'll be sending a limo back to pick you up in the morning. Then you can meet the rest of the staff."
"Seriously?"
"Yes!" he laughed, "Now go, I've arranged for a limo to take you home as well. I've got good feelings about you Miss Jones."
Mercedes was still confused as Puck walked her to the front doors, making sure she got into the limo safely. So this was going to be her life for the next few months until she found away to pick up her business? Most people would have asked the president himself, but she wasn't that type of person, she wasn't like the rest of them—using anyone to get what she wanted, she may suggest things but never unloaded anything on anyone. She sighed; she would have to call Kurt, her best friend, about today's events.
"I do as well," Puck heard Sam say as he took a place beside him in the door, watching the limo drive off.
Sam whistled, "Hopefully her mouth won't get her fired,"
"I doubt it," Puck smirked before walking away.
