“Here I am. Sorry, Ms. Colby.” Sheepishly, the driver opened the door for them, and Sameera tried not to lunge for the doggy bag of leftover Mexican food he was carrying.
As they walked into the frenzied din that was Campaign Central, Sameera downed the last of her coffee in big gulps. Thankfully, someone on the staff had ordered a pizza and there was one wedge left. As she chewed and swallowed, she was careful not to spill on her new outfit, butTara kept reaching over to brush imaginary crumbs off her skirt.
“She looks perfect,”Wilder said toTara, as though Sameera wasn’t there.
“She needs to. The primary’s tomorrow, and the press is going to be there tonight in full force.”
“Don’t let her sit while the two of them are standing, or vice versa. Always put her right between the two of them during any photo ops. And, please, don’t let her ever be seen carrying anything for them, for heaven’s sake.”
Sameera knew Wilder was referring to what had happened the day before at the reception. How had he found out about that? “Don’t worry,” she said wryly. “I don’t think anybody’s going to mistake me for the Righton family servant two nights in a row.”
“Especially now that you look so look fabulous. Right after we’re done, I’m going to blog about your makeover for your first live post; I’m so glad you agreed to go for it. Now, let’s practice some Q and A to get ready for tonight, shall we?”
“I think I can handle it.” How many times did she need to say it before they believed her? “I’ve been a diplomat’s daughter for thirteen years, you know.”
The Sammy-makers exchanged looks. “You probably could swing it without help,” Tara said. “But this is standard protocol for candidates and their families. Even your parents are prepped thoroughly for each appearance; it helps a public figure stay in charge of the event.”
“And that’s what you are now, Sammy,” Marcus added. “A public figure.”
Let the games begin, Sameera thought as Marcus and Tara began throwing out odd questions that might come from left field and coming up with “suggested” answers. She repeated their answers, trying not to roll her eyes, and amused herself by coming up with the truth in her head.
Q: “Do you go to church?”A: Oh, yes. Every Sunday. (True Answer: Yes, but I’m still confused about religion.) Q: “Do you agree with your dad on most of the issues?”A: Of course. He’s the smartest guy I know. (True Answer: No, but we love a good debate, and we can both admit when we’re wrong. That’s why Dad’s going to make a great president.) Q: “Do you have a boyfriend?” A: Not yet. My parents want me to focus on my studies, and I’m too busy with all my activities. (True Answer: Know anyone who’s smart, funny, eligible, and attracted to the Oompa Loompa type?)
And there was more. Much more. By the end of it, Sameera was so tired and jet-lagged that her second evening on the campaign trail felt unreal. Bits and pieces played afterward in her memory like a montage in a movie trailer: Dad’s and Mom’s openmouthed response to her new “look,” the admiring stares of the few college guys sitting at the lone students’ table in the back of the room, the wine that was poured into her goblet despite Mom’s frown. Sameera didn’t touch it, of course, but still ... to be thought grown-up enough to be served Chardonnay ... that had certainly never happened before.
The reporters were there, dressed in tuxedoes themselves, and Sameera delivered her prerehearsed phrases perfectly: Q: “Are you glad to be here?”A: “Yes, it’s great to be part of Dad’s campaign. I’m lovin’ it!” (True Answer: It’s quite interesting from a journalistic point of view, but my tootsies are already starting to ache in these boots.) Q: “How’d you spend the day today, Sammy? A: ”Shopping on Rodeo Drive. L.A. is awesome !” (True Answer: Purchasing the most intensely padded undergarments in the universe.) As her ”true answers” got more and more zany, she was grateful for the dry-run rehearsal she’d had with Marcus and Tara. Repeating memorized lines was a lot easier than thinking up decent answers, especially when mikes were shoved into your face and cameras started dancing at the sight of you.
“Blow the reporters a kiss,” Wilder had told her. “Pout your lips like this, and then let them go with a soft puff of air. They’ll love it, trust me.”
Sameera hadn’t been able to bring herself to practice this particular maneuver in front of him. “I’ve never blown a kiss at anyone in my life,” she’d told Wilder.
Now, in her I-wannabe-a-starlet mode, she decided to risk it and find out if he was right. Amazingly, the kiss seemed to come naturally, as though her lips were designed to blow them at strangers. But, of course, she wasn’t herself—she was “Sammy,” the celebrity whose sole purpose in life was to wow her fans and convince them to vote for her dad.
She had to admit that, in this case, Wilder was right. Most of the reporters and photographers grinned affectionately at the gesture and a few even blew kisses back. Sameera glimpsed the pleased expression on Tara’s face. Yes, the Bench was there as usual, hovering in the background with a few staffers in case the Rightons needed damage control. Don’t these people have lives? Sameera wondered. They’d traveled constantly with Dad throughout the campaign and would do so until November. What about their families? Who was watering their plants, collecting their mail, feeding their pets?
During dessert, while Dad gave a carefully rehearsed speech about his commitment to public-private partnerships in revitalizing America’s cities, the Righton women smiled and gazed at him, just as they’d been coached. Sameera managed to stay steady on her boots but kept fighting the urge to tug the neckline higher or button up her leather jacket. Stop being so shy, she commanded herself. If you took stock of the room, cleavage was definitely in style; alumni and faculty members alike were showing off even the most ancient of curves.
When it was finally time to leave, a young woman pushed her way over to Sameera through the reporters. Sameera had noticed her when she’d first walked into the room partly because the stranger was a large, striking girl, but mostly because she and her mother were either Indian or Pakistani.
“I’m Sangita Singh,” the girl said in a low voice, slipping a small business card into Sameera’s hand. “My mom’s on the faculty here, but I’m a student at George Washington University. Everyone there calls me Sangi. Come join us for coffee in the fall when you’re back in D.C., if you can get away from them.” She tipped her head in the direction of the reporters, and a dimple deepened in her round cheek.
A refrain formed itself in Sameera’s tired mind: Sangi Singh, Singi Song, Songi Sing. As she grinned back at the girl, a vague part of her brain registered that this was her first genuine smile of the entire evening.
“Keep walking, Sammy, keep walking,” Tara’s voice said behind her. She managed to edge Sameera away from the South Asian girl just before a photographer snapped another picture.
Sameera kept a tight grip on Sangi ’s card as she and her parents made their way to the limo. She forced herself to stay in character and blew one more of Wilder’s kisses at the cameras before climbing in, and Dad rolled down the window so that they could all wave as they drove away.
chapter 12
In the limo’s dim light, Sameera held up the card. SARSA@ GW, she read. Fridays from 3 5 P.M. Revolutionary Café. Foggy Bottom Station. She tucked the card inside the small glittery clasp bag that was part of her outfit, wondering what SARSA@GW stood for.
Dad leaned back and loosened his tie. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to this new version of you, Sparrow. You gave your old man a heart attack when you walked in the hotel room.”
“Me, too, Sparrow. You look about ... twenty-three,” Mom added. “Do you like what they’ve done to you?”
What? YOU get to look glam and I don’t? “It’s awesome,” she insisted, even though her feet were screaming in agony. “I actually felt like a celebrity tonight.”
“There’s a downside to fame, you know,” Mom said.
“I KNOW, Mom. I’m not stupid.” Don’t
you get it? I’m a journalist TRACKING the life of a celebrity. But how could her parents get it? They weren’t members of the elite twenty-nine; she’d wanted to keep her myplacc site parent-free. She didn’t write anything that she’d be embarrassed for them to read, but ... well, Mom would probably be a bit too enthusiastic and offer “suggestions” of things Sameera could write about. And Dad? Well, she wasn’t sure what he’d think about some of her crew teammates’ off-color comments. He was so ... well-bred and polite. No, Mrs. Graves was the only exception to her twenty-or-under age limit.
Mom looked surprised and a little sad. “Okay, Sparrow. I ... just don’t want to see you getting—”
Sameera relented, sighing. “Hurt. I know, Mom.”
“Just wait till you’re a parent,” Mom said. “You’ll tell me, ‘Now I get how you were feeling during the campaign.’ ”
Dad looked from his wife to his daughter, who were both concentrating on taking the instruments of torture off their tired feet. “How about we head out early tomorrow, just the three of us, and I give you a tour of my old stomping grounds?” he asked.
“But James, tomorrow’s the primary.”
“I know. But I want to show off my surfing skills for the ladies in my life.”
“Are you sure you still have em, Dad?”
“You bet. A surfer never forgets how to catch a wave, dude,” Dad answered, making the hang-ten sign with his hand. For a second, Sparrow glimpsed the blond, teenaged California boy he used to be all those years ago.
“That sounds great, Dad, but don’t we have to visit polling stations? And there’s another party tomorrow night, right?”
“Leave that to me. We will have to kiss some babies once the polls open, and take some photos, but I’ll figure something out. What do you think, Liz?”
“I’d like that, James,” Mom said. “But tonight I’m going to have to stay up late to work on that freakin’ report.” It was getting to the point where Sameera couldn’t hear the word report uttered by anybody without mentally adding a freakin’ in front of it.
When she finally got back to her room, she realized that someone had been hard at work. New tubes and pencils of makeup, vials of perfume, and glittering jewelry were arranged neatly in a case. When she opened it, drawers rose and slid forward and out so that everything could be accessed while traveling. More new clothes were layered in the dresser and hanging in the closet. Sameera glimpsed angora sweaters, flirty skirts, blazers, and scarves, along with countless pairs of shoes and even more undergarments that felt like armor when you put them on.
“WHO’S BEEN IN MY ROOM?” Sameera growled, feeling like the three bears after Goldilocks barged into their lives. She was glad that her laptop was password protected; there and the changing room were the two places where her privacy was a nonnegotiable.
She picked up the hotel phone and dialed Campaign Central. “I’m looking for Tara Colby,” she said, figuring that the entire team was gathered in front of the televisions and computers, analyzing the coverage.
“This is Sameera,” she said when Tara’s voice came on the phone. “Who was in my room?”
“I gave housekeeping some extra money to put away the stuff Vanessa and Constance sent over for you. What do you think of it?”
Oh. The hotel cleaner came in every day anyway; I can’t really get ticked about that. “I haven’t looked through the clothes. But I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
“The white dress is for tomorrow night’s celebration,” Tara told her. “Vanessa thinks you need something a bit more elegant for that event; it’s a father-daughter dance—the perfect place to announce that he’s secured the party’s nomination. You did great tonight, by the way. The coverage is superb and more than makes up for yesterday’s disaster.”
“Am I meeting Vanessa and Constance tomorrow before the event? Sounds like we’re on a tight schedule.” I hope we can squeeze in that early morning tour, she thought.
“I’ve got it all taken care of. Don’t forget to read your blog; you don’t want to say something that seems out of character.” For a moment, Sameera thought Tara was talking about her real blog, but then she remembered that Sammy Sez.com had gone live, maybe even as they were talking.
Dad’s voice came on the line. “Oh, sorry, Sparrow.”
“It’s okay, Dad. I was just talking to Tara.”
“Good. I’ll need to speak to her about tomorrow’s schedule. Tell me when you’re off the phone.”
“I’m done, Dad.”
“I’m here, James,” said Tara. “What about tomorrow?”
Since nobody had told her to get off the line, Sameera listened as Dad explained his idea of heading out at dawn to take his daughter and wife on a brief, personal tour. “I know the schedule’s tight, but Sparrow’s leaving for Ohio the day after tomorrow, so we—”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, James. Your daughter simply cannot spend the entire summer in Ohio apart from you and Liz. Not now; not when we’re about to take on the Democrats full force. The race may get ugly, and she needs to stay by your side.”
“No.” Dad’s voice was firm. “Sparrow spends the summer in Maryfield. 11 she decides to end her visit early and join us in D.C. before the convention, that’s up to her. Otherwise, Liz and I want this to be as normal a summer for her as possible.”
Tara sighed. “Okay. But I’ll be waiting for a call from Ohio, Sammy. I’ll come and pick you up myself and bring you back to D.C.”
How’d she know I was still on the line? “Fine. See you tomorrow.”
She replaced the land-phone receiver in the cradle with a hard click so that thev both knew she’d exited the conversation. Then she flipped open her laptop to visit SammySez. com. Wilder’s (live!) Sammy post of the day was in line with the rest of his creative offerings:what do you guyz think of my new look? i’ve always wanted to be a hottie; what gurl doesn’t? so we did a little nip and tuck, and the results were sort of amazing ... petite pizzazz is an awesome boutique, and the rodeo drive salon rocks ... the boots were my favorite part ... it was so great to be at UCLA tonight ... my dad went there you know and graduated head of his class ... he’s a genius ... in a couple of years I might get in, too ... college apps and sats are such a drag but everyone’s gotta do it ...
Sameera stopped reading. If she rolled her eyes constantly while reading Sammy’s posts, what would other visitors think? They’re loving it if they’re insomniacs, she thought, yawning widely. Works like a charm.
But before she went to sleep, she had to find out what her cousin thought of The Makeover. “It’s me,” she said when Miranda answered the phone. “Or at least I think it’s me.”
“Sparrow, turn on the television right now.” It was Miranda. “You’re on every channel, practically. We can’t believe it’s you ... I mean ... how did you ...”
Sameera headed into the living room with her cousin still sputtering in her ear. “Hush up, Ran,” she said. “Let me check it out for myself. I’ll call back in a minute.”
She put the phone on the coffee table, but Mom didn’t look up from her laptop. “Miranda said we’re all over the news. Can we watch?”
Dad wearily reached for the remote. “Tara told me the coverage was positive,” he said, flipping through channels to find the news.
He found a local station first: “James Righton, the front-runner Republican candidate who has practically locked in his party’s nomination, was joined by his charming wife and daughter at UCLA’s Faculty Club tonight.”
The camera zoomed in on Sparrow’s face as she blew a kiss to America. “She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she?” the newscaster in the studio said. “And such a joyful spirit, too!”
The Celebs! channel was featuring side-by-side before-and-after shots of Sparrow, just as Tara had predicted. “Cinderella in Hollywood? In twenty-four magical hours, Sammy Righton’s style changed from schoolgirl to posh princess. Angeleno sophistication oozed from this young lady as she stood by her fath
er’s side tonight at the UCLA Faculty Club. Righton is expected to sweep the California primary tomorrow and clinch the Republican nomination.”
Sameera dialed her cousin again. “I look so different. I hardly recognize myself.”
“What happened to your body?” Miranda demanded.
“These people are miracle workers, Ran. Look at what they did to Mom.”
“But ... but you grew new parts. You didn’t let them ... add anything surgically, did you?”
Sameera glanced over at her father, who was frowning at the television. “No way,” she said in a low voice. “It’s just the magic of underwear. Hey, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She sat next to Dad on the stiff, uncomfortable couch. He was tuning in to coverage of the Democratic primary, which was a much closer race than the Republican one. Sameera noticed that Senator Banforth came across as earthy and natural, making people laugh with her well-timed, witty, incisive comments. The other Democratic front-runner, Tom Dorton, was always swinging one of those adorable kids of his around, tossing a baseball with another one, or riding the third one on his shoulders. He looked young and energetic and vibrant. Sameera couldn’t help feeling that Dad came across a bit staid and stuffy in contrast to these contenders, despite his charm and polish. He did better with people when he was actually with them, chatting in off-the-cuff conversations that showed off what a good listener he was.
Tara said the Republican race would be easy compared to what’s ahead. Things are going to heat up. A part of her did want to stick around as the campaigning got more interesting over the summer, but she couldn’t let the Maryfield folks down. Everybody was doing their own chores and taking over a big chunk of Gran’s work so she could recuperate. This was one summer when they actually needed her help.
“I’m heading to bed,” Dad said, switching off the television. “We’re going to meet Vanessa and Constance before sunrise.”
First Daughter Page 7