The team flew from Montgomery to Chicago, where Dad and Senator Banforth were scheduled to have their first debate. Just before entering the University of Chicago auditorium, Sameera’s mother was stopped by a reporter.
“Could you comment on the morality of a woman—Victoria Banforth, I mean—who bore a child out of wedlock and wants to lead our country, Mrs. Righton?”
Mom lost it. “How dare you judge that woman? She has lived her life with grace, and she is a huge success. Every woman in this country is proud of her.”
The reporter looked flustered but not yet defeated. “And what if your own daughter decided to use Senator Banforth as a role model, getting pregnant without being married first?”
“Have you witnessed how Thomas Banforth has stood by his mother through this campaign? I’d be proud if Sparrow chose a woman like Victoria as a role model of what fresh starts and second chances mean to every one of us.”
Sameera and the entire Righton entourage listened, glazed-eyed and openmouthed. Had they just heard the Republican candidate’s wife championing his opponent? As Mom swept into the auditorium and took her seat, several staffers looked pale and tense, including Tara Colby.
But they shouldn’t have worried. The next day, the press was nothing but positive. “Elizabeth Righton speaks out for single mothers who overcome the odds, including her husband’s political opponent, Victoria Banforth.” Mom looked regal in the television coverage, exhibiting a one-two punch of strength and beauty as she faced down the obnoxious reporter.
Sameera, in turn, blogged about how proud she was of her mother and her father, who had debated his opponent well. Unfortunately, despite Dad’s eloquence and courtesy, the win seemed to go to the earthy, witty Victoria Banforth, who had made the entire nation laugh several times during the debate.
The next day, to Sameera’s amazement, she received a comment from [email protected].
Hey, Sparrow. Tell your mother thanks for standing up for mine. When this is all over, I’d love to take you out to dinner. We can share some of our best campaign horror stories. Peace backatcha. Tom.
Both Bobby and Miranda called Sameera immediately after they read that surprising comment. “Who does that Banforth dude think he is?” Bobby asked. “Why doesn’t he stick to women his own age? He’s twenty-two—he could get arrested as an online predator.”
Was that jealousy she heard? “He’s a good guy, Bobby.You can still like a person even when you disagree with their politics.”
“I know,” Bobby said, sighing. “I’m just tired of all the attention he’s been getting. He’s definitely the hot guy on the political scene right now. Even Sangi, one of the most rabid Republicans I know, is losing it over him.”
Miranda, too, sounded a bit swoony. “I loved that ‘backatcha.’ How tasty was that? I wonder if he’d like to take me out to dinner ...”
Sameera blogged her way through Illinois, Michigan, and Indiana on trains and buses. The buses didn’t venture into Ohio; Dad’s support there was so strong, they didn’t need to worry much about getting votes. At a college in Grand Rapids, Michigan, after Dad finished giving his speech, a voice called out: “We love you, Sparrow!”
With a shock, Sameera realized that a visitor to Sparrowblog was in the audience. Sparrowbloggers, as the campaign team called them, started popping up everywhere—in Arkansas, Texas, Colorado (where Dad won the second debate), Kansas, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada.
Cameron finally called a conference about Sameera’s dueling blogs. “Should we get rid of SammySez. com?” he asked Tara.
“Oh, no,” Tara answered quickly, glancing at Wilder’s sullen face. “It’s still getting a fair amount of hits. Most of the public thinks that SammySez.com is Sammy’s official site; there’s been no mention at all of her other blog in the traditional media yet.”
Other blogs had been linking like mad to Sparrowblog, so it was only a matter of time before the mainstream press picked it up. That’s the operate word, Sameera thought. Yet.
“What is a ‘fair amount’ of hits?” Fatima muttered in her ear. “Thirty? Three hundred? Or three? Nobody I know ever checks out his site.”
“Some of our discussion on Sparrowblog is way too controversial for the campaign’s official seal of approval, anyway,” Sameera told Cameron. “Too many four-letter words in the comments.”
She didn’t want the campaign to co-opt her site; it was sure to be tidied up, censored, made politically correct. The free, wild, unexpected blogginess of it might be sucked out.
Every now and then, while she was typing on her laptop, she’d look up and catch Wilder’s frenzied eye. He was continuing to produce SammySez blog entries once a day; she only had to post once a week and then respond to two comments. He was looking more exhausted and getting more snippy as the days passed. It must be draining to pretend to be someone else all the time, Sameera thought, actually feeling sorry for the guy.
What with campaigning, lessons, blogging, spending time with Fatima, and talking to Miranda, Bobby, or Sangi on the phone, the days spun by in a whirl. Sameera was so busy she didn’t have a chance to sneak off in “Muhammad’s Attire,” but just the thought of an armor of invisibility tucked inside her suitcase was comforting.
If I need to disappear, I can, she told herself more than once, waving at crowds of people until her wrists felt like they had permanent carpal tunnel syndrome. I can be Sparrow, Sammy, or Sameera. I can be invisible or turn heads. I am one of those mutant X-Men with special powers. No. I am ... Wait a sec. What’s that ancient women’s lib song Aunt Bev likes to sing at the top of her lungs while she’s gardening? Oh yeah—I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!
chapter 39
November finally came, and the weary Rightons crawled back to D.C. for a day of rest before election day. Mom stayed around the apartment, announcing that “she wanted to spend the whole day alone with her daughter for the first time in weeks.” This was a bit frustrating to Sameera, who’d been hoping to don her burka to visit Mariam and her family. Now she’d have to wait for another opportunity, and she had no idea when that would come; she’d been concentrating so hard on the Big Day that it was hard to imagine a future beyond it.
“Aren’t you going to start consulting again, Mom?” she asked. “The campaign’s officially over now, isn’t it?”
“Depends if your dad wins tomorrow,” Mom said. “Right now I’m still focused on getting the IDPs what they need from the NGOs. A first lady might have a bit more clout to make that happen.”
Good thing I speak acronym, Sameera thought. Basically, what this meant was that Mom had taken every chance during the last few weeks to champion internally displaced people, regardless of the original topic of conversation. At a banquet sponsored by the Daughters of the American Revolution in Pennsylvania, for example, she’d started with a long, patriotic, touching speech, and segued into her IDPs with something like this: “... And as we think of our forefathers who fought so hard for freedom, we remember others who don’t have that kind of freedom right now—take the internally displaced people in Burma, for example ...”
“Is Dad going to be home late?” Sameera asked. “He needs a good night’s sleep before tomorrow.”
“Not too late, I hope. The team’s planning how we’re going to spend election day.” Mom was making herself a sandwich. “I’m so glad the campaign’s finally over, I’m not sure I even care about what happens tomorrow. You hungry, Sparrow?”
Sameera shrugged. “Not really.”
“I’ll make you a sandwich, too, just in case.”
Sameera watched her mother slather pieces of whole grain bread with mustard, mayo, salt, and pepper, and then stack turkey, cheese, sprouts, and tomato slices in between them; Mom had never spent time in the kitchen when they lived overseas.
Suddenly, she was ravenous. “Mom? Could you and I stay up late tonight like we used to? I’ve got some stuff I want to ask.” Like: Can a person who believes strongly in God still have doubts or questions? Do
you? How do you handle it? She could pose questions like these sort of generically on her blog, of course, but somehow a heart-to-heart conversation with Mom seemed to be a better setting for them.
“I’d love to, Sparrow. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
She handed Sameera a sandwich with a flourish. “Ready to get metaphysical?”
“Yeah, but let’s wait until after we eat, okay? And maybe we can watch a movie first, too? Something funny and sweet that we’ve seen at least a million times?” There was nothing more relaxing than eating dinner on the couch and watching a chick flick with someone you loved.
The two Righton women were doing just that, enjoying the romance between Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday, when Dad came home.
“Looks like the race to the finish line is going to be close,” he announced, hanging his coat in the hall closet.
Mom pressed the pause button on the remote. “Sameera and I are done with campaigning, James,” she said sternly. “And we’re right in the middle of this movie.”
“Okay,” Dad answered meekly. “Can I join you?”
“Sure. Want a sandwich?” Mom asked, obviously relenting.
“One of those? Definitely. I’m starving.”
Mom left the room, and Sameera found herself feeling sorry for her father. He looked so woebegone standing there in the hallway.
“Are you worried about losing, Dad?” she asked.
Dad loosened his tie and joined her on the couch. “Not really, Sparrow. I want to win; if I do, I’m hoping to get some great things accomplished during the next four years. But when it comes to our family life, a victory’s the beginning of another roller-coaster ride. For all of us.”
She groaned. “I know, Dad. We’ll be heading to the ... White House.” She made her voice sound evil, as though she were saying something creepy like the “Cavern of Horrors.”
Dad grinned. “Dum, dum, dum, DUM. It might be fun for you, Sameera, and especially if Miranda comes for a visit. There’s a bowling alley there somewhere, and a movie theater. Susan Ford was about your age when she moved in, and she had her high school prom there.”
“Things are a bit more complicated for me now than they were for Susan Ford in the last century.” She remembered the photo Tara had shown her of the blonde, beautiful girl washing her 1970s-style sedan outside the White House.
“President Ford’s daughter couldn’t put on a burka and disappear when she needed to, now could she? But things haven’t changed that much. It’s always been rough to have a political parent, or a political spouse. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t get married while I was serving in Congress.”
“Well, you’re definitely married now. And stuck with both of us.”
He pulled her head toward him and kissed the top of it. “And blessed with you, you mean. Oh, well, Sparrow. We might never move into the White House; I might lose by a landslide.”
“Forget about that for now, Dad. Wanna stay up late tonight with me and Mom, talking theology?”
“Maybe. Or better yet, I’ll listen while the two of you unlock the mysteries of the universe and give my aging brain a rest.”
“No way. You stay, you play. Or pray, depending how the night goes.”
Mom came back and handed Dad the sandwich. He took a big bite, chewed with gusto, and finished it off in about four bites. “Let’s start the movie again. Nothing like a good family night at the movies to take a break from heated topics like politics and religion,” he said, putting one arm around his wife and the other around his daughter. “Just kidding, y’ all. Count me in for later on.”
chapter 40
The Banforth-Righton race brought out more voters than any election in history. Both candidates were respected, even if people disagreed with their politics, because neither had resorted to the ugly smearing and hate ads that had marked previous campaigns. Bloggers everywhere were noting that this year, it seemed like Americans were voting for a candidate instead of against one.
Dad came back to the hotel suite late on election day, where Sameera and her mother were jubilantly watching the last results come in. It was starting to look like a sure win; they’d just snagged several key states in the Heartland. Commentators were saying that Righton only needed a couple more states in the Midwest to clinch the victory.
“Dad!You should be bursting in here with a bottle of champagne!” Sameera said. “Why do you look so worried?”
“Yes, James,” Mom added, jumping up to hug him. “This is absolutely fantastic. Your first lady in waiting wants a presidential smooch.”
But Mom’s kiss didn’t erase the look of concern on Dad’s face. “A huge number of people just trolled SammySez.com at the same time,” he said. “We have no idea why they’d try that stunt so late in the day.”
“What does ‘troll’ mean?” Mom asked. “It sounds ugly.”
“They blitz the site with millions of hits at once. Your official Web site crashed, Sparrow; it’s going to take a while to get it up and running again.”
“That’s weird,” Sameera said. “Because Sparrowblog is working fine.” She’d been commentating on election day results and happenings with periodic posts all through the day.
“I know,” Dad said. “The timing of an attack like this doesn’t make sense. The election’s almost over.”
The phone rang, and Dad picked it up. “It’s Marcus Wilder, Sparrow. And he wants to talk to you.”
Sameera was surprised. Wilder hadn’t ever called her before ; he’d always preferred using Tara as his mouthpiece. “Hello?”
Words from the other end came hurtling at her like air gun pellets. “You talked your hokey relatives into doing this, didn’t you? To convince your father that your blog was more effective than mine? Admit it!”
Sameera hardly recognized the voice—Wilder was so upset that it almost sounded like he was crying. Her parents were looking at her curiously, so she went into her own room and shut the door. “What are you talking about?”
“Once your father clinched this election, you got your ... people to attack my site.”
“What? I did not.”
“Don’t play games with me, young lady. I’ve lost my job, thanks to you. And more than that. Much more.”
Now it was Sameera’s turn to get angry. “Back off, Wilder,” she said. “I did no such thing. Let me talk to Tara.”
“She’s not here. She left, after—” This time, he did burst into tears, and hung up.
“Sparrow!” Mom called from the living room. “Come out here, quick!”
Her parents were standing in front of the television with their mouths open. On the screen, a dozen members of Maryfield Ladies’ Aid, including Gran, were holding up signs that said LET SPARROW SING! As they watched, all twelve of the gray-haired ladies, dressed in peasant skirts and T-shirts that had a picture of Sameera emblazoned on them, started singing an old 1970s rock song: “If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me? ’Cause I’m as free as a bird now, and this bird you cannot cha-ange. Woooo-oooh. And this bird you cannot cha-ange.”
Aunt Bev was strumming a guitar in the background. Sameera recognized the venue: it was the Maryfield High School auditorium, and the ladies were singing onstage.
“FREE BIRD! FREE BIRD! FREE BIRD!” the Maryfield Ladies’ Aid started chanting, punching their fists and signs in the air. The camera panned the crowd in the seats, and Sameera glimpsed more and more familiar faces: the Presbyterian minister and his wife, Miranda, Poppa, Mayor and Mrs. Thompson ... everybody in town seemed to be there, and now they were joining the chant: “FREE BIRD! FREE BIRD! FREE BIRD!”
At first, the coverage of the Maryfield protest looked bad for James Righton: “Now that it looks like their golden boy is about to win this election, the people of Maryfield, Ohio, want answers. They claim that Sammy Righton’s ‘official’ Web site is a fake, and that the real Sammy Righton has been blogging at Sparrowblog.com. They organized a grassroots e-mail campaign aski
ng people to troll the official blog once Righton got the win. ”
Dad switched the channel. It was still bad. “Breaking news. James Righton hires marketing guru to write his daughter’s blog. Democrats claim this confirms that Righton would do anything to win votes, even compromise his own daughter’s integrity.”
Switch. “Sammy Righton’s official Web site came down late today when thousands of people ‘trolled’ or ‘flamed’ it in response to a protest started in her mother’s hometown. On another note: Righton appears to have clinched this election with a win in New Mexico and Idaho, but stay tuned for final results.”
Sameera called her cousin to get the scoop on what was happening in Maryfield.
“Mrs. Graves got the entire Ladies’ Aid started on a huge e-mail campaign,” Miranda said. “You know; forward this to ten friends, and so on. They told everybody that it wasn’t you writing that SammySez.com blog. ‘READ Sparrowblog! IT’S THE REAL THING!’ they said. ‘TROLL THE FAKE BLOG AFTER FIVE O’CLOCK ON ELECTION DAY!’ They even started selling thoseT shirts that say FREE BIRD under a photo of you, and they’re making a bundle—enough to pay for three new computers in the library.”
Next, Sameera called Tara. “Wilder phoned me. I didn’t have anything to do with the trolling, Tara.”
“He called you? That jerk! I know; I told him not to bother you.”
“Tara? Did you break up with him because of me?”
Tara sighed. “No, Sparrow. It’s been coming for a while. I fall for these temperamental, artistic types, and then they end up being way too high-maintenance.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry. You keep going with your blog; we’re getting rid of the whole SammySez Web site, now that the campaign’s over. Wilder’s blog never got the kind of traffic he promised to generate, and I learned a big lesson, thanks to you. I don’t know the American people as well as I thought. Maybe I should spend some time with your Maryfield folks.”
First Daughter Page 20