“Are you kidding?You’re my cousin, Ran, and my best friend.”
“Oh. That’s good to hear, Sparrow. I’ll be working hard on my parents about coming out there. I’ll let you know if there’s a breakthrough.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Sameera promised, trying to sound like bringing Miranda to D.C. was the number one item on her to-do list.
She got off the train and walked to the apartment building and into the lobby, completely forgetting that she still had her head covered.
“Can I help you?” It was the doorman, blocking her way into the elevator; he obviously didn’t recognize her. “Are you visiting someone, madam?”
“I—...” She didn’t want to reveal her identity to this guy, who might tell her parents and worry them unnecessarily. “I am so very sorry,” she said, shifting easily into a Pakistani accent.
The doorman escorted her through the lobby and out the front door. Sameera walked around the corner and went in by the STAFF ONLY door in the alley, climbing the eight flights of stairs and reliving every moment of the magical evening in her imagination.
chapter 30
The next morning, Sameera emerged to find her parents drinking coffee in silence in the living room. “We need to talk,” she announced. “Tara told me I’m not making any appearances until the convention. Is that right?”
“I think so. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been noticing that Senator Banforth’s son is getting a lot of coverage lately. Don’t you think I need to get out there and tell America that you’re the best father on the planet?”
Dad grinned. “Okay. What’s in it for you?”
“I’ll go nuts staying in the apartment for three weeks. Marcus Wilder’s disappeared and Tara’s scared to let me handle the press on my own. But I think I can come up with more intelligent responses than those canned giggles he thinks are so great.”
“I agree,” Mom said. “You’ve always been so good at handling people, Sparrow. I think she’s right, James.”
“I haven’t forgotten the math grade on your report card, Sparrow,” Dad said. “You’ll be applying for colleges soon, and you won’t get into a good one unless you pull your math grade up. Why don’t you focus on studying for a few weeks?”
“Oh, I will. Westfield’s great. I’ll get my grades up, Dad. I promise.” Maybe I can even get into George Washington University. “But why can’t I do my tutoring in the mornings, and join you and Mom for afternoon and evening events?”
“You’re the one who said the campaign was ten times more fun and relaxing when we had Sparrow around, James,” Mom said.
He said that? “Please, Dad? I won’t let you down.”
“Okay. I’ll try and arrange it. Tara won’t back down easily, though. She’s certainly attached to that strange Wilder guy. He strikes me as being a little... off.”
“Women in love do strange things, James,” Mom said. “Take me, for example.”
Sameera shook her head. “Tara? In love with Wilder? No way. She falls for the JFK Junior type of guy.”
But Dad had lost interest in Tara’s love life. “I’ll call her right now.”
Sameera and Mom listened in on Dad’s end of the conversation.
“I’d like Sameera to join us for some of our appearances before the convention, Tara.” Pause. “She can handle it on her own.” Pause. “She’d never make that kind of mistake. She’s got her feet on the ground.” Pause. “Okay. That sounds like a good compromise. Where is Wilder, anyway? Is everything okay?” He listened for a while before saying: “Send him our best. I hope everything works out.” He hung up. “She’s agreed to let you join us for a week without Wilder’s help on a ‘trial basis.’ I tell you, it’s tough keeping my campaign staff on a short leash without having them quit in a huff.”
“What’s up with Wilder, Dad?” Sameera asked.
“Apparently, he had to check himself into one of those stress-detox meditation places for a couple of weeks. He was having a terrible time with insomnia and high blood pressure.”
Mom sighed. “I wonder if I could join him.”
“So, what’s on for this weekend?” Sameera asked.
As she listened to her father describe the busy schedule ahead, she felt confident that she was right. Speaking from her heart would be much more helpful to Dad than using Wilder’s falsetto phrases and gestures.
At first the press seemed a bit taken aback by the absence of giggling, waving, and blowing kisses, but they, like Sameera’s circle of twenty-nine, responded well to the truth. So that’s what Sameera focused on in her answers.
Q: If your Dad wins, you’ll become the president’s daughter. Are you excited about that?
True Answer: Definitely. But I’m also scared for him; it’s a tough job. I don’t want him to get hurt.
Q: Are you going to look for your birth parents?
True Answer: Mom and Dad were told they were dead. But if we have the chance to find out more, we’ll definitely take it.
Q: What are your career plans?
True Answer: First, I have to get my math grades up (laughter). This year I’ll take the SATs, and I’ll have to start thinking about colleges. Got any suggestions for a girl who loves to write?
Tara arranged a session with Vanessa and Constance before the evening events, but otherwise, Sameera was managing to use what she’d learned from them to good effect. After the first week, even Tara had to admit that she was doing quite well ... for a political novice. “Of course, August is a slow month,” she said. “You’ll need Marcus’s help again at the convention.”
Sameera managed to opt out of any campaign appearances on the two Friday evenings before the convention. After Westfield left, she headed out to Foggy Bottom clad in her salwar kameez. Once again, the combo of South Asian clothes, a head covering, eyeliner, and the staff exit door seemed enough to fool the Sammy-hunting paparazzi congregated outside the building.
The SARSA@GW afternoon coffee or tea was always followed by a bhangra party and a walk to the Metro station with Gregory Peck. Er ... I mean Bobby, Sameera thought, floating beside him underneath the starry summer sky.
During Sameera’s third and last Friday in D.C. before leaving town for the convention, the five of them lingered over their coffee. “I just had the most brilliant idea!” Sangi said.
“What now? You’re always coming up with crazy ideas.” Nadia shook her head slightly, but her hair kept swaying behind her, as though it didn’t think she’d expressed herself strongly enough.
“Most of Sangi’s ideas work,” George said. “She’s the one who started our SARSA chapter, remember?”
“Don’t worry, she’s going to tell us about it anyway,” Nadia said. Her hair stopped moving, as though it, too, was resigned to the inevitable.
Sangi started talking so fast she sounded like an auctioneer. “What about if we feature a column, or a blog, or something like that on our Web site? From Sameera. About the campaign. You know how we’ve been wanting an insider’s take, something to help our site get a lot of hits from younger voters. Well, this could be it. She can give our visitors the scoop on what it’s like to be the first South Asian with a shot at living inside the White House. We spread the word through our SARSA contacts; she fields questions about what her father’s really like, you know, tell the truth about what a great guy he is.”
“How do you know he’s a great guy?” Sameera asked.
“Her own Web site already features a blog,” Nadia said at the same time.
Sangi looked momentarily confused before sorting her answers out. “I know he’s great ... well, because he’s so globally involved. A real peacemaker. And he cares about South Asian issues. I mean, he adopted you, didn’t he? Plus he’s married to your mom, who’s done such good work—promoting small-scale businesses run by village women, for example.” She grinned at Sameera’s surprised expression. “I’m an econ major. With a global development minor. I’ve read about Elizabeth Campbell’s work.”<
br />
“What’s this about a blog on your Web site?” Bobby asked. Sameera felt her cheeks get hot. “The campaign set up a ‘custom blog’ for me,” she said. “I don’t really have anything to do with it.”
“I could write a ‘custom blog’ for you on our site,” Sangi said earnestly. “Or maybe we could write it together.”
“I know how to blog,” Sameera said firmly. She wasn’t about to authorize yet another fake virtual identity. “I’ve been keeping an online journal for a year.”
“You do?”
“You have?”
“That’s fantastic!”
“Can we check it out?” That was Nadia. Of course.
“Er. No. It’s not accessible to the public; I only let a short list of buddies read it.”
They were quiet, and Sameera suddenly realized how inhospitable she sounded—especially to a group of people who’d made her feel so welcome.
“Would you consider making it public?” Sangi asked. “We could link to your blog from our Web site and send the link to other SARSA groups; you’d get tons of readers in no time.”
“That’s the point. My father’s campaign team doesn’t want me expressing my own opinions so publicly. They want to stick with my ‘official’ blog.”
“Are they nuts?” Sangi asked. “Reading personal stuff that his own daughter writes about the campaign could only score major points for your father.”
“How do we know that Sameera can write, anyway?” asked Nadia. “I mean, no offense, Sameera, but the stuff on your ‘official’ site sounds like it’s written by a preteen TV addict.”
Sameera sighed. “I know. It’s actually ghostwritten by a thirty-something marketing expert. He’s convinced that voters are a bunch of narrow-minded shoppers who hate foreigners. »
Sangi refilled her friends’ cups with hot coffee from the carafe they were sharing. “So here’s your chance to prove him wrong, Sameera. If your blog—the real blog—gains steam and starts helping your father, they might decide to bag the fake one and let you use your real voice.”
Her words rang like a bell in Sameera’s ears. Using her “real voice” was exactly what she’d been doing lately in front of the cameras, and what she’d always done through her blog--writing about what she was learning, thinking, experiencing, and always, always telling the truth. But could she do that when she knew that hundreds, maybe thousands, of people would read her words? “I—er ... I’ll think about it, okay? Let’s see how it goes after the convention.”
After a couple of hours on the bhangra floor, she said good-bye to the others and Bobby walked her to the Metro station again. Just before they parted, he hesitated, and Sameera glimpsed an unidentifiable emotion in his eyes—it couldn’t be pity, could it? She certainly hoped not. Then, to her amazement, he leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek. “Phir melenge, Sameera,” he said, and turned to climb the stairs two at a time.
Again, she watched until the soles of his sandals disappeared. Could she count this as her first kiss? Or had it been just another one of those brotherly pecks that her teammates used to give her all the time? It certainly hadn’t felt like that. And phir melenge meant “we’ll meet again” in both Urdu and Hindi. It was a common way of saying good-bye in the part of the world where both of their ancestors came from, but Sameera hoped with all her heart that Bobby meant it.
chapter 31
The four days of the convention went by in a blur. Sameera listened to speechmaker after speechmaker praise and commend her father. She sat onstage beside Mom, smiling and nodding and clapping in the right places, just as Wilder had prepped her to do. Yes, Wilder was back. But the couple of weeks of yoga and therapy or whatever he’d tried hadn’t made a dent in his stress level; he was popping beta-blockers as if they were Tic Tacs.
Sameera didn’t mind his reentry into her life, and actually found herself sifting through his barrage of advice to find stuff she could use. She let Constance and Vanessa have carte blanche, too, partly because she knew that Bobby would be tuning in and she wanted to be as gorgeous as possible.
The day that Dad accepted the party’s nomination, Sameera wore the red sleeveless dress Wilder had featured on SammySez.com and felt fantastic in it. She actually thought that it looked much better on her body than on the virtual whirling dummy who had modeled it on the Web site. And so did everybody else, judging by the admiring gazes and words she got all night long. As she stayed up late with the campaign team, big donors, real celebrities, and other bigwigs, celebrating and dancing, Sameera could have stored up a lifetime’s worth of unearned adulation if she’d wanted it.
When they returned to D.C. after the convention, the leased apartment didn’t feel as generic anymore. Gran had sent homemade quilts to cover each bed, and Sameera had adorned the mantelpiece and walls with family photos. She’d also ordered some plants and bought a colorful tablecloth, place mats, and napkins for the table. Miranda had mailed a huge stuffed Lab for her bed, and leaning against that made Sameera miss Jingle a little less. The place wasn’t home, of course, but at least there were some homey touches now.
“What’s the use of unpacking?” Dad asked, dumping his suitcase in the living room. “We have to leave again the day after tomorrow.”
For someone who’s just won the Republican nomination for the presidency, he sounds pretty grumpy, Sameera thought, going to the window and checking out the view of the Mall. If only the campaign bus wasn’t leaving before Friday! She wouldn’t be able to see her SARSA friends again unless she figured out a way to get in touch with them. She’d felt hesitant asking for their cell phone numbers, and they hadn’t asked for hers.
“Oh, man! I’m so freaking tired of traveling I could scream. Where are we headed first?” Mom asked, setting her tongue free like a lion tamer unlocking a cage. The three Rightons were finally alone for the first time in days, and Elizabeth Campbell Righton had been on extra good behavior during the convention.
“The bus meanders down to Alabama, and then we fly from Montgomery to Chicago, where I’ll do one debate, hit a few key midwestern states, and then we’re off to Colorado to do a tour of the western states and the second debate,” Dad said. “Sounds like torture, doesn’t it?”
Sameera had never seen her calm, diplomatic father so edgy.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, catching her surprised look. “I’m shattered. Shattered. I need a hot shower, a beer, and the chance to watch Monday Night Football in peace. Nobody talk to me for a couple of hours.”
“Don’t be a drama queen, James. We’re all as tired as you are.” Mom was more irritable than Sameera had ever seen her, too—which was scary.
Dad waggled a finger in her face. “You’re just ticked because you STILL haven’t finished that report, and you’re taking it out on me.”
“Don’t you DARE lecture me! You sound EXACTLY like my MOTHER!”
Sameera shouldered her body between her parents like a referee at a boxing match. “Dad, get in the shower and de-stress yourself. Mom, Dad’s right. Go finish that absolutely freaking report so you’re not barking at us all the time. You’ve got a couple of days to work before we leave.You have to get it done.”
Grumbling but subsiding, her parents obeyed, and the three Rightons went their separate ways. Sameera dragged her stuff into the bedroom. Her parents hardly ever fought, but then again, they were used to traveling on separate business trips and enjoying passionate reunions, not spending every waking moment together while a zillion eyes watched their every move.
She called Miranda as she unpacked.
“I’ve got some big news,” her cousin told her. “My parents have cut a deal. If I focus on schoolwork and chores for a semester, and if Uncle James wins, I can move into the White House with you in January! Isn’t that great?”
“That’s ... wonderful!” Sameera said, straining so hard to put enthusiasm into her voice that she practically shouted the adjective. She couldn’t picture her cousin in the White House, but then ag
ain, she couldn’t picture herself there, either. The place had been dubbed “the most luxurious prison in America,” though, so it actually might be better for Ran to be safely inside the White House instead of out in the open, facing the pressure of the campaign.
“Now Uncle James really has to win! I’m going to do all I can to get him votes around here, that’s for sure.”
“How’s Gran doing?” Sameera asked.
“Much better. Poppa’s been easing off a lot lately, letting her get back to some of the things she loves. And you know that notebook you gave her? Well, she’s always pulling out a pen and scribbling in it, even if we’re right in the middle of dinner, or church, or at the grocery store. It’s weird, but she seems a lot less anxious since she started doing that.”
GranBlog, Sameera thought. I wonder if God leaves any comments.
“I also think she’s more relaxed because we don’t have television or the Internet at home anymore ,” Miranda added. “But don’t tell Poppa or my parents I said that. I had to go over to Mrs. Graves’s place to see how fabulous you looked in that red dress.”
“Oh no! Mom and Dad are starting to fight again,” Sameera said. “I’d better order some takeout; I think they’re having a calorie meltdown. Talk to you later.”
Her parents did seem to settle down after eating huge helpings of pad thai. Sameera said good night, leaving Mom writing on her laptop in a living room chair, and Dad sprawled on the couch watching an old movie called Jerry Maguire. He’s bagging the football and tuning in to a romantic chick flick for her sake, Sameera thought. Good move, Dad. They’ll be cuddling again in no time.
“Join me?” Dad asked Sameera wistfully.
“Er ... no thanks, Dad. I want to get some sleep.”
What she really wanted to do was start an e-mail correspondence with Bobby, but how could she? She didn’t have his e-mail address, and she didn’t want to turn into one of those stalker types by searching for his online identity. She decided to send a short, generic thank-you to SARSA@ GW.EDU:I had a great time with you guys these last three Fridays. Thanks for your support. I love bhangra! I’ll be in touch. Sameera.
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