“Oh. It means ‘my milk,”’ Mariam said, smiling. “Is that what my grandmother was shouting in the store?”
Sameera grinned back. Merry Dude Dairy Farm, she thought, remembering her family’s ongoing need for a new name. I’ll have to suggest it.
She glanced at her watch again. “I have to be getting back,” she said.
“I’ll walk you downstairs,” Mariam said.
Mariam waited at the door while her grandmother hugged and kissed Sameera over and over again, and then it was her mother’s turn. After a while, Sameera gently disentangled herself and put her boots back on.
The old woman shouted something at her again.
“My grandmother says to come back again,” Mariam translated. “Our door is always open to you.”
“I’ll try,” Sameera promised.
She and Mariam descended the narrow stairs, and Muhammad was standing there, holding a bag full of Sameera’s purchases. “Oh no!” Sameera said. “I forgot to get cash. I’ll have to go back to the ATM.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Mariam said, taking the bag from her smiling father. “My father is giving you these as a gift from our family to yours.”
“But—but I have the money! It’s too expensive! I could just run—”
“No,” Mariam said, dropping the bag over Sameera’s shoulder. “You’ll dishonor my father. Besides, it’s the least we can do.”
Sameera had to accept the gift, but how could she repay it? Suddenly, she remembered the verse that her grandmother had quoted that day in Maryfield: “To whom much is entrusted, of them much will be required.” It was time to widen her circle so that someone like Miriam could join it.
chapter 34
When she got back to the apartment, Sameera stayed in her salwar kameez and head scarf. She set out some hors d’oeuvres for her parents (she wasn’t a diplomat’s daughter for nothing). Then she retreated into her room to call Miranda and describe her most recent escapade in burka. “... and then I found the store, Muhammad’s Attire, and—”
“That doesn’t sound safe to me, Sparrow,” Miranda interrupted, her voice doubtful. “Going by yourself into some strange neighborhood in D.C.? Uncle James and Aunt Liz would be completely freaked out if they knew.”
Sameera sighed. She never had a problem getting her cousin to listen when she could write out her thoughts. That was another great thing about blogging—you got to have your say without getting interrupted. “Hush up and let me finish,” she said.
When she was done with the whole story, Miranda rose to the occasion. “You did the right thing, Sparrow,” she said indignantly. “What a bully! Treating an old woman like she was a criminal. That kind of thing would never happen here in Maryfield.”
“You would have done the same thing if it had, Ran.”
“Your parents would still freak out if they knew. Are you going to tell them?”
“The old version of Mom and Dad would be fine with it, but I’m not sure about the campaign versions. They’ve been a bit better, though, lately ...”
“I overheard Gran the other day giving your mom a big lecture about trusting you to handle yourself. Maybe Aunt Liz got the message.”
Wow. You go, Gran. “I hope so.”
“Oh. My. Gosh. I completely forgot to thank you for the awesome stereo system in the Jeep—Poppa had it installed on the first day of school. I couldn’t believe it! Thank you so much, Sparrow.”
“I’m glad you like it, Ran,” Sameera said. “I can’t wait to drive again. Do presidents’ daughters get to drive?”
“They do if they have a cousin who lives in Maryfield. Now you’d better post something soon. The circle hasn’t heard from you in so long, they’re starting to get worried.”
“I’m about to, because I have big news. I’ve decided to make some of my posts open to the public. If that’s okay with you guys, of course. The blog sort of belongs to all of us, so I’m going to ask everybody’s permission.”
“Can we still comment?” Miranda asked.
“Of course. Only you have to promise not to say anything about my disguise, because I may want to use it again down the road. I’m not going to tell the rest of them about it.”
“I won’t breathe a word. Now go post that entry.”
When you’re a celeb, you have to care a lot about what strangers think about you. But what really matters is what your buddies think about you. And what you think about yourself. That’s why I’ve just purchased a domain name called www.sparrowblog.com and am asking for your help to launch it as a public site. I’ll be blogging this week at myplace.com from the road, and I want you to vote on which post I should share with the country at sparrowblog.com.
Why am I doing this? Well, it’s hard to explain. Lately, I’ve been able to experience a little of what life might be like as a foreigner in America, and I haven’t liked everything about it. But I have met some amazing people. So now I want to blog about stuff like that and invite anyone who wants to listen to tune in and anyone who wants to comment to pipe in. including you. Are you with me? Remember: keep your comments short, clean, and to the point. Peace be with you. Sparrow.
When she came out of her room wearing one of her new burkas, her parents were sitting in the living room enjoying the Brie, crackers, and tart, cold grapes that Sameera had bought on the way home. Dad almost choked on a grape.
“Wha—Wha?” he sputtered.
For the first time in her life, Sameera’s mom was speechless.
“Dad, Mom, I want to confess my secret life. Are you ready for the truth?”
“I ... think so,” Dad said, groping across the sofa until he found Mom’s hand.
They listened intently as Sameera told them about slipping out of the apartment to meet the SARSA group at GW, and heading out to buy the burkas at Muhammad’s Attire. “... I knew you’d worry, so I didn’t tell you where I was going. But I was perfectly fine. D.C. is a great city to explore, and I used to wander around London and Brussels on my own. In fact, wearing this, I felt extra safe because I’m practically invisible.” No need to burden them with descriptions of some of the more unfriendly responses.
Her parents exchanged glances. “I know we’ve been a little overprotective, Sparrow—”Mom started.
“A little? Come on. You guys have never treated me like I wasn’t worthy of your trust until this campaign.”
“I know. I got a big lecture from my mom the other day.”
“We’ve been talking about how we need to apologize to you, Sparrow,” Dad said. “You’ve always had a good head on your shoulders. We should have known that even something as insane as a presidential campaign wouldn’t change that.”
It was good to hear. “Apology accepted,” she said. “And I’m sorry I went behind your backs with this burka thing, but I was sort of worried that you’d freak out.”
“We probably would have,” Mom said. “In fact, I think I still am, sort of.”
“Okay, are we even, then?” Sameera asked. “I’d like to keep my disguise a secret. Besides you, only Miranda knows about it. Are you okay with that?”
“You bet, Sparrow,” Dad said.
Mom took a deep breath. “Can you carry your cell phone when you wear one of those things?”
“Of course. It’s got pockets.”
“Then I’m okay with it, too.”
“We were going to have dinner at an Indian restaurant and clink lassi glasses to celebrate your mom’s report,” Dad said. “But now we’ll have to toast the emancipation of Sparrow Righton as well.”
“Who would have thought that a burka, of all things, could give our daughter some freedom during this campaign?” Mom asked, shaking her head. “They’ve always struck me as being oppressive.”
“Careful, Mom,” Sameera said. “Some strong, smart Muslim women out there would love to debate you on that one.”
“You’re right, Sparrow,” Mom said. “The head of the orphanage always told me that dressing traditionally was one of the most lib
erating things she’d ever done.”
“Well, I get claustrophobic after a while,” Sameera said. “I’ll change before we go out, but do you mind if I call Tara first? I want you to listen to what I’m going to tell her.”
That quick exchange of parental glances again. “You mean there’s more?” Mom asked.
“Just a bit.”
“Go ahead, Sparrow,” Dad said.
Tara answered on the first ring. “Hi, Sammy! Excited about our road trip tomorrow? Marcus said Sammy’s blog entries about the convention got more hits than any of his previous posts. He’s already working on material for tomorrow’s post.”
So some Americans did expect their candidate’s teen daughter to be stuck at adorable, bouncy, and friendly. But Sparrowblog wasn’t going to be anything like that. It was going to be a place where Sameera could cox the truth as she saw it, and anybody who wanted to could climb into the boat with her and yell right back.
“That’s fine,” Sameera said. “I wanted to let you know that I’m going to start writing a blog of my own about the campaign.”
“WHAT?!” Tara sputtered.
“There’s so much I’m learning and thinking about and experiencing. I want to hear what other teens like me have to say, answer their questions, and maybe even find some answers.” She was explaining all of this more for her parents’ sake than for Tara’s, and she noticed that Dad was nodding thoughtfully.
“But—-but you already have a blog, Sammy.”
“Wilder writes that one, Tara. There’s nothing in it that’s ... well, got to do with the real me. Plus, there’s no room for comments, which is one of the things I like best about blogging.”
“Marcus carefully crafts each piece to avoid any controversial subjects. And since it’s a page on our official campaign Web site, we don’t allow lunatics to comment and post their crazy opinions.
“Well, I want to hear from the loonies,” Sameera said. “They’re Americans, too.”
Tara’s tone was frosty. “If you decide to write a quiet little online journal of your own, Sammy, go right ahead. I know a lot of girls your age are into that. But we can’t host it on your official site. And you definitely can’t use the name ‘Sammy Righton.’ I don’t think you should even use ‘Sameera Righton.’ Two blogs written by the same girl will only cause massive confusion out there.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t use Sammy’s name at all.” Now THAT’S an easy promise to keep. “I won’t mention or discredit the SammySez.com site either. Wilder can keep writing posts for all I care.” It was harder to accept the command to avoid using her real name even though she knew “sparrowblog” sounded catchier than “sameerablog.” “And I won’t use Sameera, either. I promise,” she added, trying to keep the reluctance out of her voice.
“Let me take this crazy idea to Cameron,” Tara said. “He’ll have to clear it. I’ll talk it over with him on the bus when we get a chance. We leave at nine from campaign headquarters, so I’m having a taxi sent to your place by eight tomorrow morning. You can get dressed and put your makeup on in the bus; there’s a dressing room on board.You’ve got the stuff we bought for you in L.A., and Vanessa’s sending along some other outfits, but we might have to do some shopping ourselves on the road.”
I’ve already done some shopping, Sameera thought, remembering the gifts from Muhammad’s Attire that were safely stowed in her dresser drawer.
Her parents had been listening silently to her end of the conversation. “You write a blog?” Mom asked once Sameera hung up.
“Oh, Miranda and I and a few other friends have been chatting back and forth around this little blog I’ve been writing for a year. My buddies read my posts and comment on them. Well, now I want to take some of those posts and publish them for everybody to read.”
“You don’t get any of those weird Internet lurkers, do you, Sparrow?” Dad asked, frowning.
“No, Dad,” Sameera said, trying not to sound impatient. My myplace.com blog is only accessible to a list of twenty-nine friends. I might get weirdos visiting my new blog, which will be open to the public, but don’t worry, I—”
“Know how to handle them,” her parents chimed in, and the three Rightons grinned at one another.
“May I read your posts, Sparrow?” Dad asked.
“Of course, Dad. And you, too, Mom. I’d love to get comments from you guys; it would certainly make the conversation more interesting.”
“Sounds to me like you’re on the move, Sparrow,” Mom said. “Now that my report’s done, I’m looking forward to figuring out how I can make some good things happen.”
Sameera noticed that the word freakin’ had finally left the scene.
“Sounds to me like you know what you’re doing, Sparrow. As usual.” Dad reached for another cracker, spread some Brie on it, and handed it to Mom. She responded by popping a grape into his mouth.
Oh good, Sameera thought. No more squabbling. “Let’s go clink those glasses,” she said. “I’m starving.”
chapter 35
The campaign team had renovated two forty-five-foot VIP luxury coaches that were now proudly bearing the RIGHTON FOR PRESIDENT slogan on each side. Each bus had two bathrooms, a dressing room, a galley, flip-down TV screens with satellite programming, and leather reclining seats. A regular bus full of media people followed them on the journey, ready to pour out of the funnel of their door every time the Rightons would stop and disembark.
As soon as they boarded, Tara led Sameera to the dressing room. She made a few suggestions but left Sameera alone to change and put on her own makeup. Sameera brushed out her hair and checked herself out when she was done; she liked the fall look of the pumpkin-colored linen blouse, brown jeans, and matching boot combo. The toned-down body-shaper she was wearing looked great underneath the outfit.
“Nice job,” Tara said approvingly when Sameera emerged. “Now, Liz, it’s your turn.”
Mom did an equally decent job of getting herself ready, and she and Sameera banged fists after Tara gave Mom a thumbs-up.
The buses crisscrossed through Virginia first, stopping at restaurants, diners, schools, and malls for Q-&-A sessions and rallies. Dad was great at this, Sameera realized again, watching him expertly work the crowd and give off-the-cuff speeches. Everywhere he went, he connected with people, made them feel welcome, captured their imaginations with his talks, and gave them his full attention when they spoke. Mom, too, took the time to make people feel welcome, and Sameera did her fair share of schmoozing with people she’d probably never see again. At senior centers, she even blew a kiss here and there; she’d decided to reserve them for the over-seventy crowd, who seemed especially delighted to receive them.
“Did you ask Cameron about my blog yet?” Sameera asked Tara as the caravan of buses continued to careen down 1-95. “I’d like to get it started ASAP.”
She’d just finished her first on-the-bus tutoring session with Westfield, who was taking a break with a glass of milk and five oatmeal scotchies from yet another tin sent from Maryfield.
“Not yet,” Tara answered. “But I will.”
“Could you do it now?”
Tara rolled her eyes. “Fine. But I’ve been waiting to tell Marcus first.”
The Marketer of Cool was sitting a few rows behind them, hunched over his laptop. “I’ll tell him myself,” Sameera said, heading toward him.
“No! Let me—Sparrow! I’ll do it!” This time, Tara had used “Sparrow” without catching her slip of the tongue.
But it was too late. Sameera had already taken the empty seat beside Wilder. Tara stood in the aisle, grasping the seat for balance as the bus made a turn.
“Didja read your last post, Sammy?” Wilder asked. “You blogged about—”
“That’s great, Wilder,” Sameera interrupted. “But I want you to know that I’m starting my own blog—a separate one.”
“WHAT?!” He turned to Tara. “Does this mean I’m no longer needed? Because I—”
“No, Marcu
s,” Tara said quickly. “You know how much we need you. We’ve got visitors coming to SammySez.com, and we still want you to spin Sammy’s official blog.” She explained the stipulations, reiterating that Sameera was going to avoid using the name “Sammy” and even “Sameera Righton,” along with any mention of the official SammySez.com Web site.
“Oh fine, then,” he said huffily. “Let her do what she wants. I knew she never really liked my work.”
And you were absolutely right, Sameera thought, getting up.
Tara immediately slid into the vacated seat. Unlike Sameera, though,Tara sat really close to Wilder. Hmmm ... looks like Mom was right about Tara and Wilder. Wow. Love can definitely make a girl do strange things.
“Don’t worry, Marcus,” Tara was saying softly. “If they stumble across ‘Sparrowblog,’ people will probably think some fan is writing it instead of Sammy.You told me yourself that even though fans set up sites all the time, a celebrity’s official Web site has the final word.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Sameera left the two of them in their intimate huddle. Why not? They were a couple of thirty-something singles. She wished them the best, but Tara’s taste in men had certainly deteriorated since JFK Junior.
Cameron gave his green light to Sameera’s new site, too, when Tara came back to ask him. “It’s fine by me,” he said. “The more pro-Righton blogs out there the better. As long as we keep only one of them official to avoid confusion.” He agreed that she should avoid using her real name as well as “Sammy” in the new blog, and Sameera nodded ruefully. There was no avoiding it—she was going to have to reveal herself as “Sparrow” to the entire planet—including Bobby.
Cameron cleared his throat. “Now, James. I hate to interrupt, but we need to discuss a sensitive subject. How are you going to answer questions about religion? People on this journey are bound to ask you questions about that. We’ve been deflecting them so far, but there’s no way around it now.”
Dad had been talking to Mom in a low voice a couple of rows back. He stood up and moved into the aisle, as though he’d been expecting this question and was more than ready for it. “Here’s what I intend to say. All forty-plus of our American presidents have had a strong faith in God. Some of them, like Lincoln and Reagan, were transformed during their terms and emerged as praying men. That’s my hope—that I’ll become more of a praying man as a president, relying on my faith for strength and hope. But when it comes to using the power of the office to impose my views on other people, I draw the line. The president of the United States is not an emperor like Julius Caesar or Constantine. He’s not a dictator like Hitler or Stalin. Many beloved sons and daughters have died for freedom in this country, and I intend to make sure that freedom—including the freedom to worship—will endure.”
First Daughter Page 18