“I’m sure you’d be more than welcome,” Sparrow said, trying and failing to picture Tara at a Ladies’ Aid meeting.
“Sparrow? Could you do us a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Could you sort of ... clear up this mess on your blog soon? Looks like we’ve won this election, but we don’t want your dad starting his new job on the wrong foot.”
You’re asking ME to fix something for YOU? Wow. We’ve come full circle, Ms. Tara Colby. “I’ll do my best,” Sameera answered.
The post she came up with while Mom and Dad were getting ready for the celebration party was excerpted on her loyal SARSA sites, quoted on television, discussed on the radio, and even assigned as required reading for students in schools around the nation.
Hey America, you voted my dad in! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I can promise that you won’t be sorry. He’s going to be the best president this country has seen in a long time. We’re about to go party, so you’ll see me on television soon, but I wanted to clear something up first. By now, you may have read about my fake blog. You might be wondering why a person like me, who tries always to write the truth, would give up my voice to someone else.
Let me explain. Some members of my father’s campaign team (NOT my father himself) were worried that I—the real me—wouldn’t be “American” enough for you. That I might damage Dad’s campaign because I was born in Pakistan and look “foreign.” That’s why they created “Sammy Righton”—because they thought America wanted someone who wasn’t anything like the real me. But thanks to YOU I’ve had the great satisfaction to show them that they were wrong.
So here I am, America. Sameera Righton-your new first daughter. I may not be your typical all-American girl, but then who is? I’m an American because I get to blog like this, to say what I want, to tell the truth as I see it, even if my father ends up becoming the most powerful person in the country.
I’m sorry I let someone else steal my voice—I’ll never do it again. Think you can forgive me? (This one time, forget our usual rule: you can make comments that are long, nasty, and completely off-topic. Sparrow.)
The American people did forgive her. The site received only a few insulting or unrelated comments, and those critics were quickly torn apart by other commentators leaping to Sameera’s defense. “The ultimate teen town hall,” the site was described by the New York Times. “Moderated by a young woman who seems wise beyond her years—Sameera Righton.”
ZTV NEWS: “From every corner of the country, you responded to Sameera Righton’s candid, sometimes provocative insider’s take on this presidential campaign. Pundits think that her blog might have had an influence on the election outcome—even older Americans seem to trust this savvy young woman’s opinion of her father.”
CNN: “James Righton has now won enough electoral votes to clinch this race. Senator Victoria Banforth is conceding defeat and thanking her supporters. Meanwhile, Republicans are going wild in the ballroom of the Four Seasons hotel, where Righton is giving his acceptance speech.”
LOS ANGELES TIMES ONLINE: “After giving Righton and his wife, Elizabeth Campbell, a standing ovation, the packed ballroom supporters spontaneously began to chant one name in unison: ‘Sparrow! Sparrow!’ ”
The roar when Sameera joined her parents onstage was huge. Balancing easily on three-inch heels and wearing comfortable lingerie (with just a bit of padding) underneath a glittery blouse and a tailored brown pantsuit, she was already composing her take on the event for her blog:... I was waving and smiling, yes, but my feet were killing me, and I was already mentally filling in my calendar. I’m off to Maryfield for the holidays, the inauguration’s in January, and we move into the White House right after that. Four years in the most luxurious prison in America. Am I going to survive? What do YOU think? Remember: keep your comments short, clean, and to the point. Peace be with you. Sparrow.
coming soon ...
First Daughter: WHITE HOUSE RANT
by mitali Perkins
Sameera opened her laptop with a sigh of relief. Sparrowblog readers were getting restless for the insider’s take she’d promised over two weeks ago, and her fingers were eager to provide it. She powered up, logged on, and started typing.
Wow. It’s good to be back. Dad’s ten-day inaugural extravaganza kept me so busy I couldn’t take even the briefest of breaks into cyberspace. Lots of you have been asking what it’s actually like to live in The House that’s on the back of every twenty-dollar bill. Well, I’ve been here for over a week now, so here’s a taste of the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.
THE GOOD
1. Mom and her lady-in-waiting (sparrowcode translation: Wonder Woman Tara Colby) passed some redecorating over to Miranda and me. We’ve been assigned the bedrooms at Camp David, our suite in the White House, and the living quarters on Air Force One. For two Home and Garden Channel addicts, working with fab Designer David has been awesome. We’ve settled on California minimalist for Air Force One because Dad likes streamlined, Ohio farm cozy in the White House bedrooms so Ran and I can chill, and global-import-trendy at Camp David, because when on vacation, I LIKE sequins, paisley, incense, silk, mosaic, batik, and squashy ottomans with tassels. Don’t ask why. I just do.
2. I get to work out in the White House gym with a trainer. Coxing never pumped the body much, so I’m hoping to display toned triceps the next time the razzi catch me sleeveless. (BTW, I can’t decide between “razzi” or “pappaz” when it comes to the hordes behind the huge lenses. What do you think?)
3. We’ve been splashing in the indoor pool at midnight, which is especially great when it’s snowing outside. It’s tempting to skinny-dip, but Cougars are ever on the prowl (sparrowcode translation: Secret Service dudes).
4. At the First Bowling Alley the other night, Ran and I trounced a couple of Penguins (sparrowcode translation: valets in tuxes). I got two strikes, thanks to my already enlarged triceps.
5. The in-house theater is lined with leather recliners, and we get to choose from thousands of movies, even first-run feature films. I refuse, however, to watch any flicks or television reruns that involve a president—it’s freaky watching some ultragorgeous Hollywood starlet playing a first daughter now that I’ve morphed into the real thing. I do accept the gobs of buttery popcorn served by an Orca (sparrowcode translation: maids who might be voluptuous, but that didn’t earn them the name; they wear black and white uniforms that are amazingly killer-whale-ish).
6. Good news for tiny bladders: unlimited access to thirty-five bathrooms. Wahoo!
7. Note to self: when bored, try baking with state-of-the-art appliances, unlimited ingredients, no need to clean up, and five Pandas at your service (sparrowcode translation: Gourmet Chefs). Ran and I wandered into the kitchen and wangled our way into making oatmeal scotchies for Mom’s first official tea in the East Wing. After the prime minister of Sweden’s wife gobbled six of them (from MY batch), she begged the Penguins and Orcas to give her the recipe. She even came into the kitchen and accosted the Pandas. My cousin scribbled something down and handed it over, but it won’t work. The real product can be made only by Campbell hands.
8. We walk Jingle two times a day around the South Lawn. Yes, my cousin brought the farm pooch along for the whole six months she’s here. Thanks, Gran and Poppa, for loaning me the world’s most wonderful Labrador retriever. Yes, he is sleeping on my bed. Or am I sleeping on his? It’s hard to tell which one of us owns the place.
THE BAD
1. We have to memorize the names of the hundred-plus people who work at the House so that we don’t hurt anybody’s feelings. This is hard, as many dress in identical uniforms. Several are also still in love with the previous residents. Mom and I have overheard muttering about missing the Adorable All-American First Children and Perfect First Mom who were forced to move out the day before WE moved in. Turns out those chicks—and that mother hen—were likable in private AND in public. Wonderful.
2. If I ever leave on my own, I’ll hav
e to fill out forms in triplicate and will be accompanied by armed Cougars. My visitors get frisked from head to toe and are forced to give out enough personal information to make even the Dalai Lama worry about identity theft. (Not that he’s visited. But he might. And then he would get stressed-out.)
3. This house might be where we live, but it belongs to the American people. Tours start at six-thirty in the morning; we can get over five thousand visitors a day. I prefer to stay closeted on the third floor until the sightseers exit, playing hearts with my cousin and any available Penguins or Orcas with time on their hands. Judging by his expression, one of the younger Cougars wants to join our game, but it’s against the rules. Stay on the prowl. Always.
4. No school. No gossip. No crew. No friends. Good thing Ran’s here for now. I’ll have to figure something out in June when she heads back to Ohio. Any ideas?
5. Dad’s office is in one wing of the House, Mom’s is in the other, and they’ve both been working nonstop. This must end. This will end. Leave it to me.
THE UGLY
1. Sparrowhawk, bird hunter, pakipoacher, listen up. I’ve read your furious flames and visited your rant-filled sites. I know you’re griping about the “self-centered brat” who’s moved into the White House. You’re hoping I’ll use my position to change the world, but that isn’t going to happen. Sameera Righton is NOT employed by the United States of America, people. James Righton is, so here’s the link to his Web site. Vent your thoughts about his policies there. But feel free to keep commenting here, too, because I intend to post MY opinions as openly as ever. BRING IT, because a good battle keeps things hopping out here in the blogosphere.
2. To those of you who’ve been wondering if we’re related, I’m not going to compare your DNA with mine. I might head back to Pakistan someday to find out more about my origins, but I’ll wait until Dad’s no longer president. I’m not going on a journey THAT intense with a thousand pappaz and razzi tagging along. So you’ll have to wait a few years to find out if I’m your niece or cousin. And I’m sorry, I can’t get you a visa in the meantime.
3. To Bobby. I haven’t heard from you in two weeks. Maybe you’ve seen one too many of those movies about presidents’ daughters and their dating traumas. Maybe you don’t want to be hounded by the media and labeled something horrible like “Sparrow’s Southern Boy Toy.” But you might at least answer ONE of my e-mails or phone calls. Did I just imagine the spark that sizzled when our eyes met? Didn’t you rest your hand for a few extended, more-than-needed, wonderful seconds on the small of my back the last time we headed out to bhangra on the dance floor?
Sameera stopped typing, sighed again, and deleted the last paragraph she’d written. She was committed to being honest on her blog, but she wasn’t about to let a gazillion readers mull over the details of her thwarted love life. Was the ultimate Southern gentleman backing off because he was intimidated by her newly acquired first daughterhood, or because he just wasn’t interested? George Washington University’s South Asian Republican Students’ Association would be meeting tomorrow in their usual highly caffeinated location. She could join them there, confront Mr. Bobby Ghosh, and ferret out the truth about why he’d been avoiding her. All she needed was a way to sneak out of her luxury prison without a posse of Cougars tracking her every move.
Hmmmmm, she thought. It’s a good thing I bought that extra wooly winter burka at Uncle Muhammad’s shop last August. I had a feeling it might come in handy.
About the Author
MITALI PERKINS was born in Kolkata, India. She lived with her parents and two older sisters in Cameroon, Ghana, Mexico, London, and New York City before they settled in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she studied political science at Stanford University and public policy at U.C. Berkeley.
Now living in Newton, Massachusetts, with her husband and sons, Mitali is the author of Monsoon Summer, The Not-So-Star-Spangled Life of Sunita Sen, and Rickshaw Girl. Chat with her on the Fire Escape at www.mitaliperkins.com, where she ruminates about life, writing, and books between cultures.
First Daughter Page 21