White House Rules (6 page)

The five-member color team came down the Grand Staircase, carrying the American and presidential flags. Sameera counted them off as she waited on the landing: Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Coast Guard. Mom and Dad followed them into the room as the Marine band began playing the fanfare, “Ruffles and Flourishes,” and then shifted into “Hail to the Chief.”
Some traditions are keepers,
Sameera thought, humming a joyful accompaniment.

With Peter and Miranda right behind Wilhelm and Sameera, six couples sauntered arm in arm down the Grand Staircase, through the Cross Hall, and into the East Room. A host of bejeweled, tuxedoed, and designer-gowned guests made appreciative noises as they entered. Matching her steps to Wilhelm's, Sameera concentrated fiercely on the intricacies of the opening choreography she and Ran had learned in such a short time. There, it was done, and perfectly, too. The cousins exchanged grins that had to substitute for their signature triumphant fist punch.

The music picked up for the less-complicated Viennese waltz part of the dance, and Wilhelm started spinning Sameera around the room. She felt like she was floating, and with each song, found herself enjoying the whirling, swirling rhythm more and more.
If only I were dancing with Bobby,
Sameera thought, as her partner's strong hand steered her safely around the room.
Bhangra or ballroom, it doesn't matter as long as he's the one holding me.

They danced over to her cousin, who was excusing herself from Peter and looking extremely pale despite the bronzing lotion she'd slathered across every inch of exposed skin. A middle-aged, balding guest was ogling Miranda's halter dress, and Sameera placed herself strategically to block his view. “You okay, Ran?” she asked.

“I never liked that teacups ride much either,” Miranda said ruefully. “I'm going to run upstairs for a minute until I stop feeling dizzy. I'll be right back.”

Sameera returned to spinning around the room, this time with Peter leading her. She waltzed by Tara, who was sitting at a table by herself. As usual, the First Lady's right-hand woman was beautifully dressed, but Sameera noticed she was scribbling notes with a stylus onto a handheld.
Tara definitely needs a life,
Sameera thought.

At the head table, President James Righton looked elegant and confident in his tuxedo, his usual diplomatic courtesy intact as he conversed with each person who approached him. Sameera, however, could tell he was bored stiff. She noticed one shiny patent-leather-encased presidential foot tapping under the table in time to the music. Her father loved to dance as much as she did.

When the orchestra segued into the slower one-two-three beat of a familiar Strauss waltz, Sameera excused herself from Peter and made her way to the head table. An Austrian official was droning on about some trade issue that he obviously cared about a great deal. “Dad,” Sameera said, interrupting the conversation. “Dance with me.”

President James Righton leaped to his feet. “Will you excuse me?” he asked his dinner companion. “When your daughter asks for a dance, it's an opportunity you don't want to miss.”

Sameera heard the minister laughing indulgently behind them as she put her hand into the crook of her father's elbow and walked out to the dance floor. They'd danced together since she was a little girl, and the music quickly pulled them into a familiar, easygoing circle of two.

“Thanks, Sparrow,” Dad said in a low voice. “That dude was amazingly dull. A one-man miracle cure for insomnia. What's up with you?”

“We're having a family dinner tomorrow night, Dad,” Sameera informed him. “I want to talk about something important.”

“Sounds more interesting than to night's conversations, that's for sure. Can you give me a preview?”

“Er…not now, Dad. Don't want Mom to feel out of the loop, right? I'll wait until it's just the four of us.”

“Scotchies for dessert, I hope?”

“I'll see if Ran can whip some up after church.”

“With that amazing frosting she makes?”

“Definitely.”

“Where
is
Miranda, anyway?” Dad asked, his eyes scanning the room over Sameera's shoulder as they turned to the music.

Sameera glanced around, too. Her cousin was still nowhere in sight. “Maybe I should—”

“There she is,” Dad said, his voice sounding relieved. “She certainly loves that camera, doesn't she?”

Another half turn and Sameera caught sight of her cousin filming the scene. “Yeah. I haven't seen any of her footage yet. She must have hours of it by now.”

“That camera's almost as good as a burka, isn't it?” Dad asked.

“What?” Sameera tried not to reveal her surprise at her father's choice of analogy.

“It hides a lot of Miranda's face,” Dad said. “Reminds me of that head covering you used last fall as a getaway costume. The best part is that people can't tell if she's zooming in on them or on something else.”

They turned again and Sameera saw Miranda aim the camera directly at the balding guy who'd been leering at her earlier. The man blushed, stumbled, and steered his partner in the opposite direction. “You know, I think you're right, Dad. It sort of…puts her in charge of who's being watched, doesn't it?”

Dad and Sameera danced a few more songs, lapsing into a comfortable, pressure-free silence. Before long, though, Mom tottered over and tapped Sameera's shoulder. “I'm cutting in,” she said. “And James, don't talk or expect me to say anything. I'm exhausted. Just hold me up and pretend you're having fun.”

“But I am, darling,” Dad said as he smiled at Sameera and whirled Mom away.

Sameera went off in search of Miranda. She found her cousin in the kitchen filming the head pastry chef as he prepared a dessert that flamed and reeked of alcohol.

“Just a minute, Sparrow,” Miranda muttered. “They're almost done.”

Suddenly, the camera shut itself off with a complaining whir followed by a decisive click. “Did you get it, Miss Campbell?” the pastry chef asked eagerly.

“Sorry, Mr. Phillips. I'm out of memory.”

He looked disappointed. “Come back on Monday,” he said. “Your aunt's first official tea is coming up, and I've got some exciting
petits fours
that I want to practice making. Now
that
should be great on film.”

Miranda smiled, but she shook her head. “No can do, Mr. Phillips. We'll have to wait for another opportunity.”

The girls walked out of the kitchen and back into the East Room. “Are you busy on Monday, Ran?” Sameera asked. “It might be good to get those Pandas on your side, especially if you want to work with them.”

“No. I'm out of memory, Sparrow. Didn't you hear me the first time?”

“Get some more, then,” Sameera said, without thinking.

Miranda didn't reply, but Sameera could read her mind:
It costs money.
“Download your footage onto a computer, clear out the memory card, and start again,” she suggested. “Anyway, maybe this is a sign that you should start editing what you've already got instead of filming new stuff all the time.”

Miranda chewed her lower lip.

“What's wrong now?” Sameera asked.

“I don't have the software I need to make the kind of movies I want to make,” Miranda confessed. “
Why
did I spend all my money on this dress, Sparrow? Next time, grab my wallet and run. Fast.”

“Use my laptop, Ran,” Sameera said quickly. “It came with some fancy moviemaking software that I've never used—you could use it to edit your footage, add music, make it into what you want it to be. I could even post some of your clips on my blog if you want.”

“Slow down, Sparrow. Why can't I use your software on the White House PCs?”

“Because my system's not compatible with the White House machines. Besides, mine's five times faster than the ones they have sitting around here, and easier to use, too.”

“But you're on your computer all the time. It's, like, your most personal item. Are you sure you want to share it?”

Sameera locked her laptop case every night to guarantee that only she had access to her personal information. Not that the impeccably honest staff in the White House would steal anything, of course, but there was something about shielding her precious possession from strange eyes that gave her a sense of security. But this wasn't a stranger—this was Miranda, beloved cousin and best friend. “I'll share it with you,” Sameera said, trying not to sound in the least bit reluctant.
Too bad we didn't get her some moviemaking software along with that camera,
she thought.

The orchestra was taking a break, and Sameera noticed her parents had been commandeered by the one-man insomnia cure again. Mom was propping her chin on both fists to prevent her head from flopping forward. Dad was nodding, looking fascinated while the guy droned on.

“Come on, Ran,” Sparrow said as the orchestra started up again. “Wilhelm's waving at me. I'll dance with him; you go rescue my father.”

When the Rightons took their seats in a balcony pew on Sunday morning, Sameera glimpsed both Mature Cougar and Young Cougar standing at the rear of the church and felt another twinge of guilt. Her little trip to the Revolutionary Café could have gotten the agents into serious trouble. She'd have to make it up to them somehow, even though they didn't know how close they'd come to getting fired because of her.

As the ser vice progressed, Sameera listened to the sermon and stood and sat down at the right times, but she couldn't stop thinking about Bobby. She reached for one of the prayer request cards in the rack in front of her and filled it out: “Please pray for Bobby Ghosh's grandfather, who is very ill.”
Pray for Bobby Ghosh, too,
she added silently, dropping the card into the offering basket.
And me, while you're at it.

Finally, everyone stood up to sing the doxology, and the minister raised his hands to offer the benediction. Sameera followed her parents down the stairs and outside to a sidewalk jammed with tourists and gawkers. Miranda immediately whipped out her camera and started filming; she'd stayed up late the night before downloading her footage onto Sameera's laptop to clear her memory card.

It was a mostly friendly crowd, with people smiling, waving, and wanting to shake hands. Then, out of nowhere, a voice boomed out: “Hey, Paki! Go back to Pakistan!”

Sameera was squeezing the outstretched hands of three ancient, beaming women.
Great,
she thought.
A heckler.
Just what she needed.
Ignore it,
she warned herself sternly, just as she learned to do during the campaign.
Don't respond.
She noticed her mother's head swiveling as Elizabeth Campbell Righton tried to identify the shouter. Secret Ser vice agents hustled the First Family along, and Dad smiled and waved before climbing into Cadillac One, his face calm as though he hadn't heard a thing.

“Muslim Lover!”
It was Angry Voice again.

That was it. The First Lady stopped like a NASCAR driver slamming on the brakes. She turned to face the direction where the person with the voice was hiding. “Exactly
who
are you talking about?” she called. “President Righton? Me? Or
Jesus Himself
?”

Good one, Mom,
Sameera thought, staying right by her mother and wishing she could whip out a note pad to take notes. This incident was definitely blogworthy; she was already curious about Sparrowhawk's take on it.

The crowd was booing the heckler and calling out, “Go, Mrs. Righton!” Sameera's row of ancient women were practically growling as they expressed their feelings toward him.

Miranda kept filming. She wasn't budging either.

“Follow your husband into the car, ma'am,” pleaded an agent.

“Let's go, Peanut,” commanded a voice in Sameera's ear. “Come on, Peach.”

It was Young Cougar, steering them gently but firmly into the armored limo. Even inside the car, Miranda stayed glued to her camera, cracking the window to poke the lens out. She stopped filming only when the crowd was no longer in sight.

“Thanks for sticking up for me, sweetheart,” James Righton told his wife. “But idiots like that come with the territory. We're open game now, remember?”

“I don't care,” Mom said, obviously still steaming. “Once you're the First Lady, you lose the right to get mad? And any passing idiot can yell something like that and get away with it?”

“Freedom of speech, Mom,” Sameera said. “This is America.”

“Stars learn to handle it, Auntie Liz,” Miranda added. “I've seen actors return nasty comments with a smile and a wave.”

Elizabeth Campbell Righton shook her head. “That sounds too wimpy to me.”

Sameera grinned. “Turn the other cheek, Mom. You're the one who always brings up Jesus.”

“I suppose you're right,” Mom relented, sighing. “I can't respond to every jerk on the planet by turning into a jerk myself. I'm kind of burned out, I guess.”

“What you need is a quiet dinner at home, just the four of us,” Sameera said.

“That sounds fabulous, Sparrow.”

Dad leaned over and kissed his wife on the neck. “First comes an afternoon for just the two of us.”

The cousins groaned.

“Too much information, Dad,” Sameera said.

“Wait till you're alone, Uncle James,” pleaded Miranda.

“Oh, we plan to,” said Dad.

Judging by the grin on her face, Elizabeth Campbell Righton was looking forward to the afternoon as much as her husband was.