First Daughter White House Rules
First Daughter White House Rules
MITALI PERKINS
Dutton Children’s Books
Dutton Children’s Books |A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
PUBLISHED BY THE PENGUIN GROUP
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) / Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
The poem on chapter 8 is reprinted with permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group, from THE COLLECTED POEMS OF SARA TEASDALE. Copyright © 1926 by The Macmillan Company; copyright renewed © 1954 by Mamie T. Wheless. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Mitali Perkins
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CIP Data is available.
Published in the United States by Dutton Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
www.penguin.com/youngreaders
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1537-1
For James
I’m grateful for Laura Rennert, my sizzling agent,
who helped to envision these books,
and Margaret Woollatt, editor extraordinaire,
who was pre-ordained to work with me on them.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
First Daughter White HouseRules
chapter 1
Sameera checked her watch again. Bobby should be making it through security right about now. They’d coordinated their home-for-the-holidays travel plans like spies on a mission, so that Bobby’s flight to South Carolina departed ten minutes before Sameera’s chartered flight to Ohio. They were hoping to have at least an hour or so together; he was supposed to call from right outside the Private V.I.P. lounge, where the Rightons were waiting.
Pacing past the goodie-laden table, Sameera popped a square of cheddar in her mouth. Then she wished she hadn’t. Aged cheese might make her breath smell like one of her grandfather’s sick cows. It wouldn’t do to remind Bobby of ancient Holsteins when—if—their lips finally met for the first time. Quickly, she opened a soda and swished a sip around her mouth before swallowing.
Next, she took mental stock of her outer self—jeans and high-heeled boots that made her legs look longer, crisp white shirt, brown leather jacket that flared slightly at the waist, light dose of rose-geranium perfume, and a pair of copper earrings that he’d once complimented dangling against her shining black hair. I’m ready on the outside, she thought. If only my adrenaline wasn’t pumping like I’ve had five cappuccinos with extra shots.
It was time to shatter the strange barrier that had been keeping their friendship from shifting into romance. While they were dancing an inch away from each other on the bhangra floor, chemical undercurrents pulled every cell in her body his way. Couldn’t he feel them, too? Or was he just being a kind “South Asian big brother,” helping out a “sister” who would have otherwise been totally lonely and bored in D.C. during her father’s campaign?
He really isn’t that much older than me, Sameera thought. Even though he was a sophomore in college, Bobby had skipped a grade in elementary school, so he was eighteen. And, even though she was technically still a junior in high school, she’d be turning seventeen in just a few months.
“Share the protein, Sparrow,” her mother called from across the room. “I can’t be responsible for what comes out of my mouth when I’m famished. Feed your dad first, though, will you?”
Sameera filled two small china plates and handed one to her father. President-elect James Righton was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the tarmac, talking to his campaign manager and two other staffers. He smiled his thanks as he accepted the plate and immediately passed it around to the others.
First-Lady-to-Be Elizabeth Campbell Righton was relaxing in a plush armchair, her tired feet propped up on a table. “Thanks, sweetheart,” she said, taking the plate. “I’m so glad your father and I are finally getting to meet Bobby.”
Her parents hadn’t been around the few times Bobby had come over during the campaign. “Yeah, me too, Mom,” Sameera answered, trying to fake some enthusiasm.
She was glad to get the introduction over with, but she and Bobby would only get about an hour of privacy. If you can call it that, she thought glumly, glancing around. The crowded lounge was crammed with talkative campaign staffers still giddy from her father’s win, most of them busily planning his inauguration and other festivities scheduled for January. A pair of Secret Ser vice agents, who had been guarding the candidate for weeks now, silently watched from a corner of the room.
Sameera’s cell phone played Bobby’s ring tone (the theme from Casablanca), and she fumbled to open it. “Hi, Bobby. You’re here. Great. I’ll buzz you in.”
Mom was sitting up and easing her shoes back on. “I’ll lure your dad away from his groupies,” she promised.
Sameera had primed the security guard, so all she had to do was nod for the doors to slide open and make Bobby Ghosh appear like a genie. They’d seen each other a few days before at the Revolutionary Café, but she feasted her eyes yet again on that drop-dead combo of curly black hair, brown skin, white teeth, faded jeans, and oh, those silver bangles with their signature clinking.
“Sameera,” he said quietly, stepping into the room. She loved how he u
sed her real name instead of Sparrow, the nickname that had clung to her since her adoption.
Instantly, Sameera was flanked by Secret Ser vice agents. “I’ll have to take your bag, sir,” the younger one said.
“But he’s already been through security,” Sameera answered.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the agent said. “It’s protocol.”
Sameera frowned. This was one of those obey-the-rules kind of words she’d started hearing a lot since her father won the election—protocol, tradition, custom, convention, modus operandi, procedure. First Daughter To-Do List, she thought, as Bobby handed over his bag. Item One. Figure out my own way to play by the rules.
She led Bobby to where her parents were waiting, watching a little anxiously as he smiled and shook their hands. At first, it was almost like the three of them were delivering lines from a script she’d written herself.
“We’re certainly grateful for the way you and your friends welcomed Sparrow into that South Asian Republican Students’ Association of yours,” Dad said, showing off his ability to remember details. “Especially since she’s not even in college yet. Thanks for your support during the campaign.”
“It was our privilege, sir. Even though I’m not sure how much we accomplished with only four members. Sameera’s got honorary status until she joins us at GW.”
Sameera shifted her weight from one boot to the other; she hadn’t informed her parents that George Washington University had replaced Ohio State at the top of her list of college choices. Her father raised his eyebrows and glanced at her mother but didn’t say anything. Thanks, Dad, Sameera thought gratefully. He had a stellar track record of not embarrassing his daughter in public.
Mom, though, was no trained diplomat. “So, Bobby, are you Hindu or Muslim?” she asked.
Sameera couldn’t believe her ears. Her mother was still clutching her full plate of protein; obviously she hadn’t gotten around to taking a bite.
“Er…my parents are Hindus,” Bobby answered. “But I’m still…seeking. On a spiritual journey, I guess.”
“Wonderful. We’ll have to talk more about that,” Mom said.
Not right now you won’t, Sameera thought, folding her arms across her chest.
Elizabeth Campbell Righton caught sight of her daughter’s expression, winced, and immediately stuffed a tiny sausage into her mouth. Followed by another.
Good. She gets the message. “Is it okay if Bobby and I walk around the airport till it’s time to board?” Sameera asked.
Dad shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know, Sparrow. Maybe we should stick together.”
“Come on, James,” Mom said, obviously trying to recover ground with her daughter. “What could happen? This is probably the last time we’ll be in a public airport for years.”
“Well, as long as you stay in sight of your agent. It was good to meet you, Bobby.”
“Likewise, sir. We’ll have that talk soon, Mrs. Righton.”
Bobby barely had time to grab his backpack before Sameera hurried him out of the lounge.
chapter 2
Finally. They were alone. Well, if you don’t count the dude assigned to shadow us and a gazillion holiday travelers waiting to board their planes, Sameera thought. As far as the eye could see, waiting people were reading newspapers, frowning at their laptop screens, chasing toddlers, or catching up on sleep in uncomfortable sitting positions. The agent was keeping his distance, but she could tell he was watching.
“Sorry about the spiritual interrogation, Bobby,” she said, as they boarded a walking escalator and leaned against the moving handrail. “When Mom’s burned out, she says anything that pops into her head.”
“Didn’t bother me,” Bobby answered. “I’m sure they’re sick of making small talk with strangers. Running—and winning—a presidential campaign has got to be one of the most exhausting activities on the planet.”
“We’re so looking forward to relaxing on the farm,” she said, relieved that he understood. “Dad plays hours of bridge with my uncle and grandparents. Mom curls up on the couch, eats chocolate, and reads ‘inspirational’ novels. And I get to watch unlimited movies and eat all the fresh-baked cookies I want.”
“When do you move into the White House?” he asked.
“Right after the inauguration. I can’t wait! And Ran’s coming back with us.”
“That’s great, Sparrow. How long is she going to stay?”
“Until June. And only because Mrs. Mathews, our housekeeper from Brussels, is coming to help out at Merry Dude Dairy Farm. Which, by the way, I still can’t believe it’s called.”
“Doesn’t meri dudh mean ‘my milk’ in Hindi?” he asked, as the walking escalator dumped them off.
Sameera almost tripped, and Bobby took her hand to steady her. It was the first time he’d done that, and he didn’t let go even though she regained her balance.
“Yeah. And in Urdu, too,” Sameera said, relishing the feel of his strong fingers interlaced with hers. One steel bangle brushed lightly against the inside of her wrist. This is so not the way a brother holds a sister’s hand, she thought, hopes rising by the minute.
“Why in the world did they name it that? I bet nobody for miles around understands a word of either language.”
“You’re right. But the family was on the hunt to replace The Campbell Family Farm, which we all agreed was boring, so I suggested the phrase as a joke. Of course, they loved it, and now the milk they send everywhere travels in trucks labeled MERRY DUDE DAIRY FARM in English andMERI DUDH FARM in Urdu.” They accepted that name almost as quickly as they accepted me, Sameera thought. She’d been lavished with affection and adored by her mother’s family since the day she was adopted.
“Your cousin must do a lot of work on the farm if your parents had to hire a full-time house keeper to take her place.”
“She does. And if she leaves without a sub, our grandmother might be tempted to go back to working twenty-four/seven. Gran’s doing a lot better, but she’s still not supposed to overdo it.”
“My dadu’s sick, too,” Bobby said suddenly.
By now, Sameera knew that the word dadu meant “grandfather” in Bengali. Even though the Ghosh family had been in the States since he was a baby, Bobby still used Bangla words for his parents, calling them Baba and Ma instead of Dad and Mom. “Does he have heart problems?” she asked.
“Heart, and a whole bunch of other things. Baba’s driving himself crazy worrying. I keep telling him there’s nothing he can do from halfway around the planet.”
“Can’t you bring your grandfather to South Carolina?”
“I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I just hope my father doesn’t have a heart attack from the stress. Are you hungry, Sameera? There’s a coffee stand over there.”
“Not really,” she said. “I know—let’s check out that relaxation store. I can smell the candles from here.”
Reclining in two massage chairs, they talked nonstop, discussing family dynamics, Sameera’s worries about her father becoming the world’s number-one target for loonies with guns, and Bobby’s hunt for the right major. It’s so easy to be with him, Sameera thought, pressing the button to make her chair lean back even more. She forgot completely about the agent who was standing at the entrance. They got up only when Bobby noticed an elderly couple waiting patiently near a sign that read FREE CHAIR TRIALS, FIVE MINUTES ONLY PLEASE.
Their next stop was the coffee stand, where Bobby bought three blueberry muffins and offered one to the agent, who finally cracked a smile. Sameera treated all three of them to cappuccinos. The chairs were taken, so Bobby and Sameera sat cross-legged on an empty corner of the carpet to eat and drink. And be merry, Sameera thought, wishing the minute hand on her watch would stop galloping.
At a sunglass shack full of cheap designer imitations, Bobby tried on a flashy, oversize gold pair festooned with fake diamonds. “The DJ at that last place we went dancing would love these. They’d match his diamond and gold belly-button
ring. Here, Sameera, try these on.” He handed her a pair of simple dark glasses. “You’re famous now, you know. Shades can hide your secrets from the masses.”
She put them on and stared at herself in the mirror. In fifteen minutes she had to be back to board her plane. Time was running out, and they’d chatted about everything except…except the one thing she wanted to talk about most.
Make your move, girlfriend, she told herself sternly, yanking off the glasses and turning to face him. “What if you don’t want to hide your secrets?” she asked, looking straight into his eyes.
“Then you don’t,” he said, moving closer and taking both her hands in his.
“No way!”
“It’s her!”
“Sparrow Righton!”
Squealing or shrieking in exactly the same high pitch, a herd of Girl Scouts came stampeding toward them. The agent moved fast, arriving to stand right beside Sameera.
“Oh my gosh! It’s her! It’s really her!”
“Move over. I can’t see.”
“Autograph! Autograph! Someone get an autograph!”
Bobby dropped Sameera’s hands and backed away. She was alone in a jungle of khaki-clad nine-year-olds—and one Secret Ser vice agent. Quickly, she put on the shades Bobby had handed her.
“I’ll sign just a few autographs, Bobby,” she called, trying to see over the green berets bobbing around her. “It shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.”
But would it? Sharpie pens paired with random items like socks and stuffed animals were bobbing in front of her face. Some of the girls were so excited they were trying to hand her their boarding passes.
White House Rules Page 1
