Authors: Mitali Perkins
White House Rules (3 page)
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 prowlâa 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 countercodeâso 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, partiesâ¦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 apologizeâI 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: “â¦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?”
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.
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 fasterâAustrian 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 partnersâI think you'll consider themâ¦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-shoulderedâa 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 Germanâand 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 courteousâa 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 womanâthanks 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 nowâwe'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
âtons of action and shooting, not much conversationâ¦they'll love it.”
At first their guests seemed a bit overwhelmed by the private movie inviteâespecially 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 bringâ”
Miranda chimed in with the White House guest prohibition list: “âany 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.”