First Daughter

by Mitali Perkins

  She was about to post a new entry on her myplace.com site when the “you’ve got mail” icon flashed on the screen. She went back to her in-box, and there it was—a reply from info@SARSA.GW.EDU.

  Hey, Sameera. Sangi here. The four of us were sitting around brainstorming about revamping the site, when lo and behold we get an e-mail from you. Must mean you’re going to blog for us, right? Send us a sample post, will you, to shut Nadia up? I KNOW you’re a great writer. I can tell these things. Here’s Bobby; I’m passing the keyboard to him.

  B: It was great to see you looking so relaxed during the convention. Stay in touch, Sameera, and keep making your circles.

  George: I have no idea what Bobby’s talking about. Weirdo English majors, using metaphors the rest of us don’t get. If you figure it out, let me know.

  Nadia here. There are SARSA chapters everywhere you go, if you need them. Here’s the link to the national Web site. Sangi’s right—send that post to us. You need to show America that you have absolutely nothing in common with “Sammy.”

  It’s me again—Bobby. Okay, I’ll translate. The four of us talked about how we felt like we’d known you forever, even in such a short time. And not the “Sammy” version of you, either. My guess is that the REAL Sameera has the gift of gathering circles of people around her. You might not even realize it yet, but the people around you do. Like us.

  George: Whatever. Still don’t get it. Keep dancing, Sameera.

  Sangi : WRITE BACK SOON! SEND US THAT SAMPLE BLOG POST!

  Sameera reread their message five times, her eyes lingering on Bobby’s words. It was funny how he’d used the word circle, she thought, because he didn’t even know about her myspace.com circle of twenty-nine. And then she thought of Gran and Poppa, Mayor and Mrs. Thompson, Uncle Jake and Aunt Bev, Ms. Graves, the Ladies’ Aid, the church folks, and how she was always welcomed back as one of their own. In fact, the entire town of Maryfield could probably be listed as another circle in the Sameera collection. Plus, she’d always had Mrs. Mathews and her parents. And now could she add SARSA@GW to the list? She reread their note again; it seemed like she could. What a great feeling, she thought. I am encircled.

  chapter 32

  The next morning, Dad was sitting alone at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. “I won’t be back until dinner tonight, Liz,” he announced from behind the paper.

  “It’s me, Dad.”

  “Oh.” Dad put down his paper and poured Sameera a cup of coffee.

  Mom breezed in, decked out in the peach-colored suit again. “I’ve got meetings all morning, too,” she said; she’d obviously heard Dad’s announcement. Sparrow noticed that she was smiling brightly—a genuine smile, the original Elizabeth Campbell version. “I won’t be home until just before dinner, either, and then I’m taking you both out somewhere nice to celebrate.”

  “You finished your report, didn’t you, Mom?”

  Mom jabbed the air with her fist. “YES! I wrote the last line of the conclusion just as Jerry Maguire was saying ‘You complete me.’ It was perfect timing”

  Dad stood up and threw his arms around her. “I’m so proud of you, honey. But why didn’t you tell me last night?”

  “You didn’t ask,” Mom said, pulling out of his embrace. “You just sat there looking glum all night.”

  “That’s because you didn’t seem interested in getting close to anything but that laptop of yours.”

  “Oh—you say you’re supportive, but when it comes to...”

  Sameera tiptoed back into her room until round two of the sparring was over. I’m not getting involved, she thought. I’ve got to get rid of both of them—and cancel my tutoring session with Westfield. She’d realized that she needed more than one salwar kameez in her closet, and she was planning to use this last day in D.C. to find a shop that sold South Asian clothes.

  She called Westfield as soon as her parents left. “I ... I’d like to skip our lesson today, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine, Sparrow. I could use the time myself to get a few things ready. We’ll be together a lot on the road trip; we can easily make it up.”

  “Gran sent an extra tin of scotchies for you, by the way,” Sameera said.

  “Oh, goodie. Bring them along, will you?”

  Sameera changed into her disguise quickly this time. Maybe she could find a store that sold real burkas with veils, along with salwar kameez outfits.

  She got online, did a search with “burka,” “salwar,” and “D.C.,” and sure enough, there it was: Muhammad’s Attire, only about three miles away. Writing down the address, she grabbed her purse and headed out the STAFF ONLY exit again.

  It was such a beautiful day, she decided to skip the Metro and walk the twenty or so blocks to the store. Every now and then, she’d stop someone and ask for directions, sometimes using a fake Pakistani accent and sometimes not. Most people were friendly; a few weren’t. I’m like a one-woman reality show, she thought as one disgruntled man shook his head and refused to answer. Surprise! You’re LIVE on “Foreign in America!”

  She got to an interesting neighborhood of secondhand shops and inexpensive restaurants. From the names of the stores and the menus posted in the restaurant windows, she realized that the people who lived and worked in this part of town included immigrants from Vietnam, Brazil, and definitely ... Pakistan. A few women wearing real burkas passed her, and she could see their eyes measuring her imitation version. Girls wearing small salwar kameez outfits turned to giggle at Sameera, their glossy black braids swinging behind them.

  Sameera found herself wishing she were strolling along with Bobby, chatting, reading menus together. The international flavor of the neighborhood reminded her of the open markets in Europe where immigrants from every corner of the planet sold their wares. All the stores here, though, even the most “ethnic” ones that used little or no English in their signs, were decorated with American flags.

  Ah, there it was—Muhammad’s Attire, a small, narrow store wedged between a Brazilian restaurant and a thrift shop. Sameera walked in, feeling like a kid entering a costume store at Halloween. She was the only customer.

  A plump, beaming man came around the counter to greet her. “A-Salaam-Wa-Lek-um,” he said, nodding. “I am your Uncle Muhammad .”

  “A-Wa-Lek-um-A- Salaam,” she replied, bowing slightly. These traditional greetings were the only other phrases in Urdu that she knew, other than the “we’ll meet later” farewell that Bobby had used.

  “Shall we get started?” he asked in English.

  “How did you know I speak English?” she asked. But of course her fake Pakistani accent would never be able to fool this man. He had the real thing.

  “I have quite a few good Pakistani-American girls like you coming who are eager to dress modestly again, like our women do back home. Mariam, my own daughter, likes to wear the head covering, even though some hoodlums at her school have teased her. Don’t you worry! Uncle Muhammad knows just what you need when it comes to clothing”

  Hmmmm. You might know how to dress a conservative Pakistani version of me, but you have no idea how to clothe Sammy, or even Sparrow for that matter. What Sameera really needed was the power to shift from visible to invisible, from elegant to funky, from modest to sexy—and to stay in charge of when, where, how, and why.

  He found two burkas that were the right size, and together, they chose several salwar kameez outfits with scarves, or dupattas, as Uncle Muhammad called them, that were long and sturdy enough to be used as head coverings. He even sold her a different head covering with a veil that only revealed her eyes.

  Sameera reached for her credit card to pay for her purchases. Her parents had always been generous with her monthly limit, probably because she so rarely reached it. “What’s my total?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” Muhammad said, his head moving in a figure-eight when he saw the card. “I take cash only here.”

  “Oh. Where can I get cash?” It was better t
o use cash anyway, she realized. Dad would probably have questions about a purchase from Muhammad’s Attire bearing a strange D.C. address.

  “There’s a cash machine at the market on the next block,” Uncle Muhammad said. “I shall be here waiting for you.”

  Sameera was waiting in line for the ATM inside the store when she heard a scream. “AY-O!” It was a woman’s voice.

  Sameera turned. An old woman wearing a burka was trying to wrestle a gallon of milk away from a beefy security guard. She was shouting something that sounded like “MERRY DUDE! MERRY DUDE!” and pummeling the man with her free hand.

  Almost inadvertently, Sameera stepped toward them.

  “Lady, I’m about to have you arrested,” the guard was saying, trying to fend off the old woman’s punches.

  “MERRY DUDE!” the woman shouted again, landing a hard uppercut right on the guard’s beer belly.

  “OOF,” he grunted, doubling over and dropping the milk.

  The woman picked it up and scurried for the door.

  “HARRY! GRAB HER!” the guard shouted.

  A younger guard was racing over from the other entrance to the store. He caught the old lady, who now looked terrified, and dragged her back to his partner.

  “YOU are going to JAIL!” the first man said, snapping his walkie-talkie off his belt with an angry flourish.

  Sameera watched the woman’s face crumple and the feistiness drain out of her body. She might not understand English, but she definitely knew the word jail. It was high time to intervene. “What’s going on?” she asked, striding toward the three of them.

  The guard looked up suspiciously, but he snapped his walkie-talkie back into his belt. “Thank goodness. One of them speaks English. Can you explain why she was strolling out of the store with a gallon of milk that she didn’t pay for?”

  The woman stumbled and almost fell. “Can’t you see she’s about to faint?” Sameera asked, catching the older woman just in time. “She needs help.”

  Sameera walked her charge slowly over to a bench near the newspaper stands. As the woman sat down, still trembling, Sameera noticed that she was clutching some papers in her fist. Sameera held out her hand, and the woman gave them to her. One was a coupon cut out of a newspaper; the other was a completed crossword puzzle. Sameera glanced at them both; the crossword puzzle was a difficult one, but someone had printed the correct answers in neat handwriting.

  Sameera marched back to the guards. “She didn’t HAVE to pay for the milk,” she said. “Your store is offering a free gallon of milk to anybody who completes this puzzle. Don’t you know your own promotions?” She thrust the coupon and the puzzle under the big security guard’s nose.

  The man looked embarrassed. “She’s supposed to go to the checkout counter with that kind of thing, not just walk out with a gallon of milk. How was I supposed to know?”

  “She’s an old woman. You didn’t have to grab her like that. You scared her half to death.”

  “Okay, okay. Take the milk.” He handed the gallon to Sameera and turned away, but not before she heard him mutter an obscenity and say, “Stupid foreigners.”

  Something snapped inside of Sameera. “We’re not leaving until we get an apology,” she said loudly. “May I see a manager, please?”

  chapter 33

  When she and the old woman finally exited the store, Sameera was carrying a bag full of groceries that the manager had given the woman for free. Her companion was smiling, stroking Sameera’s arm, and asking her something over and over in Urdu—not a word of which Sameera could understand. She could tell it was a question, but that was about it.

  “Yes, I’ll walk you home,” Sameera said, taking a wild guess, and the woman clapped her hands happily. She definitely understood more English than she could speak.

  Sameera lugged the groceries along until they were standing in front of Muhammad’s Attire again. “You live here?” she asked.

  “OO-PORE!” the woman shouted, pointing at the apartment over the store. She was obviously hoping that if she increased the volume of her voice, Sameera would somehow become fluent in Urdu.

  Muhammad came running out of the store. “AMMA!” he shouted. Aha! Sameera thought. This is Uncle Muhammad’s mother.

  The storekeeper let loose a stream of Urdu that Sameera could tell was a combination of scolding, anxiety, and relief. The old woman spoke again, turning to Sameera and stroking her cheek with her palm. Sameera stood there, clutching the bag of groceries and feeling like a language-less idiot.

  Finally, after listening intently to his mother’s explanation, Muhammad turned to Sameera, beaming. “You... you have saved my mother from a bad time. How can I thank you? I have told her a thousand times to stay inside the apartment. A woman of her age should not be walking these unsafe streets alone, but she does not listen to her son. She might have been in jail if not for you.”

  “No, really, it was nothing,” Sameera said. “The manager did give her all these groceries, though.”

  Muhammad’s eyes opened wide. “Now I know you are a miracle worker. That man is one cheap SOB.”

  Immediately, the older woman punched his arm. Hard. Sameera couldn’t help smiling. Her dairy-farming midwestern grandmother and this Pakistani woman in burka had more in common than met the eye.

  “Come,” Muhammad said, rubbing his arm. “You must have lunch with my mother and wife. We want to show you our thanks.”

  “No, really,” Sameera said, handing him the bag of groceries. “I should get back.”

  “I insist. My daughter Mariam will escort you to the corner Metro station when she comes home after her school. In the meantime, take my wife’s cooking. And have a rest in my home. You would do us a great honor.”

  Sameera glanced at her watch. Her parents wouldn’t be back at the apartment for a while. “It would be my pleasure,” she said. She followed Muhammad and the old woman up the narrow flight of stairs.

  They both left their shoes outside the door, so Sameera unzipped her boots and walked into the apartment in her socks. The older woman took her hand and gave her a tour, escorting her from room to room and jabbering away in Urdu. It didn’t take long. The apartment was as tiny as the shop underneath it—a “living room” with two beds in it, one bathroom, a bedroom, and a kitchen where a lovely but tired-looking woman was stirring spices into a sizzling pot that looked like a big wok. She listened to her husband’s explanation and gazed in wonder at the groceries he was unloading from the bag. Then she wiped her hands on her dupatta, walked over to Sameera, and embraced her, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “We are thanking you,” she said. “I no see our mother leaving. You save her life.”

  “No, I didn’t. Really.”

  “Please, you wait.” She used her head to point to the living room. “He eat, then we three eat.”

  Sameera had been a diplomat’s daughter for thirteen years. She knew that different cultures had different ways of doing things; here, obviously, the man of the house ate first. She sat on one of the cots in the living room with the old woman still stroking her hand, watching as Muhammad washed his hands, and then was served rice, lentils, fish, and potatoes by his wife. He ate his lunch, washed again, smiled at Sameera, and headed downstairs.

  “Come,” said Muhammad’s wife, wiping off her husband’s chair with her multipurpose dupatta. “My no good English, but my Mariam speak like her Abba. So good girl she is. Like you.”

  The food was delicious, fresh, spicy, and steaming hot. Afterward, while the grandmother took a nap on one cot in the living room, Muhammad’s wife and Sameera sat together on the other one.The woman showed her five albums full of family photos, trying to explain dozens of different names and relationships in broken English until Sameera’s head was spinning.

  Sameera peeked at her watch; it was already almost four o’clock! She needed to get back before her parents got home. Just as she stood up to leave, the door flew open. A girl about her age ran across the room, threw her arms
around Sameera, and kissed her on both cheeks. She looked exactly like a younger clone of her mother, so Sameera wasn’t too surprised by the effusive gesture.

  “Thank you so much,” the girl said, and this time Sameera was surprised. There was no trace of a Pakistani accent. The girl’s head was covered, she wore a green salwar kameez, but she sounded as “American” as Miranda. Or Sameera herself. “My father told me what you did for my grandmother. How can we ever thank you? Do you live around here? My father wants to meet your father and thank him personally.”

  “Er—no. We’re only in town today. We’re ... leaving first thing in the morning, actually.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” the girl said. “I’m Mariam. We could have ... gotten to know each other. What’s your name? How old are you?”

  “I’m Sameera. I’m sixteen.”

  “I just turned sixteen, too,” the girl said.

  Sameera smiled; somehow she, too, could tell that the two of them could be friends. “Did you do that crossword puzzle?” she asked. “It was hard.”

  “Yeah. It was a tough one, but I love doing them.”

  “How long have you been in America? Your vocabulary’s better than mine.”

  “Six years. How about you?”

  How did she answer that question? “Thirteen.” No use going into too much detail—everybody didn’t need to know everything about you in your first conversation with them. That was something she’d learned years ago when it came to her adoption.

  “You’ve forgotten how to speak Urdu?” The girl looked shocked.

  “Yeah. It’s sad, isn’t it? Mariam, what does ‘merry dude’ mean?”