Sameera shook her head.
“Then why were you listening in on our conversation?”
Sangi’s voice was getting more strident, and people were turning to stare.
“It’s me, Sameera Righton,” Sameera whispered, standing on tiptoe to get the crucial words into this girl’s ears. “You invited me to come, remember? But keep it down. I’m not supposed to be out alone; I snuck out of the apartment.”
The girl took a step back in surprise. Then she moved closer again, bent down, and squinted into Sameera’s eyes. “Get your drink and come join us,” she said finally, but this time her voice was low, too. The onlookers turned back to their own coffees and conversations.
Sameera watched Sangi whisper something to her SARSA companions. Rhinestone Rims stared at Sameera over the tops of his sparkly glasses, his mouth open, but neither the girl nor the guy with the Southern accent turned around. Sangi had obviously warned them to play it cool for Sameera’s sake.
She walked over to the group clutching a cappuccino, wondering why her heart was racing. She felt more nervous about this meeting than she had about facing hordes of reporters.
“Hello and welcome,” that mega-attractive voice drawled as the owner of it stood up to give her his stool. He turned to face her, and Sameera’s mouth felt as though it had been wiped clean with an extra thick paper towel. Long legs covered in faded blue denim, black T-shirt with a V-neck, a silver bangle on his wist, great hands, curly black hair ... this guy could definitely erase any lingering images of her crewmates from her late-night fantasies.
“Here, Bobby, there’s space here,” said the girl sitting next to him, shifting her body to make room on her stool. She was slim-hipped and beautiful, of course. Tall, elegant, wearing a tight black sweater, jeans, and sequined sandals. And that long, thick, shampoo-commercial curtain of hair! Even Sameera’s fingers wanted to touch it.
The bangle-wearing hunk rested his butt partly against the girl’s stool, but Sameera noticed that he leaned forward against the table so they didn’t actually touch. “I’m Bobby,” he said to Sameera. “And this is Nadia and George. You’ve already met Sangi, right?”
“We’re the founding members of SARSA@GW,” George added.
“The only members, actually,” Sangi added. “We’re affiliated with a nationwide organization that links together all the South Asian Republican Student Associations. Great outfit, by the way.”
Sameera set her coffee on the table. “Yes. Well. I was going bonkers in my hotel room, and I remembered that when I met her in L.A., Sangi asked me to come if I was ever in D.C. So I thought I’d ditch the paparazzi by wearing this.”
“You look terrific, Sammy,” Sangi said. “That head covering looks really authentic. Of course, what do I know?”
“Call me Sameera, okay? I don’t really like ‘Sammy.’ ”
“I certainly will,” Nadia said, smiling for the first time. “I get so tired of people calling me ‘Noddy,’ I could scream.” Sameera noticed that she’d shifted a bit closer to beautiful Bobby.
They must be a couple, Sameera thought. But then he leaned away even more, and she wondered if she’d gotten it right. It looked more like a girl-predator, boy-prey situation; her crewmates had often been the targets of girls on the hunt, so she knew the body language.
“I didn’t think you’d be meeting in August,” she said.
“We came back early to help out with orientation. And to brainstorm ways to help your father’s campaign,” Bobby said. “Got any suggestions?”
Sameera took a big swig of cappuccino and made sure to wipe away any traces of a coffee mustache. “I’m still looking for the best way to help him myself,” she said.
“I’m hungry,” George said suddenly. “I need fuel for tonight.”
“Okay, we’ll eat,” Sangi told him. “Hey, Sameera, you want to join us? Or do you have to be somewhere?”
She thought of the empty apartment; her parents weren’t going to be back for hours. “No,” she said. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”
“We’re going to a party,” George said. “We’re all dying to see Bobby bhangra for the first time....”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Bobby said. “I didn’t say I was going to dance. I’m coming along to watch. That’s a big enough concession.”
Sameera knew what bhangra was, thanks to the Bollywood films she and Mom rented every now and then, but she’d never actually tried it herself. “I’ve never danced bhangra, either,” she said. “And, I’m not sure I’m dressed right.” Besides, my parents don’t even know I’m out on my own, she thought, but she certainly wasn’t about to confess that to a group of college students.
“You’ll be fine,” Nadia said confidently. “A dozen or so girls always dance the night away with their heads covered.”
“Yeah,” Sangi added, shaking her head. “Everybody calls them the Covered Girls. Tight jeans and head coverings—it’s the new all-American look.”
“I didn’t notice the tight jeans,” Nadia said.
“I sure did,” George said, and Sangi pretended to punch him.
A crowd of college-age brown-skinned party animals? This she had to see. “Why not?” Sameera said, grinning. “Maybe I can learn, too.”
“Oh, good,” Bobby said, a slow smile lighting up his face. “You know what they say——misery loves company.”
lf you’re Company, then I’m definitely Misery, Sameera thought.
chapter 28
The five of them stopped to eat Samosas at a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant near the campus before heading over to the student center. Sameera listened to her companions bantering and making jokes about one another’s heritages that she didn’t quite get. They were definitely all South Asian, but their parents were from different places. George was a Christian with roots in South India, Bobby’s parents spoke Bengali, Nadia’s parents were from Pakistan, and Sangi’s heritage was Punjabi.
“The land that brought the rest of you bhangra,” Sangi bragged as they made their way through the streets of Foggy Bottom. “Punjabis know how to party.”
Sameera knew that several different languages were spoken in Pakistan, including Punjabi. Had her birth parents spoken it, or were they Urdu speakers? Mom and Dad hadn’t kept any secrets from her; they didn’t know either.
She could hear the beat of Bollywood-sounding music now, even though they were still walking across the wide lawn on the campus, and she felt like she was dreaming. What would Tara say if she knew that Sameera was heading to a bhangra party in Washington, D.C., on a Friday night? And what about her parents?
She followed the four founding members of SARSA@GW into the big darkened room. The dance floor was packed with bodies rising and falling to a fusion of what sounded like pop, Bollywood, and reggae. Sweaty dark skin gleamed under strobe lights and near glitter balls. Most of the dancers were wearing western clothes, but several of the girls were in salwar kameez outfits, and some guys and girls were wearing long, cotton kurta shirts over their jeans.
“WHEE!” Sangi screamed, racing for the throng and throwing her body into it as though she were leaping into a pool on a hot day. George grinned, pulled a red bandana out of his pocket, and followed her, waving the bandana in the air in time to the music. Their bodies disappeared from sight, but Sameera watched the red bandana’s frenzied dance move through the field of raised hands. A few other kerchiefs and bandanas were waving in the air, too.
Bobby stayed by Sameera on the periphery of the moving, heaving crowd, and Nadia glanced back at them. “Coming?” she yelled. “I’ll teach you.”
“I’m going to wait,” Bobby shouted. “You go ahead.”
Nadia shrugged and began curving her body—and hair—to the music, twisting herself into the crowd’s syncopated movement as though she’d planned her entry perfectly.
Bobby turned to Sameera. “I don’t think I’ll be good at this,” he yelled in her ear. “They don’t bhangra much where I’m from.”
&nbs
p; They watched for a while. Sameera’s eyes followed the roving, multicolored searchlight that swept across the dance floor every now and then. She squinted into the crowd. “There they are!” she yelled.
“Who?” Bobby demanded.
“The Covered Girls!”
Sure enough, a group of heads draped in black were bobbing up and down at the far end of the room. She couldn’t see the tight jeans from where she was standing.
“They’re good,” she said. “They’re moving right to the beat.”
“SAMEERA!” a voice behind her shrieked suddenly.
Sameera couldn’t believe that someone had recognized her in this outfit, in this loud, swarming crowd, in a place where nobody could have anticipated her presence—least of all herself. But when she turned, she saw two girls she’d never seen before kissing each other’s cheeks. “Looks like you’re not the only Sameera on the planet,” Bobby said in her ear.
Sameera turned back to the dance floor, relieved that she was still incognito. It was too hard to talk, and the music and energy of the dancers seemed to be inviting her to join them. Even Bobby’s feet were starting to tap.
“Let’s try this!” she said. Before he could protest, she took his hand and pulled him into the mass of dancers. His fingers felt strong and clean intertwined with hers, but they both let go as soon as they were surrounded by undulating bodies.
“What now?” Bobby shouted, dodging flying elbows and swinging hips.
A girl moved next to Sameera, and a boy came up by Bobby. “First-timers?” they hollered over the music, still dancing.
Bobby and Sameera nodded.
“Watch and learn,” the girl yelled.
She lifted both hands and cupped the air, twisting her wrists, and Sameera tried to imitate her. The girl bounced her knees slightly, keeping her heels on the ground, and Sameera did the same. Bobby was copying the movements of the guy beside him, jumping, swinging his arms in short, circular motions and thrusting them into the air. Sameera tried that, too, feeling at first like she was doing shoulder presses at the gym, but soon she realized that all four of them were actually dancing.
“We’re doing it!” she yelled.
“We’re great!” Bobby shouted back.
The couple that had given them the lesson smiled and moved along to find the next initiates, leaving Bobby and Sameera to dance, and dance, and dance. Maybe I AM part Punjabi, Sameera thought as the movements grew easier.
Eventually, George, Sangi, and Nadia found them. Sameera felt like she was attached to the sinuous, weaving bodies moving around the floor, even though most of them weren’t touching her.
Finally, the musicians took a break, and Sameera wiped the sweat off her forehead with the loose end of her scarf. It had stayed around her head nicely; she’d done a good job with the safety pin. I may never be a Cover Girl, she thought. But I make a semi-decent Covered Girl.
“Wow! You two sure learned fast,” Sangi said.
“Thanks to Sameera,” Bobby answered. “I probably would never have tried it if she hadn’t pulled me in. But it’s fun—you were right.”
“I’d better go,” Sameera said, reluctantly glancing at her watch. It was almost eleven o’clock.
“Already?” George asked. “We’re just getting started.”
“I’ll walk you to the station, Sameera,” Bobby said.
“It’s Friday night, Bobby,” Nadia said pleadingly. “Stay just a little longer.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I have to make a phone call.”
Nadia’s face fell, and Sameera flashed back to the times that her crew guys had exited a conversation with her at any sign of their girlfriends. It’s strange being on this side of the equation, she thought, even though she knew that Bobby was probably just being polite.
“Didja check out your fellow Muslim girls gone wild?” George asked her.
“You bet I did,” Sameera answered. “Their hair was nowhere in sight, but their bellies certainly were.”
“Lots of beautiful belly bling out there tonight,” George said.
“Stop being sexist,” Sangi admonished him.
“How is that sexist? Admiring the female form is—”
“I’ll see y’ all later,” Bobby interrupted. “I’ve got to go make that call.”
“Join us next Friday, Sameera,” Sangi said.
“I’ll try,” Sameera answered. “But ... I’m not sure I can.” She couldn’t believe how forlorn she sounded.
To her surprise, all four SARSA members moved a step closer, almost inadvertently. “We’ll wait for you,” Nadia said, reaching over to straighten Sameera’s head cover. Any animosity or suspicion she might have been harboring seemed to have disappeared.
“Keep in touch,” George said. “Think about adding some belly bling.”
Sangi said nothing but wrapped her in a huge hug. Then, for once, it was Sameera’s turn to walk off with the planet’s most perfect guy.
chapter 29
Blues, jazz, and rock music drifted out of various clubs and bars as they walked to the Foggy Bottom Metro stop. Sameera tried desperately to think of something to say. Bobby was a college student; he was used to intellectual, stimulating discussions. “You’re from the South, right?” she asked, and then felt like kicking herself. People probably asked him that ten times a day after hearing him speak.
“How can you tell?” he asked, grinning. “Must be my good manners, right? My father’s a doctor in a small town—Creighton, South Carolina.That’s who I’m supposed to call—my parents. They moved to Creighton the year I was born.”
“Really?” She paused. “And how many years ago was that?”
“Eighteen.”
“You’re only eighteen?” she asked, surprised. “Are you a freshman?”
“No. This is my second year of college. I skipped a grade in elementary school.”
“Oh. How was it growing up in South Carolina?”
“Fine, even though I was the only brown kid for miles around. It was great while I was little; everybody was friendly. But when I got older, I always felt either too visible or invisible.”
I know what you mean. Seems like there’s no happy medium. “Weren’t there any African Americans in your town?” she asked.
“Nah. That’s one of the things I love about being here. Look, nobody’s paying the slightest attention to you, even wearing that head covering.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s different now because I’m walking with you, and you’re dressed like an ‘American.”’ She described what had happened on the train, and how the older woman had overresponded when she’d asked for directions. “I didn’t think the D.C. area was like that.”
“It’s not too bad, usually, so I’m surprised. My theory is that people are more suspicious about how you sound than how you look. Strangers warm up instantly in the South as soon as I start talking. But up here, they think I’m stupid.”
“I think your accent sounds great. It fits you perfectly.”
“Thanks,” he said. “You know what?You could test out my theory. Try using an accent when you’re dressed like that, one of those Indian ones that lilt up and down, like my mother’s. And then see if people treat you differently.”
“You mean like this? ‘Are you having any brothers and sisters, Bobby’?” Once again, she applied the Pakistani accent that came so easily to her.
“That’s perfect!” Bobby said. “Wow, you’re good at that.”
“My cleft palate was formed around Urdu. So do you have siblings?”
“No, sadly, I’m an only child.”
“Me, too. At least I think I am.” She couldn’t believe she was bringing up her adoption with a stranger. Usually, it was the other way around.
“You’re close to your cousin, though,” he said, and then seemed embarrassed. “Sorry. I’ve been watching the coverage of your family, like everyone else.”
Sameera smiled. “Yeah. We are close, even though Miranda wasn’t quite herself t
hat day.”
He walked her down the stairs into the station. “Get off at the Smithsonian stop. Do you want me to go with you?”
Yes. Forever. “I’ll make it,” she said. “You have that call to make. Thanks for walking me.”
He gave her one last smile before turning to climb the stairs. She watched until the frayed hems of his jeans disappeared.
Sameera dialed her cousin as soon as there was nobody in listening distance. “Ran! I think I’m in love.”
“What? Where are you? Who is he?”
She described the whole night in detail, trying to explain the magical combination of bhangra and Bobby.
Miranda sighed. “That sounds just like that movie you love—you know, when Audrey Hepburn goes off on her own and falls in love with Gregory Peck.”
“It was like that, Ran.” Roman Holiday was absolutely number one on Sameera’s top-ten-most-romantic flicks ever. “I needed to tell you because I won’t be able to blog about this. Mrs. Graves is great, but she might freak out if she knew I was roaming around D.C. on my own.”
“Will you see him again?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. The four of them are meeting next Friday and going dancing, and they asked me to join them.”
“Are you going out in that disguise thingamajig again?”
“Probably. It actually made me feel kind of free and powerful. Of course, I can choose when to wear a head covering and when to take it off. I wonder what it’s like for women who have to wear it all the time --whether they like it or not.” And then, because her cousin had gotten so quiet, she said something really stupid: “Maybe you should try it sometime.”
Silence.
“I’ve got freckles, Sparrow,” Miranda said finally. “How many veiled Muslim women have freckles?”
I don’t know; they’re veiled. That’s the point. “What’s wrong, Ran? You sound upset.”
“I guess ... I guess I’m sort of scared that I’m going to lose you, Sparrow.” Miranda’s voice was shaky. “You had to leave the farm, and now you’re finding all these cool new friends that probably look more like they’re related to you than I do.”
First Daughter Page 15