by Meg Cabot
9. Then I don’t call him.
8. My boyfriend, I mean. Even though he asked me to. Even after I get home from work that night, and I see on the news that hundreds of people were arrested for pretending to die in front of the very hotel he was having dinner in.
7. And when he (my boyfriend) calls, I let it go to voice mail. Because I just can’t deal.
6. Even though I know he’s probably hurting.
5. Because those people look as if they really, really hate his dad.
4. But I have too many problems of my own. Like, for instance, I need to decide if I agree with him. My boyfriend, I mean. About us being ready. For you-know-what.
3. I’m not sure I do.
2. At least, not most of the time.
And the number-one reason I suck as a girlfriend:
1. I don’t call him the next day, either. Or pick up the phone when he calls me.
7
“They were just all so…dirty.” That is what Catherine has to say about the protesters. The ones she saw on the news. The same ones who were outside the Four Seasons when Dauntra got arrested. The ones Dauntra was arrested with. “I mean, like they hadn’t bathed in weeks.”
“They were having a die-in,” I pointed out. “Pretending to be dead. So they were lying on the street. That’s why they looked dirty.”
“It wasn’t just street dirt,” Catherine said firmly, as she searched through the apples at the fruit and salad bar in the caf for one that wasn’t bruised into pulp. “They just looked…homeless. I mean, couldn’t they have worn nicer clothes?”
“They aren’t going to wear their Sunday best to lie in the street, Cath,” I said.
“Yeah, but I’m just saying. If they want people to be more sympathetic to their cause, you’d think they’d at least take out some of their piercings, or whatever. I mean, how are we supposed to relate to people like that? It’s bad enough they were totally dissing the president. Did they have to look so…grungy?”
“They weren’t dissing the president,” I said. “They were protesting his policies—”
Before I had time to go on, however, Kris Parks came bustling up to us, and was all, “What are you guys doing here? You said you’d help set up the gym!”
I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. It was Catherine who elbowed me and went, “For the town hall meeting tomorrow. Remember?”
“Oh, right,” I said, trying not to sound as bummed as I felt. Because the last thing I wanted to do was spend my lunch hour setting up folding chairs with Kris Parks and her hideous Right Wayers.
“Come ON,” Kris said, grabbing my arm. “I told everyone you’d show.”
Everyone turned out to be…well, everyone. Not just the Right Wayers and other people from Adams Prep, either, including my German teacher, Frau Rider, who kept wandering around, shouting, “Don’t spill that paint on the gym floor!”
No, Kris had also invited members of the press. To watch me, the girl who saved the president, set up folding chairs.
Not that many had actually shown up. Fortunately, most papers prefer to run stories that include real news, not stuff about some prep school’s efforts to get ready for a presidential visitation. Or maybe they’d caught on that the whole thing had just been a ploy on Kris’s part to get herself into the papers, and therefore add another clipping to her college admissions packets.
But a few of the free press papers had shown up, and their photographers busily snapped away as I was painting a huge sign that said, WELCOME TO ADAMS PREP, MR. PRESIDENT, bored out of my skull.
At least until Debra Mullins, the dance team member about whom Kris had been so mean the week before, wandered by, and asked, in her bright, chipper voice, “What are you guys doing?”
Kris, ever conscious of the cameras on her, went, “Setting up for the president’s visit here on Tuesday night.”
“The president is coming here?” Debra looked impressed. “To Adams Prep?”
“Yes,” Kris replied. “Maybe if you spent less time under the bleachers with your boyfriend, and more time paying attention in class, you might have realized this.”
Debra blinked a few times at this. To tell you the truth, so did I.
“Was that really necessary?” I asked Kris, after Debra had wandered confusedly away.
Kris looked at me blankly. She had no idea what I was talking about. “Was what really necessary?” she asked.
“That,” I said, jabbing the end of my paint brush in Debra’s direction. “What you said to her.”
Kris smirked. “I don’t see why not,” she said. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but he’s her boyfriend. If she wants to hang out with him under the bleachers, what business of that is yours?”
“I’d hardly call what Deb and Jeff do together hanging out, Sam. Hooking up is more like it.”
It was only when I saw Kris’s eyes narrow that I realized what was going on. And that’s that all of the reporters who’d been milling around in a bored sort of way, cursing their editors for giving them such a sucky assignment, suddenly perked up and started paying attention to what we were saying. This was good, you could practically hear them thinking. The Girl Who Saved the President Picking a Fight With the Head of Right Way? Major human interest.
“And, by the way, Sam,” Kris said, forcing a smile. Because she obviously couldn’t say what she wanted to say. Which was Get bent, Sam. “I didn’t know you and Deb were such good friends.”
“We’re not friends,” I snapped.
Then felt guilty. Because that had made it sound as if I wouldn’t be friends with a girl like Deb on account of her being a “slut,” when the reality was, I wouldn’t be friends with a girl like Deb because she’s on the dance team, and I can’t stand people with school spirit. I mean, the dance team performs at halftime during the football games and stuff.
“What I mean is—”
But I never got to say what I meant, because at that moment, my cell phone rang.
David. It had to be David.
And I still wasn’t ready to talk to David.
Everyone was looking at me. Kris. Catherine. Frau “Don’t Spill Paint on the Gym Floor” Rider. The reporters.
My cell phone rang again. “Harajuku Girls.” That’s the ring I’d chosen, from the Gwen Stefani song.
“Well,” Kris said, “aren’t you going to answer it?”
Frustrated, I pulled the phone from my jeans pocket. I was going to turn off the ringer, but before I could, Kris got a glimpse of the caller ID screen as it flashed David’s name.
“Oooooh,” she said, in a loud voice. “It’s the first son!”
Now every television camera in the place was on, and the lens pointed straight at me.
I couldn’t ignore David’s call. Not this time.
Feeling sick to my stomach, I answered. “Hello?”
“Sam?” Again, David managed to convey a thousand different emotions in a single word—relief that I’d finally answered, happiness at hearing my voice, confusion and frustration over my having given him the cold shoulder for the past two days…maybe even a little anger about it, too. “There you are. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you since Saturday night.”
“Yeah,” I said, conscious of the cameras on me. “I know. Sorry, things have been crazy. How are you?”
“You think they’ve been crazy for you?” David asked, laughing. “Have you turned on a TV lately? Did you see what happened Saturday night? Too bad you didn’t go. You’d have loved it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Probably. Actually, David, now is not a very good time to talk.”
“Well, when would be a good time to talk, Sam?” David asked. He didn’t sound like he was laughing anymore. “You’ve barely spoken to me since Thursday. I mean, do you have any openings for me in your busy schedule?”
“Hey,” I said. “YOU’RE the one who went out with your parents on Saturday.” Which, even as I said it, I realized wa
sn’t fair. I mean, he had invited me to come along.
And it isn’t as if his parents are just…well, like normal parents.
“What’s wrong, Sam?” David, sounding confused, wanted to know. “And don’t tell me nothing. I know something’s up. Are you mad at me, or something?”
Suddenly I became aware of how quiet it had grown in the gym. Which was weird because there were a lot of people in it, all busy doing fairly loud things, like opening folding chairs and arranging them in long rows.
But none of that was going on right now. Instead, everyone in the gym was simply standing where they were, looking at me. Even Catherine had her paint brush poised in midair (“Don’t spill paint on the gym floor!” Frau Rider hissed) as she stared at me. The only sound you could hear was the whir of the television cameras, as they filmed me.
“Because it seems like,” David’s voice went on in my ear, starting to sound less confused, and more angry, “that ever since I asked you about Thanksgiving, you’ve been mad at me. And I want to know why. I mean, what did I do?”
“Nothing,” I said, staring daggers at Kris Parks, who had a little cat-who-swallowed-the-canary grin on her face. All because I’d been caught on film, arguing with my boyfriend. “I have to go now. I’ll explain why later.”
“You mean you’ll explain why you have to go now later?” David wanted to know. “Or why you’re so mad at me?”
“I’m not,” I said. “Really. I’ll explain later.”
“Really? Or will you be dodging my calls again later?”
“Really,” I said. Then added, desperately hoping he’d understand something I didn’t even understand myself, “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” he said. Only in a sort of impatient way. Then he hung up.
I hung up, too. Then put my phone away. Then, cheeks blazing, and eyes on my feet, went back to the sign I’d been painting.
“Everything all right?” Catherine asked gently, handing me the paint brush I’d abandoned.
“Fine,” I said, trying to put some artistic flair into the letters I was filling in—the ENT in PRESIDENT.
“That’s good to know,” Kris Parks said, as she bent over her letters—SID. “I’d hate for there to be trouble in paradise.”
Which was when, for reasons I will never understand, I kicked the paint can, so it went rolling all over the banner reading WELCOME TO ADAMS PREP, MR. PRESIDENT. All over the shoes of the people working on the sign. And all over the gym floor.
“Aaiiiii!” screamed Frau Rider, when she saw this.
“Sam!” cried Catherine, leaping out of the way.
“You bitch!” shouted Kris Parks, when she saw what I’d done to her Kenneth Coles.
Which was when I dropped my paint brush in the middle of the free throw line and walked away.
Top ten ways to keep yourself occupied during after-school detention at John Adams Preparatory Academy:
10. Finish Trig homework.
9. Bite nails.
8. Attempt to do assigned German reading.
7. Wonder what your parents are going to do when they find out you got detention.
6. Decide they probably will forbid you from going to Camp David with your boyfriend for Thanksgiving.
5. Decide this probably wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
4. Write personal essay due in English class, What Patriotism Means to Me. Write that patriotism means disagreeing with the government without having to go to jail.
3. Make your own manga. Only not one of those lame ones with boys who turn into cuddly rabbits or whatever when the heroine hugs them. But a cool one, where the heroine is on a mission to avenge her family, like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, and kills everyone who stands in her way.
2. Give up on manga after five frames because it is too hard and try to draw your boyfriend from memory instead, concentrating on the whole and not the parts.
And the number-one thing to do in detention at Adams Prep:
1. Wonder if your boyfriend even likes you anymore, after the way you’ve been treating him. And worry that he may come to his senses and realize he could easily get a girlfriend who is much less of a head case than you.
8
My parents were uncharacteristically cool about the detention thing. As soon as they heard Kris Parks had been involved, they were just like, “Oh. Well, don’t do it again.”
Even Theresa went, “I’m proud of you, Sam, for not dumping the paint over her head.”
Which made me realize I really have made a lot of progress this year, growing as a human being. Because last year, I definitely would have done that. Dumped the paint over Kris’s head, not her shoes.
Nobody bothered to ask why I’d done it. Accidentally on purpose kick paint all over the gym floor, I mean. Nobody except Lucy, I mean, who came fluttering into my room after dinner, while I was scowling at my German assignment.
“So,” she said, flopping down next to Manet on my bed, without waiting to be invited to do so. “What’s up with you and David?”
“Nothing,” I said, feeling a spurt of annoyance toward her. Don’t even ask me why. I mean, she’d been nothing but nice to me, what with the condom/foam thing, and all.
Probably it wasn’t Lucy I was annoyed with. Probably, I was the one I was annoyed with. Because I still hadn’t called David back. I just…
I just had no idea what to say to him.
“Well,” Lucy said, rolling over and staring at my ceiling, “then why are you avoiding his calls?”
I stared at her. “Who says I’m avoiding his calls?”
“It’s only all over school,” Lucy said, in a bored voice. “Wasn’t that why you got so mad and spilled the paint? Because Kris commented on it?”
“No,” I lied.
“Oh,” Lucy said with a little laugh. “Okay. Whatever.”
But she didn’t leave. She just lay there, playing with the fringe of hair over Manet’s eyes. I knew she’d try to braid it or, worse, put it in tiny butterfly barrettes. I hate when she does that. Sheepdogs have hair in their face for a reason. Their eyes are very sensitive to light.
I looked at Lucy as she finger-combed Manet’s bangs into a fauxhawk. The thing is, Lucy does have some experience in the boy arena. There was a chance—just a slight one, but a chance all the same—that she might know how to help. After all, she’d been in my same shoes, once.
I swung my German book closed.
“It’s just,” I said, sitting up, “I don’t know. I mean, I want to Do It with him, and all. But what if…”
Lucy let go of Manet’s fur and shifted so that she was propping her head up on Manet’s side. Manet didn’t appear to notice. “What if…what?”
“What if, like…I don’t like it?”
“Well, have you been practicing?” Lucy asked.
I stared down at her. “Practicing? Practicing what?”
“Making love,” Lucy said. “Look, it’s easy. Get in the bathtub. Turn the water on. Scoot down to the end of the tub, until your you-know-what is under the running water. Then pretend the water is the guy, and let it—”
“OH MY GOD.”
Lucy blinked up at me. “What?” She looked totally surprised that I should be so shocked. “You haven’t tried it? Dude, it totally works.”
“LUCY!” I practically screamed. Loud enough, anyway, that Manet lifted his head and looked around sleepily.
“What?” Lucy asked, again. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“THAT is why you’re always in the bathtub so long?” I croaked.
“Sure,” Lucy said. “What’d you think I was doing in there?”
“Not THAT,” I said. “I thought you were…I don’t know. BATHING. And reading those romance novels of yours.”
“Well, that, too,” Lucy said. “They totally help, you know. Some of them are really descriptive. Although thinking about Orlando Bloom is supposed to help, too. While you’re letting the water do its work. Orlando doesn’t do it for me. But I he
ar he works for a lot of other girls.”
I couldn’t stop staring at her. “THIS is what you guys talk about at the popular table in the lunch room? Who you think about while you’re—under the faucet?”
“Not at the lunch table, silly,” Lucy said with a laugh. “I mean, there are guys there. Guys don’t want to hear that you think about anything but them. Believe me. But when there aren’t guys around, yeah, we talk about this kind of stuff. I think Tiffany Shore was the first one to figure it out. She read about it in Cosmo. She uses a handheld shower nozzle instead, though.”
“OH MY GOD!” I yelled, again.
Lucy looked surprised at my outburst. “Well,” she said, “girls aren’t like guys. We aren’t born knowing how to Do It. And you can’t leave it up to the guy. Most of them couldn’t care less about whether or not YOU get anything out of it. It’s really every girl for herself out there. That’s why practice is so important. Also, getting into the right mindset. That’s why I usually think about that guy from The Count of Monte Cristo—”
“Jim Caviezel?” I interrupted, more horrified than ever.
“Yeah. He’s so hot.”
I could not believe I was even having this conversation.
My incredulity must have shown on my face, since Lucy added, “Come on, Sam. You can’t expect a guy to know what to do to make you have an orgasm. You have to do it yourself. At least until you can teach him how.”
This was all news to me.
“Did you teach Jack?” I wanted to know. Because I couldn’t believe Jack had ever let anyone teach him anything. Even Lucy. I mean, he basically thinks he knows it all.
“Jack?” Lucy got a funny look on her face all of a sudden. Funny like she was going to cry.
Really. Just like that. Just from hearing his name.
And then, next thing I knew, she’d buried her face in Manet’s thick gray and white fur.
“Lucy?” Alarmed, I reached out and touched her shoulder. “Are you okay? Are you…are you sick, or something?”