First Daughter

by Mitali Perkins

  Sameera’s cell phone rang “Yankee Doodle,” which was the ring tone she had assigned to her father. “Hi, Dad,” she said into the phone, running her fingers through Jingle’s coat.

  “Hi, sweetheart. You made it.” She could hear sirens and horns blaring in the background as he talked.

  “Yeah. Miranda picked me up at the airport and we drove straight here. No reporters anywhere in sight.”

  “That’s great. Lots of them on our end; we’re just leaving the airport now after facing them.”

  “Guess what, Dad? Poppa’s going to teach me to drive. I might be able to get my license this summer!”

  Silence.

  “Dad? What’s wrong?”

  “My father taught me to drive,” Dad said. “I should be doing it, not your grandfather.”

  “Poppa taught Miranda, too. Uncle Jake said it’s too stressful to teach vour own kid.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s okay then. It did get a bit hairy, with my dad gripping the dashboard and praying out loud. I’ll talk to you soon, darling. Here’s your mom.”

  “How’s your grandmother?” Mom asked right away.

  “She seems ... okay,” Sparrow said. “Still trying to be in charge around here, that’s for sure.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Sparrow,” Mom said. “Maybe we could invite your cousin to join you when you come back in the fall. She’d be great company; the two of you always have such a good time together.”

  Sameera was surprised by her reaction, which was a strong reluctance even to consider her mother’s idea. “What about school?” she asked. “Miranda can’t miss school.”

  “Oh, there are ways around that. She wouldn’t have to stay for long. Let’s see how it goes.”

  After they hung up, Sameera stretched out again without bothering Jingle, who was fast asleep. Miranda had a knack for making everything more fun. Why wouldn’t she want her cousin to join her on the campaign trail? It wasn’t jealousy; she’d always loved her cousin’s visits overseas despite the fact that Miranda attracted so much attention. And she’d never begrudged her cousin her natural gifts of grace and beauty—or even her genetic connection to the family she loved so much. No, what worried Sameera was what might happen to Miranda if she were yanked into the public eye.

  “Sparrow! Come help set the table!”

  Sameera and Jingle raced down the familiar stairs side by side. By the smells wafting out of the kitchen, she hoped that supper would be roast chicken, rosemary potatoes, and warm, flaky biscuits straight out of the oven—her favorite.

  Gran was overseeing the supper preparation, even though Aunt Bev and Miranda were doing the actual cooking. “YESSSS!” Sameera said when she saw what was cooking. Some dreams did come true.

  Chapter 17

  The entire family participated in the early morning feeding and milking, which was the same every morning, even on Sundays. Poppa and Uncle Jake were at work by three o‘clock, rain or shine, day in and day out, 365 days a year, and Miranda and Aunt Bev by five o’clock. Gran, too, when she used to milk.

  During previous summers, Sameera had always made it a point to get up and join them, even though she hadn’t actually been much help. She’d been too small to attach the milking machines to the cows when they were up on their elevated platforms, she didn’t know how to drive a tractor or work the motorized manure scraper, and she’d always kept her distance from the bull. This summer, though, she’d promised herself to learn all that stuff and more, mostly to (1) give her cousin the chance to escape the milking routine (which Miranda hated) and take over the household work so that (2) Gran could have a break from constantly cooking, cleaning, and doing the laundry.

  Sameera got up when her alarm buzzed, pulled on overalls and boots, and stumbled through the still-dark morning with Aunt Bev and Jingle. After Poppa and Uncle Jake prodded eight cows into place with the crowd gate, she and her aunt cleaned the udders and dipped them into antibacterial solution. After a couple of weeks, Sameera got used to the smell and sounds and feel of the udders as she washed them, and she even forced herself to squeeze each teat, just like Aunt Bev did, to make sure the milk ran clear. Then they attached the milking machines to the teats. The automatic milkers sensed when the udders were empty, detached themselves, and swung back into place. Aunt Bev and Sameera cleaned off the teats again, led the cows out, and waited while the next eight milkers were prodded into the parlor.

  Meanwhile, Miranda was trying to get all the indoor work done so they could have some free time. Sameera’s cousin was the hub of the Maryfield teen social scene, and the phone was always ringing with bored people asking what they were doing. Sameera slipped easily into the relaxed climate in Maryfield—a couple of Miranda’s best friends had even made it into the intergalactic myspace.com circle. In summers gone by, they swam at the high school pool in the afternoons, basking in the sun, or Sameera helped her cousin memorize lines for whatever “Shakespeare in Maryfield” play she was about to star in every August. Later in the day, they’d help Aunt Bev in the garden, or swing luxuriously in hammocks in the shade of the weeping willows, flipping through magazines, talking, listening to music. And after the afternoon chores were done, they might head over with a bunch of people to the arcade, ice-cream parlor, and bowling alley twenty minutes away in Canobie. They’d usually end the day by catching a sitcom or a reality show, tuning in to their favorite makeover channels, or making popcorn and watching a chick flick.

  But this summer was different from the start.

  First, Miranda was discovering that working inside the house was just as hard, if not harder, than doing the milking twice a day. She was so overwhelmed with chores that Sameera and Aunt Bev found themselves chipping in to help. It was even more stressful with Gran calling out instructions, comments, and suggestions from her forced place of “rest” on a rocking chair in the sunroom.

  Second, Sameera’s main priority was squeezing in a morning driving lesson from Poppa; she was learning fast and loving it. Miranda was letting her practice on the Jeep.

  And third, everybody in Maryfield was into her father’s campaign. In Brussels, or even during her brief stint on the campaign trail, Sameera had been too distracted and busy to get nervous for her father, but here on the quiet farm, the intensity of the race was nerve-wracking. Different family members gathered in front of the television at any hour of the day or night, watching Sameera’s parents in action or getting updates on the campaign. The family even tuned in on Sunday evenings instead of playing board games or reading aloud. Poppa, who always looked guilty and flustered when someone mentioned the word Sabbath, was a regular in one of the recliners, with a remote clutched in his hand. But by far the most frequent visitors to the Shrine of the Big Screen were Gran and Sameera, who ran into each other in the family room every hour or so. They both spoke to Mom and Dad regularly on the phone, of course, but there was a constant need to track the campaign coverage on national news. Dad was now neck and neck with Senator Banforth, with Dorton falling behind them in the polls.

  One sunny morning, when Sameera came down after her shower, Aunt Bev was slicing a loaf of zucchini bread. “I’ll pour you some coffee to go,” she told Sameera. “And here’s something to eat with it. Miranda’s in the Jeep; she said you wanted to get online at the library?”

  “I do. I want to find out how Dad’s doing on the Web—and if anybody online has discovered I’m MIA yet. Because they certainly haven’t mentioned my absence on the tube. Thank goodness.”

  They both jumped at the sound of the horn. Miranda was leaning on it, hard, probably to show off the extent of its blast. She was going to scare the cows if she didn’t let up, and Poppa and Uncle Jake would be furious.

  Jingle raced around the kitchen, barking loudly, and Gran’s head popped in from the adjoining sunroom. “That Jeep’s gone to Miranda’s brain,” she said. “She needs to calm down. And somebody keep that dog from barking!”

  Sameera and Aunt Bev exchanged looks. “Take a deep bre
ath, Mom,” Aunt Bev said. “We’ll do some yoga together this afternoon.”

  “I hate yoga,” Gran growled.

  Beep! Beep!

  Sameera raced out to the Jeep, clutching her coffee and her zucchini bread. “Ran, stop! Gran’s getting all red in the face.”

  “Okay, okay. Want to come to Save Mart with me? The library doesn’t open till eleven.”

  “No thanks. I’ll wait at the diner until Mrs. Graves shows up.”

  Sameera drank three more cups of bitter brew across the street from the library, watching through the big plate-glass window as people opened their shops and exchanged greetings. Most of them waved and grinned, and people coming in for breakfast kept stopping by her table to give her a hug or offer words of support for her father.

  This was another aspect of life in Maryfield that Sameera loved—everybody knew her story; they’d known her since she was little. Nobody asked intrusive questions about her past, or her adoption, or her life as a diplomat’s daughter moving from one international capital city to the next. Maryfield folks kept up during the year via Gran’s prayer requests and caught up with Liz Campbell during her summer visits; they felt like Sparrow Righton was one of their own, too.

  “It’s good to see you here again, Sparrow,” said Mayor Thompson, who was also the owner of the hardware store. “We weren’t sure you’d make it back this summer what with all the hubbub.”

  “We’re glad you came, darling,” said his wife, leaning down to kiss Sameera’s cheek. “How’s your mother doing? And your grandmother? I haven’t seen Sarah much lately; we’ve been missing her in our board meetings.”

  “Mom’s fine. And Gran’s going to be okay, too. You know how tough they both are.”

  Mrs. Thompson laughed; she’d taught Sunday school for years and claimed that each gray hair on her head had sprouted in response to a challenging theological question from Liz Campbell. And she’d had plenty of tussles with Gran on the Elder Board before Gran had resigned.

  Sameera spotted the librarian unlocking the front door across the street. She tried to open her bag to pay for her coffee, but MayorThompson called out, “Put Sparrow’s breakfast on my bill, Stan.”

  Chapter 18

  Maryfield folks loved their library; farmers stopped by to vie for the computers after their morning work, book clubs met to discuss the hottest best sellers, and students from the high school gathered to do homework. The main draw was Mrs. Graves, the tiny, bubbly librarian who was one of three unofficial co-leaders of the community, along with Mrs. Thompson and Sameera’s grandmother. Mayor Thompson was sort of a figurehead sent to represent Maryfield at county gatherings and such; the trio of older women made the real decisions.

  Mrs. Graves enfolded Sameera in a big hug. “I’ve loved reading and commenting on your blog, sweetheart,” she said. “And getting to know your friends. I’m so glad Matteo liked the cookies.”

  “He loved them. And everybody enjoys your comments, Mrs. Graves. They’re so ... spicy.” She’d worried that when the librarian joined her circle she might have to censor herself on certain topics, but Mrs. Graves was actually more open to new ideas than some of Sameera’s peers.

  “How’s your grandmother?” the librarian asked. “Your poppa’s gone overboard with all the restrictions he’s put on her life.”

  “Well, he wants her to live for a long time. And so do we.”

  “Women my age don’t want to slow down, Sparrow. We need satisfying work, and to keep learning, or we get all crotchety. I’ve been updating all our terminals with the latest technology—it’s been a delight to get up to speed.”

  Mrs. Graves hurried off to greet another patron, and Sameera sat in front of one of the library’s two fast, sleek, state-of-the-art computers. She checked and de-spammed her e-mail first. There wasn’t much of value because most of her friends used her myplace.com site to connect. The in-box did contain a note from her English teacher, one from Mrs. Mathews, and one from her crew teammates with an attachment that had been too large to post on her myplace.com site.

  Saving the best for last, she started with her teacher’s note. I’m thinking of you through this difficult, amazing journey, Sameera. I encourage you to start writing in the journal I gave you. You’re like me; your true self is best expressed through the written word instead of the spoken word. Journaling will help you to process your thoughts and feelings, as well as serving as a record of a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Affectionately,

  Ms. Banning.

  Sameera sighed. How could she explain that she couldn’t “express her true self” using a pen to write words that only she would read? She needed a keyboard, screen, and buddies who commented frequently and passionately on her true self’s expressions. The journal was still packed in a corner of her suitcase, blank and untouched.

  Mrs. Mathews’s note was full of juicy tidbits about life in the diplomatic enclave, the most shocking being the Canadian ambassador’s gardener running off with the Brazilian ambassador’s nanny. She wrote in closing:I miss you so much, Sparrow. You looked so beautiful in that poncho, sweetheart. I hope you’re having a nice rest in Maryfield; it’s good that you’re getting a break from being famous. I grew up in a small town, too, remember, and I’m starting to miss it lately. I’m still not used to the continental lifestyle, even after all these years. I don’t know what I’ll do if your dad wins in November. I’m not sure if I could work with a new family. What if I don’t get along as well with them? Well, as your mother reminds me, I should probably stop worrying and start trusting. Much love,

  Doris Mathews.

  Sameera’s crew teammates had attached a video clip of themselves dashing to the shore, flinging themselves into the boat, and beginning to sob, weep, and wail as they noticed the empty place where the coxswain usually sat. The whole scene had been filmed in slow motion, and Nat King Cole’s voice crooned “Unforgettable, that’s what you are/Unforgettable, though near or far ...” in the background. Sameera played it three times, noticing Matteo’s calf muscles rippling as he ran and how absolutely gorgeous all eight of them were. I had every girl’s dream assignment, she thought.

  She grinned as she read their written message; the e-mail server obviously didn’t have an obscenity filter.

  Sparrow. Come back. We need you. We saw you get harassed on TV. Don’t let them do that to you. Here’s what you say the next time someone like that comes after you:

  A list of choice phrases and insults in a host of different languages followed. She’d never minded that they all swore constantly, but she didn’t do it herself. How could she? She was Sarah Campbell’s granddaughter. Even Mom, still trapped in some extended teenaged rebellion against her mother, couldn’t bring herself to say anything really off-color.

  After thanking her teammates and responding to her teacher and Mrs. Mathews, Sameera took a deep breath and opened a browser window to check the online coverage on Dad—and herself. She skimmed through different news sources, radical, liberal, conservative, middle-of-the-road, nonpartisan. Some critics were worried about his lack of experience with national issues like unemployment and the economy. Supporters were touting Dad’s international experience, but critics complained that he was more of a “world citizen” than an American. “So what?” Sameera muttered. “What’s good for the planet is good for America. We share the same space, people.”

  Along the same lines, an editorial in the New York Times wondered if a diplomat could lead the nation in tax reform and health care, or handle an aging population. He served in Congress for three terms, Sameera thought furiously. Get a clue. He must have learned something then. A few popular conservative bloggers wondered about Righton’s faith. He’d never made a strong statement about it one way or another—what did the man believe? Good question, Sameera thought, even as she resented this intrusion into her father’s private life. All the sources, however, agreed on one thing: Dad was neck and neck in the race against the Democrat who had finally clinched her own party’s
nomination: Senator Victoria Banforth.

  There wasn’t much online about Sameera herself; obviously SammySez.com hadn’t morphed her magically into the most popular teen in America. Nobody was commenting on her disappearance from the campaign trail or hinting that they wanted to find her, and Sameera found herself feeling strangely disappointed. She did find one or two articles that mentioned her existence: “Candidate and Wife Called to Adopt Orphan,” insisted a popular national entertainment magazine, making up some ridiculous, tearjerker tale about Mom and Dad finding “Sammy” on their doorstep. Another one announced again: “Righton’s Daughter Adopted from Pakistan.” But there was nothing about her current presence in Maryfield or about the fact that she wasn’t by her parents’ side.

  Sameera didn’t spend too much time at SammySez.com. Wilder, she discovered, had taken her advice on the “country” spin and was generating boring variations on a patriotic theme:i’m heading back to the family farm while Mom and Dad travel ... i adore spending time with my grandparents ... i’ve been there every summer, and the Heartland of America is the most beautiful place on earth ... I’m a country girl, just like my mom, and every day, we thank God for the privilege of being Americans ... it’s in small towns like Maryfield where you discover who you really are.

  She noticed that there was no place for visitors to leave comments. Definitely not a REAL blog, she thought scornfully.

  No wonder I’m back to being invisible. She headed to her myplace.com site to read her own friends’ comments and to dash off a quick post:Hi, guys. As you know, my grandfather’s cut off Internet access on the farm, so I’m having a hard time blogging this summer. I don’t have much to say, anyway. I could write details about which cows are having trouble producing their daily quota of milk and theories about why that’s happening, but if you’re not a dairy farmer’s granddaughter, you might not be into that. I’ll check in with another post when and if things get more interesting. And just before the convention, I’ll be back for sure, reporting on life again as “Sammy,” the ditzy, glam-wannabe candidate’s daughter. For now, though, during long summer days in Maryfield, Ohio, I’m just Sparrow. Enjoy your holidays, and send many snail mail postcards. Remember: keep your comments short, clean, and to the point. Peace be with you. Sparrow.