Free The Kid Who Became President by Dan Gutman

He wanted to fire Agent Doe immediately. Even though I was okay, he said that if word got out about the incident, it would make the Secret Service look bad.
    I insisted that Agent Doe not be fired. He received a harsh reprimand but was allowed to continue in his job. Everyone who witnessed the incident agreed not to tell any reporters about it.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. President,” Agent Doe said when it was all over and everyone had gone back to their posts. “It will never happen again, sir.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said with a smile. “I know the Secret Ninja Death Touch now. Next time I’m going to kick your butt.”
    He didn’t laugh, but I thought I might have caught him half smiling.
    Â 
    Front page of the Washington Post, March 19:
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    SECRET SERVICE AGENT
    ALMOST KILLS PRESIDENT!

Shortly after I was sworn in as president, Chief Usher Honeywell came into the Oval Office and announced, “Mr. President, your tutor is here.”
    â€œT-tutor?” I stammered.
    â€œSir, it’s not like I just told you World War III has begun. It’s just the White House tutor.”
    â€œNobody told me I would have a tutor,” I protested.
    â€œDid you think becoming president meant you would get to miss four years of school, sir?”
    â€œNo, I just … figured I … would be learning a lot on the job.”
    â€œAll children must attend school, sir. Even if the child happens to be president of the United States. A regular school would pose security risks to you. That’s why we have a tutor. Don’t worry. Mrs. Miller is excellent. She taught President Clinton’s daughter. She taught President Ford’s children. She has taught all the children who lived in the White House for as far back as I can remember.”
    â€œOh, all right,” I agreed reluctantly, “send her in.”
    Honeywell left and a little old lady walked into the Oval Office alone. She was wearing one of those weird black mesh hats that is sort of like a doily that sits on top of your head. I think they issue them to women on their ninetieth birthday. That’s about how old Mrs. Miller had to be. She seemed too weak and fragile to still be teaching at her age.
    â€œSo you’re the kid who became president, eh?” Mrs. Miller sneered, looking me over carefully. “You must think you’re pretty smart.”
    â€œWell, no, I really —”
    â€œQuiet!” she scolded me. “That wasn’t a question. Don’t you have the manners to raise your hand in class?”
    Class? I looked around, just checking to make sure there weren’t any other kids.
    â€œTell me, Mr. Smarty-Pants,” Mrs. Miller continued, “what was the name of the Pilgrims’ ship?”
    â€œUh … the Mayflower ?” I guessed.
    â€œHmm, you got lucky on that one,” she smirked, pacing the floor like a tiger circling its prey. “Who was our third president?”
    â€œUh … John Adams?”
    â€œNo!” Mrs. Miller shrieked. “Thomas Jefferson! When I was a child, I could name all the presidents, backward and forward.”
    I thought about saying there had probably only been three or four presidents when she was a child, but I kept my mouth shut.
    â€œNow tell me, young man. What’s thirteen times thirteen?”
    â€œUh … I need a calculator,” I said with a shrug.
    â€œUse the one in your head !” she yelled. She had her face right up close to mine now. I felt myself starting to sweat. “How do you spell coincidence ?”
    â€œC-O-I-N-S —”
    â€œWrong!” she screamed into my ear. “You must know this — who was the first person to set foot on the moon?”
    â€œUh … Armstrong?”
    â€œWhat is his first name?”
    His first name. His first name. I knew it. I knew I knew it. It was on the tip of my tongue.
    â€œLouis,” I finally said.
    â€œ