by Meg Cabot
And the reason had to do with the fact that I was standing on Susan Boone’s front porch, uninvited and probably unwanted, on a Sunday afternoon, waiting for someone to answer the door, only no one was coming.
And it seemed to me like if someone did come, they would be all, “Um, don’t you know better than to come over to someone’s house without calling first?”
And they would be perfectly in their right to say this, since I hadn’t, of course, called first. But I’d been afraid if I called first, Susan would have been like, “Can’t we just talk in class on Tuesday, Sam?”
But I couldn’t wait until Tuesday. I had to talk to Susan today. Because my heart was breaking, and I needed someone to tell me what I should do about it. My mom and dad were no use. The whole thing just seemed to confuse them. And Lucy was no good. She just went, Tut on a tight little skirt and go over there and say you’re sorry. God, what are you, retarded?“ Rebecca just pressed her lips together and said, ”I told you so,“ and Theresa was still over at Tito’s. There was no point in even asking Catherine. Her head was filled with nothing but Paul.
So I was standing on Susan Boone’s front porch without having called first. It is much harder not to see someone when they are already standing on your front porch than when they call on the phone. I know this thanks to all the reporters who have been trying to talk to me.
There really is no worse feeling than standing around, waiting for someone to answer the door when you know they are probably just going to slam it in your face . . .
. . . with the possible exception of standing around waiting for them with five loaves of French bread in your backpack. I would have felt bad enough without the French bread, but the bread helped.
It was just that I had to bring something. I mean, you can’t just show up at someone’s house uninvited and not even bring them a present. And yeah, I had to admit, the bread was kind of a bribe. Because I have never heard of anyone turning down a piece of the Bread Lady’s bread. I was hoping that whoever answered the door would get a whiff of it and be all, “Oh, come right on in.”
And it wasn’t like I hadn’t gone through hell, practically, to get my hands on these loaves. I’d had to get up extra early in order to drag Manet out for his morning walk in the opposite direction than we normally go in, something he really did not appreciate. He kept trying to drag me back towards the park, while I was trying to drag him back towards the Bread Lady’s house. My arms were sore all the rest of the day. Manet weighs almost as much as I do, I think.
Also it turns out the Bread Lady doesn’t get up before eight on Sunday mornings. She answered the door in this very fancy negligee (for a married lady).
But she didn’t seem to think it was strange, me pounding on the door and commissioning French bread for later that afternoon. In fact, she seemed kind of pleased that someone liked her bread that much.
And she delivered on time, thank God. Five loaves of golden steaming French bread, the kind you can’t find anywhere in DC. The smell of them almost made me hungry. But only almost. People with broken hearts, it turns out, really have no appetite.
Then of course there was the whole riding-the-Metro-with-five-loaves-of-hot-out-of-the-oven-French-bread-sticking-out-your-backpack thing. Not an experience I care to repeat. Especially since the Junior National Geographic Society was in town, and the Metro cars were jammed with all these Midwestern families with like ten kids each, all wearing these bright yellow T-shirts that said, “Ask me about my Junior National Geographic Champ,” which I so thoroughly did not.
But all these blond kids kept going to their parents, “Mommy, why is that girl carrying all that bread?” To which their parents responded by telling them to, “Hush up, ya’ll.” Fortunately no one recognized me as the girl who saved the President because I was wearing one of Lucy’s Adams Prep baseball caps with my hair tucked all inside.
Still, one tiny Junior National Geographic Champion looked at me very suspiciously for a long time before leaning over to whisper to her friend, who also looked at me, then said something to her mom.
Fortunately by that time the train had pulled into Adams Morgan, where Susan Boone lived, so I got off fast, leaving the Junior National Geographic Society members to their fate, whatever it was.
It was a long walk from the Metro stop to Susan Boone’s house, but I used the time to reflect upon my misfortunes, which were many. By the time I got to the large blue house, with the whitewashed porch railings with all the wind chimes hanging from it, I was practically crying.
Well, and why not? Nothing but sheer desperation would have forced me to ask Susan Boone’s advice about anything. I mean, up until a couple of weeks ago, I had totally hated her. Or at least strongly disliked her.
Now, I had this weird feeling she was the only person I knew who could tell me what I’d done to mess up my life so thoroughly, and how I could make it right again. I mean, she had taught me how to see: maybe she could teach me how to cope with everything I was seeing, now that she’d opened up my eyes.
But I have to admit that in spite of this conviction, when I finally heard footsteps—and Joe’s familiar squawking—coming towards me from inside the house, I felt a little like running.
Before I could run away, however, I saw the lace curtain in the window by the front door jerk back a little and Susan Boone’s blue eyes looked out. Then I heard the locks on the door being undone. The next thing I knew, Susan Boone, in a pair of paint-spattered overalls and with her long white hair done up in braids on either side of her head, was standing in her doorway, staring at me.
“Samantha?” she said, in an astonished voice. “What are you doing here?”
Shrugging off my backpack and quickly showing her the bread, I said, “I was just in the neighbourhood, and I thought I’d say hi. Would you like some of this bread? It’s really good bread. A lady on my street makes it.”
OK, I’ll admit it: I was babbling. I just didn’t know what to do. I mean, I shouldn’t have come. I knew the minute I saw her that I shouldn’t have come. It was insane that I had come. Stupid and insane. I mean, what did Susan Boone care about my problems? She was just my drawing teacher, for crying out loud. What was I doing, going to my drawing teacher for advice about life?
On Susan’s shoulder, Joe screeched his usual greeting of ‘Hello, Joe! Hello, Joe!“ at me. I don’t think he recognized me with my hair hidden under the baseball cap.
Susan Boone, smiling a little, stepped back and said, “Well, come in, then, Sam. It’s very nice of you to, um, stop by with bread.”
I went into Susan’s house, and wasn’t surprised, as I crossed the threshold, to see that it was furnished in a manner very similar to the studio. I mean, there was a lot of old, comfortable-looking furniture, but mostly there were canvases stacked everywhere against the wall, and more than a hint of turpentine in the air.
“Thanks,” I said, coming inside and taking off my hat. As soon as I did so, Joe launched himself from Susan’s shoulder to mine with a happy cry of “Pretty bird! Pretty bird!”
“Joseph,” Susan Boone said warningly. Then she invited me into the kitchen for a cup of tea.
I pretended like I didn’t want to put her out or anything, and said I was sorry for bothering her and really, I was only going to stay a minute. But Susan just looked at me with a smile, and I had no choice but to follow her into her bright, sunshiny kitchen, the walls of which were painted blue—the same blue as her eyes. She insisted on making tea, and not in a mug in the microwave, either, but the old-fashioned way, with a kettle on the stove. As the water was boiling, she examined the baguettes I had brought and seemed pretty pleased with them. She got out some butter and a little jar of home-made jam and put it on the butcher-block table in the centre of her big, old-fashioned kitchen. Then she broke off one end of a loaf, just to taste it, and looked very surprised as the crust, which was already pretty buttery without anything spread on it, melted on her tongue.
“Well,” Susan said.
“It’s very good bread. I haven’t had French bread like this, as a matter of fact, since the last time I was in Paris.”
I was pleased to hear this. I watched as she broke off yet another piece, then ate it.
“So,” I said. “How was your Thanksgiving?” It seemed like a stupid thing to ask—something only, you know, boring people, not artists, talked about. But what else was I supposed to say? And fortunately, she didn’t seem to take offence.
“It was fine, thanks,” she said. “How was yours?”
“Oh,” I said. “Good.”
There was this silence. Not really an awkward one, but you know. Still a silence. It was filled only with the sound of the kettle starting to boil, and Joseph muttering to himself as he ran a beak through his feathers, preening a little.
Then Susan said, “I came up with a big plan for what to do with the studio this summer.”
“Really?” I said, relieved someone, at least, was talking.
“Really. I am thinking of keeping the studio open every day, from ten until five, for people like you and David to come in and sketch all day, if you want to. Like art camp, or something.”
I didn’t say anything about how I doubted David would be showing up—not if he knew I was going to be there. Instead, I went, “Great!”
Right then the kettle started to whistle. Susan Boone got up and made the tea. Then she handed me a dark-blue mug that said Matisse on it, and kept a yellow mug that said Van Gogh on it for herself. After she’d sat back down at the butcher block, she said, holding the mug in both hands so the steam came up and framed her face in smoky tendrils, “Now. Why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing all the way out here on a Sunday afternoon, Samantha.”
I thought, you know, about not telling her. I thought about being like, “Really, I’m on my way to my Grandma’s,” or some other lie like that.
But something about the way she was looking at me made me be honest. I don’t know what it was, but suddenly, as I sat there messing with the little tag to my teabag, the whole story poured out. Just poured out of me, all over that butcher block, while Joe sat on my shoulder and, somewhere in the house, I could hear the faint strains of some classical music.
And when I had gotten it all out—everything, about David, and about Jack, and about the From My Window contest and Maria Sanchez and David’s dad—I finished with, “And to top it all off, I found out last night that Dolley Madison’s only kid who lived past infancy was from her first husband. She didn’t even have any kids with James Madison. So I’m not related to her. Not even one tiny bit.”
Finished with my long speech, I sat there and stared down into my tea. I couldn’t see it all that well, since my eyes were sort of moist. But I was determined not to cry. To do so would have been perfectly ridiculous, even more ridiculous than riding the Metro with five loaves of French bread sticking out of my backpack.
Susan, who’d listened to my entire recitation of my many problems in silence, now took a sip of her tea and said, in a very calm voice, “But, Samantha. Don’t you see? You know what it is you have to do. David already told you.”
I lifted my gaze from my cup of tea and stared at her from across the table. On my shoulder, Joe picked up a strand of my hair, pretending just to be casually holding on to it, though we both knew that when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, he would try to yank it out and make his escape.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “All David said was that he wouldn’t talk to his dad about Maria Sanchez.”
“He said that, yes,” Susan said. “But you didn’t really listen to him, Sam. You heard him, but you didn’t listen. There is a difference between listening and hearing, just as there is a difference between seeing and knowing.”
You see? This is why I knew I’d had to come. I didn’t know this. The difference between hearing and listening, I mean. Any more than I’d known the difference between seeing and knowing.
“David,” Susan said, “told you that you have the right to free speech, just as much as any other American.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “So?”
“So,” Susan said, with an emphasis I didn’t understand. “You have the right to free speech, Samantha. Just as much as any other American.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I got that part. But I don’t see what that has to do with—”
And then, suddenly, I did. I don’t know how, or why. But suddenly, Susan’s—and David’s—meaning sunk in.
And when it did, I couldn’t believe it.
“Oh, no,” I said, with a gasp—and not just because Joe had finally made his move and yanked out a strand of my hair, then taken off in triumphant flight for the top of the refrigerator. “Ow. You don’t think he really meant that, do you?”
Susan said, breaking off another piece of bread, “David tends to mean what he says, Sam. He’s no politician. He isn’t a bit likely to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wants to be an architect.”
“He does?” This was news to me. I was beginning to realize I really knew nothing about David at all. I mean, I knew he liked to draw and that he was good at it. And I knew about the giant serving fork and spoon, of course. But there seemed to be a lot I didn’t know, as well.
And that made me feel worse. Because I had this very bad feeling that it was too late for me to find out about them. The things I didn’t know about David, I mean.
“Yes,” Susan Boone said. “I think it’s easy to understand why he wouldn’t necessarily want to get involved in his father’s business. He certainly wouldn’t want his father involved in his.”
“Wow,” I said, because I was still reeling from her earlier revelation. “I mean . . . wow.”
“Yes,” Susan Boone said, leaning back in her chair. “Wow. So you see, Sam. It’s been there, all along.”
I frowned. “What has?”
“What you wanted,” she said. “You just had to open your eyes a little to see it. And there it was.”
And there it was.
And there I still was ten minutes later—not quite believing that I was there at all—chatting with Susan Boone, a woman who’d once accused me of knowing but not seeing, when the back door to the kitchen banged open. A large man with his long hair pulled back into a ponytail and his arms filled with grocery bags came in. He looked at us with surprise on his handle-bar moustached face.
“Well,” he said, looking at me with friendly, but curious, light blue eyes. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I said, wondering if this was Susan Boone’s son. He seemed to be about twenty years younger than she was. She had never mentioned kids or a husband before. I had always thought it was just her and Joe.
But then maybe I had only been hearing, and not really listening.
“Pete,” Susan Boone said. “This is Samantha Madison, one of my students. Samantha, this is Pete.”
Pete put the grocery bags down. He was wearing jeans, over which were fastened a pair of leather chaps, like cowboys and Hell’s Angels wear. When he reached out to shake my hand, I saw that his arm had the Harley Davidson logo tattooed on it.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, pumping my left hand, on account of the cast still being on my right. Then his gaze fell on the French bread. “Hey,” he said. “That looks good.”
Pete pulled up a chair and joined us. And it turned out he wasn’t Susan’s son at all. He was her boyfriend.
Which just goes to show that Susan was right about one thing, anyway: what you want is right in front of you. You just have to open your eyes to see it.
I chose Candace Wu.
Lucy thought I should have gone with someone more famous, like Barbara Walters or Katie Couric. But I liked Candace, because she’d been so nice that time I’d fallen off the podium into her lap during my press conference at the hospital.
And Candace turned out to be pretty tough. She didn’t take any guff from anyone. When Andy, the White House press secretary, said under no circumstances could she bring her film c
rew into his office to shoot footage of Maria Sanchez’s painting, she said that the White House wasn’t private property. It belonged to the people of the United States of America, and that as American citizens, she and the film crew had just as much right to be there as he did.
Unless of course he had something to hide.
Finally Mr. White gave up, and I showed Candace all the paintings, including Angie Tucker’s. I said Angie’s painting was very nice and all, but that my choice had been Maria Sanchez’s.
“And is it true, Samantha,” Candace asked me on camera, just as we’d rehearsed earlier that day, when she’d met with me after I’d called her station, “that the President told you that you were going to have to choose another painting, one with a less political angle?”
I said the line I had been practising all morning. “The truth is, Miss Wu, that I think the President may not be aware that American teens aren’t just interested in what the number one video in the country is right now. We have concerns. We want our voices to be heard. The From My Window international art show being sponsored by the United Nations is a perfect forum in which teens around the world can express their concerns. It would be wrong, I think, to stifle those voices.”
To which Candace replied, just as she’d said she would, in exchange for my giving her network exclusive world rights to my one and only televised interview, “You mean the man whose life you so heroically saved will not even allow you to make your own decisions in your capacity as US Teen Ambassador?”
I replied, tactfully, “Well, maybe there are national concerns we aren’t privy to, or something.”
After which Candace made a slashing motion beneath her chin and then went, “Well, boys, that’s a wrap. Let’s pack up and get over to the hospital,” which was where we were all going next, on account of my cast coming off that day.
“Wait a minute,” the White House press secretary said, hurrying up to us. “Wait just a minute here. I am sure there is no need for you to show that segment. I am sure we can work something out with the President . . .”