She signed and signed and signed. Then she posed for at least ten photos, smiling with one arm around a Girl Scout and one eye on Bobby, who was half hidden behind the sunglass shack. He was handing the clerk some money, she noticed, probably for the glasses she was still wearing.
“I have to go, girls,” Sameera said finally, pushing her way through the crowd of Scouts and hurrying to Bobby.
He handed her a flat, square package wrapped in holiday paper. “My flight’s about to board,” he said.
“Mine, too. I’ll call from Ohio.” She pulled out a larger, bulkier gift from her shoulder bag and tried to hand him a twenty-dollar bill to pay him back for the sunglasses.
“Forget about that,” he said. “Wear them and think of me.”
“There she is! With that guy!”
“Sparrow! Wait for us!” The herd had found her again.
He tucked the package into his backpack, took her hand, and squeezed it, hard. “To be continued,” he said, as the Girl Scouts descended again.
She watched him jog over to the gate marked CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA, while absentmindedly signing her name across a Barbie doll’s plastic face.
“Better hurry, Miss Righton,” the agent told her. “We’re going to have to pat down everybody getting on that plane with you.”
Sameera signed one last T-shirt as she watched Bobby disappear into the jetway. “Sorry,” she told the Scouts. “My flight’s leaving soon.”
“Already?”
“We’ve got so much to ask you. And tell you.”
“Can we come with you to your gate?”
Sameera glanced at the agent, who shook his head, a bit reluctantly, she noticed. She backed away from her fans’ disappointed faces. “Uh, sorry, girls, you can’t…it’s protocol,” she said, feeling a twinge of guilt over her own power-mongering.
chapter 3
Four inches of snow blanketed the lawns the day after the First Family moved into the White House. An Austrian entourage was scheduled to arrive for an informal visit, and the new president and First Lady had already been fed, watered, personally trained, adorned, coiffed, and assigned their respective duties for the day. Now they were waiting in the Diplomatic Reception Hall to greet their visitors.
A bevy of broadcasters stood shivering under the South Portico in the brisk January wind. They informed their viewers that First Daughter Sparrow Righton, the pretty, articulate crowd-pleaser, who had stayed by her parents’ sides throughout their ten-day presidential inaugural extravaganza, was nowhere in sight this morning. Nor was Miranda Campbell, Ohio dairy farmer’s daughter and all-American beauty, who was rumored to be hunkering with her cousin inside the White House.
The reporters were right. Sameera and Miranda were sequestered in the cozy Lincoln Sitting Room on the second floor. They were accompanied by the Campbell family yellow Labrador retriever, Jingle, on temporary loan from Merry Dude Dairy Farm.
Sameera went to the window, pulled back the maroon velvet drapes, and took in the Christmas card–like view of frosted trees and gardens and the Washington Monument. The inauguration had been a constant stream of parties, parades, and revelry—fun, fun, fun, from start to finish. And the day before, an armored limo had transported the Righton family and Miranda from the hotel to their new address—1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Was she really here? Or was she dreaming?
A television camera facing the White House tilted upward, and Sameera shut the drapes quickly. She didn’t mind the media attention, but she had no intention of showing up on the front page wearing baggy red-white-and-blue flannel pajamas that had been a Christmas present from her grandparents. She couldn’t avoid being the subject of some camera attention, though, because Miranda was filming her with a tiny, state-of-the-art video camera that had been a gift from Sameera and her parents.
“Put that thing down, Ran. You filmed nonstop through the inauguration, and then all day yesterday while we were moving in. Besides, I’m still in my jammies.”
“But you look so cute.” Miranda herself was wearing an identical pair of pajamas, but while Sameera’s were marked PETITE, her cousin’s were extra long to accommodate a thirty-five-inch inseam.
Sameera perched in one of the stiff wing chairs by the roaring fire. You can’t relax in furniture like this, she thought. The previous tenants obviously hadn’t used this room as much as the Campbell-Righton cousins planned to.
Miranda pulled the other wing chair closer to the fire and wiggled her toes luxuriously. “This is the life, Sparrow. Fresh sheets and flowers in our rooms every day, hot meals sent up from the kitchen just when we want to eat, our clothes washed, pressed, folded, and put away. And not a cow in sight! Thanks to Mrs. Mathews, I get to feel like a princess for six whole months.”
“And thanks to the American taxpayers,” Sameera added, stretching and yawning. “I’m exhausted.”
The night before, after unpacking most of their stuff, the girls stayed up late exploring. They wandered through as many of the 132 rooms as they could, trying to find all thirty-five bathrooms and twenty-eight fireplaces; bowled a couple of games in the single-lane alley; watched portions of The Sound of Music in the theater (singing along like they always did); and played pool upstairs in the game room. Once they left the private residence on the second and third floors, a pair of Secret Ser vice guys tracked them like cats on the prowl.
“How do you like the code names the Cougars picked for us?” Miranda asked. “Cougar” was the retaliatory code name the girls were using for the Secret Ser vice agents.
Sameera started Jingle’s daily rubdown, making his tail swing back and forth like a conductor’s baton. “Dad’s is okay. I sort of like Alpha Dog for him. But Dove for Mom? They obviously haven’t gotten to know her very well, have they?”
“I like mine,” Miranda confessed.
“Yeah, it figures you’d get a sweet name like Peach,” Sameera said. “Meanwhile, I get stuck with Peanut.”
“I think it’s cute, Sparrow.”
“Stop with the cute already. Someone on Sparrowblog commented once about how cute I was, and Bobby responded right away with a rant about how petite women are always labeled cute. He was so right. Stuffed animals are cute. And, okay, these pajamas are cute. But a person completely done with puberty should not be called cute.”
“Did he call this morning?” Miranda asked. “Or last night?”
Sameera terminated Jingle’s massage abruptly. “Nope. I haven’t checked my e-mail yet, but I’m not too hopeful. It’s like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth, Ran.” Bobby’s total silence since she’d returned from Ohio was the only dark lining on her silver cloud.
“You were so busy with the inauguration, Sparrow. Maybe he was waiting until all that was done.”
“Maybe. But I just don’t get it—before the holidays we were humming, Ran. We really were. We almost—at the airport—”
“But then those Girl Scouts crashed the party,” said her cousin, who knew the whole story. “You talked almost every day during the holidays, right?”
Sameera nodded. “But ever since we got back to D.C., he might be dead for all I know.”
“It is sort of weird,” Ran said. “Because the present he gave you was incredibly romantic.”
On Christmas morning in Maryfield, Sameera opened a framed photograph of a sparrow soaring over a canyon. Bobby had obviously taken it himself, because the initials B.G. were etched in tiny letters on the bottom-right corner of the photo. After admiring it from every angle and passing it around to her curious family, Sameera cringed at the thought of the generic Vote for Righton sweatshirt that she’d given him.
“He isn’t trying to dump me, is he, Ran?” she asked.
Miranda shook her head. “You don’t dump a friend with the silent treatment unless you’re a jerk. And from what you’ve told me, Bobby Ghosh is anything but. I know you’re worried, Sparrow, but I’m sure the guy’s got a reason for his temporary muteness. Now pour me some more of that br
ew, will you?”
Along with the coffee, the girls were feasting on fresh-baked scones, clotted cream, jam, and chilled orange juice. And milk from Merry Dude Dairy Farm, of course, which was delivered twice a week directly from Ohio and stored in the private family fridge in the Residence. The rest of the breakfast had been wheeled up on a cart by a smiling usher named Jean-Claude, along with a folded copy of the Washington Post. Sameera ignored the paper; she got the news on her laptop, which she was itching to open right now.
“Mind if I use my camera again, Sparrow?” Miranda asked suddenly. “I haven’t filmed the Residence in daylight yet, and I want to start with this room. The Lincoln Sitting Room. The place where Honest Abe himself came to chill when the Civil War was stressing him out.”
“Go ahead, Ran,” answered Sameera. “I need to post on Sparrowblog anyway. Maybe then I’ll get a comment from him.”
It was hard to tell which cousin activated her own techno toy first, but Jingle settled himself on the Persian carpet in front of the fire, knowing he’d be on his own for a while.
chapter 4
Sameera titled her new Sparrowblog post, “Four Things You Might Not Know About the House.”
Lots of you have been wondering what it’s like to live in The House that you see on your twenty-dollar bills. Well, here’s a rundown so far.
(1) Many people work here. Over one hundred, in fact. Cougars (aka Secret Ser vice dudes) are always on the prowl—a few of them are even on the roof 24/7. They use code names for everything and everybody. I can’t tell you what mine is, because if I did, I’d have to kill you. Ran and I came up with our own countercode—so far we have Cougars, Pandas (chefs), Penguins (valets), Orcas (maids in black-and-white uniforms that make them look amazingly killer whaleish, even the skinny ones), Salmon (tourists), Retrievers (Dad’s sta? ), Dolphins (Mom’s sta? ), and Rhinos (paparazzi with huge lenses).
(2) You can break a sweat without leaving the place. Mom, Ran, and I had our first workout yesterday in the gym with Manuel: He Moves You, personal trainer and out-of-shape-body-whisperer. Coxing never pumped the body much, so I’m hoping to display toned triceps the next time the Rhinos catch me sleeveless. Afterward, Ran and I bowled a quick game at the bowling alley, and I got two strikes, thanks to my already strikingly (get it?) enlarged triceps.
(3) There’s a big, big screen here. Not only that, but the theater is lined with plush recliners and we get to choose from thousands of flicks, even first-run feature films BEFORE they hit the theaters. We can order gobs of hot, buttery popcorn from Orcas who are always asking if we need anything. Ran and I got all quiet and nirvanaish when we tiptoed into that red-carpeted, surround-sound shrine of bliss.
(4) The kitchen is a play area. Note to self: when bored, try baking in the White House kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances, unlimited ingredients, and three or four Cordon Bleu Pandas on hand to correct any mistakes. Sadly, Jingle, our farm pooch who’s visiting with Ran, is banned from the kitchen. But he gets to sleep on my bed at night. Or do I get to sleep on his bed? It’s hard to tell which one of us owns the space, but it’s all good.
Comments? Remember, keep them short, clean, and to the point. Peace be with you. Sparrow.
She hit publish, and the post went live, spinning across cyberspace to be read by thousands of Sparrowblog readers around the world.
Next, Sameera skimmed through the dozens of comments on her most recent post about the inauguration festivities, registering another zinger from Sparrowhawk, a frequent visitor who liked to provoke a reaction from her. Comments from critics didn’t usually faze Sameera, but for some reason Sparrowhawk’s words twisted their way into her mind like an electric screwdriver.
Listen up, Princess. I just read in the Times that you’re supposed be some kind of shining example for the rest of us teenagers with brown skin. Yeah, right. Well, it’s clear that YOUR skin is nothing but camo for a bunch of white privilege. Private tutor, rich parents, servants, parties…I’m surprised that dog of yours isn’t tiny and that you don’t carry him around in a Gucci bag designed just for him. Why not walk in my shoes for a change? Ever had to worry about having enough money for groceries? Ever try to get a decent education at a school where drug deals are happening in the hall? Wake up, birdbrain. You wouldn’t make it one day in my territory. Sparrowhawk.
Sameera couldn’t help reading the comment twice, and then again. Was Sparrowhawk right? Was she on the verge of becoming a pampered wimp? I’ll deal with you later, Hawk, she thought, and scrolled through the rest of the comments before checking her e-mail. There was no sign of Ghoshboy anywhere: not on the blog, not on IM, and not in her in-box. But there was a note from Mariam, a friend Sameera had made on a day she’d gone shopping incognito for burkas during the campaign. Mariam, like Sameera, was born in Pakistan. Now she lived with her family in a D.C. neighborhood not far from the White House. She was replying to a letter of apology from Sameera, and her graciousness soothed Sameera’s ruffled soul a bit.
I’m SO glad you wrote, Sameera, and told us your real identity. No need to apologize—I can only imagine the pressure you must have been facing, and probably still are. You were so good to my grandmother, and we’ll never forget that. My father says that if your father is anything like his daughter, this country is in good hands. I would love to stay in touch somehow, but I understand if it’s impossible. Peace be with you, too. With love, Mariam.
She would definitely have to invite Mariam over for a visit, Sameera decided. Sangi, founder of the South Asian Republican Students’ Association at George Washington University, had also written a note.
Sparrow! We’re having our first SARSA meeting of the year this Friday at the Revolutionary Café. Any chance you could join us? We’ve all been missing you, but judging by that sad, distracted expression he gets every time I mention your name, Mr. Bobby Ghosh is missing you even more. He definitely doesn’t want to talk about it with me, but I’m sure the sight of you will cheer him up. Hope you can come. Sangi for ALL of us.
So he was alive, after all! And “sad and distracted.” Well, why didn’t he call then? Something strange was going on, and she had to find out what. She’d sent her last e-mail to him about three days ago; it might be okay to risk another one.
Hey, you. I haven’t heard from you in forever. Maybe you’ve seen one too many of those movies about presidents’ daughters and their dating traumas. Maybe you don’t want to be hounded by the media and labeled something horrible like “Sparrow’s Southern Boy Toy.” But you might at least answer ONE of my e-mails or phone calls. Did I just imagine the spark that sizzled when our eyes met by the sunglass shack?
Sighing, Sameera dragged this pathetic attempt to communicate into the trash. If Bobby got an emo outpouring after the deluge of calls and e-mails she’d already sent, he’d probably contact one of those relationship advice bloggers. In fact, maybe he already had.
Q: How do I get rid of a First Daughter Stalker without getting arrested?
A: Ignore her e-mails and phone calls until she gives up on you.
Sighing, Sameera powered down and tucked her laptop back into its case.
Miranda put down her camera. “Nothing from Bobby?”
“Nope. He’s still Claude Rainsing me.” The Invisible Man was on her list of top twenty classic black-and-white films. “But Sangi tells me he’s alive, at least. She wants me to meet them at the café tomorrow for their meeting.”
“That’s a great idea! Bobby’s probably going to be there, right? It gives you the perfect way to run into him without looking too obvious. And then maybe you can pull him aside and find out what’s been going on.”
“Yeah, we’ll have total privacy, won’t we? The two of us; Cougars in suits, earpieces, and sunglasses; and a dozen reporters writing down every word we say. That’s probably why he’s avoiding me, Ran. It’s First Daughter phobia.”
“I’ll bet you’re right, Sparrow! Remember that movie about the First Daughter who couldn’t get
a date, and that classic West Wing episode about the president’s daughter getting used by some guy? Maybe he’s worried that you’ll question his motives now that you’re related to the most powerful man on the planet!”
Sameera called Jingle over for some more fur therapy, running her fingers again and again through his soft coat. Was the ultimate Southern gentleman backing off because he was intimidated by her new, extremely famous address? He hadn’t seemed worried about that when they were saying good-bye at the airport. “Then why didn’t he tell me himself? How hard would that have been?”
“Maybe he will when you see him.”
“But won’t the Cougars and Rhinos freak him out even more?”
The girls were quiet, and Sameera started pacing the room, with Jingle dogging her like a K-9 member of the Secret Ser vice. She stopped suddenly, and Jingle came to a halt beside her, perching on his haunches patiently.
“Okay, here’s the plan, Ran,” Sameera said. “Tomorrow afternoon, we go to a spa somewhere in the neighborhood and check in.”
“Sounds great so far,” said Miranda.
Sameera didn’t stop: “…but instead of getting a two-hour sea-salt wrap and massage, I sneak out the back door and head over to the coffee house. Wearing my burka.” The woolly winter burka that she’d bought last fall from Uncle Muhammad’s shop was carefully folded and stashed in one of her bureau drawers.
“What? Are you nuts? You can’t do that, Sparrow. Stupid, stupid plan.”
But the idea was heating up Sameera’s brain like a fever. She had to see Bobby again. “Sparrow the First Daughter can’t, but Sameera can. Sameera the Pakistani girl, remember? Will you cover for me, Ran?”
White House Rules Page 2
