White House Rules (11 page)

The next morning, Sameera followed her ever-filming cousin down to the kitchen on the main floor, feeling a little too much like a lonely lamb to stay upstairs alone. A group of Pandas were meeting around the big butcher-block table. Their faces lit up when they saw the girls. “Just the person we wanted to see,” Mr. Phillips announced.

“I am?” Sameera asked.

“Not you,” he said. “Your cousin. The First Lady's hosting an afternoon tea for a group of diplomats and their spouses.”

Miranda put down her camera. “Sparrow and I don't have to be there, do we?”

“No, but remember that extra batch of frosted oatmeal cookies you sent down here for us? Well, I served a couple when the Swedish ambassador was visiting, and apparently she's been raving nonstop about them. Now everybody's expecting them to be served at the tea. Ms. Colby told me to make sure that those scotchies were on the trays.”

Another Panda cut in: “We've tried to duplicate your recipe, Miranda, but we can't make them taste quite like yours. Would you mind baking some more for the tea?”

“I think the secret is the mi—” Miranda started to say before Sameera cut her off.

“Don't you usually pay a caterer's fee for stuff you order from outside?” she asked.

The Pandas exchanged glances. “We do have money for that in the bud get, but since your cousin's part of the family, we thought—”

“That's okay, I'll—” Miranda tried again, and again Sameera interrupted.

“Making scotchies takes time,” she said. “And Ran's really busy with studying, not to mention her filmmaking and stuff. How much could you offer her to cater ten dozen scotchies?”

Mr. Phillips smiled. “A caterer's fee it is, then.” He named an amount that seemed more than extravagant to the girls; they communicated their delight to each other with almost imperceptible eyebrow lifts.

Miranda was about to accept their offer when Sameera intervened again. “And she can use the supplies in the kitchen, as well as bake them here?”

“Of course. Will you do it, Miranda?”

“I'd be glad to.”

Miranda skipped up the stairs two at a time. “Who would have thought that a bunch of scotchies would earn me so much money? I might even be able to buy some moviemaking software that works on the desktop computers around here. And then you can have your laptop to yourself, Miss Sameera.”

“How about if I give you an advance loan and you buy it today?”

Miranda laughed. “It's been hard, huh?”

“Agony,” Sameera admitted.

“Okay, I accept. I'll order it right now. And I'll use the desktop to do it.”

“Great,” Sameera said, handing over her credit card. “I'm going to figure out a way to milk this cookie-making biz a bit more. Which reminds me—keep our family's secret ingredient to yourself, Ran. Nobody needs to know that it's the Campbell cows that are making the difference.”

“Isn't it ironic that those cows are turning out to be such a blessing—even from a distance?” Miranda asked. “Especially after all the abuse I've heaped on their poor fat heads.”

While Ran browsed around to find the software she needed, Sameera didn't waste time. She got on her laptop and designed a sheet of simple business cards, importing a free graphic of a plate of steaming cookies as a logo.
MERRY DUDE DAIRY FARM FRESH COOKIES
, the card announced, followed by Miranda's name, e-mail address, and cell phone number. Running downstairs, she filched a couple of sheets of card stock from an East Wing office supply closet and printed the graphic off when she got back. Then she cut the cards out carefully with a pair of sharp scissors. They looked almost professional, at least to her eyes.

Her cousin returned with a stack of papers in hand. “I downloaded the manual, too,” she said. “The software I got is supposed to be state of the art. I sure hope I can figure it out.”

“You're already up the learning curve now, Ran. Here, check these out,” Sameera said, handing her cousin the cards.

“Wow, Sparrow. These are beautiful.”

“Let's go ask Mr. Phillips if you can hand them out with the cookies at the tea,” Sameera said. “I'm sure they'll get you tons of orders.”

“I don't know,” Miranda said doubtfully. “Anyway, you ask him. I'd feel like I was being pushy.”

The girls went down to the kitchen again, with Sameera carrying her cousin's new business cards. “Would you let us tuck one of these into each basket of cookies or place them somewhere on the trays?” she asked Mr. Phillips. “I'm sure Mom's guests would appreciate being able to order some for their own events.”

The head pastry chef looked carefully at the cards. “You girls work fast. I suppose we can do that. But if you start doing this for a living, Miranda, you'll have to bake in the small kitchen upstairs on the third floor and buy your own ingredients. We can't have the taxpayers funding your enterprise.”

“Of course,” Miranda said quickly. “I doubt I'll get any orders, anyway.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if you got more than you can bake,” he said. “Those are some of the best cookies I've ever tasted. And I've done my fair share of sampling, believe me.”

The next item on the cousinly agenda was finding the fastest desktop computer in the White House that wasn't being used by anybody else and hauling it into the Lincoln Sitting Room. Sameera installed the new software, while her cousin stapled together the pages of the manual and began flipping through it. “It's going to be good having a computer to myself,” Miranda said.

You can say that again,
Sameera thought, taking her beloved laptop over to the couch to check in on her blog—and see if there was anything in her in-box from India yet.

There was nothing from Bobby, so she went to Sparrow-blog. As she skimmed through the comments, she realized there was only one type of response that she absolutely hated, and it wasn't the critical stuff from the likes of Sparrowhawk. What she couldn't stand were the disgusting notes from lecherous types. A few trickled her way, but ever since Miranda moved into the White House, weirdos were leaving a flood of propositions for her cousin. As Sameera frowned and deleted a comment from yet another loonie who was intent on harassing Miranda, she noticed a response that popped up from a user named “Banforth JD.”

“Ran! Get in here!” she called.

Miranda hurried into the room. “Is it Bobby?”

“No. Not yet. It's something for
you
, actually, from Thomas Banforth, the son of the senator who ran against Dad. Westfield had dinner with him the other day, remember?”

“How could I not? He is the hunkiest of hunks, as I told Westfield.”

“Well, Mr. Hunky is cyberleaping to your side, girlfriend. Check it out.” Sameera read the comment out loud: “To those of you making disgusting comments about the Rightons' niece: back off. Why should she be targeted because of your sick issues? Remember, it's a crime to prey on minors on the Internet. We can find you. Miranda, if you're reading this, keep your chin up, and remember what Euripides said: ‘Public opinion has most shallow eyes.' My mother will be contacting the White House to invite your aunt to dinner soon. She's never forgotten how Mrs. Righton defended her during the campaign. All the best to you and Sparrow, Thomas Banforth.”

“That should stop them cold,” Sameera said. “I think I'll post an excerpt from that note in my sidebar so that it's constantly in sight.”

“The hottest law student in the country,” Miranda said, fanning herself with ten fingers. “And he's standing up for
me
.” Sighing, she went back to the desktop computer, where she'd shifted all of her movies.

With Bobby still on the brain, Sameera decided to launch into a romance-oriented post that she hoped would engage the fun seekers as well as the more serious types. And maybe even send a subliminal message Bobby's way if he checked in on Sparrowblog from the other side of the world.

After she published the post, she picked up the poetry anthology and read “Barley Bending” aloud to herself again: “So would I softly, day long, night long, change my sorrow into song.”
But how long do I have to wait? Come on, Bobby. Write that e-mail already. Change my sorrow into song.

The second time around, Teasdale's barley poem turned out to be prophetic. Sameera only had to wait exactly one “day long, night long” after rereading it. An e-mail winged its way from Kolkata, India, to Washington, D.C. on Sunday. She found it when she logged on after lunch, once again breaking her own no-screens-on-the-Sabbath rule in the quest for Bobby news.

Her heart danced a mini-bhangra when she saw the sender's name appearing in her in-box. But would the letter bring good news? Maybe his parents had finally given him permission to write. Or was his grandfather gone? She ran her hands quickly through Jingle's coat a couple of times before opening the e-mail, trying to steady her nerves.

(
You did?
Sameera thought.
He did?
)

Sameera read it through five times. Suddenly, she realized her third nonnegotiable.

Tenderness.

Sara Teasdale had saved the best for last in her poem—“a tenderness too deep to be gathered in a word.” And when a guy confessed his love for his grandfather, and then a few sentences later told you he missed you every minute of the day, he definitely had tenderness to spare.

Suddenly, Elizabeth Campbell Righton appeared out of nowhere, outfitted in her Sunday fleecy sweats. “Hear anything from Bobby?” she asked, plopping down on the sofa.

Sameera was silent. How did mothers
know
? Did God give them a special kind of radar when it came to the love lives of their children?

“Come on, sweetheart,” Mom said. “Don't make me use my executive powers to get information out of you. Something is going on with that guy and you want to talk about it. I can tell.”

Sameera nodded slowly. It was true, even though she might have to repeat the whole discussion with her father. She handed her mom the laptop with the note still open on the screen. Good thing Bobby hadn't gotten too personal. Her mother started reading just as Ran came into the room.

“E-mail from Bobby,” Sameera said tersely, and her cousin immediately leaned over Mom's shoulder to read the note.

Sameera's mother finished first. “Wait. Let me get this straight.
Dadu
means grandfather, right? Bobby's in India because his grandfather's sick? And his parents don't want him to date you because they think you're
Muslim
?”

“Right.”

“But you're not Muslim, Sparrow.”

“I am by blood. And that's what counts for them.”

Miranda was done reading now, too. “I think it's the grandfather who's got the problem with Sameera's heritage. His parents sound like they might be more open to the idea of Bobby and Sameera if he…weren't around.”

Sameera took back the laptop. “Ran! You can't be wishing that he'd die! That's harsh.”

“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.