First Daughter

by Mitali Perkins

  “Careful, Mom.You know what Gran says about trash talking. You slipped up twice in New Hampshire and the reporters were all over it.” In spite of the makeover, the campaign staff was still worried about feisty, passionate Elizabeth Campbell.

  “That was early in the campaign,” Mom said, sighing. “I’ve gotten better, haven’t I? Besides, all I said was ‘crap.’ I can’t bring myself to say any really juicy words, thanks to your grandmother.” Mom’s voice changed as she mimicked her own mother’s advice: “ ‘Swear words are used by unimaginative people too lazy to convey feelings with more creative language.’ ”

  “Gran’s got a point.”

  “She usually does, but four-letter words are so handy. What am I going to do, Sparrow?The current first lady’s so d—darn perfect. It’s a good thing your father’s campaign team’s such a well-oiled machine. I just follow their directions like some kind of ... mindless wimp.”

  “You’re doing great, Mom. Dad’s won most of the primaries so far, and you’ve been right there by his side.”

  Looking like a forty-seven-year-old fembot, Sameera thought. She didn’t say it; Mom hated the fuss and expense of her makeover and submitted to it only because Tara Colby insisted. Style was one of the few things Mom didn’t have an opinion about; Sameera figured she sat thinking deeply about IDPs while the last-name-free people ran around rearranging her clothes, hair, and makeup.

  Just yesterday, a Brussels-based stylist had sprayed and polished Mom up (with strict on-the-phone instructions from Constance) so that her hair and nails could survive the long journey. And Vanessa had e-mailed detailed instructions to her about what to wear for the journey. Sameera, on the other hand, had been left to her own devices, which were about as glam-challenged as her mother’s. She’d asked Tara via e-mail if they could start The Makeover in Brussels, but the Bench had nixed that idea. “Those European places can’t pull off the all-American look we need,” she’d written. “My people want a clean palette. Anyway, I doubt many reporters will be waiting for you at LAX. I’ll whisk you away as soon as you land.”

  Sameera hoped Tara was right. She didn’t really want to make her American debut on the “don’t” page of some fashion magazine. After a long-distance consult with her cousin (who as an infant had probably snagged the most stylish blankie in the hospital for herself), Sameera had settled on a pair of jeans, a blue button-up blouse, and ankle-high black leather boots. At the last minute, with a shadow of foreboding over what Miranda might say, she’d put on the poncho that Mrs. Mathews had knitted as a good-bye present. It had proved to be comfortable on the chilly flight, and she was still wearing it now.

  “Flight attendants, prepare for landing,” the pilot announced.

  Sameera loosened her hair and brushed it out so that she could rebraid it neatly before they landed.

  “Your hair’s gotten so long, darling,” Mom said, fingering one long, fine black strand with her red-tipped fingers. “Don’t let Constance cut too much off.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m going to sit back and let the amazing Vanessa and Constance go wild. I’m so tired of feeling invisible and SO ready for this to start, Mom.”

  For months now, she’d been watching reruns of The West Wing and Commander in Chief, renting every flick featuring a president’s daughter she could get her hands on, and fast-forwarding and rewinding through movies like All the President’s Men, Dave, Head of State, and The American President. She’d been browsing celebrity Web sites to glean insights on how to manage the paparazzi (never be rude, set boundaries, always smile and wave). And with her myplace.com buddies traveling along to keep her steady, she couldn’t wait to be a part of the sure-to-be-crazy ride of a presidential campaign.

  Chapter 3

  A dazzle of flashbulbs blinded Sameera as she and Mom emerged from the customs and baggage claim area of the international terminal. Here we go! But it looks like the Bench was wrong; tons of reporters, cameras galore, and I’m still the before version.

  Mom was peering into the crowd like a miserable deer confronting a traffic jam of headlights. “Where’s Tara?” she muttered.

  “No idea,” Sameera answered.

  A voice rang out from the crowd: “Who’s been taking care of your daughter while you’ve been campaigning this year, Mrs. Righton?”

  “She’s done a pretty good job taking care of herself,” Mom answered, still scanning the crowd for any sign of a staffer coming to greet them.

  “But she looks so young, Mrs. Righton,” another voice said.

  Sameera felt the same rush of adrenaline that came before the sound of her voice made eight oars start slicing through the water. “I’m sixteen,” she called out. “In Brazil, sixteen-year-olds get to vote.”

  “Your father’s running for president in America, my dear.”

  People laughed nervously.

  Sameera couldn’t tell which reporter had made that tongue-in-cheek comment, but she didn’t let it faze her. “And he’s going to win in America, too,” she said.

  More laughter.

  Reporters cruised along with Sameera on every side. “Miss Righton, why did you wait so long to join your father’s campaign?”

  “I had a lot of responsibilities to finish up, like coxing and writing for the paper.” Smile. Wave. Hey, this isn’t bad. I’ll wow them with my conversational skills and they’ll overlook my lack of style.

  “This is your first time in Los Angeles, right? Why haven’t you visited your father’s hometown before?”

  The Bench hadn’t prepared Sameera for this one, and she hadn’t anticipated it herself. “Er ... we’ve been too busy,” she managed.

  That was probably true enough. But the other reason was that her high-powered father was as much of an orphan now as she had been before her adoption. Sameera’s grandparents had died when their only child was serving his third term in Congress. Almost immediately after that, he’d sold his parents’ house and joined the foreign service. Sameera was almost as curious about the Rightons as she was about her birth family—and that curiosity, too, ebbed and flowed with the years, but was always there.

  “Stay close, Sparrow,” Mom threw over her shoulder, striding down the corridor so fast that the reporters had to jog to keep up. Doggedly, Sameera pushed the luggage cart along as fast as she could. How do celebrities smile so constantly? she found herself wondering. Her face muscles felt like they did when the hygienist cleaned her teeth.

  Microphones angled toward her, reminding Sameera eerily of the blackened hot dogs on sticks at Maryfield’s annual Fourth of July picnic. “Miss Righton, you’ve just finished the tenth grade, right? Are you going to enroll in a public school this fall? Are you going to cox here in the States?”

  Too many questions were coming from every side to process and answer coherently. Sameera settled for nodding and shrugging and keeping that wide dentist’s-office smile in place as she steered the baggage cart through a maze of reporters, photographers, and gawking travelers. Where is a Bossy Wench when you need her, anyway? Slow down, Mom!

  Mom finally stopped near the airport exit and flipped open her phone with an impatient gesture. Cameras clicked and Rashed, capturing every gesture and expression. Sameera powered up her own phone, shielding the small screen from curious eyes trying to see over her shoulder. Miranda had told her to check in upon arrival, so thumbs flying, Sameera speed-dialed the familiar number and started text-messaging.

  S: WHASSUP?

  Miranda’s message came right back; she’d probably been staring at her screen, waiting for Sameera’s message to appear.

  M: R U OK?

  S: PAPPAZ! B4 MAKEOVER!

  “Whom are you text-messaging, Miss Righton? Where are you staying in L.A.? Do you have a boyfriend?What are your first impressions of California?”

  M: KEEP EYZ WIDE.

  S: ?

  M: 2 B HOT IN FOTOS.

  “Sparrow!” Mom hissed. “She’s here.”

  A thirty-something brunette wearing a
tailored pinstriped suit, a crisp white blouse, and funky tortoiseshell sunglasses was pushing through the crowd. Finally, Sameera thought. She slid the phone back into her pocket, trying to hold her eyes wide while still smiling as broadly as she could. My head feels like a jack-o’-lantern.

  “I’mTara Colby,” the woman announced, extending a hand to Sameera and taking her sunglasses off, her eyes raking over the jeans, boots, braid—and the rainbow-colored poncho Mrs. Mathews had made, which Sameera had forgotten to remove.

  Like the best of ventriloquists, the Bench managed to whisper without moving her lips: “Take that thing off. It’s seventy degrees outside.” Then, nonchalantly, she tapped her front tooth with one manicured fingertip, and followed the gesture with more ventriloquism: “Food in your teeth. Get rid of it.”

  Sameera whipped out her phone again and gazed at her reflection in the small black screen. Oh no! This whole time, while she’d been grinning like a pumpkin, a tiny chunk of airplane peanut had been wedged between her two front teeth. She flicked the peanut away immediately. It was harder, though, to remove a piece of clothing in front of so many watchful eyes, so she kept the poncho on.

  “It was chilly at home ... we left before dawn—” she said, holding on to the poncho like a baby clutching a comfort blanket.

  “Does Brussels feel like home to you, Miss Righton?” a voice called out immediately.

  “Yes, but—” Sameera started, but stopped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Home is where the heart is,” Tara said loudly. “Which means this young lady’s heart is with her father. He’s been counting the minutes till the two of them get here, of course.”

  The Bench’s polished smile didn’t affect the upper half of her face, but at least now all eyes were fixed on her. Sameera seized the opportunity to slip out of the poncho and tuck it into her carry-on.

  “She’s just glad to be back on American soil,” Tara was saying. “And I’m sure both of the Righton women can’t wait to be reunited with the man in their life. Isn’t that right, Elizabeth? Sammy?”

  “Of course,” Mom answered, blinking as several more meteor-bright flashes exploded in their faces.

  Sammy? Who’s Sammy? Sameera thought as Tara pulled out two more pairs of tortoiseshell sunglasses and handed one to Sameera and one to Mom.

  The pack of reporters followed them into the afternoon sunshine where palm trees lined the busy, wide avenue. “The hotel’s not far from the airport,” Tara said, leading them to a long white limo waiting at the curb. “We’re staying on the beach.”

  A driver leaped out, loaded their suitcases into the trunk, and opened the door. The getaway car, Sameera thought, feeling more like a celebrity than ever, thanks to the dark glasses, stately palm trees, and a crowd of strangers wondering which famous person was being hounded.

  She was only a few steps from the limo when someone blocked her way. “Are you an American citizen, young lady?” a gruff voice barked. Sameera looked up at the grizzled man looming over her and got a whiff of the pizza he must have eaten for lunch. He shoved a microphone into her face.

  “Don’t answer him,” Tara called sharply from inside the limo.

  Don’t worry, I won’t, Sameera thought, trying to get around the foul-smelling man, who seemed about three times her size. If I open my mouth, I’ll hurl on him.

  “I asked: ARE YOU A CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES?” Mr. Halitosis sounded like he was speaking to somebody with a hearing problem. The other reporters had kept a respectful distance, and most of their questions had been friendly. This pit bull made them seem like poodles.

  Sameera faced him, holding her breath so she didn’t have to smell the pepperoni marinating in his digestive juices. She didn’t want to make a fuss in front of so many interested eyes, but as Mom always said, bullies needed to be confronted. “I—” she started.

  Suddenly Mom leaped out of the limo and pushed her way in between them. “Let me take care of this, Sparrow,” she said.

  “Did you get your citizenship recently? Do you speak English fluently?” the man persisted, still trying to angle his mike around Mom’s substantial presence.

  “THAT is none of YOUR freaking business,” Mom snarled, swinging his mike away with her open palm.

  Eager photographers and cameramen leaped forward to capture the moment. Tara jumped out of the limo and somehow managed to pull Sameera and Mom inside. The Bench slammed the door shut, and they screeched away from the curb.

  Chapter 4

  “That fool writes for one of those reactionary rags that aren’t fit to be in print,” Tara said, breaking the silence. “That’s why I told you not to answer him.”

  “Are you okay, Sparrow? That Neanderthal! How dare he—”

  “I could have handled him, Mom,” Sameera interrupted, frowning. She’d been about to deliver a few well-chosen words in just the right crisp tone of voice before Mom had pounced into the scene. And I wouldn’t have lost it in front of all those cameras, she thought.

  Mom took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Sparrow. I don’t know what came over me. I felt like—like a lion watching her cub get attacked, and I couldn’t help myself.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t waiting when you came out of security,” Tara said. “I had an intern call to get the flight info, and he told me your plane was delayed. What a disaster! As if we didn’t have a tight enough schedule over the next couple of days.”

  She emphasized a few words with such venom that Sameera felt a twinge of pity for the unknown intern. Passing the buck. Nice, she thought. Her first impression of Tara Colby certainly didn’t measure up to Mom’s rave reviews about “superb organizational skills” and “state-of-the-art campaign savvy.” Of course, Mom wasn’t a detail-oriented person; passionate, yes, practical, no.

  But now Mom herself didn’t seem at all pleased with Tara. “How are we going to keep my daughter from being harassed like that again?” she demanded, her inner maternal feline obviously still growling.

  “I’m okay, Mom,” Sameera said again, fighting another wave of irritation. You’re the one having a meltdown. Her parents had been quick to realize that the petite Pakistani they’d adopted was tougher than she looked and could handle most things that came her way. Why, then, was Mom acting so hyper-parental now?

  “This won’t happen again, I promise, Liz,” Tara said. “And even if it does, I’m going to equip Sammy to respond to it.”

  Sameera opened the fridge in the limo and pulled out an iced cappuccino. I’m already equipped, thank you very much. And stop with the “Sammy” already.

  “I’ve been pretty hands-off so far, Tara, but I refuse to let my daughter be harmed by this campaign in any way,” Mom said, still sounding all riled up.

  “Calm down, Mom.” I’m not one of those IDPs or child laborers you have to fight for. “Here—have something to drink.” She handed Mom the icy bottle and grabbed another one for herself. “Want something?” she asked Tara.

  Tara smiled, and this time the faint lines around her eyes deepened into grooves, making her face seem older but friendlier. “No thanks. Liz, listen, I don’t want either you or James to worry about what’s going to happen to your daughter during this campaign. I was a politician’s daughter myself, remember?”

  “I remember,” Mom said, sighing. “But James is used to campaigning, like you. I’m not.”

  “Speaking of which, where is Dad?” Sameera asked, taking a big swig of coffee.

  “He’s had meetings all day, but he’ll be in your suite by the time we get to the hotel. Only two more events before the primary—tonight’s party and a Faculty Club event tomorrow. Which reminds me—you only have a couple of hours to rest before you need to start getting ready.”

  A couple of hours?!? Could a girl go from blah to beautiful in a couple of hours? “Are Constance and Vanessa meeting us at the hotel?” Sameera asked.

  Tara didn’t meet her eyes. “Er ... no. With your mom away, they took so
me time off to work with another client. He’s an actor with a new movie coming out; the premiere’s tonight, and then they’ll be available to us again. I’ve got them booked from then on as long-term consultants until November.”

  “You’ll be fine, darling,” Mom told Sameera. “Tonight’s party is strictly fund-raising, right? That means no press passes.”

  “Right,” Tara said. “Did you pack anything dressy, Sammy? I can come up and help you get ready if you want me to.”

  Sameera sighed. “As long as there aren’t any reporters there, I’ll be okay. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  She’d packed two party outfits, just in case something like this happened. The first was a three-piece salwar kameez that Mom had bought for her in India, which included a green calf-length flowing tunic worn with matching loose-fitting pants and scarf. The second was a simple chocolate-colored dress that Sameera had bought for herself at a mall in Toledo the summer before. Miranda had tried to talk her out of buying the dress because the fabric matched her skin almost exactly. “You look invisible, Sparrow,” she’d moaned, holding up a blue dress with a plunging neckline instead.

  “I’d get that one if I could borrow your shape, Ran,” Sameera had answered. It was humiliating to be so underdeveloped, especially when her teammates had such curvy girlfriends. Ahmed’s squeeze-bottle-shaped companion was rumored to be a 36D on top, with a teeny tiny waist that was smaller than Sameera’s.

  “... Marina del Rey,” Tara was saying, gesturing out the window.

  Sameera peered through the tinted glass; dozens of tan, toned people were walking dogs and taking the Southern California sunshine for granted. Sailboats swayed and danced on the sparkling blue water as though they, too, were looking forward to a relaxing weekend.

  Mom was rifling through the fridge. “Hungry, Sparrow? They’ve stocked this thing with all kinds of goodies.”