White House Rules

by Mitali Perkins

The PE teacher greeted them in the gym. “We heard you used to cox, Miss Righton,” she said. “We’d love to have you join the team. Our autumn regatta is a longstanding tradition.”

  Sameera fingered the state-of-the-art cox box that the woman handed her; it would be great to be part of a team again. Why, then, wasn’t she getting excited about the school?

  They moved to the English department. “I see your cousin likes filmmaking,” said a teacher, smiling into Miranda’s camera. “We offer a class on editing and screenwriting, and a couple of students have won prizes at national youth film festivals with their final projects. We also have an award-winning newspaper, which I understand is one of your passions, Sparrow.”

  Sameera smiled and nodded, trying to cover her lack of enthusiasm. She’d been craving the excitement of being on a newspaper staff again. What was wrong with her now?

  Their perpetually polite guide led them into the cafeteria, still reciting her memorized speech. The airy room, lit by sunshine pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, was full of the savory aroma of oregano, melted cheese, sausage, and sautéed onions. While Miranda filmed one of the chefs chopping fresh fruit, Sameera drank in the lovely buzz of conversation as groups of girls laughed, argued, gossiped, and even sang in various corners.

  Now this was more like it. Maybe this place had possibilities after all.

  “Sparrow!” A student ran over with arms outstretched, a big smile of welcome on her face.

  “Great to see you,” Sameera said, trying to conceal that she had no idea who in the world she was hugging.

  “Remember me? Brianna Farnsworth? From the father-daughter dance during the campaign? My friend and I met you in the ladies’ room.”

  The light dawned. “You guys were the best that night. I ended up having a ton of fun.”

  They chatted until the bell rang. “I hope you decide to come here in the fall,” Brianna said. “But I’m sure we’ll run into each other before then. All the political kids our age go to the same events and parties—you end up seeing each other over and over again.”

  Miranda grinned. “Sounds like a small town.”

  “Feels like it sometimes,” Brianna said ruefully. “Especially when there’s something juicy to gossip about.”

  After the rest of the tour, the tall, elegant, Nicole-

  Kidmanish headmistress served Sameera, Miranda, and Elizabeth Campbell Righton coffee in her office. “‘Timeless and traditional,’ that’s our motto,” she said. “We’ll do what it takes to keep your daughter safe, Mrs. Righton. Many senators and members of Congress entrust their girls to our care.”

  I’ve already got plenty of “timeless and traditional,” thank you very much, Sameera thought. I definitely don’t need it 24/7.

  She could tell by the expression on her mother’s face that a big question was coming, and she was right. “Do you teach many low-income students at St. Matthew’s?” Mom asked.

  “We have a few scholarship students, and we’re always trying to increase our endowment for those purposes.”

  They stood up to leave, and Mom told the headmistress that they’d be in touch.

  “So, what did you think?” Tara asked, meeting them outside in the garden. Sameera noticed that she was smiling like she’d just won an award for being the ultimate First Lady’s first lady.

  “This school is amazing!” said Mom overenthusiastically.

  “The girls seemed really friendly!” said Sameera brightly.

  “Seems like they’ve been doing the same thing the same way for years and years,” Miranda said. Then she must have caught sight of Tara’s smile dimming, because she quickly added, “Nothing wrong with tradition, though, as Gran likes to remind us. Right, Sparrow?”

  I’m all for tradition, Sameera thought. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of changing things that need to be changed. “I’m not sure it’s the place for me,” she said out loud. “But we don’t have to decide right now. Let me check out a couple of other schools first, okay?”

  “That’s fine, Sparrow,” Tara said, her grin returning to full wattage as though she couldn’t stop it. “Hey, guess what I’m doing Saturday night?”

  “Going out with JB!” Sameera and Miranda said it in unison, exchanging fist punches with each other, Mom, and even Tara herself.

  chapter 18

  Sameera, Miranda, and Jingle ventured into the chilly night air of the Portico. They were meeting the limo that the First Lady’s office had sent to pick up Mariam. To Sameera’s astonishment, Mariam’s father emerged from the car instead of Mariam. He took one look at Jingle, who was emitting his usual effusive bark-bark-bark of welcome, and muttered something over his shoulder before hurriedly closing the door behind him.

  “Uncle Muhammad!” Sameera exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were—I mean, I’m so happy to see you!”

  “You gave us quite the surprise when we learned your true identity, my dear,” he said, nervously keeping an eye on Jingle, who was now circling him, tail wagging wildly.

  “I know, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was the day we met, but I didn’t want to worry you. Besides, Dad wasn’t the president back then.”

  “Nonetheless, we are glad to know the truth now. And we shall never forget your kindness to my mother.” He backed up against the car as the dog came closer to sniff him.

  “This is my cousin, Miranda,” Sameera said, and her cousin smiled and nodded at their visitor.

  Uncle Muhammad nodded, too, but he was still plastered against the side of the car, eyes fixed on Jingle’s every movement.

  Sameera peered around him at the tinted glass of the window. “Didn’t Mariam come with you?”

  “Yes, but she’s a bit…frightened about the dog.”

  “Let me put Jingle away, then,” said Miranda, corralling the dog and leading him up the stairs.

  A burka-covered figure crawled out of the limo and Sameera enveloped it in a huge hug. The last time she’d seen Mariam, the other girl had been wearing only a head scarf. This time she was fully covered.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Mariam,” Sameera said.

  “Me too,” Mariam answered.

  “How is your mother doing? And your grandmother?”

  “Quite well, thank you. They send warm greetings to you and your parents.”

  Uncle Muhammad looked a lot more relaxed now that they were dog-free. He crossed his hands in the air back and forth with the palms facing down, like a conductor at the symphony. “No need to bother your father this time to meet with me; I know he is a very busy man. Next time we will take some tea together.”

  “Oh. Dad’s not here, actually. I think he and Mom are at a dinner event somewhere.”

  I have no idea where my parents are, she thought. She did, however, know that Bobby Ghosh had already landed in Charleston, South Carolina, and was probably having dinner with his parents. She’d thought about it all day. When would she hear from him? On Saturday? Sunday? When he got back into town? He probably didn’t want to miss too many classes, so she figured the latest he’d get back would be Tuesday.

  “No worries, no worries,” Uncle Muhammad was saying. “He is a good man, your father. I would have voted for him if I could have. I will wait while you have your meeting. Mariam tells me this is a good chance for her to be discussing with college students.”

  “Come in, please. It’s cold out here. I’ll take you through security.”

  Sangi, George, and Nadia arrived on foot, from the George Washington University campus, which was only blocks away. After they, too, were wanded, IDed, and cleared, Sameera introduced everybody, delighted that Sangi gave both Miranda and Mariam warm hugs as though they’d known each other for years.

  They took a quick tour of the ground floor of the Residence, accompanied by a couple of agents. Miranda trailed behind with the camera plastered against her eyeball; she’d asked permission to film and everybody had given it, even Uncle Muhammad, who’d agreed somewhat reluctantly.


  Sameera’s guests seemed strangely quiet as they walked through the famous rooms on the ground floor—the Library; the Vermeil Room, with its heirloom collection of gold-plated silver; the China Room, where the plates and glassware used by past presidents were on display; the oval Diplomatic Reception Room with its panoramic wallpaper installed by Jacqueline Kennedy. Even Sangi was subdued, awed, almost tiptoeing as they headed up to the first floor and walked through the expansive East Room, the Green, Blue, and Red Rooms, and the State Dining Room. Then, Uncle Muhammad was safely ensconced back downstairs in the Map Room with Mature Cougar keeping him company, while the younger people continued to the private part of the Residence on the second and third floors.

  Once the tour was over, they settled themselves in the cozy Lincoln Office, and any constraint or quiet instantly evaporated.

  “This room is decorated so beautifully,” said Sangi, wriggling deeper into one of the new leather recliners. “It’s my favorite, I think.”

  The cousins exchanged triumphant glances. The leather furniture had arrived the day before and melded beautifully with the reupholstered antique sofa. It felt good to prove Designer Danny wrong.

  “I adore that solarium,” said Nadia. “I want one.”

  “When do I move in?” George asked. “The Lincoln Bedroom is much more me than my dorm room.”

  Mariam was stroking Jingle’s fur and gazing into his amber-colored eyes. “I’ve always wanted a dog like this,” she said. “But my parents are terrified of dogs; I think some of the strays in their village might have had rabies.”

  “Which part of Pakistan are you from?” Nadia asked.

  “A village near Islamabad,” Mariam answered.

  She wasn’t in the least bit shy now that her father wasn’t in the room. Sameera had worried that a sixteen-year-old might clam up around a bunch of college students, but Mariam seemed just as relaxed as she had been in her own home.

  “I’m from Karachi,” Nadia told her.

  “You are not,” said George. “You’re from Massachusetts. That’s where you were born.”

  “So how do you answer that question, then?” Nadia asked. “I know you get asked it, too, George: ‘So, where are you from?’”

  “I tell them I’m from my mother’s womb,” George answered. “No, I say I’m from Mary land. It’s true. That’s where I feel most at home. But I guess when I visit Kerala, it feels like home, too.”

  “They don’t want to know where your home is, George, they want to know your ethnicity,” Sangi said. “I tell them I’m Punjabi American. No hyphen, thank you very much. I have two distinct identities and the only thing fusing them is my very own self.”

  “But you were born here,” argued Sameera. “Why can’t you just say you’re from California? Ran, put that camera away and join the conversation.”

  Ran pressed the PAUSE button but didn’t lower the camera. “This is great stuff, Sparrow. Does anybody else mind if I film while you chat?”

  Sangi shrugged. “Go right ahead,” she said. “It’s because I don’t want to lose the Punjabi part of me, Sparrow.”

  “I answer only that I’m an American,” said Mariam. “That’s what Baba told me to say. He thinks I’ll get in trouble if I mention the word Pakistani.”

  There was a brief silence. “And have you?” Sameera asked gently. “Gotten in trouble, I mean?”

  “Not really. My mother and grandmother bear the brunt of it because they don’t speak English too well. You know, Sameera. You saw it happen at that grocery store. Baba and I don’t get hassled very often. People used to try and pull my head scarf off at school, since I’m the only girl who wears one, but now everybody’s gotten used to it.”

  “I sort of get the head scarf thing, but why do you wear a burka?” Nadia asked. “Do your parents make you?”

  Mariam’s eyes crinkled, and Sameera knew she was smiling at a question that was probably a familiar one. It’s amazing how much the eyes reveal, Sameera thought. “I wear this because it gives me freedom,” Mariam said. “It puts me in charge, because I get to decide who sees me and who doesn’t.”

  Sameera glanced from her guest’s burka to her cousin’s camera and felt a rush of affection for both of them. Dad was right, she thought. “Let’s eat,” she said, leading the way into the private dining room, where two fresh-baked extracheesy pizzas had been sent up from the White House kitchen.

  “Pass the chili pepper flakes, will you, George?” Sangi asked, once they were seated around the round dining table.

  “And here’s the hot sauce,” Sameera said. She’d asked Jean-Claude to bring it up, knowing that most of her guests preferred their food on the spicy side. “So, Mariam, do you have any questions for SARSA?”

  “Is it hard to get into George Washington University?” Mariam asked immediately. “I’d love to go to college, but my parents don’t want me to leave home. So the schools around here are my only possibility.”

  “G-Dub’s hard to get into—you need good grades and you gotta do well on the SATs,” Nadia said.

  “I’ve got those, but is it expensive?” Mariam asked.

  “Yes, but there are plenty of scholarships,” Sangi answered. “Are you involved in any extracurriculars? Those definitely help.”

  “That’s the problem,” Mariam said. “We don’t have very many activities at my high school. Just football and track. And I’m not a good runner.”

  George lifted his eyebrows. “What about band? Newspaper? Or yearbook?”

  “No. We don’t have those.”

  “Art?” he persisted. “Clubs? Anything?”

  “No clubs. We have to leave when the last bell rings. They lock down the building and the grounds by three o’clock every day.”

  Sounds like Sparrowhawk’s school, Sameera thought.

  “Feel free to use us as an extracurricular, Mariam,” George offered. “Put SARSA down on those college apps.”

  “What is SARSA, anyway?” Mariam asked, as the cousins passed around scotchies for dessert.

  “We’re the South Asian Republican Students’ Association,” Nadia explained.

  “But what do you do?”

  “We arrange for guest speakers to come to GW and set up debates on campus and other events. We do fundraisers for certain causes. And we try to shatter stereo types on campus by showing that Republicans can actually care about fighting injustice and helping the poor.”

  “Join us any time you want,” Sangi added, smiling warmly. “We usually meet at the Revolutionary Café right near campus. It shouldn’t be too far from where you live.”

  “But…I’m not a Republican,” Mariam said. “In fact, I’m not even a citizen yet. And I’m still in high school.”

  “Who cares? You’re almost in college. You can come even if you decide to vote Democrat once you do get your citizenship.”

  “And if your father wants to join you, he can certainly have a cup of tea at the café,” Nadia added quickly.

  “Okay, I’ll ask him.” Mariam’s eyes were sparkling, and Sameera knew that the SARSA circle was opening to pull her inside, just as it had done for her a few months earlier.

  An idea came racing into her brain like Jingle tearing after a squirrel. “I should check out your school, Mariam,” she said out loud. “It might be just the place for me.”

  Miranda lowered her camera. “What?! You’ve never been to public school in your life.”

  “Well, that’s all the more reason why I should experience it. Why not try something new? Especially since I’d already have a friend there?”

  “It would be wonderful for me, Sameera, but like I told you, it’s not such a great school,” said Mariam.

  “So what? It’s good enough for you, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t it be good enough for me?”

  “I think it sounds like a fantastic idea,” Sangi said. “But I don’t think any First Kid has ever gone to a public high school.”

  “Good. I like breaking new ground.”

&nb
sp; “Would your parents let you do it?” Nadia asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sameera answered. “What do you think, Ran?”

  Her cousin looked doubtful. “You could always try.”

  chapter 19

  “Why don’t you join SARSA, too, Miranda?” George asked. He looked eager for an answer, and Sameera wasn’t surprised. Her cousin’s charms were tough for most guys to resist.

  Miranda shook her head. “I’m not South Asian, remember?”

  “So what? Your cousin is, and that means you’re part of a South Asian family,” George said. “We head out to the bhangra club every now and then and white faces bob around there all the time.”

  “Okay. I’ll go if Sparrow goes.”

  “When can you join us next, Sparrow?” Sangi asked.

  Maybe Bobby will come back with good news, and we’ll be there together, holding hands, like a real couple. “I’m going to try and come soon,” Sameera promised. “But since I’ll be in civilian clothes, the Cougars will have to come along, and so will a bunch of Rhinos, probably. So if you don’t mind being in the news, I’ll be there.”

  “Bobby’s the only one who seems worried about that,” Nadia said. “We’re all okay with it. When is he getting back, by the way? I can’t believe he went to South Carolina again so soon after the holidays.”

  Sameera didn’t answer; she didn’t know any details about Bobby’s return to campus the following week, but she certainly didn’t want to admit it to Nadia.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” George said. He was carefully avoiding Sameera’s eyes, she noticed. “Bobby called this afternoon. He’s not coming back to D.C. At least, not for a while.”

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “Who’s Bobby?”

  The last voice was Mariam’s. Sameera had somehow managed not to participate in the lava of “whats” erupting from Nadia, Sangi, and her cousin.

  “He’s a friend of ours,” George explained. “A member of the chapter. His grandfather’s taken a turn for the worse, and the whole Ghosh family’s heading to India ASAP. Probably to pay their last respects.”