Her cousin was shaking her head doubtfully, but before she could answer, a loud rapping came at the door, and Jingle began his usual yip-yip-YIP crescendo of barks.
chapter 5
“Girls! Time for your dance lesson!” Tara Colby called from the hallway.
“Hush up, Jingle,” Miranda said, getting up to open the door. “We’ll talk about this craziness later, Sparrow. Hi, Ms. Colby.”
Tara Colby was an ex-senator’s daughter who knew the D.C. social scene well because she’d maneuvered the inner circles her entire life. A type A bundle of energy, she’d relaxed a lot over the course of the campaign. Now she was managing the First Lady’s office, handling the details of White House etiquette and entertaining that Elizabeth Campbell Righton despised. Ensconced in an East Wing office right beside the First Lady’s, Tara was turning out to be absolutely indispensable, just as Mom had predicted.
The ultimate right-hand woman looked polished and slim in a black power pantsuit and matching pumps, and her eyes raked over the girls’ pajamas. “Get ready quickly, girls,” she said, her voice as crisp as the collar of her powder-blue blouse. “Your partners are waiting. Bring along the shoes you plan to wear to the ball on Saturday night. Have you decided what you’re wearing, Sparrow? You know it’s protocol for girls who open a Viennese Ball to wear white.”
There was that word again. It was starting to get on Sameera’s nerves. “My silk dress is fine with me.”
“The one you wore to the father-daughter dance during the campaign? I suppose that will have to do for this event; it’s a good thing the only photographs taken will be official ones by our photographer. No press allowed.”
“I wish I’d known that before I splurged,” said Miranda. She’d picked out a not-on-sale designer-label white halter dress and matching pumps from an expensive, trendy boutique. At the time, Sameera had clamped her lips to keep herself from pointing out that her cousin’s savings account was about to be depleted, or from offering to pay for the outfit herself.
“Can you dance in those shoes?” Tara asked Miranda. “They’re pretty high.”
“I hope so. The bigger question is whether or not I can learn to waltz in one afternoon. Sameera already knows how, but it’s new to me. I hope I don’t look like a total clod on Saturday night.”
“There’s nothing in the least bit clodlike about you, Miranda,” Tara said. She was right. The First Cousin’s long, elegant limbs transported her gracefully through a room, even on three-inch heels.
“Besides, I may know the box step, but we’re going to have to waltz Viennese-style,” Sameera added. “It’s way faster—Austrian couples whirl around a ballroom like those teacups at Disneyland.”
“Being a part of this opening ceremony is the perfect way to honor your parents’ visitors,” Tara said. “Besides, wait till you meet the Austrian diplomatic offspring who are going to serve as your dance partners—I think you’ll consider them…how should I put it? Easy on the eyes?”
“Yes! We desperately need an eye-candy fix,” Miranda said.
“What about you, Tara?” Sameera asked. “You haven’t dated anybody in a while.” Wilder, a temperamental marketing guru who’d been fired by Dad’s campaign manager, was Tara’s most recent romantic fiasco.
“I’m too busy to date. Now get out of those pajamas, girls, and make it quick.”
Still the same Bossy Old Wench, Sameera thought affectionately as she headed into her bedroom to change. But she’s definitely mellowed. Sounds like she could use some help getting over Wilder; Ran and I will have to see what we can do.
Tara led the girls downstairs to the State Room, where paneled walls, vintage crystal, gleaming floors, mahogany tables, and immense sparkling chandeliers made Sameera feel like Beauty in Disney’s animated flick. The two hunks striding over to meet them were far from beasts, however. Tara had been right.
“Grüss Gott,” the first one said, bending low over Miranda’s hand and kissing it. “Ich heisse Peter.” He was tall, blond, and broad-shouldered—a perfect match for Sameera’s cousin, who was already taking stock of her dance partner from head to toe.
“Hey,” Ran breathed, getting his message even though she didn’t speak a word of German. “And I’m Miranda.”
The slimmer, dark-haired guy shook Sameera’s hand. “Ich heisse Wilhelm,” he said.
“Und ich heisse Sameera,” she answered, grateful that the lessons she’d taken in Brussels allowed her to introduce herself in German—and then inform natives that she couldn’t speak their language: “Ich kann ein bisschen Deutsch, aber nicht so gut.”
Her dance-partner-to-be grinned happily. “Your accent is sehr gut. I speak English, but like your German, it is only a sampling. I must call you Sparrow instead of Sameera, though. We have greatly enjoyed the German translation of your blog.”
“Thanks.” So they’re reading Sparrowblog all the way in Vienna. Wow!
“You’d better get started,” Tara said. She switched on the music and left.
A space had been cleared for them to practice near the fireplace, where an enormous portrait of Abraham Lincoln gazed down at them benevolently. Patiently and politely, the guys explained the steps of the opening routine, which they and six other white-gloved couples would have to pull off. Peter clutched Miranda’s waist and Wilhelm encircled Sameera’s. Slowly at first, their partners twirled the girls, and then faster and faster.
Wilhelm commented several times on how featherlight Sameera felt in his arms, but Peter looked like he was getting a workout. When they sat down for a rest, her cousin’s dance partner mopped his forehead with a napkin and reached for one of the icy Italian lime sodas that Jean-Claude carried in on a silver tray.
Sameera had always enjoyed dancing. “How’re you doing?” she asked her cousin.
“Fine when we’re the only ones out there,” Ran said, panting and fanning herself. “But what about when the entire East Room is full of spinning couples? I hope I don’t feel like a bumper car gone wild.”
“What do you think of them?” Sameera asked, lowering her voice. Their dance partners were standing by the piano, downing bottles of soda and chatting in French with Jean-Claude, who was originally from Haiti.
“Oh, I adore foreign guys. I fell in love with your entire crew team when I visited you in Brussels last year, remember? What about you?”
Wilhelm had dark, longish hair, an accent, and he was trilingual and courteous—a combo of qualities that were usually alluring to Sameera. Too bad she didn’t feel even a twinge of attraction. After years of harboring multiple, simultaneous infatuations, she’d suddenly morphed into a unicrush woman—thanks to an Indian-American college guy in blue jeans and bangles.
“They remind me of my crew guys, too,” she said. “Great to be around and always good to watch, but no zing factor for me.”
“I think they’re both hot,” Ran said. “I like older people and all, but we haven’t schmoozed with anybody under the age of twenty since I got to D.C. Other than each other, of course.”
“You’re right, Ran. We should invite them up for a visit. I was a diplomat’s kid, too, remember? It can get lonely when you travel with your parents.”
“Now you’re talking. Maybe spending time with a couple of European hunks will help you forget the insane idea you came up with to see Bobby.”
“It’s not insane, Ran,” Sameera insisted. “I just need time to figure out the details. But we can’t have visitors right now—we’ll have to ask them to come back to night. Designer Danny’s coming at two.”
“How could I forget that? I still can’t believe we finally get to meet him.”
“Not just meet him. Decorate with him, Ran.”
“Okay, we’ll ask them to come back right after Danny leaves.”
Sameera shook her head. “Can’t. We’ve got our first tutoring session with Westfield later this afternoon.”
“Wow, it’s busy being a First Niece. To night, then, and I know the perfect movie
. Matt Damon and that hot German girl in The Bourne Identity—tons of action and shooting, not much conversation…they’ll love it.”
At first their guests seemed a bit overwhelmed by the private movie invite—especially Wilhelm. Surprise, surprise, thought Sameera. Is there a guy on the planet who wouldn’t get freaked out at the thought of a date with a First Daughter?
“We would be happy to escort you to dinner before the film,” Wilhelm said, staging a quick recovery.
The son of a diplomat, definitely, Sameera thought, admiring his skills. “We’ll order pizza,” she told him. “But come early, because as you know, the pat-down, identity-check security stuff can take a while. And they won’t let you in if you bring—”
Miranda chimed in with the White House guest prohibition list: “—any animals (except guide dogs), oversize backpacks, balloons, beverages, chewing gum, electric stun guns, fireworks or firecrackers, food, guns or ammunition, knives with blades over three inches or eight centimeters, mace, nunchakus, cigarettes, or suitcases.”
chapter 6
Sameera’s mother, who could care less about interior design, had delegated all First Lady redecorating rights to her daughter and niece.
“Pick a good designer, girls,” Tara had told them privately. “We’ve got a bit more money in the bud get than your mom realizes.”
The girls, of course, had chosen Designer Danny, host of the hit reality show Décor for Dummies—one of the cousins’ many shared addictions. His people smugly accepted the office of the First Lady’s call for help, never dreaming that when Sameera and Miranda suggested his name, Elizabeth Campbell Righton would respond with a baffled, “Who’s he?”
In addition to getting new furniture for the Lincoln Sitting Room, the cousins were going to redo their bedrooms, the living quarters on Air Force One, and a few rooms at Camp David. They were leaning toward California mini-malist on Air Force One, because James Righton liked things streamlined, Ohio-farm cozy in their bedrooms and the Lincoln Room, and global-import-trendy at Camp David, which meant lots of sequins, paisley, silk, mosaic, batik, and squashy ottomans with tassels. But of course they wanted to hear from Designer Danny, too.
The popular host of Décor for Dummies was much tinier than he appeared on television—about the same height as Sameera herself. He flitted around the Lincoln Sitting Room like a hummingbird, fingering fabrics and stroking wood, even getting on his hands and knees to squint into the weave of the heirloom Persian carpet. Sadly, his habit of emphasizing certain words turned out to be extremely annoying in real life.
“I’m so glad you girls called me in. Redecorating a place like the White House will require the utmost care and expertise.”
“We still haven’t figured out a bud get for this room,” Sameera told him. “But we’re hoping at least to buy some comfortable chairs.”
“We must have magnificent traditional furniture to match the beauty of these architectural lines. For chairs and a settee, I’ll need to travel to Italy. France. Maybe Portugal.”
“Mom told us to keep it simple,” Sameera said sternly, trying to rein him in. “She thinks most of this place is fine the way it is.”
“Besides, we were hoping to make this room feel a little more…contemporary,” Miranda added.
“Oh no, girls. Simple is not what this room needs,” Danny said with a shudder of distaste. “And definitely not contemporary. That demonstrates the difference between the taste of a novice and the eye of an expert. It’s a good thing your mother called me.”
Sameera could tell that her cousin was just as irritated as she was by the “novice” comment. They knew how to “respect historical architectural lines”—the marriage between architecture and interior décor was a recurring theme in Danny’s show. And just because they were teenagers didn’t mean they had bad taste. In fact, they’d had a great time redecorating the family room in their grandparents’ house; visitors often commented that the cozy look perfectly reflected the Campbell clan’s hospitality. And Sameera had received accolades from the State Department for the job she’d done on the den in the Ambassador’s Residence in Brussels.
The girls used up their first expensive hour-long consultation convincing Designer Danny that a pair of comfortable leather recliners by the fire wouldn’t wreck the “austere Victorian environment” of the room.
After the session, he headed downstairs, stopping to fondle vases and urns and gaze at paintings that he passed. The cousins watched him go, noting his rapture over the chandelier in the stairwell and the way he caressed the mahogany banister as though it were alive.
“He’s a bit too…invested, I think,” Miranda murmured thoughtfully.
“And he wants to spend oodles of cash. We could have bought one of the recliners we want with the money we owe him for today. I think we’ll send a note to his people that the First Lady’s all set for now.”
“Sounds good.” Miranda sighed. “Another idol bites the dust.”
Sameera knew exactly what her cousin was talking about. “That jerk from American Rock Star tried to get a little too hands-on the other night, didn’t he?”
“I shredded his autograph. Thanks for the intervention, by the way.”
“Any time. We’d better get ready for school.”
They’d decided to use the East Sitting Hall on the second floor as the setting for their tutor’s two-hour one-on one sessions. That way, the other cousin could relax in the adjoining Lincoln Sitting Room doing homework, watching television, or surfing the Web.
That first afternoon of White House school, even with Westfield teaching her as efficiently and patiently as ever, Sameera was distracted. She was eager to figure out her confront-Bobby plan, and for some reason, Sparrowhawk’s provocative blog comment kept running through her mind.
“Okay, Sparrow,” said Westfield finally. “Say what you have to say, and then we’ll get back to geometry. What’s up?”
“Don’t take this personally, Westfield, because we both know how good you are,” Sameera said. “But what do you think about me going to school, for my senior year at least?”
“It’s not a bad idea, actually. But would you want to start a new school just for one year? Wouldn’t that be hard?”
“Maybe. But I miss being involved. In Brussels I coxed for the crew team, helped organize fundraisers for great causes, and was probably going to be the editor of the paper by my senior year.” I’m emphasizing just like Designer Danny, she realized. Maybe it’s contagious.
“I see your point. If you were a normal homeschooler, we could get you involved in group activities and clubs, but you’re sort of a special case, aren’t you?”
“Now there’s an understatement. Other First Kids went to school, right?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure how open your parents would be to the idea, Sparrow,” Westfield said. “The world’s a much more dangerous place now.”
“So I’m supposed to hide inside the White House for four years? No way, Westfield.”
“Hey, I’m on your side, Sparrow,” the tutor said.
Sameera sighed. “I’ll have to use the old make-your-parents-see-the-light family dinner plan.”
“Really? And what does that entail?”
“You encourage them to take a nap, promising to organize dinner while they rest. Then you set the table, light some candles, and serve up warm, crusty bread and a great salad. Followed by one of their favorite entrées. You let them relax, eat, drink, laugh, talk. Then, over coffee and dessert, you casually bring up the controversial subject. The plan works best on a Sunday afternoon, by the way.”
“You conniving child. Let me know how it goes. Now let’s get back to geometry.”
During Miranda’s turn with Westfield, Sameera scoured the Web, found the spa closest to the Revolutionary Café, and made reservations for herself and her cousin. She called Tara’s office phone, hoping to leave a message asking for a car and a Secret Ser vice detail.
But Tara herself picked up after o
ne ring, and she wasn’t thrilled with Sameera’s Friday afternoon plans. “Who recommended that hole-in-the-wall?” she asked. “There’s a fantastic full-ser vice luxury spa in Arlington that caters to political families. I could also set up an appointment for you girls right in the White House.”
“I know, but I want this place, Tara,” Sameera said firmly. Next time I’ll invite you to join us, because all you do is work 24/7 and you need a day at the spa. But not this time.
“Okay, Sparrow,” Tara said, giving up. “I’ll have someone make the arrangements.”
Wilhelm and Peter arrived on schedule, bearing super-size boxes of sour candies and chocolate-covered raisins for the movie. They happily gave permission for Miranda to film as they oohed and wunderbarred the velour seats and huge screen in the theater. Miranda was also filming (without permission) the Cougars who stood in the back, earpieces in place and sleeve microphones picking up every sound. She turned her camera off only when the lights dimmed, settling into her chair with a squirm of satisfaction.
Sameera noticed that Peter immediately put an arm around her cousin, and that Miranda just as quickly removed it. She sat next to Wilhelm (who maintained a respectful nontouching distance at all times, thank goodness), barely watching The Bourne Identity, which she’d seen twice already thanks to her cousin’s intense Matt Damon fixation of a few years ago. Politely, Wilhelm tilted the open candy box in her direction, and Sameera accepted a sour apple ring, mentally rehearsing the details of her see-Bobby-again-if-it-kills-me plan.
The first thing she had to do, of course, was convince her cousin to participate.
“No way, Sparrow,” Miranda said again as the girls both brushed their teeth in Sameera’s bathroom that night. Their guests had left after a rousing bowling competition in the single-lane alley, with the girls eking out a three-games-to two victory.
Sameera rinsed and spit into the basin. “I promise, nothing’s going to happen to me, Ran. I promise.”
“But what if it does? What if you get…kidnapped or something?”
White House Rules Page 3
