Tara’s laugh sounded like a chandelier in the breeze. “ ‘Sparrow’ ! What a sweet name. Don’t you think ‘Sammy’ suits her better? It sounds a bit more... American, don’t you think?”
Mom was ominously quiet. Sameera suddenly felt like she was coxing a boat with two rowers pulling in opposite directions. Get it together, girls! she should yell. But she didn’t; she was curious to see how this middle-aged conflict played itself out.
She opened her cell phone stealthily. I AM SAMMY, she informed her cousin via thumb.
M: WHA? WHERE R U NOW?
S: LIMO W/ MOM & BENCH.
“You don’t mean you want me and James to start calling our daughter ‘Sammy,’ do you?” Mom was asking. Sameera noticed that she didn’t use any salty adjectives or adverbs. That was a bad sign. It meant the steam was still building inside.
M: U C MOVIE N LIMO? I Am Sam, starring Sean Penn and Dakota Fanning, was one of Miranda’s top tearjerker picks on a Friday night.
S: NO. BENCH RENAMES ME.
M: WOW.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” Tara was saying brightly.
M: NAME U LIKE?
Sameera didn’t hesitate. She’d been planning a name change for the campaign, but her choice involved going back to the three syllables on her birth certificate.
S: SAMEERA.
M: WHA? BUT I CALL U SPARROW!
S: OK 4 U. NOT 4 PLANET.
She was starting to feel like she’d outgrown the nickname that her friends and family had used since she was three. “Sparrow” seemed to underline that physically she was as easy to overlook as the gazillion commonplace birds that shared the name. Besides, it didn’t really fit; she hadn’t chirped into the cox box as she led her team to yet another win. She hadn’t twittered when she’d written articles for the paper, or posted entries on her blog. She was hoping to ease her circle of twenty-nine away from “Sparrow” and into “Sameera”—everyone except Miranda, of course. She couldn’t see anyone in her family switching from the name they’d grown so used to through the years—that would be an impossible feat.
Mom didn’t need to be sitting in a boat to raise her voice; the back of a fancy limo, apparently, was just as good. “I am forty-seven years of SAGE. I do not need ANYBODY to tell me what to call my daughter.” Yep, Sameera thought. Mom was right—she’s definitely more feisty than the current first lady.
M: WHA UP NOW?
S: CAT FIGHT!
That glassy laugh came again. “We’ll have to work on keeping that passion in check, Liz, won’t we? Especially if you want to help James win this election. I’m sure the team’s going to have a lot of damage control after that airport incident.”
Defeated by this below-the-belt blow, Mom slumped against the leather seat, sighing. “I know. I’m sorry. But when it comes to my daughter—”
“I know how much you adore your daughter, Liz. Listen, call her ‘Sparrow’ in private if you want, but she’s going to have to be ‘Sammy’ in public.
M: PR GURUS KNO BEST. GO W/ SAMMY.
S: NO WAY. L8R.
M: OK. LUV U.
Sameera was sure her cousin was off on this one. “Sameera” sounded much more mature than either “Sparrow” or “Sammy,” and it added an urban, international edge that felt right. And besides, even celebrities surely didn’t let other people rename them without permission. Or did they? Well, too bad. She certainly wasn’t about to morph into a “Sammy” just because the Bench was a power player.
She snapped her phone shut and leaned forward to make her announcement. “I’d like to be called ‘Sameera,’ publicly that is, during the campaign. ‘Sparrow’ is fine for my family—I know it might be hard for you guys to make the switch, since you’ve been calling me that for so many years.”
“But Sparrow—” Mom said, looking surprised.
“Why don’t we talk about this later?” Tara interrupted smoothly. “We’re almost to the hotel, and we’re all a bit stressed out from the fiasco at the airport. I’m sure we’ll be on the same page once we’ve had some time to recover.”
The same page? Sameera thought. I’m not even sure we re in the same book.
chapter 5
The limo turned a corner, and Sameera glimpsed the Pacific Ocean curving into the bay and what looked like an extremely cool amusement park. “That’s the Santa Monica Pier and Boardwalk,” Tara informed her. “Your parents had a photo shoot there earlier this week.”
They pulled up in front of a hotel that backed up onto the beach.
“After you, Sammy,” Tara said as the driver opened the door.
“You first, Sparrow,” Mom added grimly, not giving an inch.
Sameera led the way past two burly, tattooed doormen guarding the entrance to the hotel. Probably thanks to them, no reporters waited in the airy, tiled lobby, where French doors led out to the bright sand and the blue waves. I caught the show about California minimalist on the Home and Garden Channel, but this is ridiculous, Sameera thought, looking around for any signs of furniture. Three older, tight-faced women wearing white cotton pajamas were sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed as they faced the ocean.
“Wait till you see your suite,” Tara said, commandeering an elevator. “Not a bit of color anywhere. Or comfort, sadly. But this is the place to stay in L.A., and they gave our campaign team a huge discount. You’re sure to spot someone famous doing yoga in the lobby or sipping a health shake at the bar.”
“We’re only here three more nights, right?” Mom asked.
“Right. Then we head back to D.C. for the summer.”
“You mean you guys head to D.C.,” Sameera corrected. “I’m flying to Toledo.”
“Yes. Well, we need to discuss your summer plans, Sammy, but perhaps we should save that conversation for later, too.”
Mom and Sameera exchanged glances as they followed Tara down the hall. A couple of months on the farm in Maryfield had always been a nonnegotiable in Sameera’s calendar. Besides, this summer, with Gran still recovering, an extra pair of hands was really needed there.
The top floor of the hotel only had one door along the entire passageway. Gilt lowercase letters were etched into the natural wood: presidential suite.
“Aptly named, don’t you think?” Tara said, handing Mom the room key card.
Before Mom could get to the door, it flew open, and there was Dad, arms wide and face full of delight at the sight of them. He seemed a bit grayer at the temples, and there were a few new lines at the corners of his eyes, but he was the same old Dad. Unchanging. Solid as a rock. Sameera threw herself into his arms; she hadn’t seen him in two long months.
“Sparrow!” He dropped a kiss on her head, like he always did, hugging her tightly and keeping his eyes closed for a long moment, as though he’d recovered a lost treasure.
“James.”
Dad’s eyes flew open and zoomed in on something above and beyond Sameera. Of course. The love of his life was standing in the hallway, and she’d uttered his name.
“Liz.”
Sameera barely managed to get out of the way before they collided. This was the longest her parents had ever been apart in their married lives—almost three weeks. Their squeeze was so tight she couldn’t see where Mom left off and Dad began.
Sameera put down her laptop case and carry-on and glanced around the suite. There wasn’t a fleck of dust or dirt anywhere. A slim, gray screen covering an entire wall was the only noncream, nonglass item in sight. She couldn’t help mentally replacing the sleek cream-colored modern couch, two stiff-looking chairs, and hard ottoman with a squashy, chintz-covered sofa and leather recliners. After all her traveling and settling into different diplomatic residences, she’d developed the ability to make even the most sterile place feel like home. This room, however, felt beyond help.
“I think they want to be alone,” a voice murmured behind her.
It was Tara, and she was right. Sameera’s parents’ reunion had progressed from a cl
ose embrace into a long, juicy kiss.
You’ve got an audience, people, Sameera thought. Get a room.
Oh, yeah. They have one.
She could see the master bedroom from where she was standing; the French doors leading into it were thrown open, the lights inside dimmed, and imitation flames flickered in a faux fireplace. Another closed door off the living room probably led into a private bedroom for Sameera, and she fought off a wave of exhaustion as she pictured sinking into a comfy bed. If this hotel had beds; she didn’t think she’d get much sleep on a yoga mat.
“I’d like to show you something, Sammy,” Tara whispered. “Want to come down to campaign headquarters for a while?”
Sameera didn’t look closely at her parents’ intertwined bodies as she eased around them, and they didn’t seem to notice that she was leaving. A forty-seven-year-old woman and a fifty-three-year-old man shouldn’t make out like teenagers, she thought. Someone might have a heart attack.
Tara didn’t say anything as they rode the elevator, and Sameera was glad for the chance to gather her wits as she watched the floor numbers light up one by one. When they got off at the fifth floor, she heard ringing phones, loud voices, and televisions blaring down the hall, but she stopped and faced Tara before they walked any farther.
“We need to settle the question about my name,Tara. Mom will go with my decision; we can leave her out of it. I’d also like to have the conversation about summer right now, because I’ve already booked my ticket to Toledo. I leave the day after the primary.”
Tara shrugged. “Okay. Let’s face facts—you’re not quite the all-American type, are you? And a name like ‘Sameera’ just underlines that.”
“I’ve lived overseas a lot, but this doesn’t feel like a foreign country to me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about how America feels to you. You’ve got to realize that you’re going to seem foreign to America.”
Sameera tried to keep from rolling her eyes, but she couldn’t help it. “This isn’t the last century, you know,” she said. “People don’t think like that anymore.” Lady, you need to get out more.
“Values in America don’t change as fast as they do in Europe,” Tara answered, shaking her head. “You’re going to look like an outsider to some Americans—not to everybody, of course, but there are still some people like that out there. And they vote.”
“So we’re supposed to cater to a few narrow-minded people?” Sameera asked. “That seems like we’re giving them a ton of power.”
“Not at all. What I want to do is help you—the real you—survive what could become an ugly campaign. A more... American image can act as a shield to keep the real Sameera safe and sound. I’ll show you what I mean once we get inside.”
I might as well see what she has to say. “Fine. But what about the summer?”
“After your dad clinches the Republican nomination the day after tomorrow, the race is going to heat up. Senator Banforth, the front-runner on the Democratic side, has a son campaigning heavily for her—Banforth junior’s a law student, handsome and articulate. And Governor Tom Dorton, the other strong Democratic candidate, has a lovely wife—who leads Bible studies, by the way—and three adorable children, all under the age of seven. The paparazzi love to photograph a political father bouncing a toddler on his knee.”
“That’s nice, but Dad’s certainly not going to bounce me on his knee.”
“Your role as your father’s only daughter, my dear, is going to be crucial all the way through the summer and into the fall. If you head off to Maryfield for the summer, people are going to wonder why you’re being ‘sent away.’ Your father’s opponents could have a field day with a move like that.”
“No way,” Sameera said. “I’m going to Maryfield. My grandparents are expecting me. I’m not going to let them down.”
Tara sighed heavily. “Well, let’s forget about the summer for now. You might change your mind down the road. Come inside and I’ll introduce you to ‘Sammy,’ okay?”
Following Tara into the temporary headquarters of Campaign Central, Sameera wrinkled her nose against cigarette smoke, the smell of sweat and stale coffee, and the unmistakable odor of Chinese take-out containers. Five enormous screens that were tuned in to different channels splashed color across the walls. A dozen people watched intently and scribbled notes; some of them were groaning audibly.
Sameera glanced at the televisions to see what was evoking so much agony and then did a double take. On every screen, a tall, blonde woman dominated the scene; a short, thin, dark-skinned girl was trotting along behind her, half hidden by the luggage cart she was pushing. Oh, my, she thought. I look like a before version of Michael Jackson. Minus the ’fro. Either that, or ... Mom’s baggage cart attendant.
The cameras followed the two figures through the airport. You couldn’t get a good look at the girl because she was either blocked by bodies that were much bigger than hers or huddled over her cell phone. But American viewers certainly got a close-up of the woman’s furious expression as she slapped away a burly man’s mike. In fact, that angry gesture was being repeated again and again, on channel after channel. From most angles, you could clearly see Mom’s lips forming the word freaking.
“Oh, no!” Sameera gasped. “They’re making it seem like Mom attacked that awful guy. I wish she had let me handle him.”
“Don’t worry,” Tara said. “I’m sure the team’s already got a response strategy hammered out.”
The tension in the room over the on-screen Sameera and Mom was so thick that nobody seemed to care much about Sameera’s live appearance. Following Tara into the adjoining room, Sameera overheard one-ended snippets of phone conversations. Some of them were definitely damage-control related: “Mrs. Righton was defending her daughter, just like any American mother would.” “Yes, he did block her way into the limo.” Others were more general: “Mr. Righton was absolutely thrilled when we told him about your generosity.” “Yes, the Rightons plan to be there. Of course they’re bringing their daughter to the Governor’s Ball. They don’t like to go anywhere without her.” The woman who said this looked up and smiled distractedly at Sameera.
The third room, which was just as smoky as the other two, was obviously Cyber Central, with at least ten people surfing the Web on laptops. Ah, the fun room, Sameera thought, feeling much more at home.
A dapper man in a perfectly tailored suit was reading something over the shoulders of three staffers clustered at the same laptop. Catching sight of Sameera and Tara, he stubbed his cigarette into one of the many overflowing ashtrays and strode over to greet them.
“I’m so sorry about this afternoon. I’m Jerry Cameron, Sammy.”
My! New names certainly spread fast, Sameera thought, shaking the campaign manager’s outstretched hand. “It’s okay,” she said. “It was no big deal.”
“Why wasn’t I given up-to-the-minute info about the Rightons’ flight, Jerry?” Tara demanded. “All the press seemed to know their arrival time. I can’t do my job when nobody else does theirs.”
“I know, I know,” Cameron said, sighing. “I’ve already fired that intern.”
A desperate voice called out from the television room and he dashed out, followed by most of the staffers who’d been sitting in front of their computers. In thirty seconds flat, the room was practically deserted; Sameera was reminded of firefighters racing off to battle an inferno.
Chapter 6
Only one person stayed with Tara and Sameera. He was a plump, thirty-something man wearing thick-lensed glasses, black jeans, and a Hawaiian print shirt. He was fingering his goatee as he approached them, and Sameera wondered if he was trying to distract their attention from his baldness.
“This... this is Marcus Wilder, Sammy,” Tara said almost breathlessly, as though she were introducing a rock star. “Marcus is one of the top marketing-to-teens communication experts in the business. He’s simply... amazing”
Sameera looked a
t her suspiciously. Why did this sophisticated, confident woman suddenly sound like a groupie in a mosh pit?
“What do you think of my work?” the man asked, his voice high-pitched and intense. The emphasis he put on “my work” made whatever he was talking about sound like a masterpiece he’d spent a lifetime creating.
“What work?” Sameera asked.
“I haven’t shown her the site yet,” Tara said. “Bring it up, Marcus, will you please?”
Wilder flipped open a laptop with a flourish. “Welcome to SammySez.com,” he said, sounding as dramatic as an announcer at the Academy Awards.
A cartoon that looked like an anime girl was forming on the screen, accompanied by background music. The red-lipped, big-eyed manga creature was wearing a VOTE FOR RIGHTON button on her shirt. A bubble of words appeared, and Sameera read them under her breath: “Welcome to SammySez. com, the online journal written by the gurl who knows our next president better than anybody on the planet. I’m Sammy, and this is my virtual crib. Click on the ‘Vote for Righton’ button, come on in, and hang a while.”
Sameera stared at the manga art, her mind frozen for a moment in cyberspace. “Wait a minute,” she said finally. “That’s supposed to be ME!”
“You got it, babe,” Wilder crowed. “She got it, Tara. You were right.”
“Of course she did, Marcus. It is your work, after all.”
What is this, some kind of mutual admiration society for workaholics? “Is this site live?” Sameera demanded.
“Of course not,” Tara said. “We’re waiting for your approval, of course. This is the demo ‘persona’ I was trying to tell you about, Sammy.”
“My job is to package you as an asset in your father’s battle against the Democrats,” Marcus added, giving his goatee one more caress.
I already am an asset, you morons. With me around, Dad gets to show off how compassionate and caring he is—how many rich, white golden boys adopt babies from Pakistan? Don’t you get it? “What’s that song playing in the background?” she asked out loud.
“Oh, I picked that tune out myself. Just click the reload button. Or should I say, ‘Play it again, Sammy’?” Wilder chortled at his own stupid pun.
First Daughter Page 3