Chapter 19
Sameera passed her driving test with flying colors after only a month of lessons. “The examiner said she was a natural,” Poppa told the family when they returned with her license in hand. “Steady, safe, and quick on her feet in a crisis.”
“We knew that already,” Gran said proudly. “Did you tell James and Liz?”
“Sparrow called them on the way home; they were thrilled.”
Miranda had failed the test twice before passing, but there was no sign of envy on her face. “That’s so great, Sparrow! I’ll let you drive the Jeep anytime you want.”
“Thanks, Ran. Thanks, everybody.”
She really did enjoy driving; it was a bit like coxing and downloading music and recording TV shows and blogging—all of which she relished because they made her feel in charge of her life. She loved rolling down the windows of the Jeep, cranking up the tunes, and driving through the country roads around Maryfield. And she was careful; she always pulled over into a shady spot before checking in with Mom or Dad via cell. After a while, when Sameera and Miranda were together, Sameera always drove, leaving her cousin in charge of finding a good song that the two girls could sing at the top of their lungs.
Dad told Sameera to use her credit card to fill the tank regularly with gas, and the Rightons were going to surprise Miranda by installing a new stereo system in the car at the end of the summer. In the meantime, the drives were turning out to be a grand diversion from Sameera’s campaign obsession.
Meanwhile, Gran didn’t have any distractions. That meant she was checking in on the campaign now almost constantly and getting worked up over any negative comment made about her favorite (and only) son-in-law. Poppa responded by making everybody, including Gran, promise not to turn on the television in the daytime. “We’ll watch together in the evenings,” he said. “I care about the campaign, too. But we’ve gotten into a terrible habit lately. Sparrow will be gone before we know it, and she’ll have spent her entire vacation mucking out stalls, driving, and sitting in front of the television.”
Reluctantly, everybody agreed to a daytime television fast. But one midsummer Saturday morning, Sameera joined her grandmother at the kitchen counter, knowing they were both fighting temptation. Miranda, Aunt Bev, Poppa, and Uncle Jake were shopping in Canobie for the day. Sameera had opted to stay in Maryfield, even though Miranda had begged her to join them.
“Gran needs company,” Sameera had explained, and with a suspicious look on her face, Miranda left with her parents and grandfather.
Sameera fended off a growing desire to check the news by pouring herself some coffee and opening a magazine on the counter. Maryfield Today was published only four times a year, and the editorial focus was definitely local, so there was no coverage of the presidential election. This was still a hot-off-the-press issue, and the big story was a collapsed silo on the Seward farm and the new flowerpots along Main Street. There were also photos of a fierce competition that had taken place during the first annual all-Maryfield Xbox Games hosted in the town library. Sparrow smiled at the shot of Mrs. Graves gripping a controller with an expression of intense concentration just before clinching the tournament.
Gran grinned, too; she was looking over Sameera’s shoulder. “Those middle school boys were so ticked off when Abigail won,” she said.
The center spread was called “Summer’s Here!” and featured a collage of kids setting up lemonade stands, swimming in the ponds, helping with the haying, and riding their bikes. There was even a photo of Miranda and Sameera enjoying ice-cream cones at the Fourth of July picnic—with the Jeep in the background, of course.
“Let’s go,” Gran said suddenly. “I know we promised your Poppa, but I can’t stand this. We’ll confess our sins when they get back.”
The two of them slunk into the family room, pulled down the blinds, and settled themselves in front of the screen. Gran wielded the remote and found a twenty-four-hour news station. There was Dad, giving a speech to a Restaurant Workers’ Union in fluent Spanish. Mom was visiting an inner-city preschool where (Sameera couldn’t believe her ears) she introduced the four-year-olds to the plight of internally displaced people. She wasn’t surprised when a reporter confronted her mother after the speech.
“Are you really a Republican, Mrs. Righton? You don’t advocate for any of the traditional conservative or religious causes.”
That riled Mom up; Sameera could tell. “You prove to me that Jesus wouldn’t care about homeless people hiding in the jungle,” Elizabeth Campbell replied, “and I’ll find a more ‘religious’ cause.”
Gran flipped to another channel. “I’m not even sure she’s a Republican, Sparrow, and I’m her mother. She was always reacting to my political position growing up. To me she’s sounded like a Democrat for years.”
“Only around you. She’s with Dad on most of the issues; she just likes to focus on the poor. She’s good for him, Gran, don’t worry. And for his image.”
“He doesn’t need help with his image,” Gran said, gazing admiringly at the screen as Dad continued pontificating in Spanish.
She was right. Dad came across as charming, handsome, and suave as ever. The problem was that his opponent, Senator Victoria Banforth, was getting just as much positive coverage, if not more. Her success in rising to the top as a single mother was lauded, she was graceful and intelligent, and cameramen seemed to enjoy zooming in on her brilliant, handsome, politician-in-the-making son, who had taken a leave of absence from law school to make speeches on his mother’s behalf.
As images of the campaign blurred like a movie stuck perpetually on fast-forward, Sameera found herself feeling ... invisible again. She didn’t want America to forget that James and Elizabeth Righton had a daughter. I guess three days in the limelight and Wilder’s SammySez.com just aren’t enough to keep me in the public eye.
The coverage switched to an event that had taken place the night before at the closing banquet of a national teachers’ conference. For this appearance, Vanessa had outfitted Mrs. James Righton in a stylish white suit with gold trim, diamond earrings, a bouffant hairdo, long, oval (fake) fingernails, burgundy lips, and high-heeled sling-back white pumps. Liz Campbell: The Extended Version, Sameera thought. Or is it the Director’s Cut? Directed, of course, by Tara. Produced by Vanessa, Constance, and Manuel. In every close-up, Mom was smiling like a vintage version of Mrs. America, but Sameera had never seen her eves look so miserable.
“She looks absolutely exhausted,” Gran said.
“She told me yesterday that she still wasn’t done with that—er—report.” It wouldn’t do to remind Gran of the adjective Mom always put in front of the noun.
“‘To whom much is entrusted, of them much will be required,’ ” Gran said. “Liz and I may have our issues, but I’ll always be proud of the way she’s living out that Bible verse.”
“But what does that mean, Gran?” Sameera asked. One of her rare, secret peeves about Maryfield was how the older generation quoted Bible verses as though everybody on the planet understood them.
“Take a look at your mom’s life, Sparrow. She’s doing so much good in the world. And your dad’s always fighting to do what’s right.”
“You, too,” Sameera added quickly.
“I used to be of some use here in Maryfield.” Gran sighed. “It’s hard when you feel like things are being taken away from you instead of being entrusted to you.”
Poor Gran, Sameera thought. Her once-busy, bossy, hyper-involved grandmother had been forced into the role of resident couch potato. “Take care of yourself, Gran, and you’ll be back to all your good deeds in no time.”
Gran smiled. “It’s a beautiful day, Sparrow,” she said, obviously changing the subject. “Let’s take Jingle for a stroll over to the pond before your poppa catches us in here red-handed.”
“Remote-handed, you mean,” Sameera said, switching off the television.
chapter 20
Sameera had underestimated the public’s fic
kle, unpredictable appetite for news. The Sparrow Hunt, as Uncle Jake dubbed it, started in early August.
One evening after supper, she squeezed herself into the small space still available on a sofa that was already crowded with one grandmother, one aunt, and one cousin. Uncle Jake and Poppa were settled in the recliners. Since Poppa’s no-daytime-television rule was now being even more strictly enforced, the family had been staying up later and later to get their campaign fix. They were all starting to look positively bleary-eyed.
Poppa stood up, yawning. “We need some coffee. I’ll put on a pot. How many takers?”
Everybody raised a hand, including Gran, who added an imploring look. Poppa shook his head, but he ended up bringing her half a mug along with the others. Sameera had just taken a big sip of Poppa’s black, bracing concoction when the evening news came on. The first shot was of a small, whitesteepled country church basking in the sunshine, surrounded by a grove of maple trees. “Oh, my goodness!” Gran said. “That’s our church! How’d they get that photo?”
“Welcome to Maryfield, Ohio. A small dairy-farming town like so many others across America,” the voice-over was saying. Poppa used the remote to turn the volume up. In the background, the tune “America the Beautiful” was playing, and photographs of Maryfield’s scenery kept appearing and fading. “And yet, this summer, something happened to set this town apart. A young woman named Sammy Righton moved in with her grandparents, Matthew and Sarah Campbell, third-generation dairy farmers who live in this quiet community.”
They’d found her! Well, it’s about time, she thought. Aunt Bev was gripping Sameera’s arms so tightly Sameera almost spilled her coffee.
“Sammy is James Righton’s one and only child, adopted from Pakistan when she was only three years old. Tomorrow, travel with us to Maryfield to meet this adorable young lady face-to-face. And now, back to you, Dave.”
The family watched and flipped, and watched and flipped, locked in a channel-surfing trance. By ten o’clock, aerial photos of the Campbell farm had been added to the coverage. At eleven, they saw childhood photos of Elizabeth Campbell with her brother and parents, and even a shot of Miranda as a ten-year-old Girl Scout.
Miranda shrieked at the sight of her preteen face on national television. “Why couldn’t they have picked my junior class photo?” she wailed. “The photographer in Canobie still has that one up in his store window.”
Next, Sammy Righton’s yearbook photo from the International School in Brussels appeared on screen. As the enormous, smiling face lingered in front of the nation, a chipper, perfectly coiffed anchorwoman asked: “Why is the popular Republican candidate rarely seen with his adopted black daughter? Tune in tomorrow when Channel Thirty-four reveals the whole story.”
This must have been the last straw for Poppa, who turned off the television. “Come to bed soon, darling,” he said to Gran. Dropping a kiss on Sameera’s head just like her father often did, he trudged into his room.
Aunt Bev stood up, too. “Dad’s right to turn it off. Watching so much television makes me queasy. Jake, are you coming? Miranda, don’t forget to clean the kitchen.”
Uncle Jake left with her. “Don’t stay up too long, Sparrow,” he said. “Number one-thirty-seven is looking a bit under the weather, so you might have to do some of my work while I spend time washing her down.”
Hello? Your life’s about to change here, Sameera thought. Get ready, brace yourselves, it’s going to get intense. But her uncle’s calm, everyday words reassured her even more than Poppa’s kiss of solidarity. Even if the planet started spinning in reverse and the oceans spilled out into the galaxy, her grandfather and uncle would be up at three o’clock in the morning, taking care of their Holsteins.
Meanwhile, Gran was scowling and muttering under her breath, “They don’t get their FACTS straight. She’s not BLACK; she’s PAKISTANI. Terrible journalism. Scandalous. Someone needs to do something about it.”
All that muttering and grumbling can’t be good for the heart, Sameera thought as Gran poured another cup of coffee and took it out to the sunroom—even though it was midnight.
Miranda was still gazing at the now-blank screen. “Oh, wow, Sparrow. I ... I was on television. Can you believe it?”
“Yeah, and it’s going to happen again, Ran. They’ll be here by tomorrow.”
“Who? Uncle James and Aunt Liz?”
“No. The reporters.”
“Oh,” said Miranda, her face lighting up. “Oh! Paparazzi! That’s awesome! Here I’ve been secretly envying you, and now things are finally going to get interesting around here for all of us.”
“You’ve been envying ... me?” I thought we were a mutual admiration society.
“Yeah, Sparrow. I mean I love having you as my cousin, but sometimes it’s hard. Think about it. Here I am, stuck on this boring farm in this boring town, while you’ve been jet-setting around the planet your whole life.”
“Maryfield isn’t boring, Miranda. Plus, you’re the shining star around here. You make things happen. And you’ve visited me in every place we’ve lived, and then I have to fend off the hordes of guys who want to contact you after you leave.” Members of her crew team still left love notes for Miranda as comments on Sameera’s blog.
“It’s not the same visiting a place,” Miranda protested. “And then your dad decides to run for president, you get an awesome makeover, look hot on the tube, and handle questions so well, and start turning into ... an actual celebrity.”
“But Ran, I’m still Sparrow, your little cow-milking cousin. I love the farm, my family, Jingle, and my circle of blogger buddies. I don’t care what strangers think of me—I’ve been doing an experiment to see What It’s Like To Be a Celebrity. I don’t actually want to become one myself.”
It’s people who want to become celebrities who get trashed by the popularity machine, she realized. She hadn’t needed to bone up before leaving Brussels, watching movies about presidents’ daughters and browsing celebrity Web sites. Maybe because she’d done so much soul-searching about being adopted, or maybe because she’d moved around so much, she already had what she needed to survive life in the limelight—that secret something that let her be Sparrow when she needed to be, stay Sameera when she wanted, and even morph into Sammy without losing her sense of self ... or her sense of humor.
“... you looked and sounded so different, Sparrow,” Miranda was saying. “The one thing that helped me remember that you were still the same you was reading your blog.”
“Well, it looks like I should get back to writing ‘my life as a celeb,’ because things are going to start getting interesting. I’m going to have to open that makeup case and extra suitcase after all. How about you? How are you going to handle the reporters?”
“I can’t wait till they get here. I think this might turn out to be the big break I’ve been waiting for. What do you think?”
“Maybe. But aren’t the reporters going to make things stressful for Gran? Remember what the doctor said?”
Miranda shrugged. “Well, she’d better get used to it. If Uncle James wins this election, she’s going to be the mother of the first lady. Which means you get to be the first daughter, and I get to be the first niece! How fun is that going to be?”
“Yeah, fun for me, fun for you, tough on Gran.”
They could hear their grandmother still muttering to herself in the sunroom. “She needs some kind of major stress-releaser,” Miranda said, shaking her head as she left the room to wash the coffee mugs.
A stress-releaser. Hmmmm ... Sameera climbed the stairs to her room, found the blank book from her English teacher, and brought it down to her grandmother. “I don’t want to interrupt your prayer time, Gran, but I have something for you.”
“It’s okay, Sparrow,” Gran said. “I wasn’t praying. I was just ... grumbling out loud. I’ve never been as good at talking to God as your poppa is. Or your mother, for that matter.”
Sameera handed her the journal. “Why don’t you tr
y writing to God? When I feel far away from someone, it helps a ton to write to them.”
Gran looked thoughtful. “Okay, Sparrow,” she said. “I just might give it a try.”
Gran’s blog with God, Sameera thought. Now THAT should be interesting.
chapter 21
Sameera sat up with a jolt and stifled a scream. Aunt Bev and Jingle were both leaning over her, their faces inches from her own.
“I hate to wake you up, Sparrow, but it’s time for the morning milking and they’re asking for you.”
Despite the comforting presence of Jingle’s body beside her, Sameera hadn’t slept well. She squinted at the alarm clock. It was almost five-thirty—she was usually outside working by now. They’d stayed up so late the night before that she’d overslept.
“Sorry, Aunt Bev. I’ll be ready in a minute. Who’s asking for me?”
“Reporters. They’ve surrounded the house. I’ve only been up about ten minutes myself, but I called your uncle in the barn, and at least a dozen of them are waiting for you over there. Of course, they’re trespassing on private property, but they don’t seem to care, and Jake doesn’t think it would be good PR to chase them off with his rifle. Not yet, at least.”
First Daughter Page 11