by Meg Cabot
Or so I thought.
I was busy looking for the colours in the white cow skull in front of me, totally absorbed, as usual, in my drawing—because even being as hopelessly in love with David as I happened to be, I could still get caught up in my drawing . . .
... so caught up that when he happened to throw a little slip of paper into my lap, I jumped about a mile.
I looked down at the piece of paper. Then I looked over at him.
But he was bent over his own drawing. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the barely noticeable smile just tilting up the corners of his mouth, I wouldn’t have known the paper had come from him.
At least, until I opened it up.
There, written in the tiny, precise handwriting of a would-be architect, was the word:
I couldn’t believe it. David wanted to be friends. With me. Me. My heart pounding, I bent over and started to write,
But something stopped me. I don’t know what it was. I don’t know if it was just that, because of everything that had happened, I had finally learned a thing or two, or if the invisible hand of my guardian angel, Miss Gwen Stefani, reached out and stopped me.
Whatever it was, I tore a new piece of paper off the edge of my drawing pad. And on it, I wrote, my heart in my throat but knowing—just knowing—it was now or never, and that I had to tell the truth:
Although I tried to pretend like I was thoroughly engrossed in my drawing, this time I really was watching David out of the corner of my eye. I watched him open the piece of paper I’d tossed to him, and I watched him read what I’d written. Then I watched his eyebrows go up.
Way up.
And when, a few seconds later, a new wad of paper showed up in my lap, I knew he’d tossed it there, because I’d seen him do that too.
Feeling like I couldn’t breathe, I opened the new note. On it, he’d written the words:
That was an easy one. In fact, it was practically a relief to write:
Because that was really how I felt.
Still, the last thing I expected was a note back from David saying how he really felt.
But that is exactly what I got.
And if I had ever been happy before—if there had ever been anything, anything at all that had ever made it feel as if joy was just bubbling up inside of me—that was nothing compared to how I felt when I opened the next folded slip of paper he threw into my lap, and saw that on it he had drawn a heart.
That was all. Just a tiny little heart.
For which there was only one explanation. I mean, really. And that was that David loved me. He loved me.
He loved me.
He loved me.
A week later, they had the award ceremony. The one where I got my presidential medal. You know, for valour and all of that.
I didn’t wear black. I didn’t even want to wear black. I didn’t care what I wore. When you are in love, that’s how it is. You don’t care about things like clothes, because all you can think about is the object of your affections.
Well, unless you’re Lucy.
But even though I didn’t care how I looked, my mom and Theresa and Lucy made sure I looked good. They put me in another suit—this one light blue—that later, after the awards ceremony, while we were all having cake in the Vermeil Room, David said matched my eyes.
Anyway, the award ceremony, as promised, was in front of the official White House Christmas tree in the Blue Room. It was way beautiful, with all the decorations and lights and everything.
It was also way serious. Everyone who was anyone was there, including all these colonels in fancy uniforms, and senators in suits, and my family and Theresa and Catherine and her family, and Candace Wu and Jack and Pete and Susan Boone, whom I’d invited especially.
The President made a speech about me. He made it in the capacity of my being the girl who’d saved his life, not my being a potential daughter-in-law, which I understood, of course. I mean, my dad said under no circumstances can I marry before the bonds he placed in my name when I was a baby mature, and that won’t be until I’m twenty-five.
Besides, I want to go to prom—oh, and have a career and all—before I can be a bride.
Anyway, the President’s speech made me feel way patriotic. It went, “Samantha Madison, I award you this medal for extreme bravery in the face of personal peril . . .” blah blah blah. Actually, it was kind of hard to pay attention, on account of David standing right there next to his dad, looking totally cute.
I can’t believe there was a time I used to think David looked geeky in a tie. Now the sight of him in one makes me go frisson all over. Well, the sight of him in anything does, really.
Anyway, after I got my medal—which was pure solid gold, hanging from a red velvet ribbon—everybody applauded, and we had to pose for about a million photos while everyone else started filing around for cake. David, instead of going for cake, waited for me, and when I got done with the photos, he came up and kissed me on the cheek. A photographer took a picture of that too, but we weren’t embarrassed or anything. That’s because in that past week, we’d been doing a lot of kissing, and not just on the cheek, either.
And let me tell you something: kissing—which, needless to say, isn’t something I had really had a whole lot of experience with up until now—is nice.
Anyway, after we joined everyone for cake, I went around, trying to make the different clusters of people I’d invited feel comfortable with each other. Like I introduced Susan Boone and her boyfriend to Catherine’s parents, and David introduced Jack and Lucy to the attorney general and his wife, and so on.
And then while everyone was shaking hands with each other and saying what a nice time they were having and all, David came over to me with one of those secretive little smiles of his and whispered to me, “Come here.”
I whispered back, “OK.”
I followed him out of the room and down the hall to where we had first had burgers together, looking out over the White House’s back lawn.
And there on the window sill where David had carved my name, I saw that he had added something.
A plus sign.
So now it said:
David
+
Sam
Which, all things considered, is not a bad way to leave your mark on history.
Top ten Reasons I’m Glad I’m Not Actually Gwen Stefani:
10. I don’t have to go on tour. I can stay home with my dog. Plus see my boyfriend whenever I want to ... well, until my eleven o’clock curfew, weekends, ten o’clock on weeknights, and only so long as I keep my German grades up.
9. Between school, art lessons, being Teen Ambassador to the UN and my social life, I really don’t have time to put that much thought into my wardrobe. Dressing whimsically is actually a lot of responsibility.
8. I don’t think singing and songwriting could ever be as satisfying creatively as drawing a really excellent egg.
7. Gwen has to give a lot of interviews, which I can completely relate to in my capacity as Teen Ambassador to the UN. But Gwen gets interviewed by like Teen People, who totally report on what you are wearing to the interview. I get interviewed by the New York Times Magazine, who totally don’t.
6. Gwen wears a lot of navel-bearing outfits. My navel isn’t exactly my best feature. Fortunately my dad told me if he ever caught me in a navel-bearing outfit, he would force me to work as a summer intern in his office, instead of letting me draw eggs and cow skulls all summer at Susan Boone’s.
5. According to Theresa, whose sister is a licenced beautician, if I dyed my hair as often as Gwen has to, it would all fall out.
4. Gwen has to hang out with a bunch of rowdy boys all day (her fellow band members). The only boys I ever have to hang out with are my boyfriend, my sister’s boyfriend and my best friend’s boyfriend, and none of them, so far, has expressed any interest in playing the drums wearing nothing at all, which if you ask me would be totally embarrassing.
But then again, one must make sacrifices for
art, I suppose.
3. Gwen doesn’t know what I do—that geeks make the best boyfriends. It sounds surprising, but it is true. You know those smiles of David’s, the little secret ones he always seemed to have on his face? Those smiles, he says, are on account of me. Because, he told me, he never thought he’d meet a girl as cool as me.
Besides, there is something to be said for having your parents actually like the person you are going out with.
2. Gwen’s sister, though she’s probably nice and all, can’t possibly be as cool as Lucy, who, even though she can be a real pain sometimes, is actually pretty righteous the rest of the time. I mean, she was willing to dump her boyfriend for me. Does that tell you something?
And the number one reason I’m glad I’m not Gwen Stefani:
1. Because then I wouldn’t be me. Which would totally suck.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Beth Ader, Jennifer Brown, Barbara Cabot, SWAT officer Matt Cabot, Josh Horowitz, Michele Jaffe, Laura Langlie, Abby McAden, Ericka Markman, Ron Markman, David Walton, and Benjamin Egnatz.
Special thanks to Tanya, Julia, and Charlotte Horowitz, who were the inspiration for this story.
About the Author
Meg Cabot is the author of many books, including the immensely popular The Princess Diaries (which was made into a movie), Volume II: Princess in the Spotlight, Volume III: Princess in Love, All-American Girl, and two Regencyset novels, Nicola and the Viscount and Victoria and the Rogue. Haunted is not Meg’s first book about Susannah Simon: published under her pseudonym Jenny Carroll, The Mediator series includes Shadowland, Ninth Key, Reunion, and Darkest Hour. Meg (aka Jenny) currently resides in New York City with her husband and a one-eyed cat named Henrietta.
Visit Meg’s website at www.megcabot.com
BOOKS BY
Meg Cabot
THE PRINCESS DIARIES
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME II:
PRINCESS IN THE SPOTLIGHT
THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME III:
PRINCESS IN LOVE
ALL-AMERICAN GIRL
NICOLA AND THE VISCOUNT
Credits
Jacket design by: Lizzy Bromley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
ALL-AMERICAN GIRL. Copyright © 2002 by Meggin Cabot. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.
PerfectBound ™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
MS Reader edition v 1. September 2002 ISBN 0-06-052774-9
Print edition first published in 2002 by HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
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