White House Rules (17 page)

She didn't mention in her post that the school was public, but the first person to post a comment was Sparrowhawk.
Good for you, bird-girl
, was all it said, but it meant the world to Sameera.

The morning of her first day of school reminded her eerily of the first day of kindergarten. Miranda tucked a homemade sack lunch and a bag of cookies into her backpack, Mom got teary-eyed when she thought nobody was looking, but Dad was the worst—just as he had been all those years ago. He came upstairs and stalked around while Sameera ate breakfast, offering nervous, useless advice like, “You've got to stand up to bullies,” and, “Call me on your cell if you need anything.” She almost expected him to tie her shoes for her.

Miranda helped her get dressed, pulling her hair back in a ponytail and choosing a pair of big gold hoop earrings, tight jeans, a black T-shirt with a dog outlined in pink sequins, and a white down parka. The three of them—and Jingle, of course—accompanied Sameera all the way to the East Entrance, where JB and Sandra were waiting by the armored car that would take her to school every day.

“Are you sure you don't want one of us to go with you?” Mom asked.

“I'll be fine, Mom. I'll stop by and see you after school and let you know how things went.”

“I'll be around, too, Sparrow,” Dad said. “Come have a coffee in the West Wing when you're done in the East Wing.”

“Are
you
sure you're going to be okay, Ran?” Sameera asked, while Jingle circled the group as though trying to herd them back into the White House.

“I'll be fine,” Miranda answered. “Westfield's coming, and then I have to fill three new orders for scotchies and work some more on that second movie. It'll be three o'clock before I blink.”

A herd of Rhinos tracked the limo from the White House all the way to the stairway leading into the school. It was still early, but a few students were starting to push through the pack of paparazzi to climb the stairs. Even though she was fielding questions of her own, Sameera overheard a few other Q&A exchanges as she made her way up.

“How do you guys feel about the First Daughter coming to Jacob Lawrence?”

“Excited.”

“Sort of scared. What if our school gets bombed by terrorists or something?”

“The first who?”

Just before entering the building, Sameera turned and waved and a barrage of flashes detonated around the semi-circle of paparazzi.

The school looked cleaner, with fresh coats of paint everywhere. A huge banner hung over the door that read
WELCOME, SAMEERA RIGHTON,
and Mr. Richards was waiting to greet her.

This was the moment Sameera had been dreading, because she and Mom agreed that she needed to confess their burka disguise plan.

“You mean that was your mother?” he asked, dumb-founded. “Why didn't Mariam tell me? I would have done something special, I would have—”

“That's exactly why we didn't let Mariam tell you,” Sameera said. “Mom wanted to see the school as is. And she must have liked it because she sent me back, right? But please, let's keep that secret visit just between you and me.”

“Of course. We certainly don't want to stir up any more excitement around here. It's going to be hard enough to get any learning done over the next few days.”

He was right. A constant stream of kids came up to Sameera to introduce themselves or to ask questions about life in the White House. Most of them didn't read her blog, she realized. She could always identify regular Sparrowblog readers because they didn't seem overawed by her presence or flustered by their brush with fame. Maybe the blog readers already felt connected to the First Daughter through the cyberconversations that progressed from week to week. But a lot of Jacob Lawrence students treated Sameera like a celebrity, asking for autographs, following her as she walked to class, badgering the agents with questions about their jobs, weapons, and training, and taking pictures with cell phones and cameras.

I'm glad I jumped into the deep end now,
thought Sameera, signing yet another autograph in the hallway.
Probably by next fall, I'll be old news.
Still, even this first day would be interesting to describe later on her blog. And maybe, as she got to know some Jacob Lawrence students, she could ask them to share their stories with Sparrowbloggers.

The cafeteria was a prime location for informal photo shoots. Both of the agents brought in their own lunches, and Mariam had
halal
food from home. She offered roti and lentils to Sameera, and Sameera, in turn, shared her cousin's White-House-made scotchies all around.

“Doesn't anyone at your school surf the Web?” she asked Mariam as kids came and went, asking if they could have their picture taken with Sameera or with one of the agents. “I'd love for these guys to read my blog. That would save me a lot of explanation.”

“Some of us don't have computers at home,” Mariam reminded her gently. “I read your blog at the public library.”

“What about here at school?”

“We've got some computers set up but they're only for the teachers, and we don't have room for a computer lab. You saw those unopened boxes sitting in the hallway, right?”

“What about putting them in the library? I know it's small, but I think at least half a dozen computers could be squeezed around one of those tables.”

“None of our teachers have time to set that up, and our librarian's only here two days a week.”

“Why don't you and I help her, Mariam? I know something about setting up computers, and you're so smart, you'll figure it out in no time.”

Mariam shrugged. “We could try, I guess. We can ask Mr. Richards. And the librarian's here tomorrow, so we can talk with her about it then.”

The principal distractedly gave his permission, and the librarian agreed. The school closed at three, but opened at seven in the morning to serve the kids who came in for a hot breakfast. Miriam and Sameera decided to work before classes started.

“We're going to need some help,” Mariam said. “I'll get Rashida and Tahera to ask their linebacker boyfriends to come in early and lug the boxes over to the library.”

She'd introduced Sameera to her two Pakistani friends, who spent most of their time attached to their boyfriends. The guys were neither Muslim nor Pakistani; somehow, Sameera couldn't imagine Rashida's and Tahera's parents ecstatically welcoming these boys into the family as potential husbands for their sixteen-year-old daughters. But maybe she was wrong. Nadia's parents were Pakistanis, too, and she was planning on taking a Filipino guy home with her for spring break.

“Do Tahera's and Rashida's parents
let
them date?” she asked Mariam curiously.

“No way,” Mariam answered. “But they do it anyway, secretly. I could never go behind my parents' backs like that, could you?”

“I don't think so,” Sameera admitted.
And thankfully, neither could the guy I love.

Thanks to JB's and the boyfriends' muscles, the cartons of computers were moved to the library and the girls unpacked them. Setting up a network of eight terminals and printers on one small table was more complicated than Sameera had anticipated, but Sandra, who started as a technology specialist in the Ser vice, helped out. A lot. Thanks to her (and a couple of extra items that Sameera paid for and smuggled in without anybody noticing), the new Jacob Lawrence network was soon up and humming.

The agents would have been a popular addition to the school even without Sandra's techno-skills. Girls flirted all the time with JB, despite the fact that he was twice their age. “It's that sexy earpiece,” Tahera said, sighing as she watched him from afar. “And those dimples.”

“He's taken,” Sameera said hastily, catching sight of Tahera's boyfriend glaring at JB. “He's practically engaged to my mother's assistant.”

More and more Jacob Lawrence students started visiting Sparrowblog now that they had access to the Web. So many kids wanted to use the computers that the librarian had to organize a sign-up sheet for fifteen-minute chunks of time.

Meanwhile, Sameera found most of the schoolwork easy to handle. A few of the teachers seemed a bit wary of her at first, as though they were afraid to grade or correct the First Daughter. But after a few days, when they realized she wasn't the diva type, they, too, settled down. She had some of her classes with Mariam, and she was glad that she'd been placed in the section with the inspiring English teacher.

Mariam shone in every subject. “I did fine on my practice SATs,” she told Sameera. “Now if only I could show that I had more well-rounded activities than just helping my baba organize the inventory for his shop. Which reminds me, my grandmother keeps bugging me—she wants you to come back to our
ghar
for a visit.”

“
Ghar
?” Sameera asked, remembering that Bobby had used the same word in his e-mail. “Doesn't that mean ‘house?'”

“I think a better translation is ‘home,' Sameera,” Mariam said. “But your pronunciation is perfect—you've got that
gh
sound and the
uh
that follows it just perfectly.”

“What's the word for ‘
white,
' then?”

“
Sa-fed
.”

“So, I live in the
Sa-fed Ghar
?”

“That's close enough,” said Mariam, grinning. “Have you heard from Bobby about when he's coming back?”

By now, Sameera had discovered two wonderful things about Mariam: she was a great listener and she knew how to keep a secret. “Yes! Two more weeks until Bobby Return Day, Mariam. I can't wait!”

She was desperately and passionately longing for Bobby, night and day, week in and week out. He'd sent a quick note with his flight information, but after that, no e-mails came from that cybercafé in Kolkata, and Sameera totally understood why. He was grieving the loss of a grandfather. He was helping his parents settle the details of the funeral and estate, and reconnecting with family friends and second cousins. As she updated her countdown-to-BRD calendar on her laptop, ticking off another day, and then another, a part of Sameera wished she could be there with him, helping, getting to know his family, trying her best to be a comfort.

Soon, the cherry trees were putting out tentative buds. Birdsong filled the White House gardens, and the stately old trees were ready to be clothed again in fresh new leaves. Even the lawns were beginning to shift from a dull brown to a misty green.

And finally, finally, BRD arrived.

Sameera was waiting for him just inside the entry hall; she'd already called to make sure his flight was on time. Ran had helped her pick out her outfit, like she did for any special event—faded blue jeans, sandals, a thigh-length, white-and-blue embroidered kurta, and some bracelets of her own.
We'll make music together,
Sameera thought as she checked her watch for the thirtieth time and the bracelets clinked their accompaniment.

The taxi from the airport dropped Bobby off right outside the North Portico. He made it through the first round of security at the gate, and Sameera watched him from the entry hall as he walked up the circular driveway toward the steps. He'd dressed nicely for the long trip. She could see the oxford-cloth button-down blue shirt and beige slacks under his open coat, and a rolling suitcase trailing behind him. His hair was much shorter than it had been, but to Sameera's eyes, that made his chiseled features stand out even more.

And he was carrying flowers in his free hand—a dozen long-stemmed, old-fashioned, gorgeous red roses. Maybe it was the bouquet that did it, or the expression on his face as he scanned the façade of the White House. Sameera raced out into the crisp March air, stopping on the step just above him as they came face-to-face.

She'd been waiting so long for this moment and had rehearsed a hundred different sentences that would be perfect for their reunion. But in the moment, with Bobby six inches away, she found herself at a complete loss for anything to say.

A tenderness too deep to be gathered in a word.
Sara Teasdale's last line of poetry came leaping into her mind as he cupped her face in his hands. She felt the familiar steel of a bangle graze her skin. Did she put her arms around him first, or did he kiss her first? It didn't matter. It wasn't a passionate kiss or a steamy embrace, but they looked into each other's eyes for a long minute afterward, and still neither of them said anything.

Then Jingle came hurtling through the open door, barking his welcome, and they heard Miranda yelling something as she followed the dog down the stairs.

“Hush, Jingle,” Sameera said, pulling away from Bobby. “What's up, Ran?”

“Sorry for interrupting, but the agents want Bobby to go through security ASAP,” her cousin said. “The guys on the roof thought he was attacking you. Hi, Bobby, by the way. It's great to finally meet you.”

“Me too, Miranda, but I feel like we've known each other for a long time already.”

“Thanks to Sparrowblog,” Miranda said.

“Thanks to Sparrow,” Bobby said, his eyes going back to Sameera's face.

“I was so sorry to hear about your grandfather, Bobby,” Sameera said.

“It was hard. I want to tell you about his memorial service,” Bobby said. “We have so much to talk about. How long does security take?”

“It shouldn't take long at all,” Sameera said, taking his hand and leading him up the rest of the stairs.

“That is if you're playing by the rules,” Miranda added, waiting for Sameera to join her. They launched into the list together:

“You didn't bring any animals, 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 along, did you?”

“Just one suitcase,” he answered, smiling at the cousinly harmony. “But it's full of presents for you and your family. I even brought something along for the pooch. They can x-ray it if they like, but I don't want them unwrapping any thing, okay?”

“White House rules are pretty strict, but we'll figure it out,” Sameera said, throwing open the doors to the entry hall. “Welcome to
my ghar,
Bobby. Make yourself at home.”