Bang! Bang! “What’s that?” Sparrow asked, alarmed.
Aunt Bev opened the door and Jingle shot out like a defensive missile. “That must be your grandmother nailing the doggie door shut. I ran down to see how she was doing and almost got my head snapped off. She’s furious—one of them poked a camera through Jingle’s flap exit and took a picture of her sitting at the kitchen table, writing in some book.”
Sparrow threw off the covers and hurried over to the window. It was still dark, but sensor-activated floodlights were lit all over the property. Sure enough, a semicircle of parked cars, most of them with out-of-state plates, had taken over the drive-way. Reporters and photographers were milling around the house and the barn, apparently waiting to pounce on any sign of human life.
“When did they get here?” she asked, pulling the curtains closed as one of them glanced up in her direction.
“No idea. Your uncle said thev were here when he went out at three A.M. We should have locked and bolted the gate last night, but we were all too exhausted to think straight.”
The Campbells never locked the entrance gate to the property; it was too much trouble to drive the five miles back and forth every night. Besides, the only evidence of crime in Maryfield were the tools, casserole dishes, books, and countless other items that neighbors borrowed and forgot to return.
Sameera went into the adjoining bathroom to get dressed, where the outfit she’d worn that day in California was waiting for her. She’d taken it out of the unopened suitcase before going to sleep, along with some of Constance’s tubes and vials. “Where’s Ran?” she called through the door.
“Don’t ask. I’m so mad at that girl I could explode.”
“Why?” Sameera asked, running a brush through her hair quickly and putting on some lipstick.
“Your grandmother’s irate about what she’s wearing,” Aunt Bev said. “Apparently I need to get her inside ASAP. Let’s go.”
In the kitchen, Gran was trying to control Jingle, who desperately needed to pee. Since the doggie door wasn’t an option, he was racing around the house, trying to find another way out.
“Take him with you, girls,” Gran said. “Sparrow, stick close to Bev, okay? Your grandfather and uncle are both out there, so there’s no need for me to come. And Bev, tell that daughter of yours to come in at once.” Her voice sounded strained and unnatural.
Taking a deep breath, Sameera followed Aunt Bev out the kitchen door. Jingle sped off toward the rosy eastern horizon like a golden blur. He’d deal with the visitors later, after he found a private place to relieve his own anxiety.
“There she is! Sammy Righton! With some farm woman! They’re gonna milk!”
Sameera dragged herself into Sammy mode as the reporters surrounded them. “Welcome to Maryfield,” she said, smiling and giving a Wilder-approved wave.
“Sammy! Why are you living out here on a farm with your grandparents? Sammy! Did your parents send you here? Do you actually milk? Do you like it? Do they make you work, Sammy?”
The now-familiar mikes were shoved at her mouth as Sameera followed her aunt along the path to the barn. “I come every summer. Yes, I love working on the farm. No, they don’t make me. But I’m glad to help out.”
Suddenly, the reporters’ eyeballs shifted in one, unified motion to goggle at something just behind Aunt Bev and Sameera. The questioning came to an abrupt halt; mikes were lowered and Sameera turned to see what had distracted her audience.
It was Miranda. Or was it? The person walking toward them looked like she’d escaped right out of a racy music video. She was wearing sunglasses, scarlet lipstick, and a pair of thigh-length leopard-skin boots. Although the boots were high, the miniskirt was so short that everybody could clearly see the crisscross pattern on the fishnet hose.
Sameera gulped. Aunt Bev had warned her before she’d come out here, but she had no idea that Ran could look so ... trashy. Her cousin’s silky, waist-length, strawberry blonde hair swayed behind her like a veil, and for some reason, Miranda’s curves were jiggling and bouncing even more than usual.
“Oh good, Sparrow’s come outside,” Miranda said when she finally made it over. “You can take some pictures of the three of us doing the milking. ‘Farm Girls at Work’ or something like that.”
Aunt Bev and Sparrow exchanged looks. Miranda hadn’t helped with the morning milking in weeks. “Miranda Campbell,” Aunt Bev muttered in a low, angry voice. “Get a grip on your sanity, go inside right now, and take off that ridiculous outfit.”
“In a minute, Mom,” Miranda whispered back. “Please?”
One of the reporters, a youngish guy, checked out Miranda’s alligator-skin miniskirt and the plunging neckline of the flesh-colored camisole she was wearing. “You milk cows in that?” he asked. “Wow. I’ll bet the bulls want to be milked, too.”
Miranda giggled (She does that perfectly, Sameera thought), and reached down to rezip one of the boots that had come slightly undone. Once again, every eye followed her movements. “There now. A farmer’s daughter has to take care of her boots. I’ll see all of you later, I hope.”
After she sashayed into the house, the bevy of journalists followed Sameera and a still-fuming Aunt Bev into the milking parlor, where Poppa and Uncle Jake were hard at work. Jingle followed them, growling and barking when any reporter came too near Sameera.
“What was that daughter of yours thinking, coming out here dressed like that?” Aunt Bev asked her husband in a fierce whisper. “Why didn’t you send her inside immediately?”
Uncle Jake grunted. “I figured I’d let her make a fool of herself and then let her read about it in the papers. It’s a good way to break a habit from the start.”
“Sorry, Sparrow,” Poppa said to Sameera, his voice low, too. “I’ll lock these trespassers outside as soon as they leave.”
Sameera smiled at his concern. She was more worried about her family than herself; facing this kind of attention felt almost normal to her now. “It’s okay,” she whispered underneath the cover of Jingle’s yipping and barking. “Are they getting in the way?”
“Not till you got here,” Uncle Jake grunted, ignoring Aunt Bev’s elbow in the ribs. He was trying to shield number 137 with his body.
Reporters were everywhere, swarming the stalls, poking the frightened-looking cows, even dipping dirty fingers into the fresh milk for free tastes. Uncle Jake managed to get number 137 into the safety of a stall, where he started washing her down gently.
It was hard to prod the cows into place with a crowd watching every move. Sameera’s faux-jewel-encrusted sandals kept getting stuck in the muck and slipping off. Soon, the pink T-shirt an d jeans that had looked so perfect in L.A. were splattered thoroughly with cow grime. She tried to keep working steadily beside her aunt, washing udders, scraping the parlor, hosing it down, all the while answering countless questions that were being shouted at her from every side. She could hardly hear them because of Jingle’s continued expression of discontent, but at least he was keeping them at a distance.
“Call it a day, Sparrow,” Poppa called out finally. “And take that dog with you.”
“But you need my help, don’t you?” Sameera asked. “Uncle Jake’s still in there with 137.”
“We can manage, sweetheart,” Aunt Bev said consolingly. “We’re almost done.”
Photographers and reporters followed her like wasps, the zoom of their lenses droning at Sameera from every side. Jingle’s ferocious bark was the only thing that kept them from touching her. Sameera headed back to the house, remembering to wave and blow a kiss at her entourage before closing the kitchen door firmly in their faces.
chapter 22
The paparazzi stayed around the farm and house all day. Gran and Aunt Bev made Miranda change into jeans and sneakers, even though Miranda begged to stay in her ZTV clothes. “I want to look like I belong in the news,” she said pleadingly.
“When did you manage to buy that outfit, anyway?” Gran asked, rubbing her temples. “I thought your moth
er had to approve your Toledo purchases. Those boots! Let’s send them to one of those brothels in Las Vegas, why don’t we?”
Undaunted, a now more modestly clad Miranda kept running in and out to give interviews and hand out freshly baked banana bread with glasses of Campbell milk. Uncle Jake and Poppa were still working, but Sameera, Gran, and Aunt Bev hunkered in front of the television, where the coverage had already started. Most of it was positive, lauding Sameera’s hard work, commending the family’s eco-friendly farm, and to Miranda’s delight, showing clips of Sameera’s “lovely cousin, Miranda Campbell.” Sameera kept an eye on Gran, who was watching everything intently and grabbing her oldest grandchild every now and then by the back of her jeans to keep Miranda from going out too soon.
At around noon, Mrs. Graves turned up, carrying a sheaf of papers and clippings. “Sparrow. I need to see you. Alone.” She sounded like a CEO calling a private meeting.
Sameera followed the librarian into the empty kitchen. Mrs. Graves had printed out today’s SammySez.com entry, with Wilder still waxing rhapsodic about country living and making product endorsements:maryfield is a lovely town, with hills and pastures ... a little too quiet, but my cousin and i go into toledo to the great springs mall and to the heartland amusement park ... My great-grandpa built our house with his bare hands, and my own grandfather built a wooden bridge across the stream ... i always wear my greenacre jeans when I help milk the cows ...
Blah, blah, blah, Sameera thought. You’re no help at all, Wilder.
“I hate that fake blog,” Mrs. Graves said, scowling. “I wish you’d tell them to get rid of it.”
“I can’t,” Sameera said. “They’re the professionals. They think that Americans are going to respond to that kind of stuff.”
“Well, if you can’t get rid of it on your own, we the people may have to do something drastic. Check out these articles, Sparrow. I didn’t want your grandmother to see them, but I think you should.”
“Righton’s Niece Tells All,” said a caption underneath a ravishing shot of Miranda. And: “Sammy Righton Hard at Work.” The photo accompanying this article was the same one of Miranda, only this time the photographer had zoomed out to include more background—a scene that included a thin, short, Pakistani girl mucking out a stall. The headline to the accompanying story read: “Righton’s Adopted Daughter Sent to Work on Family Farm.”
“But Aunt Bev was right beside me when I was doing that job,” Sameera protested. “And so was Jingle.”
“Someone must have snipped the two of them right out,” said Mrs. Graves. “They’ve got the technology to do that now, you know.”
“Slave Labor?” wondered another caption underneath a close-up of Sameera washing her hands at the tap. The article next to it was brutal, and Sameera caught her breath as she read it silently:Righton’s niece chatted freely, telling one and all what a blessing her adopted cousin has been to the family. Especially for her, it turns out.
“Does Sammy do the milking?” we asked.
Every morning and evening, we were told.
“Do you?”
“Oh, no. I get to stay inside,” answered the gorgeous, leggy strawberry blonde, giggling happily.
Mrs. Elizabeth Righton, Sammy’s mother, has been outspoken about outlawing the international trafficking of children for the purposes of labor. Why, then, did she and her husband send their own adopted daughter to live and work on the family farm? Mrs. Righton’s mother, who recently suffered from a heart attack, is no longer able to help with the cows. An imported Pakistani worker seems to have taken over those duties.
The sting of it, the unfairness, filled Sameera with fury. She couldn’t just shrug this one off; she was already forming a fiery rebuttal in her head. Just because a girl didn’t look like she belonged in the family didn’t mean that her family members were using her. And how could they lead poor Miranda astray like that? She’d be mortified. And what about Gran? Thankfully, the stuff they’d been watching that morning hadn’t been negative, but Gran could stumble across something like this in her channel surfing at any moment.
“Is this what most of the Web coverage is like?” Sameera asked. “Because the television people have been pretty kind so far.”
“No. Not all of it. Most of it’s fairly positive, but I thought you’d want to see the worst. We’re so worried about your grandmother, Sparrow. She’s been immersing herself constantly in this campaign, and she has absolutely no control over any of it. We want your grandfather to let her take back some of her responsibilities. Work that she loves—that’s what Sarah needs.”
“I know. It was my idea to take over Miranda’s chores this summer so that she could do Gran’s work, but now I think that was a big mistake. Thanks, Mrs. Graves. I’m so glad you’re around.”
Mrs. Graves punched her shoulder lightly. “I’m in your circle, remember? And show your grandfather the articles. Men in love need all the help they can get.”
After the librarian left, Sameera raced into the family room, where Poppa, Uncle Jake, Miranda, and Aunt Bev were eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in silence, chewing and watching themselves appear again and again on national television. Like a Twilight Zone episode, Sameera thought. Zombies watching zombies. “Where’s Gran?” she asked.
“I may have to take her into town later,” Poppa said. “She’s not feeling too well.”
“Check these out, Poppa,” Sameera said, handing him the articles. “I’m warning you, though, they’re bad, so don’t let Gran see them.”
Poppa didn’t answer; he was frowning over the articles. Sameera tiptoed down the hall and peered into the darkened bedroom. Sure enough, Gran was prone on the bed with a washcloth over her eyes. She may have seen something troubling already, Sameera thought.
All day, the atmosphere in the house felt disrupted. Even Jingle found a hiding place and disappeared. The cows were mooing mournfully out in the pasture; soon it would be time to head out again to milk and feed them. If they could do it while reporters tripped over each other to get a better shot of Sameera in action.
Poppa must have been thinking along the same lines. “Why don’t you skip the chores this afternoon, Sparrow? I’m going to lock the gates tonight once all these guys leave.”
“Okay, I’ll stay inside,” Sameera said. She’d do anything to make things easier for her Maryfield family. But her father’s campaign had already changed the fabric of their lives; there was nothing she could do about that.
Gran was still absent when the family gathered for supper; the doctor in town had prescribed some relaxants, and she’d gone to bed early. Aunt Bev vented her anxiety by lecturing Miranda about her outrageous behavior that morning. “Cut the Dairy Queen act. And quit dressing like you’re some kind of—I can’t even say the word. It’s demeaning” She took Mrs. Graves’s copy of one of the worst articles and thrust it in front of her daughter’s face. “Here. Read this.”
Miranda took stock of the pictures before reading the captions and the article. “I ... didn’t say it like that, did I, Sparrow?” Her voice sounded small, deflated. “I’m so sorry. I’ll stay out of the photos from now on.”
“No, Ran. Just be yourself,” Sameera said fiercely. “And besides, there isn’t going to be a ‘from now on,’ at least not here in Maryfield.”
Poppa looked up. “What?”
“I’m heading to D.C. as soon as I can book a flight.”
Miranda didn’t meet her cousin’s eyes. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? I’m not proud of this morning, Sparrow. Mom’s right—I ruined it for you, didn’t I? That’s why you’re leaving.”
“No, Ran, that’s not it at all.” It’s partly because I don’t want YOU to get ruined.
“Now, I don’t know about leaving, Sparrow—” Poppa began, but Sameera interrupted him.
“I have to leave, Poppa. Those reporters are causing way too much stress for Gran. Not to mention the poor Holsteins.”
“Your grandmother would be the first t
o protest,” Poppa said. “She’d do anything to keep you safe, Sparrow.”
“I know. That’s why I have to do the same for her.” Sameera took the newspaper article out of Miranda’s hands, ripped it to shreds, and tossed it into the recycling bin. “Besides, Dad’s opponent has her son on her side, and I’m sort of looking forward to reentering the fight. Keep your eyes open for the return of the most amazing president’s-kid-wannabe ever born in a Pakistani village.”
“We won’t be able to do that, Sparrow,” Poppa announced. “I cut off our satellite connection today.”
“Oh MY GOSH!” Miranda shrieked. “This is the most RETRO house on the planet. What are we—Little House on the Prairie? No Internet, and now no television, either?!”
“Settle down,” Uncle Jake said. “It’s only for a while. I’ll pick up the Toledo Times in town, and we can listen to the news on the radio every now and then when Mom’s not around. Besides, we have Internet access at the library.”
Sameera frowned. Didn’t Poppa get it? Narrowing down Gran’s life even more wasn’t the way forward. Why couldn’t he see that she was chafing at the bit to get back to some of her normal routine? There was one solution, though. If Sameera got out of the way, Miranda would have to get back to milking, and Gran could return to doing some of what she loved—preparing hearty, healthy meals, cleaning the house, and making things cozy for her family.
Quietly, Sameera climbed the stairs to her room to call her parents. She left messages on each of their phones telling them that she was going to come to D.C. early, encouraging them not to worry because everything was fine. Then she dialed The Bench’s cell phone and sent a text message: “Am coming to DC. Will send flight info. Sameera.”
A reply from Tara came to her phone in two minutes: “NW CU on farm w/tikets tomorrow. TC.”
Hmmmm ... Sameera thought. She’s a savvy text-messager. And it’s nice of her to keep her promise and make the flight arrangements, but why do I wonder if there’s an ulterior motive behind this sudden trip to Ohio?
First Daughter Page 12