White House Rules (4 page)

Sameera's mother, who could care less about interior design, had delegated all First Lady redecorating rights to her daughter and niece.

“Pick a good designer, girls,” Tara had told them privately. “We've got a bit more money in the bud get than your mom realizes.”

The girls, of course, had chosen Designer Danny, host of the hit reality show
Décor for Dummies
—one of the cousins' many shared addictions. His people smugly accepted the office of the First Lady's call for help, never dreaming that when Sameera and Miranda suggested his name, Elizabeth Campbell Righton would respond with a baffled, “Who's
he
?”

In addition to getting new furniture for the Lincoln Sitting Room, the cousins were going to redo their bedrooms, the living quarters on Air Force One, and a few rooms at Camp David. They were leaning toward California mini-malist on Air Force One, because James Righton liked things streamlined, Ohio-farm cozy in their bedrooms and the Lincoln Room, and global-import-trendy at Camp David, which meant lots of sequins, paisley, silk, mosaic, batik, and squashy ottomans with tassels. But of course they wanted to hear from Designer Danny, too.

The popular host of
Décor for Dummies
was much tinier than he appeared on television—about the same height as Sameera herself. He flitted around the Lincoln Sitting Room like a hummingbird, fingering fabrics and stroking wood, even getting on his hands and knees to squint into the weave of the heirloom Persian carpet. Sadly, his habit of emphasizing certain words turned out to be extremely annoying in real life.

“I'm so
glad
you girls called me in. Redecorating a place like the
White House
will require the
utmost
care and expertise.”

“We still haven't figured out a bud get for this room,” Sameera told him. “But we're hoping at least to buy some comfortable chairs.”

“We must have magnificent
traditional
furniture to match the beauty of these architectural lines. For chairs and a settee, I'll need to travel to Italy. France. Maybe Portugal.”

“Mom told us to keep it simple,” Sameera said sternly, trying to rein him in. “She thinks most of this place is fine the way it is.”

“Besides, we were hoping to make this room feel a little more…contemporary,” Miranda added.

“Oh no, girls. Simple is
not
what this room needs,” Danny said with a shudder of distaste. “And definitely not
contemporary
. That
demonstrates
the difference between the
taste
of a novice and the
eye
of an expert. It's a good thing your mother called me.”

Sameera could tell that her cousin was just as irritated as she was by the “novice” comment. They knew how to “respect historical architectural lines”—the marriage between architecture and interior décor was a recurring theme in Danny's show. And just because they were teenagers didn't mean they had bad taste. In fact, they'd had a great time redecorating the family room in their grandparents' house; visitors often commented that the cozy look perfectly reflected the Campbell clan's hospitality. And Sameera had received accolades from the State Department for the job she'd done on the den in the Ambassador's Residence in Brussels.

The girls used up their first expensive hour-long consultation convincing Designer Danny that a pair of comfortable leather recliners by the fire wouldn't wreck the “austere Victorian environment” of the room.

After the session, he headed downstairs, stopping to fondle vases and urns and gaze at paintings that he passed. The cousins watched him go, noting his rapture over the chandelier in the stairwell and the way he caressed the mahogany banister as though it were alive.

“He's a bit too…invested, I think,” Miranda murmured thoughtfully.

“And he wants to spend oodles of cash. We could have bought one of the recliners we want with the money we owe him for today. I think we'll send a note to his people that the First Lady's all set for now.”

“Sounds good.” Miranda sighed. “Another idol bites the dust.”

Sameera knew exactly what her cousin was talking about. “That jerk from
American Rock Star
tried to get a little too hands-on the other night, didn't he?”

“I shredded his autograph. Thanks for the intervention, by the way.”

“Any time. We'd better get ready for school.”

They'd decided to use the East Sitting Hall on the second floor as the setting for their tutor's two-hour one-on one sessions. That way, the other cousin could relax in the adjoining Lincoln Sitting Room doing homework, watching television, or surfing the Web.

That first afternoon of White House school, even with Westfield teaching her as efficiently and patiently as ever, Sameera was distracted. She was eager to figure out her confront-Bobby plan, and for some reason, Sparrowhawk's provocative blog comment kept running through her mind.

“Okay, Sparrow,” said Westfield finally. “Say what you have to say, and then we'll get back to geometry. What's up?”

“Don't take this personally, Westfield, because we both know how good you are,” Sameera said. “But what do you think about me going to school, for my senior year at least?”

“It's not a bad idea, actually. But would you want to start a new school just for one year? Wouldn't that be hard?”

“Maybe. But I miss being
involved
. In Brussels I coxed for the crew team, helped organize fundraisers for
great
causes, and was probably going to be the
editor
of the paper by my senior year.”
I'm emphasizing just like Designer Danny,
she realized.
Maybe it's contagious.

“I see your point. If you were a normal homeschooler, we could get you involved in group activities and clubs, but you're sort of a special case, aren't you?”

“Now there's an understatement. Other First Kids went to school, right?”

“Yes, but I'm not sure how open your parents would be to the idea, Sparrow,” Westfield said. “The world's a much more dangerous place now.”

“So I'm supposed to hide inside the White House for four years? No way, Westfield.”

“Hey, I'm on your side, Sparrow,” the tutor said.

Sameera sighed. “I'll have to use the old make-your-parents-see-the-light family dinner plan.”

“Really? And what does that entail?”

“You encourage them to take a nap, promising to organize dinner while they rest. Then you set the table, light some candles, and serve up warm, crusty bread and a great salad. Followed by one of their favorite entrées. You let them relax, eat, drink, laugh, talk. Then, over coffee and dessert, you casually bring up the controversial subject. The plan works best on a Sunday afternoon, by the way.”

“You conniving child. Let me know how it goes. Now let's get back to geometry.”

During Miranda's turn with Westfield, Sameera scoured the Web, found the spa closest to the Revolutionary Café, and made reservations for herself and her cousin. She called Tara's office phone, hoping to leave a message asking for a car and a Secret Ser vice detail.

But Tara herself picked up after one ring, and she wasn't thrilled with Sameera's Friday afternoon plans. “Who recommended
that
hole-in-the-wall?” she asked. “There's a fantastic full-ser vice luxury spa in Arlington that caters to political families. I could also set up an appointment for you girls right in the White House.”

“I know, but I want this place, Tara,” Sameera said firmly.
Next time I'll invite you to join us, because all you do is work 24/7 and you
need
a day at the spa. But not this time.

“Okay, Sparrow,” Tara said, giving up. “I'll have someone make the arrangements.”

Wilhelm and Peter arrived on schedule, bearing super-size boxes of sour candies and chocolate-covered raisins for the movie. They happily gave permission for Miranda to film as they oohed and wunderbarred the velour seats and huge screen in the theater. Miranda was also filming (without permission) the Cougars who stood in the back, earpieces in place and sleeve microphones picking up every sound. She turned her camera off only when the lights dimmed, settling into her chair with a squirm of satisfaction.

Sameera noticed that Peter immediately put an arm around her cousin, and that Miranda just as quickly removed it. She sat next to Wilhelm (who maintained a respectful nontouching distance at all times, thank goodness), barely watching
The Bourne Identity
, which she'd seen twice already thanks to her cousin's intense Matt Damon fixation of a few years ago. Politely, Wilhelm tilted the open candy box in her direction, and Sameera accepted a sour apple ring, mentally rehearsing the details of her see-Bobby-again-if-it-kills-me plan.

The first thing she had to do, of course, was convince her cousin to participate.

“No way, Sparrow,” Miranda said again as the girls both brushed their teeth in Sameera's bathroom that night. Their guests had left after a rousing bowling competition in the single-lane alley, with the girls eking out a three-games-to two victory.

Sameera rinsed and spit into the basin. “I
promise
, nothing's going to happen to me, Ran. I promise.”

“But what if it does? What if you get…kidnapped or something?”

“Nobody gets kidnapped on the spur of the moment, Ran. Give me some credit, will you? I've been walking around the streets of big cities by myself for years. You don't think an American ambassador's kid was a vulnerable target? I knew how to stay safe then, and I know how to stay safe now. Besides, I'll be in disguise from head to toe. Please, Ran. All you have to do is hold on to my locator while you have a wonderful, relaxing spa treatment.”

“How are you going to ditch the Cougars?”

“Leave that part to me. Just…don't blow my cover, okay? And give me two hours. I have to see him, Ran.”

Her cousin sighed. “I'm an idiot. I'll do it, but you owe me big-time, Sparrow.”

Sameera threw her arms around Miranda. “Thanks, Ran. You won't regret it.”

During a tough physics session the next afternoon, Sameera almost wished she
was
getting the lime and Dead Sea–salt scrub she'd reserved. Finally, Westfield left, and it was time to head out.

When the armored black limousine dropped them off in front of the spa, a two-man Cougar team was already there, ready and waiting. Sameera was relieved to see that they had an all-male detail to night, including the driver. The Cougarette who was sometimes assigned to cover Peanut and Peach could easily have followed the girls into the ladies' locker area. There was no way Sameera wanted close surveillance today.

The driver stayed in the limo, but the youngish agent who'd trailed Sameera and Bobby at the airport (the girls had dubbed him Young Cougar until they got better at names) and his colleague, a middle-aged dude with flecks of gray in his hair (aka Mature Cougar), had to wait in the richly scented reception area, where even the combo of flickering candlelight and soft Peruvian flutes failed to relax them. Tall, vigilant, and stiff, they stood on either side of the front entrance like black pillars.

“My bag is huge,” Sameera whispered to Miranda as they stood behind a stressed-out-looking client checking in for a treatment. “Do you think someone will notice?”

“You could be bringing in your own robe or something,” Miranda hissed back. She was fumbling in her purse for money.

The only awkwardness between the cousins arose when they had to pay for something. Sameera wasn't an extravagant shopper, but she'd always bought what ever she needed without stopping to think. Miranda's allowance, while perfectly adequate by Maryfield, Ohio, standards, was nothing compared to the generous expense account the Rightons always provided for their daughter.

“Don't be crazy, Ran,” Sameera said, pulling out her credit card. “This was my idea.”

As her cousin watched, frowning, Sameera added a generous tip for the ser vices she wasn't going to have.

They gathered up their waffle-weave white robes and waterproof slippers and headed for the ladies-only locker room. Just before they left the reception area, Miranda turned to wave at the Cougars. “Have fun,” the younger agent called, and Sameera felt a pang of guilt. Here they'd take a bullet on her behalf, and she was planning to trick them. She'd have to make sure she was back in two hours—without getting caught.

Thankfully, inside the locker room were only a few exhausted women who didn't want to connect with strangers or recognize familiar faces, even famous ones. Nobody paid the slightest attention to anybody else, which was perfect for Sameera's purposes. She stuffed her robe and slippers into a locker, took her bag, and ducked into one of the private dressing rooms.

Miranda's mouth fell open when she came out. “Wow, Sparrow. I've never actually
seen
you in one of those things. You were right—nobody's going to recognize you.”

“It's a good thing it's cold outside. I'm sweating up a storm already. And I hope there's a rear ser vice exit from the locker room.”

“Be careful, please, Sparrow. I'll leave my cell phone on—call me if you run into trouble.”

“You might not be able to answer it while you're getting that wrap. They pretty much swaddle you, I think.”

“Well, that'll make two of us, then,” Miranda said, fingering the cloth of her cousin's thick head covering.

“Here's my locator.” Sameera handed Miranda the small electronic box that a First Daughter was supposed to carry with her at all times.

“I still can't believe you're doing this,” Miranda said. She took the locator reluctantly and tucked it into the pocket of her robe.

Sameera leaned forward and kissed her cousin's cheek through the gauzy fabric of her veil. “Thanks, Ran,” she said. “Have fun.”

“Yeah, right. I'm going to be in agony till you get back.

Here I am at a spa and I'm so not relaxed it's not even funny. Stay safe, Sparrow.”

Sameera made her way toward the sound of whirling washers and dryers at the far end of the locker room. Thankfully, no one but her cousin was keeping track of her progress. She slipped out of the back laundry into a ser vice alley and through a door that led to the sidewalk.

Once she was out, Sameera headed quickly away from where the limo was parked. She tried to walk with a middle-aged demure gait. If the Cougar in the driver's seat glanced in his rearview mirror, she wanted him to see the back of a Muslim woman. It was twilight now, and she made sure to stay out of the streetlights, keeping close to the shadows of the buildings.

When she finally turned the corner, she exhaled in relief. She'd done it, thanks to the wonderful burka that she'd bought last August. Well, that she'd been given by the shop owner and his family, actually, during the campaign.
I'll have to visit Uncle Muhammad's shop and actually BUY something this time,
she thought, hurrying toward the Revolutionary Café.
And see Mariam again.

The SARSA meeting was taking place at a table right by the door. As soon as she walked in, Sameera recognized her friend Sangi's voice booming out as confidently as ever. Sangi's best buddy, George, must have gotten contacts because his glasses were gone. Beside him was the ever-gorgeous Nadia, fiddling with a silken strand of her long, shining hair.

And there
he
was, with his back to her. Quietly, she approached their table, trying to keep her heart from beating visibly through the thick black wool.

“Sparrow?! Is that you?” Sangi asked, and Sameera was grateful that she'd lowered her voice.

Bobby jumped off his chair as though he'd received an intense electric shock. One look into his brown eyes, and the flickers of attraction Sameera had been missing with Wilhelm spontaneously combusted into a raging inferno. But why had he grabbed his backpack as though he were about to make a run for it? And was that an expression of
relief
on his face as his eyes traveled across her burka?

“She came! You were right, Sangi,” George said. “She was just telling us that she e-mailed you, Sparrow.”

“I didn't think you would,” said Nadia. “Can you
be
here alone?”

Bobby didn't say anything, but he sat down again and put his bag on the ground beside him.

“I snuck out,” Sameera said. “I had to see…you guys. Keep it quiet, will you?”

“Here,” George said, pulling up another chair. “I'll get your coffee. Cream, no sugar, right?”

“Right. Thanks.” She sat down.

“We weren't sure if they let you mingle with the masses like this on your own,” Sangi said. “Aren't you supposed to have agents protecting you at all times?”

“Yep. I ditched them.”

“For us?” Bobby asked, and even though his voice was so low, she could hear the intensity in it.

Courage,
Sameera thought. “For you,” she said simply, looking him straight in the eyes.

Sangi and Nadia stood up just as George got back with Sameera's coffee. “Here it is,” he announced cheerfully, sitting down again on his stool. “So, how have you been, Sparrow? Hey…wait a minute…I'm not going anywhere. What is
wrong
with you two? We haven't seen Sparrow since…”

His voice trailed off as Sangi and Nadia hauled him to the other side of the coffee house. Bobby and Sameera were alone.

“I'm so glad you came, Sameera,” Bobby said. “I know I need to explain why I haven't answered your phone messages. Or called.”

“That's why I'm here,” she said, taking a sip of coffee in a superhuman effort to remain calm.

“It's just that when I opened that Vote for Righton T-shirt you gave me, Ma and Baba started asking questions…about us.”

“What's the problem? Are they Democrats or something? Do they hate my dad?”

“No. They're not even citizens yet. It's something else.”

“What? What is it, Bobby? You've got to tell me; we don't have much time.”

“
All right
, Sameera. I'm doing my best. I told you my grandfather's really sick back in India, right?”

She nodded.

He took a huge sip of coffee as though trying to steady his nerves with the caffeine. “Well, that's why my parents made me promise not to contact you. They don't want me to be photographed with you in public, because they're afraid he'll see it. And get stressed out.”

“But why? He doesn't even know me. Does he hate Americans or something?”

Another enormous chug of coffee. “No, no, not that. It's because…because you're Muslim.”

She was flabbergasted. “I don't practice Islam.”

“Doesn't matter. You're Muslim by birth. And like I told your mom, my family's Hindu.”

“And…?”

“So—one of my great-uncles was killed by Muslims during the war. And we lost our jute farm when our village was taken over by Muslims.”

“But that was ages ago, Bobby. What does that have to do with me? Or us?”

He frowned into his cup, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and she finally realized that he was battling immense amounts of embarrassment.

Quickly, she purged any hint of the frustration she was feeling out of her voice. “I've had friends from lots of cultures and traditions, Bobby. Nothing you say is going to sound strange or weird to me, I promise.”

He stopped squirming and sat up a little straighter. “Dadu's got this grudge against the Muslims because of his brother's death, and the jute farm, and with his illness and all…well, Ma and Baba think it might kill him if he knew I was seeing you. Or if we were ever photographed together. So they told me not to call or e-mail you.”

Sameera thought of her Turkish crew teammate and his Armenian love, whose parents had forbidden them to date. But the two of
them
had met on the sly. “And you promised?” she asked. “Just like that?”

“I had to. They asked me on the way to the airport. Baba was so upset by the latest update on Dadu's health, and Ma was crying. What else could I do?”

You could have said, “No way, this is the twenty-first century and you guys are nuts.”
“So this is it, then,” she said flatly. “You're saying good-bye.”

“This is
not
good-bye, Sparrow. At least not from me. I've been calling home nonstop trying to change their minds. I think Ma's close to admitting that they made a bad move, but Baba's still worried sick, and she won't even let me talk to him.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I'm going home next weekend to convince them that they're wrong. The whole thing's crazy, anyway. What I really want to do is have an honest conversation with Dadu. I mean
you
had nothing to do with stealing the family jute farm—why should
you
be on his blacklist?”

Some of my ancestors might have been involved,
Sameera thought. “Do they…does he…expect your parents to arrange your marriage, too?” she asked hesitantly.

“You mean pick out a wife for me? Er…yes.” His voice was so low now she could hardly hear it. “I know it sounds crazy for an eighteen-year-old guy to say that he's never had a girlfriend or even gone on a date, but it's true, Sparrow. You're the first girl that ever made me want to—” He stopped.

She leaned closer, and lowered her voice, too. “To what, Bobby?”

He reached for her hand, pulled it across the table, and kissed it. “To break the rules,” he said.

The kiss was quick and light, but she could still feel it on her skin when he let go. Sameera wondered if all the clientele inside the Revolutionary Café could feel the heat of it.

“I've never had a boyfriend or dated anyone before either, Bobby,” she said. “Crushes, of course, but nothing serious. Until you came along.”

“I was pretty sure how you felt that day in the airport, when you looked at me…”

“You mean before we got attacked by the pack of Girl Scouts?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Before they descended. Listen, Sparrow, I'm so sorry I haven't been able to call you. I'm going to figure out a way for this to work, but in the meantime I have to keep my word—I won't lie to my parents.”

“What happens if you can't convince them?”

“I'm not coming back to D.C. until I do. I bought my ticket to Charleston already—I leave a week from today,” he said.

“I hope they understand, Bobby. I've been missing you so much.”

“Me too, Sparrow. Thanks for taking a risk and coming here. For listening. For understanding. It's going to work out, I promise. I have to go now—I'm tutoring in the writing lab and I've got an appointment.”

“Okay, Bobby. Let me know what happens.”