White House Rules

by Mitali Perkins

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant he sounds like one of those patriarch types who rules the clan with an iron fist.”

  “Well…” Mom said. “I have to admit that I wasn’t too thrilled about you falling in love with a Hindu guy.”

  “What?” Once again, Sameera couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “I know you’re not sure what you believe right now, but what if your faith gets more important to you as you grow older? You might be sorry you married someone with a completely different religion.”

  “Mom! I’m only sixteen. I just want to date the guy—not marry him.”

  “Well, I’m being truthful. Parents care about stuff like this.”

  Ran grinned. “And besides, remember what Gran always says—”

  The three of them repeated Sarah Campbell’s mantra on relationships: “Date to relate, and honor your mate.”

  Just then, James Righton came wandering in, yawning and stretching. “Nothing like a Sunday afternoon nap to get you ready for a week of life-and-death decisions. What’s going on, ladies?”

  Silently, Sameera handed him the laptop. “Reminds me of myself when I was his age,” he said, when he was done reading. “My parents were just as strict. I couldn’t date anybody they thought was inappropriate.”

  “Really? Did you ever defy them, Dad?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe passively, by not ever getting serious with anybody until they were gone. That’s when I met your mom, and the rest is history.” He tugged gently on Mom’s ponytail as he settled beside her on the couch.

  “I think his grandfather and his parents actually want to arrange Bobby’s marriage the traditional way,” Sameera said.

  “Not a bad custom,” Mom said. “I’m sure Gran would love to help find husbands for you girls.”

  “I suddenly feel called to the convent,” said Miranda.

  “Our marriage was arranged,” Dad announced.

  “Get to the punch line, Dad,” Sameera said.

  “It was divinely arranged.”

  “Ouch!” Sameera said, but it had nothing to do with her dad’s bad joke. Her cousin had stepped on her foot. Hard. “What?”

  “Good time to confess,” Miranda hissed into her ear.

  Sameera’s parents sat up, looking wary.

  “What? Oh. Right. Mom, Dad, I have to tell you something.”

  Silence. Then, “We’re all ears, Sparrow,” said Mom.

  “Fire away, sweetheart,” said Dad.

  She told them about her excursion to the SARSA meeting in Foggy Bottom, watching their expressions change from anger to disappointment to understanding to…was that a glimpse of a smile when Miranda chimed in with how she hadn’t been able to enjoy her lime-and-salt-scrub at all?

  But the reigning emotion turned out to be a stern and righteous anger. “Never again, young lady!” Mom said. “Something terrible could have happened.”

  “Not to mention endangering the jobs and well-being of the agents assigned to protect you,” Dad added.

  “I know, I know,” Sameera said. “I feel terrible. That’s one of the reasons I’m trying to fix JB up with Tara—to atone for my mistake.”

  Mom reached for her hand and pulled Sameera across to the sofa so she was sitting in between them. “You are our most precious possession, darling.”

  “It was stupid, I know, but—”

  Dad finally allowed himself to really smile. “But love makes you do crazy things. I remember, Sparrow. When we were falling in love, your mother and I walked the streets of Islamabad one entire night during an Embassy high security alert.”

  Sameera felt immensely better and was even enjoying being squashed into a parental sandwich on the uncomfortable sofa. “Tara went out with JB last night,” she said. “I sure hope the sparks flew for them, too.”

  Later, the girls cornered JB to get the scoop.

  “So, how’d it go?” Miranda asked.

  His face stayed blank.

  “Last night? With Tara? Come on, JB. We’re in agony here.”

  “Good. Fine. We had a great time. She’s…terrific.”

  “How’d she respond to the news about your kids?” Sameera asked.

  “She didn’t. I didn’t tell her.”

  “JB!” Miranda said. “You’ve got to tell her the truth.”

  “I know,” he said, sighing. “But she’s so interesting, and fun, and smart. Too good for someone like me. I don’t think I’m going to ask her out again.”

  “You are so good enough,” said Sameera. “She’s lucky to get a date with someone like you.”

  He didn’t say anything, but she saw the side of his mouth curve up in a quick smile and the dimple in his cheek deepen. “Thanks, kid,” he said.

  chapter 22

  Sameera opened the door into the Oval Office and peeked in, but the room was empty. Her father had to be in here somewhere—it was Wednesday, the day he usually scheduled back-to-back meetings inside the White House. She walked across the oval rug tailor-made to fit the unusually large room. Every president got to choose a new design, and Dad had asked for a sand-colored background and a border that looked like ocean waves to remind him of his California surfing days.

  Where was that chilly draft coming from? Sameera walked over to close the window overlooking the small, private garden outside the Oval Office. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. No, she wasn’t dreaming. The president and First Lady were sitting on a bench, holding hands, huddled together against the cold. Sameera could hear them talking.

  “I’d love to make a friend or two here in town,” Mom was saying. “I’m getting kind of lonely, James.”

  Sameera suddenly remembered Thomas Banforth’s comment about his mother inviting them to dinner. The senator wasn’t at all supportive of the Republican party’s platform, but who cared? If Mom needed a friend, it was time to make it happen. Maybe Thomas needed a nudge.

  “I hear the previous First Lady and the vice president’s wife became quite close,” Dad said. “Too bad my guy’s a widower.”

  “Yeah. You should have thought of your wife’s need for friends instead of the good of the country, James. What were you thinking?”

  “I should have. We need to calendar in a regular date night, Liz, so we don’t catch pneumonia out here trying to get some privacy. I miss spending time with you, darling, just the two of us—”

  Sameera tiptoed away and headed upstairs. At least the course of love is flowing smoothly for some people, she thought, checking her e-mail for another message from Bobby…just in case he’d managed to get to the city and into the cybercafé again. But there was nothing.

  She consoled herself by reading through the interesting comments about nonnegotiables that people were discussing on her blog. It was becoming a girls versus guys debate, with guys insisting that girls had set their standards way too high and girls contending that too many guys were putting hot and sexy down as their choices.

  Sameera steered the conversation by tallying up the responses, which clearly showed that just as many guys had high standards and that plenty of girls were focusing on external attributes, too.

  Let’s stay away from the gender divide and focus on character traits. Remember, you want this relationship to last until you’re ninety years old. Think sexy’s going to matter then?

  Immediately, a response came from Ms. Graves, the Maryfield town librarian who had been one of the founding members of Sameera’s intergalactic circle.

  Don’t be ageist, Sparrow, my love. You don’t stop feeling sexy when you get old. I can assure you of that.

  Sameera grinned as she typed an answer to that thread.

  I stand corrected, Ms. Graves. You are definitely the sexiest librarian over seventy on the planet. All eligible bachelors should send interested inquiries to me via Sparrowblog.

  Her cousin came in to show her some fabric samples for the Camp David redo, and they argued over the combination of colors and textures until they found something they both loved. Th
ey were getting better at conserving old stuff and mixing it up with the new, and the results, they thought, were fantastic. Not to mention economical.

  “We’re talented, Sparrow. They should give us our own show—Designer Sameeranda’s Décor for People on Bud gets Who Aren’t Dummies.”

  “But we’re failing in our other mission,” Sameera said. “JB still hasn’t called Tara for a second date.”

  “Tara definitely likes him,” Miranda said. “She walked past him ten times the other day, but he didn’t move a muscle. She even flashed him some leg on purpose, bending down so the slit in her skirt did that check-out-my-silk-stockings thing.”

  “But JB acts like he’s one of those bobbies with the big furry hats who stand in front of Buckingham Palace—he doesn’t even blink when she’s around. Obviously, Tara wants to go out with him again, but he’s scared to tell her about the kids. Why are men such idiots?”

  “Speaking of men, do you think Senator Banforth will really invite your Mom to dinner?” Miranda asked. “She’s a Democrat, right? Not to mention that your father kicked her butt in the election.”

  “Not quite. It was one of the closest races in history.

  Besides, I don’t care if Ms. Banforth’s a Democrat or a Communist. Mom needs friends in this town. I overheard her telling Dad that she was getting sort of lonely.”

  “My plan is that Senator Banforth will invite us to come, too,” Miranda said. “And he’ll be there, and our eyes will meet, and…”

  “I think Mr. Thomas Banforth has the three Fs.”

  “He probably does. But can you imagine my mother’s reaction when I bring home the son of a Democrat? She’ll hit the roof.”

  “Good. You get your Democrat, Bobby can have his Muslim, and Tara can walk off into the sunset with her African-American father of two.”

  “I haven’t even met my Democrat yet, Sparrow.”

  “I think the Banforth family could use a friendly reminder that my mother would love an invite.”

  They approached their tutor the next day. “You’ve got to use your connections, Westfield. Mom needs friends.”

  “And so do I, Westfield,” added Miranda. “Male friends.”

  “Don’t you think Tommy Banforth’s a little old for you, Miranda? You’re sixteen—”

  “Seventeen. Why does everybody keep forgetting that?”

  “—and he’s in law school.”

  “You’re as bad as Aunt Liz, Westfield. I’m not talking about marrying him. At least not yet. Just drop a hint about having us over for dinner, will you?”

  The tutor promised, and Miranda gave her a big hug of gratitude.

  “Forget the hugs,” Westfield said. “Save me a batch of those scotchies you’re baking to night.”

  At the end of the week, Sameera decided to stay and help Miranda fill the order for the tea instead of heading to the SARSA meeting. Her cousin smiled knowingly as she mixed up huge batches of dough.

  “Hey, if the fifth member of SARSA were there, you wouldn’t be here with me on a Friday night. You’d be out on the dance floor, doing that twisty-wrist, hands-up-in the-air bobbing thing you guys do.”

  “Next time I bhangra, babe, you’re coming with. Remember what George said? You’re part of a South Asian family, Ran. Now focus on your work. After tomorrow, you’re going to have so many orders you’ll be on your way to a wealthy, cow-free old age.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re a journalist, remember, not a novelist. These diplomatic dudes and dudettes get wined and dined all the time by gourmet chefs. They’re going to eat my cookies along with Mr. Phillips’s biscuits and scones, and nobody’s going to say a word about them.”

  “Ah, but Mr. Phillips isn’t using Merry Dude Dairy Farm milk in his frosting, now, is he?”

  Despite Miranda’s low expectations, her scotchies came out perfect as usual, and the diplomats were delighted. Every single one of the Merry Dude Dairy Farm Fresh Cookies cards had disappeared by the end of the tea. And to Miranda’s amazement, she got her first order from the Brazilian ambassador before she left—two dozen scotchies to send to her son in college.

  The girls waited until the guests were gone before they celebrated. “Move over, Mrs. Fields!” Sameera yelled, as she and her cousin Viennese waltzed triumphantly around the empty East Room. “Make way for Miranda Campbell and her Merry Dude cookies!”

  chapter 23

  Sameera’s interest in seeing Mariam’s school grew stronger every day. It wasn’t that she had extra time on her hands or that life in the White House was getting dull. There were gala black-tie evenings to attend with her cousin and parents, where she got to show off her red convention dress and some of the other wonderful ensembles the stylist had put together during the campaign. She and Miranda joined Mom for the opening night of Les Miserables at the Kennedy Center, and the whole family enjoyed the thirteen-year-old piano virtuoso’s Chopin concert at the National Cathedral.

  During the day, they had Westfield, of course, and both cousins were busy with Miranda’s cookie-making business. They were also having a great time with their Designer-Danny-free redecorating scheme. Even Tara practically gushed over the way they’d done their rooms, the Lincoln Sitting Room, and their plan for Dad’s bedroom on Air Force One. The entire Campbell clan was coming to Camp David for Easter, so the girls were busy finishing that project now. And while Miranda tinkered with her movies, Sameera moderated comments on her blog, chatted online with her newspaper buddies and crew team from Brussels, and talked on the phone with Mariam or Sangi. And fanta-sized about Bobby’s return, of course.

  No, she had plenty do. She loved the perks of White House life—what girl wouldn’t?—but her desire to see Mariam’s school kept intensifying. During her visit to Tara’s alma mater, she’d realized the main reason she wanted to go to school again wasn’t because of coxing or journalism. She missed mingling with people her age. And she wanted all kinds of friends—not just those with megapowerful parents. She was bound to run into St. Matthew’s girls at political parties and upscale fundraisers, and over four years she might become friends with some of them. But how would she get the chance to know someone like Mariam better unless she stepped outside the First Daughter safety zone?

  Finally, she couldn’t wait any longer. “My friend Mariam’s school is only about four miles away,” she told her parents casually one Sunday evening. “What do you think about me checking out that place?”

  “Isn’t that a public school, Sparrow?” Mom asked.

  Dad was shaking his head firmly and presidentially. “No way, Sparrow. The public schools around here have cops doing security checks at the door. Not to mention the fact that their test scores are atrocious. You can’t be serious.”

  Mom, too, looked dubious. “No other teenaged First Daughter has ever gone to a public high school, darling. Your father’s right—the schools around here are rough.”

  “But, the whole school will be safer with me there, thanks to my detail.”

  “No, Sparrow,” said Dad. “Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous. You won’t get a decent education, and—”

  “What about the kids who live in D.C. and don’t have any other choice, like Mariam? Heck, if the orphanage hadn’t taken me in, I’d probably be illiterate, living somewhere in a Pakistani village trying to make ends meet.”

  Elizabeth Campbell Righton winced as though it hurt to picture her daughter in that situation. “You don’t have to save the world just because you’re the First Daughter, Sparrow. Why not have fun for the next few years? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Sameera smiled at her mother. “I’m Elizabeth Campbell Righton’s daughter, that’s why not. And I’m planning to have fun, too, don’t worry.”

  It was Dad’s turn to pace the floor in front of the fire, and Jingle followed him back and forth diligently. “I don’t get it, Sparrow,” he said. “St. Matthew’s sounds like a wonderful place. Great crew team. Outstanding faculty. Other students who wouldn’t treat yo
u like a celebrity. An award-winning newspaper. Why not go there?”

  “I want to keep making different kinds of friends, Dad. Besides, I’ve done crew and newspaper already, but I’ve never been to a public school. The kids there will get over the fact that I’m famous once they get to know me.”

  “The Carters enrolled their daughter in a local elementary school,” Dad said. “I remember seeing a picture of her walking there with a pack of reporters chasing her. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.”

  “You’ve seen the way I can handle the press,” Sameera argued. “I’m sixteen, Dad. Almost seventeen. Not nine, like Amy Carter was.”

  “You haven’t talked about academics, Sparrow.”

  “I’ll be able to write about this experience, Dad. I could use it in my college essays. What admissions committee wouldn’t respect that? And maybe Westfield can keep tutoring me after school.”

  Again, that parental exchange of glances. This is exactly what Bobby was talking about, Sameera thought, watching them closely and trying to read the signals.

  “The only way we’d let you enroll in a school is if I get to see it first,” said Mom finally. “As a mother—not as the First Lady so that they don’t tidy things up just for my visit. I want to see the place raw, like any other parent.”

  Sameera didn’t hesitate. “I know how we can swing that, Mom. Ever hear of a burka?”

  “Of course I have, Sameera, but you’re not thinking of trying that stunt again, are you?”

  “Only if you try it with me. If we get you some brown-tinted contacts, both of us can go into Mariam’s school incognito.”

  “What? That’s impossible, Sparrow.”

  But James Righton was nodding. “Sounds like a good way to see the school without the school seeing you. It’s innovative. I like it.”

  “But what about security, James?”

  “This time we’ll get the agents to work with us instead of trying to sneak off behind their backs,” he answered. “Right, Sparrow?”

  “Right. One of the Cougarettes has dark skin and brown eyes—we’ll get a burka for her, too,” Sameera said, brainstorming feverishly. “Mariam can tell her principal that she’s got some visiting friends who want to see an American school. That would be true, wouldn’t it?”