White House Rules (7 page)

While the president and First Lady had some time to themselves, Miranda and Sameera wandered down to the big kitchen on the first floor. They were hoping to borrow the ingredients needed to bake frosted oatmeal scotchies for dessert.

Mr. Phillips smiled when Miranda told him what she was making. “Those are exactly the kind of cookies my grandmother used to make,” he said. “I've been hunting for a good recipe, but nothing out there seems right. Do you think I could have a sample when they're done?”

“Of course,” Miranda said. “I'll bring down a plate.”

Sameera left her cousin humming, baking, and mixing in the family kitchen and headed for the Lincoln Sitting Room. She sat on one of the wing chairs and opened her laptop, relishing the strange sensation of homecoming that she always got when she powered up. It was time to compose a new entry on her blog.

Next, it was time to answer Mariam's e-mail:

She powered down when Miranda came to find her, and they walked back across the hall to set the round table in the family dining room. “I posted on my blog today, but I'm wondering if we shouldn't stick to the Maryfield ‘no-screens-or-plugs-on-Sunday' rule from now on,” she told Ran, who was filling the water glasses. “It's sort of relaxing to detox from the Web one day a week.”

“Fine. I've gotten used to that rule after all these years, and I actually like it—don't tell Poppa that. But drop the holy act, Sparrow. I know why you don't feel the need to get online every five minutes. It's because you know Bobby can't send you anything.”

Sameera, who had just lit the tall, tapered candles on the table, sighed so heavily that she extinguished one of them. “I sure hope that conversation with his parents goes well. I should have told him about my make-your-parents-see-the-light family dinner plan.”

“Is that what we're doing? Are you going to tell your parents about Bobby?”

“No. I don't have to ask them for permission when it comes to dating. At least, I don't think so. We're definitely not as old-fashioned as Bobby's family.”

“Hey, your Hollywood heroes in black-and-white fantasy-land are all old-fashioned. Humphrey Bogart.
Casablanca.
Cary Grant.
An Affair to Remember.
Gregory Peck.
Roman Holiday.
”

Sameera grinned. Her cousin had named three of the movies they'd watched yet again over the holidays—mostly for the sake of the brilliant and beautiful heroes who lit up the screen. “Bogart. Now there's a hero for you. Sacrificing hope of future happiness for his lady love…and the greater good.”

“Well, Bobby made a sacrifice, didn't he? It must have been humiliating to admit he thinks it's important to obey his parents. Telling the truth like that took courage, so that proves he's got two out of your three treasures.”

Sameera glanced at her reflection on a knife before setting it on the table. “Yeah, he's definitely honest, even with his parents. Meanwhile, here I am, sneaking around behind
my
parents' backs.”

“Oh, so that's what this dinner is about—your illegal trip to that coffee house. Well, they didn't freak out the last time they found out about your getaway disguise, right?”

“Yeah, but that's not on the agenda. I'm not sure they're going to be as quick to forgive this time. The stakes are a lot higher now that I'm First Daughter.”

“You're right. Don't confess to night. They need to relax. So what are we trying to get them to see the light about?”

“Ran, what do you think about me enrolling in school next year?”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “You mean here in D.C.? What about Westfield?”

“I already talked to her about it. She thinks it's a great idea. I want to mention it to night and see how my parents take it.”

Jean-Claude was at the door, wheeling in the dinner the girls had ordered. “Here you go, ladies. A country-style Sunday steak-and-baked-potato dinner for four. Everything's hot and steaming, so gather your parents.”

“You get them, Sparrow,” Ran said. “I don't want to interrupt anything.”

“What? I'm their kid. It's way more embarrassing for me.”

They ended up doing rock, paper, scissors to see who had to summon Sameera's parents, and Miranda lost. While she was gone, Sameera lifted the stainless steel domes on the serving cart. The baked potatoes were crisped to perfection and came with sour cream, chives, and fresh bacon bits. Chilled forks and salad plates were included for the Cobb salad the girls had ordered. There was only one thing missing, and a quick intercom buzz brought Jean-Claude racing back up with a bottle of steak sauce.
There,
Sameera thought.
NOW everything's ready.

Mom arrived in jeans and an old blouse without a trace of makeup and her hair stuffed into a ponytail. Dad was wearing the fleecy Ohio State sweatshirt and sweatpants that Poppa and Gran had given him for Christmas. He had a trendy-looking afternoon shadow on his chin and cheeks.

Sameera served the food as the family gathered around the table. “So what's the purpose of this family dinner, girls?” Dad asked, filling two goblets with the red wine that had been sent up for him and Mom. The girls were drinking milk, of course.

“Come on, Dad, aren't you tired of agendas?” Sameera asked. “Let the conversation flow for a change. Eat. Drink. Relax.” Her father was too savvy for her own good.

Dad took a sip of wine. “You're right, Sparrow. Mmm. This vino is dee-vy-no. I think we should be strict about taking a day of rest while we're in the White House, Liz. Let's avoid scheduling anything on Sunday evenings unless a dire emergency comes up.”

The food was savored, the wine sipped, the milk chugged, and Dad's bad puns inspired even more tacky ones around the table. “Actually, there is something I want to talk about,” Sameera said, as Ran passed around her oven-warm, frosted scotchies.

“Sounds ominous,” said Dad.

“It's not. Mom, Dad, I'm wondering if I should enroll in school next fall.”

“School? But why would you want to do that? Don't you like Westfield?” Mom asked.

“She's great, but I'd like to be involved in extracurriculars again, like journalism and sports.”

James Righton was frowning. “What about security issues? Times have changed since the last president had a school-aged child. And besides, Sparrow, your practice SAT scores in math are better, but Westfield needs more time to work her miracles. A private tutor could bring you up to speed for college much faster than a school.”

“We can work out the security stuff, Dad. And Westfield could keep tutoring me after school.”

“This place could get kinda lonely for Sparrow after I leave,” Miranda added.

“Now that's a good point,” Mom said.

“And we don't have to decide now,” Sameera said quickly. “We can mull it over for a while and gather some information—maybe visit some of the schools that have educated First Daughters in the past to find out how they handle security.”

Her parents looked at each other. Dad shrugged. Mom nodded. “Okay, Sparrow,” she said. “I'll ask Tara to set something up.”

“More scotchies, Dad?” Sameera asked, passing the plate to her father.

“Sure, bribe me,” the president said glumly, reaching for two. “I swore I wasn't going to be one of those wimpy fathers whose daughters could charm them into saying yes to anything, but it's hard, Sparrow, it's hard.”

On Tuesdays, it was Sameera's turn to take the second tutoring session. She labored over geometry with Westfield, but it didn't feel like she was making much progress.

“You got a few more opinions on your fun versus serious post, Sparrow,” Miranda called through the open door between the two rooms. She was borrowing Sameera's laptop. Again.

“Sparrow's busy right now, Miranda,” said Westfield. She was usually the most patient of tutors, but proofs were completely stumping Sameera and exasperating both of them.

Sameera gazed through the open door longingly at her cousin—and her laptop. “What'd they say, Ran? It's a tie so far. Half my readers want me to be serious and deal with real issues, and the other half want me to bring them into the fun.”

“It's still a tie. Sparrowhawk posted again and said that if you don't get serious soon, she's tuning out. But a couple of other readers want a detailed description of the Viennese Ball.”

“Sparrow, we've only got about a half hour left,” Westfield warned. “Back to work.”

Sameera sighed. “Shut down the browser and my mail, Ran. I'm getting tortured. I mean tutored.”

“You've got to go the distance, Sparrow,” Westfield said, eerily channeling Jacques, Sameera's crew coach back in Brussels. “Your first try at the SATs is only a couple of months away, and then you'll have to take them again in the fall. Have you thought about where you're going to apply to college?”

“Of course,” Sameera answered. “Ohio State. Berkeley. Calvin College. Oh, and George Washington University.” She ignored the knowing look Ran sent her way. “They've all got great journalism programs. Which reminds me, Westfield, if I'm going to be a reporter, why do I need math?”

“To survive,” Westfield grunted. “We've gone over that a hundred times, Sparrow.”

Sameera glanced at her watch—only twenty-five minutes left. “What about you, Ran?” she called through the open door, banking on the fact that the tutor would be interested in her cousin's answer. “Which colleges are you thinking about?”

Miranda was trying to figure out the filmmaking software that came with Sameera's turbocharged laptop. She looked up distractedly. “Oh, I'll go to Ohio State eventually, Sparrow, you know that. Everybody in our family does. But I'm going to earn some major money first.”

“Why not go straight to college?” Westfield asked. “Ohio State has a great theater program—”

“I'm not interested in paying back college loans.” Miranda went back to frowning at the laptop screen.

There's the money thing again,
Sameera thought.
Wonder if Mom's made any progress in her find-Ran-a-job mission.

Westfield tapped Sameera's hand with her pencil. You
say something,
she mouthed.

“Might as well keep all the doors open by going to college first, Ran,” Sameera called, trying to rise to the occasion.

“Yes,” said Westfield. “Hollywood, college, dairy farming—”

Miranda got up and stormed over to the door. “I am not going to be a dairy farmer or marry a dairy farmer or live anywhere near Merry Dude Dairy Farm!”
Slam!
She prevented the possibility of any further questioning.

“Wow, her voice sounds exactly like Mom's when
she
gets going,” Sameera marveled. “I guess that settles it, then.
I'll
take over the farm. I'll care for the cows by day and write my syndicated column by night.”

“Or
I'll
take over the farm,” Westfield said. “Maybe then I'll be able to figure out how to bake some of those oatmeal scotchies. Mine just don't come out right, and believe me, I've tried.”

“The secret's in the frosting, Westfield. Or really, in the milk we use
for
the frosting. Pure fresh Merry Dude Dairy Farm milk.”

“Okay, back to work. Quit trying to distract me by talking about food.”

Miranda, once again demonstrating the amazing Campbell facility of getting mad and then forgetting about it instantly, reappeared to give their tutor her usual good-bye hug.

“Hey, are you free for dinner to night, Westfield?” Sameera asked. “Ran and I want to try out that new bistro in Georgetown.”

Westfield shook her head. “Sorry, girls, but I'm having dinner at your father's old rival's house. Tommy's got a free night, and Senator Banforth invited me to come and see him.”

Senator Victoria Banforth narrowly lost to James Righton in the presidential race, and her son Thomas was studying to be a lawyer at Georgetown. Westfield had tutored him, too, along with many other children on Capitol Hill, including Tara when her father, Senator Sam Colby, served two terms.

“Lucky you,” Miranda said. “That Thomas Banforth is luscious…and practically our neighbor since he transferred to a D.C. school.”

“He
is
a doll, isn't he? A bit young for me, but that's life. And the best part is that he's just as nice on the inside as on the outside. Okay, ladies. See you tomorrow.”

“Need your laptop, Sparrow?” Miranda asked, obviously itching to get back to her movie.

“Er…no. Not yet, anyway. I need some fresh air for my tired brain,” she said quickly. “And so does Jingle.”

She let the dog off his leash so he could mark bushes in the Rose Garden, prowl around the winter skeleton of the Jackson magnolia on the South Lawn, and sniff the roots of several leafless but stately elms. But he was more interested in herding squirrels.
They aren't cows, you silly dog,
Sameera thought, chasing him almost down to the gate before she could get him leashed again. Two Secret Ser vice agents raced after them.

Despite the fact that it was thirty degrees and late on a Tuesday afternoon, tourists and Rhinos alike peered through the wrought-iron gates, lenses poking through to try and catch a shot of any member of the First Family. Sameera waved to the cameras before leading Jingle uphill again. She'd love to talk shop with the reporters on the White House beat, especially the bloggers, to find out how they picked content and handled hypercritical or controlling commenters. But it would be hard to have a candid conversation with a hundred cameras pointing and flashing in your face. Maybe she could visit the White House press room again. She'd passed through it only once, right after her father's first official press conference. It had been full of empty takeout containers and tired-looking people typing on laptops, and she'd felt immediately at home.

Young Cougar was on the detail covering her this afternoon. The other agent was walking farther away, keeping an eye on the crowds lining the gate, but Sameera could see Y. C.'s breath in the frosty air every time she turned. “Come join me!” she called to him, veering away from the gates and heading toward the more secluded Children's Garden.

He walked faster to catch up. “Our K-9 agents have always been labs,” he told Sameera as they walked around the pond and stepped over the bronze handprints left behind by other First Children and First Grandchildren. “This dog would have been a good one. He doesn't stray far from your side. Unless he gets tempted by one of those squirrels.”

“He misses the farm. He's getting stiff from not running free every day. I hate to say it, but I think Ran should take him when she goes back in June.”

“Maybe you can get a puppy,” he said. His walkie-talkie beeped, and he spoke into his mouthpiece. “Peanut's in the PP. Peach is in the nest. Where's the Dove? Okay. Ten-four. Over and out.”

Was he referring to her having to go to the bathroom? Did these guys know
everything
? Oh, she got it now—PP, short for President's Park, the formal name for the grounds around the White House. “What's your name?” Sameera asked. “I hope it's okay to ask.”

“Everybody calls me JB,” he said.

“Which stands for…?”

“Jefferson Butler Williams at your ser vice. But nobody's called me that since the second grade.”

They walked into the spacious reception hall and shook the snow off their boots. “So where
is
the Dove?” Sameera asked.

“In the East Wing with the Bomb—I mean the Fish—er, I mean, with Miss Colby.”

Sameera stopped walking and turned to face him. “Is that her code name, the Fish?”

“Yeah, but I didn't name her that,” he said sheepishly. “My suggestion was the Bomb.”

“Short for
bombshell
, you mean, or the explosive kind?”

“Well, I was thinking it was short for bombshell, but I didn't tell the guys that. How'd you guess?”

“Intuition. So you think she's attractive, right?”

“Definitely,” he admitted. “The other agents think she's a cold fish, but I kind of like her. She's got spine, you know, not like some wishy-washy ladies out there who don't know what they want. She'd make a great agent.”

Sameera stole a quick look at his left hand.
Hmmm…no ring.
Her own romance was on hold until Bobby's return next week, but there was no reason why she couldn't make things happen for someone else. “Are you on my detail just for the afternoon, JB?” she asked, putting Jingle back on his leash.

“All the way until the late shift, actually.”

“Then let's go see what Mom's up to.”