“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.”
chapter 13
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 he
r 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.”
chapter 14
Sameera and the agent walked through the long, glassed-in colonnade to the East Wing, which was still bustling with activity even though it was five-thirty in the afternoon. In the sunny, large First Lady’s office, Mom, Tara, and a couple of other staffers were sitting around the small oval meeting table. Sameera couldn’t see JB’s eyes behind his glasses, but she hoped they were taking in the tight-fitting navy suit with white piping that showed off Tara’s figure.
“Hi, Sparrow,” Mom said. “We’re trying to narrow down the choices for my domestic issue. Want to join us for a brainstorming session? I’m thinking illegal immigrants, but these people think that’s too controversial.”
“Maybe later, Mom. Ran’s waiting for me upstairs. Which reminds me—any progress on finding her a job?”
Mom turned to Tara with a questioning look.
Tara shook her head. “Nothing yet. But we’re still looking around.”
“Good. Did you set up a school visit yet?”
“I’ve already contacted St. Matthew’s,” Tara said. “It’s the finest private school for girls in the D.C. area—most of the political daughters go there, so you should feel right at home.”
“Isn’t that where you went?”
“It is indeed. I know the headmistress.” She flipped open her handheld and consulted the screen. “We’ve got an appointment this Thursday.”
“Great. Hey, Mom, what are you and Dad doing tonight?”
Another questioning look traveled from Elizabeth Campbell Righton to Tara, who tapped a stylus on the screen of her handheld Master First Lady Planner.
“You have a dinner with a dozen visiting governors, Liz,” Tara said. “And their spouses. Seven-thirty sharp.”
“Do you have to be there, Tara?” Sameera asked.
Tara looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. “No. Why?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to join Ran and me for dinner in Georgetown to night. That new bistro got a great review in the paper and we’ve been wanting to try it. Strictly for fun, of course. No business.”
“You should go, Tara,” Mom said. “You spend way too much time in the office. You need to have some fun.”
Tara seemed surprised. “You really want me to come?” she asked Sameera.
“Of course,” said Sameera.
“Okay. I’ll meet you in the front hall at seven-forty-five,” said Tara, smiling. “I hope what I’m wearing is okay.”
“Looks great,” said Sameera. “Doesn’t it, JB?”
He was still standing in the back of the room, as silent and vigilant as ever. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered crisply.
Mom threw Sameera an I-know-you’re-up-to-something look. “Sounds like a plan. Now let’s get back to our session. I’m not really interested in censoring the entertainment industry, Tara. I hardly watch any movies, and—”
The door flew open, and in rushed Miranda. She was breathless, flushed, excited. “You’ll never guess what happened.”
“What happened, Ran?”
Miranda threw her arms open and spun around the room in her own partner-free version of the Viennese waltz, reminding Sameera exactly of Julie Andrews in the opening scene of The Sound of Music. “Jerry Gaithers wants to meet me,” her cousin was caroling instead of “the hills are alive.” “Jerry Gaithers. Me. Jerry Gaithers. Me. Jerry. Me.”
Sameera was sure that her own face was as blank as her mother’s. Tara, however, looked amazed. “Jerry Gaithers? Are you sure, Miranda?” she asked.
Miranda stopped spinning and whirling, which was good, because Sameera was getting dizzy watching. And so was Jingle, who was leaping madly around Miranda, offering himself to her as a possible dance partner.
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” said Miranda. “I was browsing through Sparrowblog to check in on the conversation. Well, guess what? Someone had just posted a comment asking me to contact Gaithers’s secretary. I wasn’t sure it was legit, but I sent an e-mail through his website anyway, and his secretary e-mailed a phone number back right away. We set up a meeting during his next visit to D.C. It all happened so fast. Can you believe it?”
Tara shook her head. “I can’t. Gaithers is big.”
“Okay,” Sameera said. “Who is Jerry Gaithers? And why is he commenting on Sparrowblog?”
“Only one of the top agents in Hollywood,” Miranda said. “His agency has represented nine Oscar-winning actresses. And he wants to meet with me here, in the White House.”
“He does?” Maybe her cousin’s dream of becoming a Hollywood hottie was about to come true. Too bad it was her aunt and uncle’s biggest nightmare.
“Yes, and I hope it’s okay that I invited him to come. Aunt Liz, his secretary told me that you’ll have to be there, too, because I’m not eighteen yet.”
Tara was tapping her stylus on the screen again. “What date are we talking about here?”
When Miranda told her, Tara shook her head. “You can’t make it, Liz. You’re supposed to be in Texas to speak at a teachers’ convention.”
“Can you switch the date, Miranda?” Mom asked.
Miranda’s smile had faded. “I can’t. His secretary said he was coming to town just for that one afternoon. I have to meet with him, Aunt Liz.”
Sameera shot
her mom a look, and Mom rose to the occasion. “Cancel that speech, Tara,” she said grandly. “Jerry Gaithers—and my niece—trump the teachers. Book the fireside room; we’ll even serve the gentleman some tea.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Miranda said, kissing her on the cheek. “You’re the best aunt in the world.”
“I’d better get back to being First Lady, girls, so that these good people can get home at a decent hour.”
The cousins got the hint. “How did he find out that you want to act, Ran?” Sparrow asked, as they made their way up the staircase to the Residence.
“Don’t you read your comments, Sparrow? Your friend Sangi posted a question for me a couple of days ago, asking what I was up to at the White House, how I was doing, what my dreams were, and stuff like that. I can’t wait to meet that girl on Friday night; she’s awesome.”
“What? I don’t remember seeing that at all.” One of the things Sameera wanted to ask an expert blogger was how to process so many responses at once, both positive and negative. She was battling a tendency to skim over approval from the friendly visitors and focus on challenges from more controversial posters like Sparrowhawk.
“This was in a nested thread with Sangi and me going back and forth,” explained Miranda. “You’d have to click two or three times to get to that level.”
“Oh, no wonder. I hardly have time to read the comments, let alone responses to responses.”
“Anyway, I answered Sangi by saying my dream was to become an actor. Gaithers’s people must have read that.”
“Wow. They’re certainly scrutinizing Sparrowblog closely.”
“This could be my big break, Sparrow. Do you know how much actors get paid?”
“Mom and Tara are still trying to find you a job here, Ran.”
“Good. I need some money now. I’m glad Tara’s on it; she’s so organized and efficient, she’s bound to find something.”
“In the meantime, it looks like we might have found something for her,” Sameera said. “Or someone.” She explained her matchmakers-Tara-Colby plan to her cousin.
White House Rules Page 7