It was January 20th, 2001, and I was in the middle of history.

  Well, I would be shortly. I stood at the bedroom mirror of my dark oak suite in the Willard InterContinental Hotel, fussing with the pearl necklace and earrings I had chosen. I was doing a last-minute assessment of my outfit; an Italian charcoal grey wool suit with a matching pencil skirt and black stockings since it was going to be chilly in Washington DC today. My outfits were specifically tailored for this particular weekend, and no expense was spared.

  My costume was only a fraction of the preparation I had undertaken for the last month or so. When my assistant Karen and Mr. Thorne learned of my invitation, they insisted on weeks of etiquette lessons and rehearsals; not because they didn’t think I could handle an event of this caliber, but because they knew I could.

  I spent the majority of my winter break, aside from a very brief Christmas in Minnesota, learning how the rich and powerful eat, speak, and even stand idly. Thorne in particular was enthusiastic about helping me learn what he referred to as “the fundamentals of acting the role.” Even Catherine helped me every evening identifying forks and spoons in the apartment and helped me review the material I was studying every day.

  After fussing with my simple chignon for perhaps the hundredth time, I took one last look at various notes and cheat sheets I had prepared should any questions arise about economics or other political topics of interest to me. Fortunately I was neck deep in college business courses, so I was confident I could hold my own if asked. Thorne reminded me several times that sometimes it is best to say as little as possible. I wouldn't have any issue doing that. I heard a gentle knock from the sitting room, and gave one last affirmation to my reflection.

  “Come in, Mark,” I said as I entered the room. According to my watch, he was precisely on time.

  The door opened, and in walked a man about a decade older than me. He was wearing a badge marking him as part of the Chief of Staff’s office. “Good morning, Ms. Peterson. Please follow me to the staging area.”

  I nodded, and he helped me into my black Loro Piana cashmere overcoat. I was as ready as I ever would be. He escorted me to the secure lower level of the Willard, where transition staff was shepherding the chaos around them. I was led to the secluded receiving area, where I recognized a dark-haired woman I met last night when I arrived in the city. She was a few years younger than my mother, and a welcome relief among the sea of suits. She gave me a genuine smile when I joined her.

  “Maya, you look absolutely lovely,” Mrs. Klain said, embracing me quickly. “Did you sleep well? Were you able to eat?”

  “I did, Mrs. Klain. Though only half of a grapefruit.”

  “Try not to be too nervous, dear. Ron wants me to look after you today, so just follow my lead. And please,” she added, “call me Monica.”

  I appreciated Monica keeping me grounded; this was my first state function after all, and she had been doing this for years. My plan was to follow in her wake for the ceremony and try to keep my composure. It was a historic event, one that I was quietly instrumental in making happen, and I intended to see it through. With Mark leading the way and flashing his badge through security, Monica and I were ushered into a secure, black sedan within the motorcade.

  “It will be a short drive,” she lectured as we drove past the crowds moving towards the National Mall, “and I’m sure you appreciate the solemnity of the ceremony.”

  “Yes, Monica,” I replied calmly. “Today is an incredibly important event.”

  She nodded. “Good. Now, when we step out, you’ll be walking past governors and senators. Smile politely to anyone looking your way, but no conversation. No pointing, no fidgeting, just stay close to me. You’ll likely be assumed to be one of our children, so just let them think that rather than the high-level donor that you actually are.”

  I sighed a bit. “That’s probably a good thing. I just keep telling myself it’s just another show.”

  She gave me a curious look. “A show?”

  I gave a shy smile. “At school, I’m in a band called The Belle Curves. Lead guitarist.”

  Monica gave an honest laugh. “Well, today is definitely a performance.”

  “Except I’ll need to blend in rather than stand out.”

  “Although,” she whispered, “I’m sure a young woman as wealthy as yourself will attract some attention. Yes, Ron did tell me about your circumstances. But for the next hour, all you need to do is stand straight and sit still.”

  The car slowed to a final halt at the high-security drop-off point near the Capitol perimeter. When it was our car’s turn, Mark left the passenger’s seat to open the door for us. We followed the maze of velvet ropes and security personnel which lined the Capitol Building. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had ever visited, even as a tourist. Yet here I was surrounded by congressmen and White House officials, not to mention the marble statues and decorum. I tried not to gawk too much as I kept pace with Monica and followed her up the stairs to the platform area.

  I saw Mr. Klain near the principals’ seating; he was talking to a stern looking Senator and he was obviously hard at work. We caught his eye and he gave a single, quick nod as Monica led us to our seats. We were farther back on the right hand side, but I still had an excellent view of the proceedings. Monica pointed out various individuals to me, though many I recognized: the Supreme Court justices were obvious, as were some of the more prominent senators. It was truly difficult to not stare.

  Most notably, in the row before us and a few seats down was Dick Cheney, conferring with his wife. He was the losing running mate, but here he was sitting in the back with donors and random family members. A satisfied smile formed on my lips as I remembered that the reason his smug, conniving face was humbled was because of me. Knowing what this man was capable of, and knowing he wouldn’t get an opportunity to do so, made me proud that I was able to deny him the inauguration, even if he would never know.

  More famous faces appeared: Jimmy Carter, Madeleine Albright, and Mitch McConnell who I was pleased wouldn’t be giving any speeches today. Eventually I saw George W. Bush enter with his father George Sr., and that sense of satisfaction I kept to myself bubbled up to the surface briefly in the form of a smirk. I almost thought he looked relieved, rather than disappointed he wouldn’t be the center of attention today. Bill and Hillary Clinton entered and took their places as the departing head of state, as well as the incoming vice president Joe Lieberman. The ushers quickly instructed us in the audience to stand at attention.

  A voice projected over the crowd. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the President-elect of the United States, Albert Gore Jr.”

  The crowd cheered as Gore took to the podium flanked by senators and officials and took his place of honor. Senator Dodd gave a brief introduction, followed by a prayer which I bowed my head out of politeness more than any belief in a deity. The music and choirs sang “America the Beautiful,” and Chief Justice Rehnquist administered the oath of office to Lieberman first. I was never a fan of Lieberman even in Matthew’s timeline, and I briefly pondered if something needed to be done about him.

  It frightened me to realize that’s where my mind went as the music and crowd cheered his oath.

  Soon, Gore took to the podium with his wife, and solemnly swore to faithfully execute the office of President of the United States. I might have been the only person in the audience to briefly look towards Bush as the oath was given. I was perhaps the only one who breathed a sigh of relief.

  Gore’s speech was not wholly unexpected. He thanked his opponents and discussed the transition of power. He spoke about America’s obligation to protect the environment as a moral destiny for the new millennium and it was particularly moving. It promised to be his primary goal as president. He also discussed the promise of a connected world through technology in the upcoming century. It was a serious and intellectual speech, and I was pleased that it avoided the folksy style that Bush tortured Matthew’s ears with for eight years in his timeline.

  Gore's speech concluded with a promise of unity and a future defined by science. The applause that followed was immense but quickly subsumed by the logistics of the event. The entire platform became a well-oiled machine of retrieval. A tear caught my eye, one of satisfaction and of reaffirmed hope. The moment was something that Matthew had daydreamed about for twenty years, and I was proud that I was able to make it happen.

  I stood with Monica, remaining perfectly still as the dignitaries around us began their choreographed dispersal. The solemnity instantly evaporated, replaced by a frenzy of handshakes, photo ops, and security movements as the band played off the ceremony.

  Klain was waiting for us at the top of the stairs leading back into the Capitol building. He gave Monica a brief, hurried peck on the cheek, then turned his focus entirely to me.

  “Quite an event, isn’t it, Ms. Peterson?”

  I smiled at him. “It is indeed, Mr. Klain.”

  “I’ll be at the cabinet confirmations, but I’ll see you at the luncheon shortly. Just breathe, and remember to enjoy yourself. You had a big part in all of this.”

  I nodded in agreement, as he marched off in another direction while Monica and I followed the principals to the National Statuary Hall. Mark led the way past the press with our invitations and through a tall doorway. The towering ceiling of the Hall was just as grand as the powerful statues in silent observation of the mingling crowd. It gave the impression that the giants of history were looking down and judging me.

  The room was crowded, and despite my best efforts I couldn’t shake the feeling I didn’t belong. There were cabinet members, Congressional leaders, as well as insiders and spouses. Then of course there was me, a seemingly random girl standing close to Monica as she greeted various individuals or pointed them out to me. I noted that most of them shot me curious yet cordial glances in my direction, but there was such a flurry of activity that there was no room for Monica to introduce me. I remained cool and collected, simply observing and gauging the room.

  Soon, Klain reappeared and moved with a jarring intensity, having apparently completed his essential check-ins and duties as the official chief of staff. He steered Monica and me towards a round table away from the largest gatherings where a few other guests were already congregating. The Klains warmly greeted one of the guests that I recognized instantly. They then turned to me, to make introductions to the group.

  “Maya, this is Dr. Evelyn Reed, the incoming Chair of the CEA, and Senator Paul Sarbanes of the Senate Banking Committee. And of course, this is –”

  “Senator Joe Biden, of Delaware,” I answered quickly, taking the hand that was offered to me. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “Likewise, Miss Peterson. Ron here spoke quite highly of you.”

  “Thank you, Mr –” I cut myself off before I could say ‘president’ “-- Mr. Biden.”

  Reed and Sarbanes regarded me curiously. This luncheon was for Washington insiders, and a nineteen-year-old was a bit of an anomaly. However, they began conversing with each other about the ceremony and other minutiae of the day while I stood quietly and scanned the room. Between the white-jacketed servers moving about the crowd, I saw a few eyeballs land in my direction, but I was certain not to make eye contact.

  Soon we were shepherded to our table, where the entrance of President Gore and his wife Tipper was announced to the polite applause with the band playing “Hail to the Chief” for his first time as President. They took their seat at the long table, signaling that we were to sit, as Biden pulled out the chair for me to sit at my place between Reed and Sarbanes. I got the impression that the seating choice was deliberate from Klain, who I noticed was watching me intently.

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  The conversation at our table quickly shifted from small talk to business of the day regarding the budgetary surplus the Gore administration would inherit from the previous. Estimates were projected to reach trillions over the next decade, and everyone at the table had an opinion about it, and the power to invoke it.

  "The numbers are beautiful, truly," Senator Biden was saying, gesturing with a piece of bread, his voice carrying slightly in the echoing Hall. "But the political reality, Paul, is that every interest group in Washington thinks that money is already theirs. We're going to have to decide between paying down the debt entirely or funding every social program that died under the last Congress."

  "It's a balance we must achieve with discipline," Senator Sarbanes countered, his voice measured. "The markets must have confidence that the debt is addressed. If we ignore that, the confidence game starts to falter."

  Dr. Reed was listening intently, her focus sharp. During a pause in the debate, she turned slightly in her seat, directing her attention to me in a calculated, polite diversion.

  "I apologize, Ms. Peterson, for drawing you into this internal debate," she said with a professional smile. "Ron only gave me the bare details. Would you mind clarifying your role for the table? Are you with the transition's policy analysis team? What capacity did you serve in for the Campaign?"

  The weeks of studying and training were kicking in, and I expected questions of this nature. I carefully delivered my constructed answer.

  “I’m a dual major in Economics and Political Science at the University of Chicago, Dr. Reed.”

  Senator Sarbanes tilted his head. “Are you…working on your doctorate?”

  “Actually, I’m currently an undergraduate. My official involvement with the campaign was strictly as a private analyst and donor. In addition to my studies, I’m also the principal of my Chicago firm, which was able to identify certain structural weaknesses in DNC operations. This, in addition to my significant donations, is what ultimately led to my invitation today.”

  Dr. Reed’s eyes remained keen. “A private analyst and donor, at your age. Very impressive Ms. Peterson. As a student of economics, I’m curious. Where do you see the most dangerous point of financial exploitation in the current market, given the surplus we are discussing?”

  “The exploitation isn’t in the surplus, Dr. Reed,” I began, my voice clear. “It’s the hazard that the surplus disguises. The real instability is in the U.S. housing sector. The widespread practice of mortgage securitization is fundamentally mispricing risk across the entire economy.”

  I looked directly at Senator Sarbanes, appealing to his expertise on the Banking Committee. "The debt being repackaged and sold globally is not being valued on its quality, but on the volume of transaction fees. This allows the systemic transference of risk without accountability. The lack of transparency and replacement of complexity will only lead to a market distortion. Eventually, if it is not addressed, this discipline you speak of will be undermined by a sudden, catastrophic devaluation of global assets. The surplus will be erased within the decade.”

  Senator Paul Sarbanes set down his glass, the movement deliberate and sharp. "Catastrophic devaluation is a strong phrase, Ms. Peterson. The securitization process is highly regulated.”

  “For now,” I replied. “The incentive is profit without risk, Senator. When a loan originator immediately sells the debt, they are incentivized to approve any loan, regardless of the borrower's ability to pay. The incentive is structural, and the bad debt is never held long enough for anyone to care about their quality. When the initial defaults begin, that entire inverted pyramid of complexity will crash at once.”

  Senator Biden let out a slow whistle. “That’s a hell of a scenario, kid. And it’s certainly something to think about.”

  The conversation turned to other topics, though I only gave my insights if it was asked for them. I’m sure that the table wouldn't appreciate constant doom-saying, but my responses clearly showed I at least spoke like someone who should be at the table, even if I was half the age of everyone else in the room, minus the servers. Klain was observing me whenever I spoke, and I could sense his approval. That, or his calculation.

  Eventually coffee was served, and the conversations around me seemed to fragment into smaller circles. Klain left as the signal was given that the president was leaving, and after a brief kiss to his wife, he approached my chair.

  “You did very well, Ms. Peterson. We’ll talk later.”

  President Gore left with the fanfare he would receive for the next few years. The staff was subtly clearing the area as Monica and I sat, with her continuing to offer me her insight at the individuals. Before the guests filtered out at once, Monica signaled to me that it was time to leave, and we casually exited past a statue of Thomas Jefferson gazing across the crowd. The press was already milling about outside, waiting for the persons of interest to exit and not worrying about two unnotable women leaving early, though I was willing to bet some wondered how one as young as me was inside the room in the first place.

  Mark met us at the exit, and Monica gave me a quick embrace as he held the door of the black sedan open. “Just follow Mark’s lead for tonight. He’ll get you to the ball, and I will meet you there. Very en pointe today, Maya.”

  The drive back to the Willard was brief, but I watched the crowds moving about as well as the barricades and officers patrolling. A memory of Matthew’s flashed through my head, as I recalled massive protests when Bush was elected regarding the unfairness of the recount. I’m sure many Americans were disappointed that the Republicans lost, but there were no massive demonstrations, just a peaceful transfer of power. Just like I had hoped.

  I was able to decompress when I arrived at my suite. I phoned Karen and the rest of my staff to give them an update, as well as phoning Mom. She was the only one outside of my employees that I had told about my weekend in Washington, and she was disappointed she wasn’t able to find my face in the audience on TV. I laughed and suggested that maybe next time she’d be able to find me.

  Soon, the stylist and makeup team I had hired arrived with their gear. We had communicated weeks before about the aesthetic I was going for. First was my hair which they lovingly washed and styled into a refined Chignon, pinned neatly at the back of my head just above the crown. The style was smooth and deliberate, and elegant without being severe. It left my neck and shoulders clean and exposed. My makeup was polished; I was fortunate that I didn’t need much, but I decided against a striking color for my lips, keeping it restrained.

  The Donna Karan gown I had chosen was black silk and was austere in its simplicity. To compliment it, I chose a single-strand diamond necklace with a platinum setting. It looked inherited and while I had originally thought to rent it, as soon as I tried it on for the first time I decided to buy it outright. It had diamond studded earrings to match, and I made sure my black satin pumps were closed toe and a moderate heel. They needed to be comfortable for the long evening tonight.

  Once the staff left, I sat at my desk, reviewing one last time my notes for discussion topics. I couldn’t help but get distracted from my reflection; I looked simply stunning. I allowed myself a small, private thought: perhaps I should keep a stylist on retainer.

  A soft knock came at the door just after seven.

  Mark was waiting in the corridor, clad in a dark overcoat and his earpiece tucked in discretely behind his ear. He gave a quick, procedural nod.

  “We’re ready, Ms. Peterson.”

  The elevators were secured for scheduled departures, and we descended with two other guests whose names I didn’t catch. No one spoke. The atmosphere had shifted from ceremony to choreography.

  Outside, the January air was sharp and dry. A line of black sedans idled beneath the Willard’s awning, headlights muted behind barricades and Secret Service presence. I was guided into the rear passenger seat of yet another black sedan; close enough to the principals to matter, but far enough to avoid attention.

  The drive was brief. Washington at night was subdued, streets partially cleared, and lit by television vans and police lights rather than celebration. As we approached the venue, the noise rose. I could hear music, voices, and the low hum of expectation that dropped away once the car passed through the secured perimeter to the Official Inaugural Ball.

  The interior of the Washington Convention Center was warm and alive with motion the moment I crossed the threshold. There was a swell of voices, music bleeding through closed doors, the rustle of coats and gowns followed by the smell of polished wood, perfume, and fresh flowers. Everything moved with purpose, but nothing was rushed. It was a dance of tuxedos and lace, perfectly choreographed and orchestrated.

  A staffer took my coat without a word, already reaching for the next arrival. Mark stayed only long enough to see me transferred, then vanished back into the flow of security. I followed the crowd, but it wasn’t long before Monica found me before I got lost in the evening.

  “There you are,” she said warmly, her hand settling at my elbow with practiced ease. “You look sublime. Now be sure to breathe, and stay close. Smile when someone looks your way. Defer to me when possible. And above all else –”

  “I’m not here to explain myself,” I finished.

  Her smile widened, just slightly. “Exactly.”

  We moved through the crowd, with Monica greeting various individuals as we navigated the crowd. I recognized some of the faces from the luncheon, and if our eyes met a hint of recognition came to their face before they whispered to whomever they were speaking to. I quickly looked away, determined to observe and follow Monica’s lead. Occasionally Monica’s colleagues would greet me, and Monica would briefly introduce me. I felt their gaze fall on my dress and diamonds, but before further questions were asked Monica whisked me away to yet another person of interest.

  Klain joined us after a time, and I could tell he was scanning the room rather than engaging with guests. He greeted Monica with a kiss and a whisper into her ear, which she replied with a smile before turning to greet a different guest. He took position just ahead of me as we moved forward, not formally escorting but anchoring my presence. Running interference, if you will.

  We paused briefly at clusters of senators and donors, all of whom shook hands with Klain vigorously, and all inquiring about the president. When Klain would politely abstain from the president’s status, they shifted to me. They would introduce themselves, and I was given the barest of moments to respond. Chicago was mentioned, as was “principal” and “donor,” but most frequently “analyst” was applied to me. The conversation never drifted long, and we moved to the next selection of Washington insiders.

  At a certain point, as I shook hands with Tom Daschle, the Senate Majority Leader, Klain paused briefly as an aide whispered into his ear. He cut in quickly as Daschle began to inquire about which family I was with.

  “Excuse me, Senator,” Klain apologized. “Ms. Peterson, this way please.” He gently took my arm and guided me to a side corridor, and through an antechamber flanked by guards. It was jarring how quickly I had been escorted from the crowds, and soon I found myself standing as Klain whispered to yet another aide. With a quick nod, Klain gestured for me to follow him through the door.

  The next room was smaller, and functional rather than ornate as the ballroom had been. The energy of the music dissipated, replaced by a quiet and almost meditative atmosphere. A place to pause between worlds. Standing there, talking to a handful of staff, was President Gore dressed in a tuxedo, and being attended to by his dresser.

  “Mr. President,” Klain interrupted, as the president turned. “A moment of your time. I have Ms. Peterson with me.”

  The president smiled, and dismissed his staffers with a glance. “Thank you, Ron. And good evening, Ms. Peterson. I hope you’re enjoying the festivities.”

  I swallowed; I wasn’t sure if it had been planned to have been sprung on the president so quickly, but for a brief moment I had forgotten all of my decorum training. It was one thing to see President Gore taking the oath of office from afar, quite another to stand in the same room as him. With all of my effort, I collected myself.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” I managed to get out. Hopefully I managed to keep my voice even.

  “It’s me who should be thanking you, Ms. Peterson. I don’t want to keep you too long,” he half-joked, “but I wanted to convey my appreciation for your contribution. And to hopefully future contributions.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” It was all I could summon the will to say.

  A photographer quickly entered the room, and Klain directed him as the president and I shook hands, turning to face the camera. The president smiled to me once the photo was taken, and nodded to Klain as he turned to another staffer who entered from nowhere. Klain once again guided me to the door, and I took his arm in an attempt to remember how to walk again. Klain didn’t look at me until we were into yet another corridor, and moving towards the music.

  “You did well,” he said, once. It was confirmation, not praise.

  We re-entered the ball as quickly as we had left, and Monica was already waiting for us. There were a few words exchanged between them, which sounded approving. Klain nodded once more before passing me back to Monica’s arm.

  It occurred to me that it was the second time I had been raised to imperceptible heights and jarringly dropped back to Earth.

  Several minutes later, as Monica and I privately conversed as she congratulated my composure, an announcement was made that the president was making his entrance, to the thunderous applause and rendition of “Hail to the Chief.” The president and First Lady greeted the room, took their initial dance, with the rest of the ball shifting from a social mood to a symbolic. I was content to stay behind the line of power with Monica close by, merely observing. I planned to decline partaking in the dance tonight.

  Hours later, the Gores made their exit from the event, with the Klains set to depart almost immediately afterwards. Monica gave me one last warm hug, which I returned and whispered my thanks into her ear. Klain shook my hand, and brought me in close.

  “Exceptional job, Ms. Peterson. I will be in contact. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the evening.”

  I simply nodded, thanking him as the Klains exited. The celebrations began to drift once the president had left, and I managed to swipe a glass of champagne as I continued to monitor the dying embers of the party. Most of the principals had left, but occasionally, a younger staffer or junior congressman would strike a conversation with me, though I cordially declined to give much in return. My handler Mark met me the moment I made to the exit, and within minutes I had my coat and was in the backseat being driven to the hotel.

  As I gazed outside at the scarce groups of celebrants still wandering the streets of Washington and the crews cleaning the streets for another average Washington day, my feeling of triumph was replaced with a quiet sense of mundanity. So much grief from Matthew’s timeline was now prevented, but there would still be more to do. I was the only person in the world who knew what we had avoided, and I resolved to continue to make sure it was only my burden to bear.

  There was one certainty, however. It would be a hectic traveling day tomorrow, regardless of how comfortable my chartered jet back to Chicago would be. Most of the flight would be consumed by my report on producer theory for Microeconomic Theory on Monday. Shaking hands with the President of the United States one day, sitting in a lecture the next.

  All things considered, not a bad life at all.