“Isn’t he…going to miss classes?” Sameera asked, keeping her voice in the normal range with a superhuman effort.
“Definitely,” George answered. “They might be gone for a long time, and he’ll have to take incompletes, but he didn’t seem to care. Oh, and he told me to tell you, Sparrow, that he’ll try to send an e-mail as soon as he can. Which might take a while, since his grandfather’s so sick.”
“You haven’t heard from him then, Sparrow?” Nadia asked.
“Not yet,” Sameera admitted, casually taking a bite of pizza. She felt like her heart had plummeted to the soles of her feet. The pizza in her mouth tasted like chalk.
Miranda glanced quickly at her cousin. “Since we seem to be done with our official meeting, you guys want to go bowling?” she asked. “And watch a movie?”
“I’d love to,” said George. “Lead the way.”
“I did cleanup last time, Sparrow,” said Miranda. “I get to take our guests down while you stack the cart.”
Thank you, Ran, Sameera thought, as her cousin gave her a loving smile and led their guests out of the room.
Sameera tidied up in a daze, hardly knowing what she was doing. He was gone. To India. Without a word of good bye. Without even trying to call or write. Which meant his grandfather must be seriously ill. And after getting such bad news, she didn’t blame them one bit if a forbidden romance was the last thing the Ghosh family wanted to discuss.
Still, it was crushing. Sameera felt exhausted, like a marathon runner getting to mile twenty-six and finding out that there were many unknown miles ahead. She managed to hold it together during the rest of her friends’ visit, even going down with her cousin to see them off.
“I’ll keep you up to speed on the school situation,” she promised. “See you next Friday, I hope!”
“How are you doing, Sparrow?” Ran asked gently as they walked back upstairs. “Sort of a shock, wasn’t it?”
“You can say that again.”
He’d told George that he’d try to e-mail once he got there. But how soon would a note come? And what if he didn’t ever manage to convince his parents that their relationship shouldn’t be verboten? She wanted to reach out across the miles and comfort him, but right now Sameera Righton needed some comforting, too.
Miranda got the message. “Let me tuck you into bed, Sparrow. Come on, go get in your jammies. Jingle’s waiting for you on the bed already.”
“Will you read to me?” Sameera asked as they headed into her room. “You know, like you used to when we were little.”
“I’d love to. I know, I’ll read you something from that poetry book. Westfield says that poetry has a way of healing the soul.”
“Got some more Teasdale for me?” Sameera asked. She changed into her flannel jammies and got into bed.
“Sure do. Here’s one called ‘Barley Bending.’”
Now that she was cozily tucked in, her cousin’s soothing voice and the words of the poem seemed to untangle some of Sameera’s sadness.
Like barley bending
In low fields by the sea,
Singing in hard wind
Ceaselessly;
Like barley bending
And rising again,
So would I, unbroken,
Rise from pain;
So would I softly,
Day long, night long,
Change my sorrow
Into song.
chapter 20
The next morning, Sameera followed her ever-filming cousin down to the kitchen on the main floor, feeling a little too much like a lonely lamb to stay upstairs alone. A group of Pandas were meeting around the big butcher-block table. Their faces lit up when they saw the girls. “Just the person we wanted to see,” Mr. Phillips announced.
“I am?” Sameera asked.
“Not you,” he said. “Your cousin. The First Lady’s hosting an afternoon tea for a group of diplomats and their spouses.”
Miranda put down her camera. “Sparrow and I don’t have to be there, do we?”
“No, but remember that extra batch of frosted oatmeal cookies you sent down here for us? Well, I served a couple when the Swedish ambassador was visiting, and apparently she’s been raving nonstop about them. Now everybody’s expecting them to be served at the tea. Ms. Colby told me to make sure that those scotchies were on the trays.”
Another Panda cut in: “We’ve tried to duplicate your recipe, Miranda, but we can’t make them taste quite like yours. Would you mind baking some more for the tea?”
“I think the secret is the mi—” Miranda started to say before Sameera cut her off.
“Don’t you usually pay a caterer’s fee for stuff you order from outside?” she asked.
The Pandas exchanged glances. “We do have money for that in the bud get, but since your cousin’s part of the family, we thought—”
“That’s okay, I’ll—” Miranda tried again, and again Sameera interrupted.
“Making scotchies takes time,” she said. “And Ran’s really busy with studying, not to mention her filmmaking and stuff. How much could you offer her to cater ten dozen scotchies?”
Mr. Phillips smiled. “A caterer’s fee it is, then.” He named an amount that seemed more than extravagant to the girls; they communicated their delight to each other with almost imperceptible eyebrow lifts.
Miranda was about to accept their offer when Sameera intervened again. “And she can use the supplies in the kitchen, as well as bake them here?”
“Of course. Will you do it, Miranda?”
“I’d be glad to.”
Miranda skipped up the stairs two at a time. “Who would have thought that a bunch of scotchies would earn me so much money? I might even be able to buy some moviemaking software that works on the desktop computers around here. And then you can have your laptop to yourself, Miss Sameera.”
“How about if I give you an advance loan and you buy it today?”
Miranda laughed. “It’s been hard, huh?”
“Agony,” Sameera admitted.
“Okay, I accept. I’ll order it right now. And I’ll use the desktop to do it.”
“Great,” Sameera said, handing over her credit card. “I’m going to figure out a way to milk this cookie-making biz a bit more. Which reminds me—keep our family’s secret ingredient to yourself, Ran. Nobody needs to know that it’s the Campbell cows that are making the difference.”
“Isn’t it ironic that those cows are turning out to be such a blessing—even from a distance?” Miranda asked. “Especially after all the abuse I’ve heaped on their poor fat heads.”
While Ran browsed around to find the software she needed, Sameera didn’t waste time. She got on her laptop and designed a sheet of simple business cards, importing a free graphic of a plate of steaming cookies as a logo. MERRY DUDE DAIRY FARM FRESH COOKIES, the card announced, followed by Miranda’s name, e-mail address, and cell phone number. Running downstairs, she filched a couple of sheets of card stock from an East Wing office supply closet and printed the graphic off when she got back. Then she cut the cards out carefully with a pair of sharp scissors. They looked almost professional, at least to her eyes.
Her cousin returned with a stack of papers in hand. “I downloaded the manual, too,” she said. “The software I got is supposed to be state of the art. I sure hope I can figure it out.”
“You’re already up the learning curve now, Ran. Here, check these out,” Sameera said, handing her cousin the cards.
“Wow, Sparrow. These are beautiful.”
“Let’s go ask Mr. Phillips if you can hand them out with the cookies at the tea,” Sameera said. “I’m sure they’ll get you tons of orders.”
“I don’t know,” Miranda said doubtfully. “Anyway, you ask him. I’d feel like I was being pushy.”
The girls went down to the kitchen again, with Sameera carrying her cousin’s new business cards. “Would you let us tuck one of these into each basket of cookies or place them somewhere on the trays?”
she asked Mr. Phillips. “I’m sure Mom’s guests would appreciate being able to order some for their own events.”
The head pastry chef looked carefully at the cards. “You girls work fast. I suppose we can do that. But if you start doing this for a living, Miranda, you’ll have to bake in the small kitchen upstairs on the third floor and buy your own ingredients. We can’t have the taxpayers funding your enterprise.”
“Of course,” Miranda said quickly. “I doubt I’ll get any orders, anyway.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you got more than you can bake,” he said. “Those are some of the best cookies I’ve ever tasted. And I’ve done my fair share of sampling, believe me.”
The next item on the cousinly agenda was finding the fastest desktop computer in the White House that wasn’t being used by anybody else and hauling it into the Lincoln Sitting Room. Sameera installed the new software, while her cousin stapled together the pages of the manual and began flipping through it. “It’s going to be good having a computer to myself,” Miranda said.
You can say that again, Sameera thought, taking her beloved laptop over to the couch to check in on her blog—and see if there was anything in her in-box from India yet.
There was nothing from Bobby, so she went to Sparrow-blog. As she skimmed through the comments, she realized there was only one type of response that she absolutely hated, and it wasn’t the critical stuff from the likes of Sparrowhawk. What she couldn’t stand were the disgusting notes from lecherous types. A few trickled her way, but ever since Miranda moved into the White House, weirdos were leaving a flood of propositions for her cousin. As Sameera frowned and deleted a comment from yet another loonie who was intent on harassing Miranda, she noticed a response that popped up from a user named “Banforth JD.”
“Ran! Get in here!” she called.
Miranda hurried into the room. “Is it Bobby?”
“No. Not yet. It’s something for you, actually, from Thomas Banforth, the son of the senator who ran against Dad. Westfield had dinner with him the other day, remember?”
“How could I not? He is the hunkiest of hunks, as I told Westfield.”
“Well, Mr. Hunky is cyberleaping to your side, girlfriend. Check it out.” Sameera read the comment out loud: “To those of you making disgusting comments about the Rightons’ niece: back off. Why should she be targeted because of your sick issues? Remember, it’s a crime to prey on minors on the Internet. We can find you. Miranda, if you’re reading this, keep your chin up, and remember what Euripides said: ‘Public opinion has most shallow eyes.’ My mother will be contacting the White House to invite your aunt to dinner soon. She’s never forgotten how Mrs. Righton defended her during the campaign. All the best to you and Sparrow, Thomas Banforth.”
“That should stop them cold,” Sameera said. “I think I’ll post an excerpt from that note in my sidebar so that it’s constantly in sight.”
“The hottest law student in the country,” Miranda said, fanning herself with ten fingers. “And he’s standing up for me.” Sighing, she went back to the desktop computer, where she’d shifted all of her movies.
With Bobby still on the brain, Sameera decided to launch into a romance-oriented post that she hoped would engage the fun seekers as well as the more serious types. And maybe even send a subliminal message Bobby’s way if he checked in on Sparrowblog from the other side of the world.
Okay, intergalactics. Here’s my question of the week: How do YOU decide if that certain someone is the guy or girl of your dreams? My cousin tells me we need to pick three treasures, and if we find someone who has those, shut up and put up with the rest of their character traits. Read this poem called “Appraisal” and then hit your browser’s back button to return here.
Are you back? Did you like it?
Well, if Miranda and the poet Sara Teasdale are right, we’re supposed to focus on the treasures in another person’s character. So here’s the Sparrowblog challenge—complete the following sentence by choosing three single-word adjectives: When I find the one for me, s/he will be_________, _________, and_________. You can describe your significant other if you’re already in a relationship.
What are your three treasures? I’ll tell you mine next time. Remember, keep them short, clean, and to the point. Peace be with you. Sparrow.
After she published the post, she picked up the poetry anthology and read “Barley Bending” aloud to herself again: “So would I softly, day long, night long, change my sorrow into song.” But how long do I have to wait? Come on, Bobby. Write that e-mail already. Change my sorrow into song.
chapter 21
The second time around, Teasdale’s barley poem turned out to be prophetic. Sameera only had to wait exactly one “day long, night long” after rereading it. An e-mail winged its way from Kolkata, India, to Washington, D.C. on Sunday. She found it when she logged on after lunch, once again breaking her own no-screens-on-the-Sabbath rule in the quest for Bobby news.
Her heart danced a mini-bhangra when she saw the sender’s name appearing in her in-box. But would the letter bring good news? Maybe his parents had finally given him permission to write. Or was his grandfather gone? She ran her hands quickly through Jingle’s coat a couple of times before opening the e-mail, trying to steady her nerves.
Dear Sameera, I’m sure George told you about our emergency travel plans. Our family’s ghar (home) is in a rural area about a two-hour drive from Kolkata. Dadu’s holding on, and he recognized Baba, Ma, and me, but he’s so fragile. He’s insisting on staying at home with around-the-clock nursing care because he hates hospitals. Baba’s already upset the local doctor by comparing his treatment with the state-of-the-art medical care available in America. MY father’s no diplomat, that’s for sure.
Here’s my other big news: I managed to download your entire blog, without comments, of course, formatted it, printed it off, and took it with me on the plane.
(You did? Sameera thought. He did? )
Ma read your posts on the way to London, and then handed them to Baba without a word. He devoured them on the London–Kolkata leg. “So now do you see why I want to be her friend?” I asked.
“Yes, I do,” Ma said. “She’s quite smart. And she’s not really a Muslim, is she? Her parents go to church.”
“That won’t matter to my father,” Baba said. “She has Muslim blood; that’s enough for him.”
“But if she doesn’t practice Islam, maybe he’ll be more understanding,” Ma argued.
My father shook his head like he always does when he thinks living in America is wrecking me.
“Look,” I said. “Sparrow and I want to get to know each other better. I’m planning to write her while we’re in India, but I wanted you to know about it so I wouldn’t have to lie.”
They exchanged one of those parental looks—you know how married couples communicate tons of stuff without talking? My parents aren’t too affectionate with each other, at least not in public, but they’re totally fluent when it comes to that eye-talk thing. “E-mailing her is all right, Bobby,” Ma said, after a bit.
“Keep in mind, though, that we’re going to India for your grandfather’s sake,” Baba added. “He’s your main priority right now.”
So I’ve got the green light on writing you, and I don’t have to feel like we’re sneaking around. Baba did ask me to wait until Dadu gets a bit more stable before saying anything to him about you, so I’ll let you know how that goes. I love him, Sameera.
Can’t receive e-mail very often, though. I took the train into Kolkata this morning and am sending this from a cybercafé. I’m not sure if and when I’ll be able to get back here to check it. Depends on how things go with Dadu. Please think of him in your prayers. I can’t wait to see you when I get back; I miss you every minute of the day.
Love, Bobby
Sameera read it through five times. Suddenly, she realized her third nonnegotiable.
Tenderness.
Sara Teasdale had saved the best for last in
her poem—“a tenderness too deep to be gathered in a word.” And when a guy confessed his love for his grandfather, and then a few sentences later told you he missed you every minute of the day, he definitely had tenderness to spare.
Suddenly, Elizabeth Campbell Righton appeared out of nowhere, outfitted in her Sunday fleecy sweats. “Hear anything from Bobby?” she asked, plopping down on the sofa.
Sameera was silent. How did mothers know? Did God give them a special kind of radar when it came to the love lives of their children?
“Come on, sweetheart,” Mom said. “Don’t make me use my executive powers to get information out of you. Something is going on with that guy and you want to talk about it. I can tell.”
Sameera nodded slowly. It was true, even though she might have to repeat the whole discussion with her father. She handed her mom the laptop with the note still open on the screen. Good thing Bobby hadn’t gotten too personal. Her mother started reading just as Ran came into the room.
“E-mail from Bobby,” Sameera said tersely, and her cousin immediately leaned over Mom’s shoulder to read the note.
Sameera’s mother finished first. “Wait. Let me get this straight. Dadu means grandfather, right? Bobby’s in India because his grandfather’s sick? And his parents don’t want him to date you because they think you’re Muslim?”
“Right.”
“But you’re not Muslim, Sparrow.”
“I am by blood. And that’s what counts for them.”
Miranda was done reading now, too. “I think it’s the grandfather who’s got the problem with Sameera’s heritage. His parents sound like they might be more open to the idea of Bobby and Sameera if he…weren’t around.”
Sameera took back the laptop. “Ran! You can’t be wishing that he’d die! That’s harsh.”
White House Rules Page 10