Free White House Rules by Mitali Perkins

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.
    â€œWhat’s wrong now?” Sameera asked.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œUse 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.”
    â€œSlow down, Sparrow. Why can’t I use your software on the White House PCs?”
    â€œBecause 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.”
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œCome 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.”

chapter 11
    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