When the orchestra segued into the slower one-two-three beat of a familiar Strauss waltz, Sameera excused herself from Peter and made her way to the head table. An Austrian official was droning on about some trade issue that he obviously cared about a great deal. “Dad,” Sameera said, interrupting the conversation. “Dance with me.”
President James Righton leaped to his feet. “Will you excuse me?” he asked his dinner companion. “When your daughter asks for a dance, it’s an opportunity you don’t want to miss.”
Sameera heard the minister laughing indulgently behind them as she put her hand into the crook of her father’s elbow and walked out to the dance floor. They’d danced together since she was a little girl, and the music quickly pulled them into a familiar, easygoing circle of two.
“Thanks, Sparrow,” Dad said in a low voice. “That dude was amazingly dull. A one-man miracle cure for insomnia. What’s up with you?”
“We’re having a family dinner tomorrow night, Dad,” Sameera informed him. “I want to talk about something important.”
“Sounds more interesting than to night’s conversations, that’s for sure. Can you give me a preview?”
“Er…not now, Dad. Don’t want Mom to feel out of the loop, right? I’ll wait until it’s just the four of us.”
“Scotchies for dessert, I hope?”
“I’ll see if Ran can whip some up after church.”
“With that amazing frosting she makes?”
“Definitely.”
“Where is Miranda, anyway?” Dad asked, his eyes scanning the room over Sameera’s shoulder as they turned to the music.
Sameera glanced around, too. Her cousin was still nowhere in sight. “Maybe I should—”
“There she is,” Dad said, his voice sounding relieved. “She certainly loves that camera, doesn’t she?”
Another half turn and Sameera caught sight of her cousin filming the scene. “Yeah. I haven’t seen any of her footage yet. She must have hours of it by now.”
“That camera’s almost as good as a burka, isn’t it?” Dad asked.
“What?” Sameera tried not to reveal her surprise at her father’s choice of analogy.
“It hides a lot of Miranda’s face,” Dad said. “Reminds me of that head covering you used last fall as a getaway costume. The best part is that people can’t tell if she’s zooming in on them or on something else.”
They turned again and Sameera saw Miranda aim the camera directly at the balding guy who’d been leering at her earlier. The man blushed, stumbled, and steered his partner in the opposite direction. “You know, I think you’re right, Dad. It sort of…puts her in charge of who’s being watched, doesn’t it?”
Dad and Sameera danced a few more songs, lapsing into a comfortable, pressure-free silence. Before long, though, Mom tottered over and tapped Sameera’s shoulder. “I’m cutting in,” she said. “And James, don’t talk or expect me to say anything. I’m exhausted. Just hold me up and pretend you’re having fun.”
“But I am, darling,” Dad said as he smiled at Sameera and whirled Mom away.
Sameera went off in search of Miranda. She found her cousin in the kitchen filming the head pastry chef as he prepared a dessert that flamed and reeked of alcohol.
“Just a minute, Sparrow,” Miranda muttered. “They’re almost done.”
Suddenly, the camera shut itself off with a complaining whir followed by a decisive click. “Did you get it, Miss Campbell?” the pastry chef asked eagerly.
“Sorry, Mr. Phillips. I’m out of memory.”
He looked disappointed. “Come back on Monday,” he said. “Your aunt’s first official tea is coming up, and I’ve got some exciting petits fours that I want to practice making. Now that should be great on film.”
Miranda smiled, but she shook her head. “No can do, Mr. Phillips. We’ll have to wait for another opportunity.”
The girls walked out of the kitchen and back into the East Room. “Are you busy on Monday, Ran?” Sameera asked. “It might be good to get those Pandas on your side, especially if you want to work with them.”
“No. I’m out of memory, Sparrow. Didn’t you hear me the first time?”
“Get some more, then,” Sameera said, without thinking.
Miranda didn’t reply, but Sameera could read her mind: It costs money. “Download your footage onto a computer, clear out the memory card, and start again,” she suggested. “Anyway, maybe this is a sign that you should start editing what you’ve already got instead of filming new stuff all the time.”
Miranda chewed her lower lip.
“What’s wrong now?” Sameera asked.
“I don’t have the software I need to make the kind of movies I want to make,” Miranda confessed. “Why did I spend all my money on this dress, Sparrow? Next time, grab my wallet and run. Fast.”
“Use my laptop, Ran,” Sameera said quickly. “It came with some fancy moviemaking software that I’ve never used—you could use it to edit your footage, add music, make it into what you want it to be. I could even post some of your clips on my blog if you want.”
“Slow down, Sparrow. Why can’t I use your software on the White House PCs?”
“Because my system’s not compatible with the White House machines. Besides, mine’s five times faster than the ones they have sitting around here, and easier to use, too.”
“But you’re on your computer all the time. It’s, like, your most personal item. Are you sure you want to share it?”
Sameera locked her laptop case every night to guarantee that only she had access to her personal information. Not that the impeccably honest staff in the White House would steal anything, of course, but there was something about shielding her precious possession from strange eyes that gave her a sense of security. But this wasn’t a stranger—this was Miranda, beloved cousin and best friend. “I’ll share it with you,” Sameera said, trying not to sound in the least bit reluctant. Too bad we didn’t get her some moviemaking software along with that camera, she thought.
The orchestra was taking a break, and Sameera noticed her parents had been commandeered by the one-man insomnia cure again. Mom was propping her chin on both fists to prevent her head from flopping forward. Dad was nodding, looking fascinated while the guy droned on.
“Come on, Ran,” Sparrow said as the orchestra started up again. “Wilhelm’s waving at me. I’ll dance with him; you go rescue my father.”
chapter 11
When the Rightons took their seats in a balcony pew on Sunday morning, Sameera glimpsed both Mature Cougar and Young Cougar standing at the rear of the church and felt another twinge of guilt. Her little trip to the Revolutionary Café could have gotten the agents into serious trouble. She’d have to make it up to them somehow, even though they didn’t know how close they’d come to getting fired because of her.
As the ser vice progressed, Sameera listened to the sermon and stood and sat down at the right times, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Bobby. She reached for one of the prayer request cards in the rack in front of her and filled it out: “Please pray for Bobby Ghosh’s grandfather, who is very ill.” Pray for Bobby Ghosh, too, she added silently, dropping the card into the offering basket. And me, while you’re at it.
Finally, everyone stood up to sing the doxology, and the minister raised his hands to offer the benediction. Sameera followed her parents down the stairs and outside to a sidewalk jammed with tourists and gawkers. Miranda immediately whipped out her camera and started filming; she’d stayed up late the night before downloading her footage onto Sameera’s laptop to clear her memory card.
It was a mostly friendly crowd, with people smiling, waving, and wanting to shake hands. Then, out of nowhere, a voice boomed out: “Hey, Paki! Go back to Pakistan!”
Sameera was squeezing the outstretched hands of three ancient, beaming women. Great, she thought. A heckler. Just what she needed. Ignore it, she warned herself sternly, just as she learned to do during the campaign. Don’t respond.
She noticed her mother’s head swiveling as Elizabeth Campbell Righton tried to identify the shouter. Secret Ser vice agents hustled the First Family along, and Dad smiled and waved before climbing into Cadillac One, his face calm as though he hadn’t heard a thing.
“Muslim Lover!” It was Angry Voice again.
That was it. The First Lady stopped like a NASCAR driver slamming on the brakes. She turned to face the direction where the person with the voice was hiding. “Exactly who are you talking about?” she called. “President Righton? Me? Or Jesus Himself?”
Good one, Mom, Sameera thought, staying right by her mother and wishing she could whip out a note pad to take notes. This incident was definitely blogworthy; she was already curious about Sparrowhawk’s take on it.
The crowd was booing the heckler and calling out, “Go, Mrs. Righton!” Sameera’s row of ancient women were practically growling as they expressed their feelings toward him.
Miranda kept filming. She wasn’t budging either.
“Follow your husband into the car, ma’am,” pleaded an agent.
“Let’s go, Peanut,” commanded a voice in Sameera’s ear. “Come on, Peach.”
It was Young Cougar, steering them gently but firmly into the armored limo. Even inside the car, Miranda stayed glued to her camera, cracking the window to poke the lens out. She stopped filming only when the crowd was no longer in sight.
“Thanks for sticking up for me, sweetheart,” James Righton told his wife. “But idiots like that come with the territory. We’re open game now, remember?”
“I don’t care,” Mom said, obviously still steaming. “Once you’re the First Lady, you lose the right to get mad? And any passing idiot can yell something like that and get away with it?”
“Freedom of speech, Mom,” Sameera said. “This is America.”
“Stars learn to handle it, Auntie Liz,” Miranda added. “I’ve seen actors return nasty comments with a smile and a wave.”
Elizabeth Campbell Righton shook her head. “That sounds too wimpy to me.”
Sameera grinned. “Turn the other cheek, Mom. You’re the one who always brings up Jesus.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Mom relented, sighing. “I can’t respond to every jerk on the planet by turning into a jerk myself. I’m kind of burned out, I guess.”
“What you need is a quiet dinner at home, just the four of us,” Sameera said.
“That sounds fabulous, Sparrow.”
Dad leaned over and kissed his wife on the neck. “First comes an afternoon for just the two of us.”
The cousins groaned.
“Too much information, Dad,” Sameera said.
“Wait till you’re alone, Uncle James,” pleaded Miranda.
“Oh, we plan to,” said Dad.
Judging by the grin on her face, Elizabeth Campbell Righton was looking forward to the afternoon as much as her husband was.
chapter 12
While the president and First Lady had some time to themselves, Miranda and Sameera wandered down to the big kitchen on the first floor. They were hoping to borrow the ingredients needed to bake frosted oatmeal scotchies for dessert.
Mr. Phillips smiled when Miranda told him what she was making. “Those are exactly the kind of cookies my grandmother used to make,” he said. “I’ve been hunting for a good recipe, but nothing out there seems right. Do you think I could have a sample when they’re done?”
“Of course,” Miranda said. “I’ll bring down a plate.”
Sameera left her cousin humming, baking, and mixing in the family kitchen and headed for the Lincoln Sitting Room. She sat on one of the wing chairs and opened her laptop, relishing the strange sensation of homecoming that she always got when she powered up. It was time to compose a new entry on her blog.
I have a question for you, intergalactics. Don’t get me wrong, I love my life, and I’m certainly not whining about going to parties and getting to meet famous people. But as my Gran always put it, “to whom much has been given, much will be required,” so I’m trying to figure out what’s required of ME during these four years. Of course, having fun is a perfectly decent thing to do, but is it enough? That’s why I thought I’d ask if you want to read about fun stu? or have me feature more serious posts on Sparrowblog. All votes greatly appreciated. Remember, keep those comments short, clean, and to the point. Peace be with you. Sparrow.
Next, it was time to answer Mariam’s e-mail:
Hey, Mariam! So great to hear from you. I’m thinking of having a get-together on Friday with some friends of mine from George Washington University. Do you want to join us? I’d like you to meet my cousin, too. We’ll probably just have pizza—no pepperoni or any other pork, I promise. Tell your parents, too, that although one boy might be here with us, the whole evening will be chaperoned by a grown-up at all times. (Thanks to the Secret Ser vice. They come in handy sometimes.) If you can make it, send a note, and I’ll dispatch a car to pick you up.
Much love to you, your parents, and your grandmother from your friend Sameera.
She powered down when Miranda came to find her, and they walked back across the hall to set the round table in the family dining room. “I posted on my blog today, but I’m wondering if we shouldn’t stick to the Maryfield ‘no-screens-or-plugs-on-Sunday’ rule from now on,” she told Ran, who was filling the water glasses. “It’s sort of relaxing to detox from the Web one day a week.”
“Fine. I’ve gotten used to that rule after all these years, and I actually like it—don’t tell Poppa that. But drop the holy act, Sparrow. I know why you don’t feel the need to get online every five minutes. It’s because you know Bobby can’t send you anything.”
Sameera, who had just lit the tall, tapered candles on the table, sighed so heavily that she extinguished one of them. “I sure hope that conversation with his parents goes well. I should have told him about my make-your-parents-see-the-light family dinner plan.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Are you going to tell your parents about Bobby?”
“No. I don’t have to ask them for permission when it comes to dating. At least, I don’t think so. We’re definitely not as old-fashioned as Bobby’s family.”
“Hey, your Hollywood heroes in black-and-white fantasy-land are all old-fashioned. Humphrey Bogart. Casablanca. Cary Grant. An Affair to Remember. Gregory Peck. Roman Holiday.”
Sameera grinned. Her cousin had named three of the movies they’d watched yet again over the holidays—mostly for the sake of the brilliant and beautiful heroes who lit up the screen. “Bogart. Now there’s a hero for you. Sacrificing hope of future happiness for his lady love…and the greater good.”
“Well, Bobby made a sacrifice, didn’t he? It must have been humiliating to admit he thinks it’s important to obey his parents. Telling the truth like that took courage, so that proves he’s got two out of your three treasures.”
Sameera glanced at her reflection on a knife before setting it on the table. “Yeah, he’s definitely honest, even with his parents. Meanwhile, here I am, sneaking around behind my parents’ backs.”
“Oh, so that’s what this dinner is about—your illegal trip to that coffee house. Well, they didn’t freak out the last time they found out about your getaway disguise, right?”
“Yeah, but that’s not on the agenda. I’m not sure they’re going to be as quick to forgive this time. The stakes are a lot higher now that I’m First Daughter.”
“You’re right. Don’t confess to night. They need to relax. So what are we trying to get them to see the light about?”
“Ran, what do you think about me enrolling in school next year?”
Miranda raised her eyebrows. “You mean here in D.C.? What about Westfield?”
“I already talked to her about it. She thinks it’s a great idea. I want to mention it to night and see how my parents take it.”
Jean-Claude was at the door, wheeling in the dinner the girls had ordered. “Here you go, ladies. A country-style Sunday steak-an
d-baked-potato dinner for four. Everything’s hot and steaming, so gather your parents.”
“You get them, Sparrow,” Ran said. “I don’t want to interrupt anything.”
“What? I’m their kid. It’s way more embarrassing for me.”
They ended up doing rock, paper, scissors to see who had to summon Sameera’s parents, and Miranda lost. While she was gone, Sameera lifted the stainless steel domes on the serving cart. The baked potatoes were crisped to perfection and came with sour cream, chives, and fresh bacon bits. Chilled forks and salad plates were included for the Cobb salad the girls had ordered. There was only one thing missing, and a quick intercom buzz brought Jean-Claude racing back up with a bottle of steak sauce. There, Sameera thought. NOW everything’s ready.
Mom arrived in jeans and an old blouse without a trace of makeup and her hair stuffed into a ponytail. Dad was wearing the fleecy Ohio State sweatshirt and sweatpants that Poppa and Gran had given him for Christmas. He had a trendy-looking afternoon shadow on his chin and cheeks.
Sameera served the food as the family gathered around the table. “So what’s the purpose of this family dinner, girls?” Dad asked, filling two goblets with the red wine that had been sent up for him and Mom. The girls were drinking milk, of course.
“Come on, Dad, aren’t you tired of agendas?” Sameera asked. “Let the conversation flow for a change. Eat. Drink. Relax.” Her father was too savvy for her own good.
Dad took a sip of wine. “You’re right, Sparrow. Mmm. This vino is dee-vy-no. I think we should be strict about taking a day of rest while we’re in the White House, Liz. Let’s avoid scheduling anything on Sunday evenings unless a dire emergency comes up.”
The food was savored, the wine sipped, the milk chugged, and Dad’s bad puns inspired even more tacky ones around the table. “Actually, there is something I want to talk about,” Sameera said, as Ran passed around her oven-warm, frosted scotchies.
White House Rules Page 6
