Also, check out SammySez.com in a couple of days if you want to meet the “persona” they’ve invented for me. Can’t wait to hear what you think about Sammy Righton, all-American girl. Remember: keep your comments short, clean, and to the point. Peace be with you. Sparrow.
After she published the post, she went back to Wilder’s site and clicked on “da blog.” Another crisp white page opened, surrounded by that familiar red, white, and blue border. A glitter pen graphic began writing across the screen, just a bit faster than Sameera could read. The cursive was rounded, the i’s dotted with doughnuts like her cousin Miranda’s i’s. In fact, the computerized penmanship eerily resembled Miranda’s handwriting.
Words were curling out across the white background:I’m finally on the campaign trail with my dad and we’re staying at the Santa Monica Seaside Hotel. I’ll be heading to Petite Pizzazz, which is this hot boutique for small-scale chicks like me, so check out my outfits over the next few days. L.A. is full of hot guyz, and I love So Call Go Dodgers! Go Lakers! Sammy.
One by one, she clicked on the phrases in the post that were links. Not surprisingly, the name of the hotel opened the hotel’s Web site, “Petite Pizzazz” led to some store’s Web site, “Dodgers” took her to the Dodger Stadium Web site, and “Lakers” took her to the “Official Site of the Los Angeles Lakers.” “Hot guyz” led to another page on the SammySez Web site that was splashed with photos of current screen and music hotties (none of whom Sameera thought deserved the label) and a shot of the Harvard crew team (who were hunks, she had to admit, but not as hot as her own guys).
She browsed quickly through the other pages on the site. “Vote for Dad” was set up as a FAQ page, with manga “Sammy” answering the questions: Q: What’s a party? Are you throwing one? Can I come?
A. Sammy: If it were that kind of party, you can be sure I’d invite ya, but it’s not. We have two big parties in America, or groups of voters who tend to think the same way on most of the issues—theRepublican and the Democratic parties.
Q: Are you going to be at the Republican Convention in September?
A: Definitely. Every state sends a group of delegates to the Republican Party’s National Convention. So during a primary, registered Republican voters in that state decide which candidate their delegates should pick at the convention. The person who gets the most votes from the convention delegates runs against the Democrats in the November presidential elections. I’ve already got a hot outfit picked out for the convention, so check it out.
These “I‘m-teaching-but-trying-to-pretend-I’m-not” answers were nothing like her own writing; they sounded so condescending Sameera fought the urge to gag.
She clicked on “hot outfit” and was taken to a page called “gurl Style,” which was nothing more than beauty tips and product endorsements, along with a buxom but headless mannequin wearing a red leather dress labeled “my unConventional outfit.” “Fun ’n’ gamz” provided links to free gaming sites galore; “hip Toonz” had a list of songs that were titled “Sammy’s top-ten playlist.” Sameera didn’t recognize any of the pop songs on the list; thanks to her crew team, she knew a lot of hip-hop and reggae music, but she also knew a ton of country songs, thanks to Miranda.
Groaning, Sameera powered down her laptop. It was going to be humbling to let this ... falsetto version of herself go live in the public eye. But apart from the twenty-nine people on her buddies’ list and the folks back in Maryfield, she didn’t really care what the American public thought about her. What counted was helping Dad achieve his dream——and finding interesting stuff to write about on her real blog.
chapter 10
The next morning, once Mom and Dad headed off for a personal training session with Manuel in the hotel fitness center, Sameera posted again:Four Insights into Life As a Celebrity: (1) When facing the media, your tongue may get heavy and thick and make you feel like you’re having an allergic reaction. And your armpits will get itchy and sweat. A lot. (2) Limo fridges are stocked with excellent goodies. (3) Sunglasses make you feel braver. (4) Image makers, PR people, and marketing experts think they’re a lot cooler than (a) you, (b) everybody else on the planet, and (c) their actual over-the-hill selves. Comments? Keep them short, clean, and to the point. Peace be with you. Sparrow.
She raced downstairs to meet Tara in the lobby of the hotel. The older woman was carrying a briefcase and wearing a pantsuit and heels that looked stylish but comfortable; Sameera was in her jeans again, but this time she was wearing a University of Ohio fleece that her grandfather had given her. The coastal breeze was chilly, and her teammates always teased her about not having any extra insulation on her body.
“Our time is short, Sammy,” Tara said briskly, stepping over several white-clad bodies concentrating on prone, silent yoga moves. “We have a busy day ahead. First, we meet Vanessa at a boutique on Rodeo Drive. She’s got some outfits waiting for you. Next, we head down the street to a salon where Constance has arranged for hair, makeup, and nails. In the afternoon, you’ll have a brief session with Marcus. He’s going to give you some tips on how to handle the press tonight.”
“Wait. I have something to tell you first, Tara.”
The two of them settled into the now-familiar leather seats. “Rodeo Drive,” Tara commanded the driver. “Make it fast. And don’t get us stuck on the freeway.” She turned to Sameera. “Well? I’m all ears.”
“I’m giving you and Wilder my okay on the Web site,” Sameera said.
Tara’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? I know your mom wanted you to go for it, but ... how do you feel about it?”
Sameera was surprised by Tara’s question; she’d figured her feelings weren’t important to this PR queen. “I think you guys are selling the American people short,” she said slowly. “But it’s going to be interesting to see if you’re right and I’m wrong, or vice versa. »
Tara reached into her briefcase and pulled out a book. “I brought something to show you,” she said. “Take a look at this.”
Political Progeny was a pictorial history of kids with parents who were governors, senators, or presidents. Turning the pages, Sameera recognized Jenna and Barbara Bush, Chelsea Clinton, Amy Carter, Susan Ford, and the Kennedy kids, as well as several others.
“Jackie Kennedy protected her kids’ privacy fiercely,” Tara said. “That’s why they survived emotionally—even though poor John Jr. died so young. I had a crush on him for years. I even danced with him once at some event, but he always preferred the tall, thin, model types. Besides, he was a Democrat, and my dad was a Republican.”
She flipped to a page somewhere near the middle of the book and pointed to a photo of a plump girl at a picnic who was obviously relishing her ice-cream cone. The girl was perched on an overturned barrel, and the newspaper caption read: “Ten-Year-Old Tara Colby Enjoys Porky-Barrel Benefits.”
“Oh, no!” Sameera said, with a rush of sympathy. “Poor you!”
“It took years of therapy to get over the times the press poked fun at my body.”
“But you’re not fat now,” Sameera said. “You are one of those ‘tall, thin, model types.’ ”
“Nah. I’m still ‘Porky Colby’ inside, trying to prove that I’m more than just a senator’s daughter. But enough about me. I just wanted to show you that I know how rough it can get for a kid during a political campaign. I’m so glad you’re willing to accept our help.”
The palm trees along Rodeo Drive stood at attention as the limo stopped in front of Petite Pizzazz. Impossibly leggy mannequins in the display windows flaunted jeans, leather jackets, flared, pleated skirts, and blazers. They don’t look very petite, Sameera thought, frowning up at the one in the middle, who looked at least six foot three.
Vanessa was a superbly maintained older woman who looked great from a distance. When you came closer, however, you saw that her skin had been stretched and lifted so often that it was physically impossible for her to smile. She didn’t (or couldn’t?) say much but escorted Sameera im
mediately into a dressing room. Tara followed them inside, leaving the door open so that salesclerks could come and go with different outfits.
Sameera took stock of the situation. She was sixteen years old, her “bra” was a tube vest, and her underwear was so small she ordered six-packs online from the girls’ department. She felt shy changing in front of her cousin, and even in front of her own mother. Now she was supposed to undress in front of Tara, Vanessa, and the clerks, one of whom was a guy? No way.
“I’d like privacy, please,” she said firmly. “I’ll come out once I have an outfit on, and take the next one in with me. Could one of you pick something out so we can get started?”
Vanessa shrugged, but she backed out of the dressing room as a clerk handed Sameera a blue wool dress, black boots, and a red, white, and blue scarf.
“You might need help tying that scarf,” Tara called through the closed door. “Should I send someone in?”
“I can do it,” Sameera called back.
She squeezed in and out of a myriad of outfits, emerging from the dressing room only to have Vanessa shake her head and frown. Other clerks brought over shoes with heels so high Sameera felt like she was standing en pointe, like a ballerina. After a whispered one-word suggestion from Vanessa, the clerks also began handing in shaped undergarments. Most of these had so much padding that Sameera felt like she was putting an extra body on top of her own.
After two long, arduous hours, she came out wearing an outfit that finally made Vanessa clap her hands (smilelessly, wordlessly).
“That’s it!” Tara said. “It’s perfect; demure and sweet with a hint of sexy. Consider tonight’s event your real debut, my dear, because tomorrow the press is going to be raving about the new you. Take a look.”
The salesclerk unbuttoned a couple of the buttons on the jacket Sameera was wearing and moved out of the way. Sameera took stock of herself in the three-way mirror, and her lower jaw dropped. She was wearing a beige leather miniskirt and matching jacket. Black high-heeled boots made her legs look shapely and ... long. Actually long. The jacket was opened just enough to reveal a black, scoop-necked clingy shirt underneath it. And there was even a glimpse of hidden curves at the top of the shirt.
Where did THOSE come from?
But Sameera knew the answer to her own question. The undergarment was lifting, squeezing, and pushing together the little she had on top, and the cups were chock-full of synthetic stuff that “felt natural when you’re hugged,” as one clerk discreetly put it. “It does look good, but isn’t it a bit ... low-cut?” Sameera asked.
Vanessa rolled her eyes heavenward and gave her head a small shake.
Tara translated. “A hint of cleavage is perfectly modest for a teen girl, especially by L.A. standards. Wear it to the salon, and keep the boots on, too. You’ve got to learn to walk naturally before tonight.”
Tara was right; Sameera needed practice. She could hardly make it over to the cash register without toppling over—how was she supposed to wear these boots through the entire event scheduled for that night? And no matter how demure Tara thought she looked, Sameera had never emerged into the public eye with even a “hint” of cleavage. Even Miranda, for all of her desire to be stylish, rarely got away with wearing low-cut shirts. Gran and Aunt Bev both thought they made a girl look “starved for attention.”
“While you’re in the salon with Constance, Vanessa will pick out some casual clothes, bags, and shoes,” Tara said. “Now that she’s seen what works on you, she doesn’t even need you to be there.”
She should just take the undergarment along, Sameera thought. It could probably sashay around by itself
Just before they left the store, Tara stuffed Sameera’s discarded jeans, T-shirt, and fleece into a bag and handed them to one of the clerks. “Could you get rid of these, please?”
Sameera almost fell over to grab the bag before it was whisked away. “I’ll hold on to this,” she said. Poppa had bought his granddaughters the matching fleeces when he and Gran had attended their college reunion, and Sameera knew he liked to see the girls wearing them.
“Suit yourself,” Tara said. “But I don’t recommend you wear those clothes again. Take a look at these photos.”
She pulled out a copy of Los Angeles Currents from her designer handbag. The front page of the Life section featured a big photo of James Righton’s daughter grinning into the camera with a chunk of airplane peanut caught in her teeth. The Mathews-made poncho, which did hang around Sameera like a sack, made her body underneath seem even more tiny. “Righton’s Adopted Daughter Joins Father on Campaign Trail” the headline read.
“That stupid peanut,” Sameera said, sighing.
“It wasn’t the peanut who wore that poncho,” Tara said, taking back the paper.
They walked down Rodeo Drive to the salon, where Camera-Ready Constance scanned Sameera’s face and hair with the intensity of a master artist appraising an empty canvas. In response to her commands, a triad of stylists clustered around Sameera. Tara called back a final reminder as she headed out the door: “A trendy but feminine appearance, please. Nothing too edgy.”
“We absolutely can’t let you look in the mirror till we’re done,” Constance told Sameera. “Makeovers are more dramatic that way.”
Don’t worry, sweetheart, Sameera thought. I’ve seen the shows. She could hardly wait to describe this experience to her intergalactic circle. The only problem was that she was starving. She hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast. Did celebrities ever eat? Did Tara Colby ever eat?
The Makeover began with the application of a facial mask that smelled hauntingly like Gran’s homemade pesto. Sameera continued to battle hunger pangs as they cut, styled, and blew-dry her hair, doing her best to focus on what they were doing. She took mental notes on technique, texture, and color while they manicured her hands and applied makeup to her face, trying not to think of oatmeal scotchies or a Sunday feast of roast chicken, fresh-baked crusty rolls, green salad, and rosemary potatoes.
But when the stylists spun her around to face the mirror, any temptations to fantasize about food vanished. She couldn’t believe what she saw. Wow! This girl is ... stunning. And she was. A short, layered haircut framed her face and showed off her slim neck. Foundation and blush emphasized the high cheekbones and brought out her big, almond-shaped eyes. The lipstick made her lips look red, rich, full ... downright smoochable. Even her skin looked more alive, glowing, fresh.
“Stand up immediately, Sammy darling,” Constance commanded.
Slowly, Sameera obeyed, appraising her reflection in the full-length mirror. The hair, the makeup, the leather outfit, the boots, the tantalizing glimpse of cleavage ... WHO WAS THIS HOT GIRL IN THE MIRROR?
Tara came back, clutching two extra-tall cups of coffee. “I picked up some lunch for ... SAMMY!” For once, the cynical facade lost its grip on Tara’s face and her mouth fell open. “Oh my! You look ... AMAZING!”
Constance blew on her own freshly touched-up white-tipped French manicure. “I’m sure you’ll have my Web site link up and running as soon as the photos of this version of Sammy hit the press.”
Sameera caught the slightly flustered look on Tara’s face. “We’re always looking for ways to save your dad money,” Tara said, giving that tinkly laugh that Sameera was starting to recognize ... and dislike intensely.
“And what if I hadn’t agreed to letting SammySez.com go live?” Sameera asked.
“Oh, we’d have put the link somewhere else—on your father’s Web site.”
Yeah, right. They exited the store and Sameera glimpsed the limo parked at the corner. The driver was nowhere in sight; he must be somewhere eating lunch, like most normal human beings. As she and Tara walked down the street, Sameera realized she was drawing attention from a lot of people. Especially a couple of young construction workers, who were checking out the “after” version ... and obviously liking it. Look out, world, Sameera Righton is definitety on the radar. I AM FINALLY VISIBLE!
&nbs
p; One of the construction guys put a hand over his heart as she walked by. “Whassup, baby?”
He’s talking to me. Okay, girlfriend, if you want to know what it’s like to be a celeb, you’ve got to act like one. She tried smiling and gave her head a little shake so that her hair moved around her face, like shampoo models did in commercials.
“Looking good, girl.” The second guy pursed his lips as he checked Sameera out from head to toe.
She tried adding an extra swing to her hips but almost fell over on her high heels.
“Sweet boots.” It was the first guy again.
Is this all it takes to get some male attention? It’s like putting a slab of steak in front of hungry dogs. Sameera fought an impulse to snap her fingers in front of his face as his glazed eyes focused on her push-up bra. He did say “boots,” didn’t he?
Hurrying to keep up withTara, she gave up the attempt to swing her hair and hips around and focused instead on keeping her balance.
chapter 11
The limo was locked, so they had to wait on the sidewalk. Sameera tried to stay in her aloof-but-gorgeous celebrity mode as the construction workers still pledged undying love—or lust—from a distance.
“Your parents called from Orange County,” Tara said, handing over the iced cappuccino she’d bought for Sameera’s “lunch.” “They’re meeting us in the hotel at six, and we’ll head to UCLA in a caravan. Where is that driver?”
“The students are gone for the summer, right? So who’s going to be there?”
“A few students might be there, but you’re right—most of them aren’t on campus right now. About two hundred alumni and faculty have been invited to the banquet. You’ll want to come across as smart, stylish, and absolutely loyal to your father. Marcus can prep you for that. Where is that driver?”
First Daughter Page 6