Ready or Not

15

When I let myself into the house the next day, I was shocked to see my father sitting in the living room, listening to Rebecca play “New York, New York” on her clarinet.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted out, as Manet, who’d run to the door at the sound of my key in the lock, jumped all over me.

Rebecca lowered her instrument and said, “Excuse me. I’m still playing.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “Sorry.”

My dad, who wasn’t reading the paper, talking on the phone, or doing anything, actually, except apparently listening to his youngest daughter’s performance, smiled at me a little painfully as I stood there waiting for the song to end. When it did, he clapped, almost as if he’d really enjoyed it.

“That was great,” he said enthusiastically.

“Thank you.” Rebecca primly turned a page of the book sitting on her music stand. “And now, continuing my tribute to the nation’s greatest cities, I will play the song ‘Gary, Indiana’ from The Music Man.”

“Uh, could you wait until I’ve gotten a refill?” my dad asked, holding up his empty coffee mug. Then he hurried out into the kitchen.

I looked at Rebecca.

“What,” I asked her, “is going on here?”

“Those Big Changes Dad was talking about the night you said yes to sex on TV,” she said with a shrug. “They’ve decided to spend more time with us. So I’m going to play him every single song in my repertoire, to see how long until he cracks. He’s held up surprisingly well, so far. I give him two more songs.”

Stunned, I carried my overnight bag into the kitchen, lured there by the smell of something baking. I was shocked to see my mom, and not Theresa, bent over the open oven door, going, “Do these look done to you, honey?” to my dad, who was refilling his coffee mug.

She was baking chocolate chip cookies. My mother, the meanest environmental lawyer in town, was baking chocolate chip cookies. Her PDA was nowhere in sight.

My overnight bag fell from my hands and landed with a thump on the floor.

My mom looked over her shoulder at me and smiled.

“Oh, Sam,” she said. “What are you doing home? I thought you were gone for the weekend.”

“We had to come back early,” I said. “David’s dad wanted to get together with his advisors to revise some things on his Return to Family initiative before unveiling it to Congress on Monday. What are you doing?”

“Baking cookies, honey,” she said, and pulled the tray from the oven, then closed the door. “Watch out, they’re hot!” This she said to my dad as he tried to reach for one.

“Why aren’t you guys still at Grandma’s?” I asked.

“That woman is dead to me,” my dad said, taking a cookie anyway, and burning his fingers.

“Richard,” my mother said, narrowing her eyes at him. To me, she said, “Your father and his mother had a little disagreement, so we came home early.”

“Little?” my dad said, after gulping some coffee to wash down the hot cookie he’d stuffed in his mouth, to keep it from burning his fingers, and burning his tongue instead. “There was nothing little about it.”

“Richard,” Mom said. “Richard, I told you, those cookies are hot.”

My dad took two more anyway, holding them on a paper towel. “See ya,” he said, heading back toward the living room, Manet following eagerly behind him, in hopes of scoring some dropped cookie. “‘Gary, Indiana’ awaits.”

“Okay, seriously.” I stared at my mom. “What is going on here? I leave for one night, and you guys suddenly turn into the Cleavers? Where’s Theresa?”

“I gave her the weekend off,” my mom said, attempting to scrape the cookies she’d just baked off the metal tray they were sitting on. Unfortunately, they weren’t coming off all that easily. “It’s important for her to spend time with her own family, you know. Just like it’s important for all of us to spend time together, too. Your father and I discussed it, and we agree with the president. Not with everything he said, of course.” She worked at scraping up a particularly recalcitrant (SAT word meaning “stubborn or rebellious”) cookie.

“But it’s time we started spending more time with you girls,” she went on. “Your father thinks maybe Lucy would study more if we kept an eye on her. And you know what Rebecca’s teachers say about her need for more socialization. That’s why both your father and I will be cutting back our hours at the office. True, it will mean less money coming in. That’s what your father’s fight with his mother was about.” My mom grimaced. “But then, I was never that enthusiastic about going to Aruba for Christmas with her anyway.”

I just stared at her, barely able to register what I’d just heard. Mom and Dad were going to be spending more time with us?

Was this a good thing? Or a bad thing? Or a very bad thing?

“What about me?” I croaked.

“What about you, honey?” my mom asked.

“Well, I mean…is this about my detention last week? Or what I said on TV?”

“Oh, honey.” My mom smiled at me. “You know we don’t worry all that much about you, Sam. You’ve always had such a good head on your shoulders.” Then she added briskly, “But I do imagine if I’m home more, I might at least be able to keep you from doing anything else to your poor hair.”

She smiled to show she was joking…only I could tell she wasn’t really.

“Huh,” I said. “Great.”

Like someone in a daze, I headed up the stairs to my room. My dad had promised there’d be some BIG changes around our house.

I just never imagined they’d be this big.

I was in so much shock, I didn’t even hear Lucy when she called to me from her room as I passed by her open door. It was only the second time she screeched, “SAM!” that I realized she was talking to me, and poked my head into her room to see what she wanted.

“You’re back early!” Lucy cried, from where she was perched under the big canopy over her bed, perusing the latest Vogue, or whatever.

“So are you,” I said. “Did Dad and Grandma really get into it?”

“Totally,” Lucy said. “Well, you know how they are. They’ll be speaking again by Monday. At least, I hope so, because I was totally getting a new bikini for Aruba. So…how did it go?”

“Fine,” I said, conscious of the fact that Lucy has the long-term memory of a cat, and that it was unlikely she’d remember our conversation from the week before, or even that she’d ever bought me birth control.

But I guess our conversation had been more important to her than I’d thought—either that, or Harold’s tutoring had improved her memory—because she went, “Come in, come in and tell me all about, you know. It,” in a conspiratorial voice.

I slipped inside her room and closed the door so no one downstairs could overhear our conversation—not that that was very likely anyway, considering the volume at which Rebecca was playing her clarinet.

“So,” Lucy said, patting the empty spot beside her on the mattress. “What happened? With David, I mean? Did you two, you know, Do It?”

“Well,” I said, sitting down on the side of the bed where she’d indicated. “The truth is…”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “Yes?”

“Basically…” I took a deep breath. “I jumped his bones.”

Lucy squealed and squirmed in her seat. That’s when I noticed that the magazine she’d been reading with such intense concentration had been an SAT prep book.

Wow. She really did love Harold.

“So what happened, EXACTLY?” she wanted to know. “You used the foam, right? And he used a condom? Because you have to use both. Heather Birnbaum just used condoms and got knocked up and had to go live with her aunt in Kentucky.”

“We used the foam,” I said. “And the condoms. Thank you for that.”

“Did you—you know?” Lucy dropped her voice to a whisper.

“I think it’s going to take some practice,” I said, starting to blush, “for that to happen. But we’ll get there.”

“REALLY?” Lucy looked excited. “Tiffany always said it would work. Practicing with the handheld shower nozzle and all. But I didn’t believe her. It’s good to know she wasn’t totally lying.”

I looked at her curiously.

“Well,” I said, “I mean, haven’t you had some personal experience with it yourself? I mean, what about you and Jack?”

“JACK?” Lucy laughed as if this were hysterically funny. “Oh my God, JACK!”

I stared at her.

“But…” Something was not computing. “Lucy, you and Jack—you two Did It, right?”

Lucy made a face.

“Ew! Me? With JACK? Never!”

“Wait.” I stared at her even harder. “So…you’re…you’re a VIRGIN?”

“Well, of course.” Lucy looked puzzled. “What did you think?”

“But you and Jack went out for, like, three years!”

“So?” For someone who had so blithely (SAT word meaning “in a joyous manner”) given me birth control and sex tips, Lucy looked extremely indignant at the suggestion that she herself might not be pure as the driven snow. “I mean, he wanted to, but I was like, No way, José!”

“But, Lucy,” I cried. “The foam! And the condoms! You’re the one who got them for me!”

“Well, of course,” Lucy said matter-of-factly. “I couldn’t let you go to the store and get them yourself and have it be all over the National Enquirer. I mean, that was before you made it so obvious that you don’t care WHO knows your business by announcing it on national television. But that doesn’t mean I ever used it. Foam, I mean. I just heard about it, you know. From Tiffany.”

“But”—and this was the part that I was having the most trouble processing—“the other day, in the cafeteria. You called yourself a slut.”

“So?” Lucy tossed some of her shimmery red-gold hair. “So did Catherine.”

I stared at her, completely shocked. “So you…you just did that for me? And you and Jack—all that time—you never…you never…”

“Did It?” Lucy shook her head. “No way. I told you. He wasn’t The One.”

“But…but you thought he was. For a long time. You can’t tell me you didn’t. You even told me he was your first!”

“My first LOVE,” Lucy said. “Not my first…you know.”

“But…” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy shrugged. “I mean, yeah, I guess I thought sometimes he might be. The right guy. But I never knew. You know? Not the way you know about David. Or I know about Harold.”

“You think Harold is The…One?” I asked.

I must have wrinkled my nose as I said it or something, though, because Lucy sounded defensive as she said, “Yes, I do. Why? What’s wrong with Harold?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I’m sure you two will be very happy together. After, you know. You pass your SATs, and everything.”

Apparently mollified, Lucy said, “So tell me all about it. Did it hurt the first time? Did his parents suspect? Where’d you guys Do It, his room or yours? What about the Secret Service? They weren’t around, were they? What about—”

Her questions went on and on.

And even though I felt way too dazed to answer them, I totally tried. Because I fully owed her. Way more now than I’d ever even realized.

It was the least I could do to repay her.

Besides, what are sisters for?

“Sam! You showed!” Dauntra waved at me wildly from behind the cash register when I showed up for my shift later that day.

Well, so much for her being mad at me. I’d fully thought she would be. On account of my having turned out to have been a mouthpiece for the president’s fascist initiative after all.

Although I had refused to go along with it at the last minute.

“Hey, D,” I said, ducking beneath the counter to join her. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

“Bitchin’,” Dauntra said. “I thought you were spending the weekend at your grandma’s.”

“I was,” I said. “But I ended up going to Camp David, instead.”

Dauntra hooted. “Camp David? Where the president spends his downtime?”

“That’d be the one,” I said.

“Man.” Dauntra shook her head. “And he LET you? After you dissed him like that on national TV?”

“I didn’t dis him,” I said uncomfortably. “I just pointed out to him that there might be a better way than, um, the one he was suggesting.”

“Pointed out to him,” Dauntra echoed with a grin. “Man, you are so cool.”

I looked over my shoulder, wondering who she could be talking about. But the only other people in the store were some ninja geeks over by the Kurosawa shelves.

“Who?” I asked. “ME?”

“Yes, you,” Dauntra said. “None of us can stop talking about how you totally put the Man in his place, and without even staging a die-in.”

“Um,” I said, not really sure what she was talking about, but pleased all the same. I mean, there aren’t many people who actually think I’m cool. Except for my boyfriend, of course. And, it turns out, my big sister. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious. Kevin wants to know if you want to come over some time. You know. To hang out.”

“At your place?” My heart skipped a beat. I never imagined I’d ever get asked to “hang out” with someone as fabulous as Dauntra. I mean, we were work friends, and all that. But outside work? “Sure. I’d love to. Can I bring David?”

“The first kid?” Dauntra shrugged. “Why not? It’ll be a hoot. Oh, and hey, you inspired me.” She reached inside her backpack, pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper, and handed it to me. “When Stan comes over to check my bag tonight, I’m giving him this.”

“What is it?” I asked, unfolding it.

“An e-mail,” Dauntra said proudly. “From my lawyer. At the ACLU. She’s taking on my case. I decided it might work better than maple syrup. You know. To go the Samantha Madison route.”

I blinked at her. “Hiring a lawyer from the ACLU to keep your employer from going through your backpack for stolen goods at the end of your shift is going the Samantha Madison route?”

“Totally,” Dauntra said. “Way better than a die-in. You certainly don’t get your clothes as dirty. And by the time my new lawyer’s done with the management here, I bet I’ll own this place.”

“Wow,” I said, handing the e-mail back to her. “I’m impressed.”

“Well, you should be. It’s all ’cause of you. Hey, did you have a good time?”

I glanced at her curiously. “A good time?”

“At Camp David. What’d you guys do there, anyway? It must have been pretty boring. It was raining the whole time, right?”

“Oh,” I said, fiddling with the Love Means…Willing to Wait pin in the Sally action figure’s chest. “We found stuff to do.”

“Oh my God.”

Something in Dauntra’s voice made me look up. She was staring down at me quite intently.

“Oh my God, Sam,” she said. “Did you and David…DO IT?”

“Um.” I felt my cheeks—as they had a million times already that day—start to heat up. I looked around to see if Chuck or Stan or anyone else was nearby.

But the only person in the store besides us was Mr. Wade, who was busy poring over some new arrivals in the Arts section.

“Um,” I said. There was no reason to feel defensive. This wasn’t Kris Parks. This was Dauntra. Dauntra wasn’t going to call me a slut. Dauntra would never call anyone a slut. Except maybe Britney Spears. But that was only natural.

“Yeah,” I said, even though my mouth suddenly felt very dry. “We did.”

And Dauntra, leaning an elbow against the cash register, propped her chin in her hand, sighed, and asked me dreamily, “Wasn’t it FUN?”

I blinked. “Wasn’t what fun?”

“Excuse me.” Mr. Wade had wandered up to the counter. “I was wondering if you have a DVD ordered in yet. The name is Wade, W—”

“A–D–E,” Dauntra said tiredly. “Dude, we KNOW your name. You’re in here every day, for crying out loud!”

Mr. Wade looked taken aback. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“Dude,” Dauntra said, reaching for the DVD he’d ordered. “Get real. You’re unforgettable.” Then, looking back at me, she said, “Sex. I meant, wasn’t sex fun?”

I glanced at Mr. Wade, whose eyes were goggling out from underneath his beret. Then I looked back at Dauntra with a grin.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it really was.”

“How was your Thanksgiving weekend?”

That’s what David asked me the next time we saw each other, which wasn’t until Susan Boone’s life drawing class the following Tuesday.

He was grinning wolfishly, a clear sign he was joking. But I answered him with all sincerity just the same:

“You know what?” I said. “It was pretty good. How was yours?”

“Awesome.” He winked. “Best Thanksgiving ever.”

We both sat there grinning idiotically at each other until Rob came bustling by with his drawing pad, muttering over the fact that he’d forgotten his soft lead pencils. Then, remembering we weren’t exactly alone, David and I both busied ourselves setting up our charcoal and erasers.

But I for one was still smiling. Because all that stuff I’d been worried about—you know, about how after couples have sex, that’s all they ever think about or do?

It isn’t true. I mean, I think about it. A lot.

But it’s not all I think about.

And I know it’s not all David thinks about, either. I can tell, because essentially, our relationship hasn’t really changed. He still calls me last thing every night, and first thing every morning, like always.

Which was how he was one of the first people I told that my house wasn’t the only place that had undergone some Big Changes. When I got to school on Monday, I’d found a few changes had been made there, too, while we’d all been away on Thanksgiving break…the biggest one being that Right Way had disbanded, due to all of its members—save one, namely Kris Parks—dropping out.

But that wasn’t all. I’d also found out that Kris Parks? Yeah, she was no longer president of the junior class. Because you can’t break a school conduct code (as Kris had, in calling me a slut in front of so many witnesses) and maintain your student government position, because, as a student government representative, you’re supposed to be an example to the rest of the student population.

So, Frau Rider, our eleventh grade advisor, had to appoint the vice president as chief class officer until new elections could be held in the spring.

A bunch of people—well, okay, mainly Catherine, Deb Mullins, Lucy, and Harold—thought I should run. For class president.

But I really have quite enough to do, thank you, what with art lessons, my job, and teen ambassador stuff.

Besides, to be president of your class at school, you actually have to CARE about your school. And I so don’t. Care about my school, I mean.

But I have to admit, I’m starting to like it a little better these days.

“Hey, guess who’s going to California this coming weekend for a fund-raiser?” David asked me.

“Let me guess,” I said, picking up my drawing pad and turning to a nice, clean page. “Your parents.”

“Yeah. And they’ll be gone till Sunday night. I’ll have that big, white house all to myself.”

“How nice for you,” I said. “You can dance around in your underwear and sunglasses to some Bob Seger.”

“I was thinking it’d be more fun if you came over,” David said. “We got the new Mel Gibson movie. You know, the one that just came out.”

“I’ll have to check with my parents,” I said. “But…I imagine they’ll say yes.”

“Excellent,” David said, doing his best Mr. Burns.

“Hello, everyone.” Susan Boone came rushing in, followed, much more slowly, by the lethargic (SAT word meaning “morbidly drowsy”) Terry. “Are we all here? Is everyone ready? Terry, if you wouldn’t mind…”

Terry took off his robe and laid down on the raised platform. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep, his chest rising and falling with gentle snores.

And this time, when I drew him, I tried to concentrate on the whole, and not the parts. I roughed in the room around him, and then his place in it, trying to build my drawing the way you build a house…from the frame up, keeping in mind that there had to be a balance between the subject of my drawing and the background supporting it….

And I guess I succeeded, because when it came time for the critique of our evening’s work, Susan was pleased with my results.

“Very good, Sam,” she said, about my drawing. “You’re really learning.”

“Yes,” I said, with some surprise. “I guess I really am.”