Ready or Not

14

“Would you like more sweet potatoes, Sam?” the first lady asked me.

“Um, no, thank you,” I said.

See, this is the problem with being a picky eater and going to someone else’s house to eat. The fact is, there are very few foods I actually like. Thanksgiving is the worst. I mean, I hate practically every food the Pilgrims ever ate. I can’t stand dressing. You don’t even know what half the stuff in there really is, and the few things you can identify, such as raisins, are just gross.

I won’t eat anything red except for ketchup and pizza sauce, so that automatically rules out anything else with tomatoes. It also rules out cranberries. And—UGH—beets.

Basically, all vegetables gross me out. So that means no peas or roasted carrots or string beans or—yuck—Brussels sprouts.

I’m not even a huge fan of turkey. I mean, I only like the dark meat. But everyone considers that part, like, the worst, so I only ever get offered pieces from the breast, which are white meat, which I can’t stand, because even when it’s cooked by a master chef from the White House, it’s still sort of…gross.

In my family, it is understood that when it comes to Thanksgiving dinner, I’m totally cool with a peanut butter sandwich, which my grandmother always lovingly prepares with the crusts cut off.

Sure, my mom and dad used to complain because I wouldn’t even try whatever they’d gone to so much trouble preparing.

But over the years, I’ve trained them to just leave me alone. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to starve.

But this was my first Thanksgiving with David and his family. I hadn’t really had a chance to train them yet.

So I just had to sit there and pretend to eat everything they put on my plate while actually just rearranging it in artful piles (I’d learned my lesson about trying to hide it in my napkin), while secretly intending to go back to my room and scarf down the plastic-wrapped peanut butter sandwich I had waiting for me in my overnight bag.

Right next to the spermicidal foam and condoms Lucy had given me.

Which I was trying not to think about.

David was clearly doing the same (trying not to think about sex), since one of the first things we’d done upon arriving at Camp David—after our ride to it on Marine One, the presidential helicopter—was break out the board games, on account of the bad weather (it was raining).

Not just raining, but pouring so hard that before David actually showed up to get me, I’d wondered if Marine One was even going to be able to take off.

Which hadn’t been the only indication that Thanksgiving at Camp David wasn’t exactly going to be a picnic. No, I’d also woken up with a big zit on my chin. From the stress. You couldn’t really see it, but I could feel it. And it hurt.

I hadn’t taken either of these—the rain or the zit—as fortuitous (SAT word meaning “good fortune or luck”) signs. And it turned out I’d been right. At least, judging by how my day had gone so far.

I always thought—before I knew better—that our nation’s leader lived in the lap of luxury. Like I figured the White House was this huge mansion, with animal-skin rugs everywhere.

And while the White House is pretty nice, it’s not huge, and it’s not as nice as, say, Jack Slater’s house in Chevy Chase. I guess it’s nicer than the average American’s house—you know, it has a pool, and a bowling alley, and all of that.

But the stuff in it that’s the fanciest is, like, really old, and you aren’t actually allowed to use it. Everything else is pretty much stuff you’d find in any house, like mine, or Catherine’s. Just your average stuff.

And Camp David is even more plain. I mean, it’s huge, for a house, don’t get me wrong, with all these cottages spread out across all this land. And there’s a swimming pool there, too, along with a gym.

But it’s not fancy. I mean, the way you would think a world leader’s country house would be.

I guess that’s because our founding fathers were trying to move away from the idea of a ruling class. Also, the president doesn’t actually make all that much money. At least, compared to my mom and dad.

Of course, David’s family has money from the companies his dad ran before he became governor, and then president. But still.

Anyway, I’m just saying, Camp David is no castle. It’s more like a…well, a camp.

Which makes it kind of a weird place for someone to lose her virginity.

Or not lose it, as the case may be. Because I had given it a lot of thought over the past twenty-four hours, and the truth was, I wasn’t.

Ready, I mean.

Yes, I know I’d been practicing. A lot. A lot.

And, yes, I know I had said I was on national (okay, cable) television. I know everyone in the entire country—including my own grandma, no doubt—thinks I’m sexually active.

And I know the worst had already happened—being publically accused of being a slut by Kris Parks—and I’d already weathered that just fine.

But just because everyone thinks I’ve already Done It isn’t a good enough reason to Do It. I mean, it’s still this incredibly huge step. With sex comes great responsibility. An end of innocence. Not to mention possible STDs and unwanted pregnancy. Who needs the aggravation?

Especially when, let’s face it, high school is aggravation enough as it is.

So, I had made my decision.

Now I just had to break the news to David.

Which might have been another reason I had so much trouble actually getting anything down at dinner. I mean, David had to think he was Getting Some tonight. He had to. I’d seen the twinkle in his eye when he’d broken out the Parcheesi board (Yes! An actual Parcheesi board!) earlier that afternoon. He’d all but winked at me over the dice cup.

I was going to be crushing all of his adolescent dreams. He was going to hate me.

No wonder I couldn’t eat.

I was really relieved when the first lady excused David and me, and we went into the living room to watch the new Adam Sandler (yes, the president does get first run movies before they ever go on sale for anyone else). That took my mind off what I knew was going to happen after everyone else went to bed. Sort of. Up until the moment the movie ended, and next thing I knew, David was walking me to the door of my bedroom—which was in the main part of the house, not one of the cottages—and saying, “Good night, Sam.” In this kind of voice. This kind of “this is for my parents’ benefit” voice.

Because he knew neither of us would really be going to sleep.

Anytime soon.

Or so he thought.

I felt totally panicky as I closed the door to my room behind me. My room was a pretty good example of how not fancy the presidential retreat is. It was just this ordinary room, white with wood paneling and a navy blue bedspread over a queen-sized bed. There were bookshelves on the wall filled with books about—I am not kidding you—birds and bird-watching. It had its own bathroom and a view of the lake. But really, that was about all it had going for it.

But this room, apparently, was the place where David thought we were going to Do It. After everyone else had gone to sleep, and David came back.

Which might explain why suddenly I felt so…

Nauseous.

And it wasn’t just all the marshmallow from the top of the sweet potatoes, either.

The peanut butter sandwich helped a little.

But after I’d eaten it, I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I couldn’t start getting ready for bed, or anything, because who knew what the sight of me in my pajamas might do to David? Inflame his senses, or whatever, and make it even harder on him when I said no. Not that my pajamas were very sexy, or anything, being flannel, with pictures of suitcases on them, under the words Bon Voyage written all over (my grandma had gotten them for me for my birthday last year, for when I traveled as teen ambassador to the UN).

No, it was much better to remain fully clothed. So I did. I sat down on the edge of my bed and waited. It wouldn’t be long now. David would be showing up any second. As soon as he was sure his parents were safely asleep. It was past midnight, so he had to be coming soon. Presidents get up way early, so surely his mom and dad had already hit the hay. He would be coming any minute.

Any minute now.

And I was ready for him. I had my speech all planned out. “David,” I would say, gazing tenderly into his eyes, “you know I love you. And I know I said on national (cable) television the other night that I was ready to say yes to sex. But the fact is, I’m not. I know you love me enough to understand, and that you’ll wait for me. Because that’s what real love is…being willing to wait.”

Actually I got that last part from this pin the Right Wayers had been giving out at lunch a couple of weeks ago. It was a pin in the shape of a heart that said Love Means…Willing to Wait. At the time, I had made gagging noises for Catherine’s benefit when I’d read it.

But now it was sort of starting to make sense.

I wished I hadn’t taken that pin and stabbed it through the chest of the Nightmare Before Christmas Sally action figure at work. I could have used it now. I could give it to David, as a symbol of my commitment to have sex with him someday. Some day other than today.

I could totally picture myself giving it to him, and maybe saying something really memorable and touching. Maybe something like, “‘Hey, you on the other side. Let her go. ’Cause for her, I’ll cross over, and when that happens, you’ll be sorry.’”

It really seemed to me like a situation that was crying out for a quote from Hellboy.

Anyway, I was ready. I had brushed my teeth—just so my breath wouldn’t offend as I gently let him down—and examined my zit. No improvement. The good news, though, was that you still couldn’t see it, even without makeup. I could just feel it, all sore and angry at me. I don’t actually wear that much makeup, just mascara and cover-up mostly, and a little lip gloss. Still, I figured I should keep it on for the Big Gentle Let Down, so at least my eyelashes would be the same color as my hair. It just seemed like, you know, I should try to look my best for The Big Sex Talk, even though David has seen me looking far from my best more times than I can count.

Yep. I was ready. Ready and waiting. Just one thing was missing.

David.

Speaking of which…where was he? It had been nearly an hour since we’d all gone off to bed. It was almost twelve thirty now.

Suddenly, I started feeling nauseous in a different way. Had David changed his mind? Had I done something to make him not want to have sex with me? Was it my zit? Had he noticed it?

But it seemed highly unlikely a guy would change his mind about having sex with his girlfriend over a zit.

But wait a minute. I didn’t even want to have sex with him. So what did I care?

Was it something else, then? Was it what had happened on MTV? Oh my God, had my announcing I’d said Yes to Sex on national (cable) television killed the spontaneity or something? They are always going on about how sex should be spontaneous in Cosmo. Had I somehow ruined that?

Well, what if I had? Good. I don’t want to Do It, anyway.

But this didn’t seem very likely, either. Sex isn’t the same kind of big deal to boys that it is to girls. Or at least it doesn’t seem that way. Oh, sure, boys all want to have sex. But they don’t obsess over it the way we do. They just do it.

At least, that’s how it seems in movies, like American Pie.

So where was he? This waiting around was killing me. I just wanted to tell him I wasn’t going to Do It and get it over with already.

I waited for five more minutes. Still no David.

What if something had happened to him? What if he’d tripped in the shower and hit his head and was lying there unconscious with his mouth open, his lungs filling up with water even as I was sitting here?

Worse, what if David had simply changed his mind?

HOW COULD HE CHANGE HIS MIND AFTER I’D BEEN DOING ALL THAT PRACTICING?

Before I even knew what I was doing, I was on my feet and storming for the door. How dare he? How DARE he change his mind after putting me through what he’d put me through all week? HE wasn’t going to be the one to decide we weren’t having sex after all. I was the one who was going to decide that. I had already decided that, long before he had.

I charged down the dark, empty hallway, thinking of all the things I was going to say to him—or not say to him. He certainly wasn’t getting any Hellboy quotes out of me now. No way. He’d had his opportunity for Hellboy quotes and completely wasted it. No more Love Means…Willing to Wait for him. He was going to get Bon Voyage. That was what he was going to get.

When I got to David’s room, I could see light shining out from the crack under his door. So he was still up. He was still up! He just hadn’t bothered to move his lazy butt on down the hall to let me know we weren’t having sex after all. Yeah, thanks! Thanks for letting me know! Who knows how long I would have stayed up, waiting to say no to sex, before I realized he wasn’t even coming?

Which was why I threw open his door without even knocking, and stood there, glaring at him, my chest heaving. But not in a romance novel kind of a way. More in an I’m Going to Kill You kind of way.

David looked up from the book he was reading in bed.

A book on architecture.

While I, his girlfriend, had been sitting for what seemed like hours, waiting for him to come deflower me already.

David seemed more than a little surprised to see me. You know, considering.

“Sam,” he said, closing the book—but leaving, I couldn’t help noticing, his finger inside it, to hold his place, “is everything all right? You’re not sick or something, are you?”

Seriously. I almost lost it, then and there.

“Sick?” I echoed. “SICK? Yes, I’m sick. Sick of WAITING for you.”

This made him take his finger out from the book and actually set it aside. He looked concerned.

He also, I couldn’t help noticing, looked totally hot. Mostly because he didn’t happen to be wearing a shirt. But also because, let’s face it: David always looks hot.

“Waiting for me?” David, looking genuinely perplexed, wanted to know. “Waiting for me for what?”

I couldn’t believe it. I COULDN’T BELIEVE HE WAS ASKING ME THIS. Hot or not, what kind of question was this?

“TO HAVE SEX,” I almost yelled.

Only I didn’t want to wake his parents up. Let alone the Secret Service.

So I whispered it.

Loudly.

But even though I whispered it, instead of shouting it, David still looked totally shocked. His face, in the warm light from the reading lamp beside his bed, started to turn as red as my hair used to be.

“Sex?” he echoed hoarsely.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I said. I couldn’t believe this. What was wrong with him? “You’re the one who brought it up.”

“I did?” His voice kind of broke on the word did. “When?”

“Outside my house,” I said impatiently. What was wrong with him?

Maybe he really had slipped and hit his head in the shower. “Remember? You invited me to Camp David to play Parcheesi.”

“Yeah,” David said, now looking blank. But also still hot. “Which we did already.”

Which we did already. Oh my God. I couldn’t believe he’d said that.

Also, that he’d still looked so hot saying it.

“But I didn’t mean…” David stammered. “I mean, when I said Parcheesi, I meant—”

Something cold gripped my heart. Seriously. It was like someone had dumped a whole glass of ice water over my head, and a bunch of cubes had slid down my shirt.

Because it was obvious by the expression on David’s face—not to mention, the way he was acting—that when he’d said Parcheesi, he’d really meant…Parcheesi.

“But,” I said, in a small voice, “you…you said you thought we were ready.”

“Ready to spend the weekend together with my parents,” David said, his own voice uncharacteristically squeaky. “That’s all I meant by ready.” Then, his eyes widening, he went, “Is THAT what you were talking about the other night? When you said you’ve said yes to sex?”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “What did you think I meant?”

David kind of shrugged. “I just thought you were trying to make a point to my dad. That’s all. I didn’t know you were REALLY…you know. Saying yes to sex.”

Especially since he hadn’t even asked me.

“Oh,” I said.

And wanted to die.

Because it had all been for nothing. All of it, the worrying, the long talks with Lucy, the Just Say Yes to Sex thing, slut solidarity—all of it, for nothing.

Because David had never meant for us to have sex this weekend. I was the one who’d jumped to the conclusion that Parcheesi meant sex. I was the one who’d assumed when David had said he thought we were ready, he’d meant he thought we were ready for sex. I was the one who’d said yes to sex, when it turned out no one had even asked me.

It had all been me. I had brought all that worry and angst upon myself.

For nothing.

God. How totally embarrassing.

“Um,” I said. Now I was the one turning red. I mean, what could he be thinking about me? Here I’d come, barging into his room, demanding to know why we weren’t having sex already. He must think I’m a total raving lunatic. “Yeah. Listen. Um. I’ll just, um, be going.”

Except with each step back toward the door, I couldn’t help noticing stuff. Like how good David looked in the glow of the lamplight.

And how green his eyes were, the exact color of the lawn at the Kentucky Derby.

And how he still looked so confused, in an adorable, geeky-boy kind of way, with his hair kind of sticking up in back, where it had gotten mushed against the headboard as he was reading.

And how wide and comfy-looking his chest was, and how good it would feel to rest my head there, and listen to his heartbeat….

And suddenly, I heard myself say, “Um, could you just wait here a second?”

Like he was going somewhere.

Then I turned around and ran as fast as I could back to my room.

When I came back, I was even more out of breath.

I was also holding a brown paper bag.

David glanced at it, then up at me.

“Sam,” he said, in a suspicious—but not necessarily displeased—voice. “What’s in the bag?”

So I showed him.