White House Rules (12 page)

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.

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

Sameera grinned as she typed an answer to that thread.

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. They 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!”

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 you 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?”

“But how would we get
out
of the White House and
into
the school without the press following us?” Mom asked, but Sameera could tell she, too, was starting to warm up to the plan.

“I don't know,” Sameera said. “But I'll find out. And I know just who to ask.”

“There is a secret passage,” JB admitted reluctantly, when they called him up for a consult. “You can use that to get out of the building without the press discovering that you're leaving.”

“Great,” Mom said. “Let's check it out right now and see if it works. Lead the way.”

“Right now?” JB asked.

“Now,” Dad said firmly.

JB tried explaining to headquarters what they wanted to do, but Dad himself had to get on the phone before the top Secret Ser vice honcho authorized the outing.

Followed by about six other agents, JB led them through a door in the hall between the bronze busts of Churchill and Eisenhower. They cut through a storage room and emerged into a hallway right by the White House florist.

At the end of the hallway, they took a sharp right. “Isn't this the way to the basement?” the president asked.

“It is,” JB said, steering them through a steel door. When he opened it, all the nonagents gasped. There was a hidden tunnel that led under the East Wing away from the White House.

“Not too many people know about this exit,” JB said sternly. “Let's keep it that way.”

When they came out of the tunnel, they looked around blankly. “Where are we?” Mom asked.

“In the Treasury Building, next door to the White House,” JB said. “It's closed now, since it's Sunday, but if you ever want to use this route for an unseen getaway, we can arrange to have a limo waiting around the back.”

“Okay, Sparrow,” Mom said. “I'll get those contacts.”

“You can borrow my bronzing lotion, Aunt Liz,” added Miranda.

“And I'll call Mariam right away,” said Sameera.