Ready or Not

1

Which might explain why I finally got the guts to do it.

Make a change, I mean. And a pretty big one, too. For the better.

Who cares if my sister Lucy doesn’t necessarily agree?

Actually, she didn’t say she didn’t like it. Not that I would have cared if she had. I didn’t do it for her. I did it for myself.

Which is how I replied to her. Lucy, I mean. When she said what she did about it, which was: “Mom’s going to kill you.”

“I didn’t do it for Mom,” I said. “I did it for me. No one else.”

I don’t even know what she was doing home. Lucy, I mean. Shouldn’t she have been at cheerleading practice? Or a game? Or shopping at the mall with her friends, which is how she spends the vast majority of her time, when she isn’t working at the mall—which amounts to almost the same thing, since all her friends hang out in Bare Essentials (the lingerie store where she gets paid to do nothing), while she’s there anyway, helping her squeal over the latest J-Lo gossip in Us Weekly and fold G-strings?

“Yeah, but you don’t have to look at yourself,” Lucy said from her desk. I could tell she was IMing her boyfriend, Jack. Lucy has to IM him every morning before school, and then again before bed, and sometimes, like now, even in between, or he gets upset. Jack is away at college at the Rhode Island School of Design and has proved, since he left, to be increasingly insecure about Lucy’s affections for him. He needs near-constant reassurances that she still cares about him and isn’t off making out with some dude she met at Sunglass Hut, or whatever.

Which is kind of surprising, because before he left for college, Jack never struck me as the needy type. I guess college can change people.

This isn’t a very encouraging thought, considering that my boyfriend, who is Lucy’s age, will be going off to college next year. At least Jack drives down to see Lucy every weekend, which is nice, instead of hanging with his college friends. I hope David will do this as well.

Although I’m beginning to wonder if Jack actually even has any. College friends, I mean.

“I have to look at myself in the mirror all the time,” is what I said to Lucy’s remark about how I don’t have to look at myself. “Besides, no one asked you.”

And I turned to continue down the hallway, which is where I’d been headed when Lucy had stopped me, having spied me attempting to slink past her open bedroom door.

“Fine,” Lucy called after me, as I attempted to slink away again. “But just so you know, you don’t look like her.”

Of course I had to come back to her doorway and go, “Like who?” Because I genuinely had no idea what she was talking about. Although you would think by this time, I would have known better than to ask. I mean, it was Lucy I was talking to.

“You know,” she said, after taking a sip of her diet Coke. “Your hero. What’s her name. Gwen Stefani. She has blond hair, right? Not black.”

Oh my God. I couldn’t believe Lucy was trying to tell me—me, Gwen Stefani’s number-one fan—what color hair she has.

“I am aware of that,” I said, and started to leave again.

But Lucy’s next remark brought me right back to her doorway.

“Now you look like that other chick. What’s her name?”

“Karen O?” I asked, hopefully. Don’t even ask me why I thought Lucy might be about to say something nice, like that I looked like the lead singer of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I think I had inhaled too much ammonium hydroxide from the hair dye, or something.

“Nuh-uh,” Lucy said. Then she snapped her fingers. “Got it. Ashlee Simpson.”

I sucked in my breath. There are way worse things than looking like Ashlee Simpson—who actually looks fine—but it’s the idea that people might think I was trying to copy her that so utterly repulsed me that I could feel the Doritos I’d scarfed after school rising in my throat. I couldn’t actually think of anything worse at that particular moment. In fact, at that particular moment, it was lucky for Lucy there was nothing sharp sitting around nearby, or I swear, I think I might have stabbed her.

“I do not look like Ashlee Simpson,” I managed to croak.

Lucy just shrugged and turned back to her computer screen, as usual showing no remorse whatsoever for her actions.

“Whatever,” she said. “I’m sure David’s dad is going to be thrilled. Don’t you have to go on VH1 or something next week to promote his stupid Return to Family thingie?”

“MTV,” I said, feeling even worse, because now I was remembering that I still hadn’t read any of the stuff Mr. Green, the White House press secretary, had given to me in preparation for that particular event. I mean, come on. Between homework and drawing lessons and work, how much time do I even have for teen ambassador stuff? That would be zero.

Besides, a girl has to have her priorities. And mine was dyeing my hair.

So that I looked like an Ashlee Simpson wannabe, apparently.

“And you know perfectly well it’s MTV,” I snapped at Lucy, because I was still smarting over the Ashlee thing. Also because I was mad at myself for not having started studying up on the stuff I was supposed to say. But better to take it out on Lucy than myself. “And that it’s a town hall meeting, and the president will be there. At Adams Prep. Like you weren’t planning on going to it and using the opportunity to test out those new pink jeans you got from Betsey Johnson.”

Lucy looked all innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You are so full of it!” I couldn’t believe she had the nerve to sit there and pretend like that. Like anyone at school could talk about anything else. That MTV was coming to Adams Prep, I mean. No one could care less that the president was coming. It was the hot new VJ, Random Alvarez (Seriously. That’s his name. Random), who was hosting the stupid thing, that Lucy and her friends were all excited about.

Not just Lucy and her friends, either. Kris Parks (who happens to have a particular personal dislike for me, though she tries to hide it, seeing as how I’m a national heroine and all. But I can tell it’s still there, just brewing under the surface of her Hi, Sam, how are you’s), panicked recently that her transcript isn’t crammed with enough extracurriculars (considering she’s only a varsity cheerleader, a National Merit Scholar, and president of our class), founded this new club, Right Way, that is supposed to be this big call to action for teens to take back their right to say no to drugs, alcohol, and sex.

Although to tell you the truth, I didn’t actually know this right had ever been threatened. I mean, as far as I knew, no one has actually ever gotten mad at people who say no thanks to a beer or whatever. Except maybe a girl’s boyfriend, when she wouldn’t, you know, Do It with him.

I had, however, noticed that whenever word got around that a girl had, you know, Gone All the Way with her boyfriend, Kris Parks in particular, and her fellow Right Way-ers in general, were always the first to call that girl a slut, generally to her face.

Anyway, because of Right Way, Kris is one of the people who is going to be on the student panel during the president’s town hall meeting at Adams Prep. All she’d been able to talk about since finding this out was how this is her big chance to impress all the Ivy League universities who are going to be beating down her door, begging her to attend them. Also how she is going to get to meet Random Alvarez, and how she is going to give him her cell number, and how they are going to start dating.

Like Random would look at Kris twice, since I heard he’s dating Paris Hilton. Although “dating” might be the wrong word for it. But whatever.

“Anyway,” I said to Lucy, “for your information, that happens to be why I did it. Dyed my hair, I mean. I need a new look for the town meeting. Something less…girl-who-saved-the-president. You know?”

“Well, you certainly accomplished that,” was all Lucy said. Then she added, “And Mom’s still going to kill you,” before she went back to IMing Jack, since he’d sent her two messages that she’d ignored during the time I’d walked back into the room. You could bet he wasn’t too happy about her not paying attention to him. Like he thought maybe she was paying attention to her other boyfriend (the imaginary one, from Sunglass Hut) instead of him for a minute.

At least, that’s how it sounded from the angry pinging.

I told myself I don’t care what Lucy thinks. What does she know about fashion, anyway? Oh, sure, she reads Vogue every month from front to back.

But I’m not going for the kind of look you could find in Vogue. Unlike Lucy, I am not a fashion conformist. I am striving for my own personal sense of style, not one dictated to me by any magazine.

Or Ashlee Simpson.

Still, when I went downstairs to get my jacket before heading downtown, I have to say, I’d expected a better reaction to my new look than the one I received from Theresa, our housekeeper.

“Santa María, what have you done to your head?” she wanted to know.

I put a hand up to my hair, sort of defensively. “You don’t like it?”

Theresa just shook her head and called once more upon Jesus’ mom. Though I don’t know what she was supposed to do about it.

My younger sister, Rebecca, looked up from her homework—she goes to a different school than Lucy and I do. In fact, Rebecca goes to a school for gifted kids, Horizon, the same school my boyfriend, David, goes to, where they don’t have cheerleaders or pep rallies or even grades and everyone has to wear a uniform so no one makes fun of other people’s fashion sense. I wish I could go there instead of Adams Prep. Only you practically have to be a genius to go to Horizon. And while I am what my guidance counselor, Mrs. Flynn, likes to call “above average,” I’m no genius.

“I think you look good,” was Rebecca’s verdict on my hair.

“Really?” I wanted to kiss her.

Until she added, “Yeah. Like Joan of Arc. Not that anyone really knows what Joan of Arc looked like, since there is only one known portrait of her, and that was one doodled into the margin of the court record of the trial where she was condemned to death for witchcraft. But you look sort of like it. The doodle, I mean.”

While this was better than being told I looked like Ashlee Simpson, it’s not very comforting to be told you look like a doodle, either. Even a doodle of Joan of Arc.

“Your parents are going to kill me,” Theresa said.

This was worse than being told I looked like a doodle.

“They’ll get over it,” I said. Sort of more hopefully than I felt.

“Is it permanent?” Theresa wanted to know.

“Semi,” I said.

“Santa María,” Theresa said, again. Then, noticing I had my jacket on, she was all, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Art lessons,” I said.

“I thought you had those on Mondays and Wednesdays this year. Today’s Thursday.” You can’t pull anything over on Theresa. Believe me. I’ve tried.

“I do,” I said. “Normally. This is a new class. For adults only.” Susan Boone owns the art studio where my boyfriend and I take drawing lessons. Sometimes it’s the only time I get to see him since we’re both so busy, and go to different schools, and all.

Not that this is why I go to them. Drawing lessons, I mean. I go to learn to become a master at my craft, not to make out with my boyfriend.

Although we do usually get in a few kisses in the stairwell after class.

“Susan said she thought David and I were ready,” I said.

“Ready for what?” Theresa wanted to know.

“A more advanced class,” I said. “A special one.”

“What kind of special class?”

“Life drawing,” I explained. I’m used to getting the third degree from Theresa. She’s been working for our family for a million years and is sort of like our second mom. Well, really, she’s more like our first mom, since we hardly ever see our real mom, on account of her busy environmental law career. Theresa has a bunch of other kids, all of whom are grown, and even some grandkids, so she’s pretty much seen it all.

Except life drawing, apparently, since she went, all suspiciously, “What’s that?”

“You know,” I said, more confidently than I felt, since I wasn’t entirely sure what it was myself. “As opposed to still lifes, piles of fruit and stuff. Instead of objects, we’ll be drawing living things…people.”

I have to admit, I was kind of excited at the prospect of finally getting to draw something—anything—other than cow horns or grapes. Probably only geeks get excited about this kind of thing but, hey, whatever. So I’m a geek. With my new hair, at least I’m a goth geek.

Susan had made a big deal out of it, too. The fact that she was letting David and me come to a life drawing class, I mean. We would, she said, be the youngest people there, seeing as how it was an adult class. “But I think you’re both mature enough to handle it,” is what Susan had said.

Being almost seventeen, and all, I should certainly hope I was mature enough to handle it. I mean, what did she think I was going to do, anyway? Throw spitwads at the model?

“I didn’t know I’d have to drive you downtown.” Theresa looked annoyed. “I have to take Rebecca to her karate lesson—”

“Qigong,” Rebecca corrected her.

“Whatever,” Theresa said. “The art studio’s all the way downtown, the opposite direction—”

“Relax,” I said. “I’m taking the Metro.”

Theresa looked shocked. “But you can’t. You remember what happened last time.”

Yeah. Nice of her to remind me. Last time I’d tried to ride the Metro, I’d run smack into a family reunion—literally all of these people wearing these bright yellow T-shirts that said Caution: Johnson Family Vacation In Progress, who’d recognized me, then swarmed all over me, asking if I was the girl who’d saved the president, and demanding that I sign each of their T-shirts. They’d caused such a commotion—the Johnson family was pretty extended—that the transit police had had to come over and peel them off me. Then they’d politely asked me not to ride the rails anymore.

The transit police, I mean. Not the Johnson family.

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, last time my hair was still red, and people could recognize me. Now”—I patted my new hair—“they won’t.”

Theresa continued to look worried.

“But your parents—”

“—want me to learn a work ethic,” I said. “What better way than for me to take public transportation, like the rest of the plebeians?”

I could tell Rebecca was impressed by my use of the word “plebeian,” which I’d gotten from Lucy’s SAT prep book. Not that Lucy had spent any time actually studying it. At least if her reaction the time I called her a succubus (SAT word meaning “a demon or fiend; especially, a lascivious spirit supposed to have sexual intercourse with men by night without their knowledge”) was any indication, seeing as how she took it as a compliment.

It wasn’t easy, beating Theresa off, but I finally managed it. When are people going to realize that I’m nearly an adult, old enough to fend for myself? I mean, apparently I’m mature enough for life drawing classes—not to mention a part-time job—but not old enough to ride the Metro by myself?

Whatever. In any other state, I’d have my own car by now. Just my luck to live in an area where the rules to get a driver’s license are almost as restrictive as the ones to get a gun license.

In the end, Theresa let me go…but only because what choice did she have, really? With Dad working later than ever at his office at the World Bank, and Mom all tied up in her latest case, it wasn’t like Theresa could really call them for backup. They barely got home in time for dinner anymore—they’d given up on the whole concept of us ever finding time to sit down together as a family and eat—let alone to supervise us.

Not that we need supervision. We’re all pretty much caught up in our own routines: art lessons, Potomac Video, or teen ambassador stuff for me every day after school; cheerleading or the mall—either to work or socialize—for Lucy; and Rebecca…well, between clarinet lessons, chess club meetings, qigong, and whatever else goes on in her bizarre, girl-genius world, it’s a wonder any of us ever even see her.

I was glad to get out of the house and into the crisp November air. I was also glad that my duties as teen ambassador had forced the White House to get me my own cell phone. This is the kind of thing I’m supposed to be learning to save up for with the money from my part-time job. Lucy has to pay for her own phone (well, for any calls that aren’t to Mom or Dad, anyway, asking if she can stay later at whichever party she’s currently attending).

I, on the other hand, get my phone free.

Being a national hero does have its perks, I guess.

“Hello?” I was relieved my best friend, Catherine, and not her parents or younger brothers, had answered. Catherine doesn’t have a cell phone, so I’d had to call her on her family’s land line.

“It’s me,” I said. “I did it.”

“How’s it look?” Catherine asked.

“I think it looks okay,” I said. “Rebecca says I look like Joan of Arc.”

“She was cute,” Catherine said, encouragingly “Until she burned up, anyway. What did Lucy say?”

“That I look like Ashlee Simpson.”

“Super cute!” Catherine cooed.

See, this is the problem with Catherine. I mean, she’s my best friend, and I love her to death. But sometimes she says things like this, and I fear for her. I really do. Because what’s going to happen to her when she gets out into the real world? She’s just going to get eaten alive.

“Catherine,” I said. “I don’t want people to think I’m copying Ashlee Simpson’s look. That would not be cool.”

“Oh,” Catherine said. “Okay. Sorry.” She appeared to think about this for a minute. Then she asked, “Well…what else did Lucy say?”

“That Mom’s going to kill me.”

“Oh,” Catherine said. “That’s not good.”

“I don’t care,” I said, as I hurried down the leaf-strewn street.

We live in Cleveland Park, a section of Washington, D.C., that isn’t actually that far from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, a.k.a. the White House, where my boyfriend lives. Most everyone who goes to Adams Prep lives in my neighborhood or Chevy Chase, the next neighborhood over, where Lucy’s boyfriend, Jack, lived before he went to college.

“It’s my head,” I said into the phone. “I should be able to do what I want to it.”

“Power to the people,” Catherine agreed. “Are you going to the studio now?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m Metro-ing it.”

“Good luck,” Catherine said. “Look out for any Johnson Family Vacations In Progress. And let me know what David says. About your hair.”

“Over and out,” I said into the phone, as a sort of joke, because this was how we’d signed off on our walkie-talkies as kids. Really, cell phones are just like walkie-talkies. They just cost more. The sad thing is, Catherine’s parents won’t get her one, so it’s kind of a one-sided experience. Catherine’s parents are very strict and won’t even let her talk on the phone to boys, let alone date, except group dates, which made it quite hard on her and her boyfriend…back when she still had one. Sadly for Catherine, her boyfriend’s diplomat father got himself transferred to Qatar, and now she and Paul are doing the long-distance thing, like Lucy and Jack….

Only Qatar is a lot farther away than Rhode Island, so Paul can never drive down for the weekend.

Catherine’s parents, in addition to not getting her a cell phone, would never let her ride the Metro alone. Actually, mine wouldn’t have been too thrilled about it, either, if they’d known. Not because of them being afraid I might get lost or abducted and sold into white slavery (which happens a lot more in the Midwest, at places like the Mall of America, than it does on the Metro…I know because Rebecca and I watched an episode of National Geographic Explorer about it) but because of the whole Johnson Family Vacation In Progress thing.

Sadly, it doesn’t worry them enough to get me out of my job at Potomac Video.

But I could see right away that, thanks to my new hair color, things were going to be different. No one on the train recognized me. No one even glanced at me twice, as if trying to remember where they’d seen me before. I made it all the way to R Street and Connecticut—right across from the Founding Church of Scientology—where Susan Boone’s art studio is located, without a single person going, “Hey, aren’t you Samantha Madison?” or “Hey, wasn’t there a movie made about you last summer?”

I was so excited about not being recognized for once that I ran right past Static, the record shop next door to the studio, without even stopping to see if they’d got anything good in…though I did pause to admire my reflection in the store window. I was stoked that I apparently looked so different that people didn’t even know who I was.

Because, as far as I’m concerned, different can only mean better.

Although I wasn’t quite sure that David, when he got to the studio a few minutes after I did, agreed. He glanced my way, then went right past me, as if he were looking for someone else…

…then did a double-take when he realized the girl straddling the drawing bench in front of him was really me.

I couldn’t tell from his expression if he liked my hair or not. I mean, he was smiling, but that didn’t mean anything. David is generally a happy guy—not at all moody, like Jack, Lucy’s boyfriend, even though in his own way, David is every bit as talented an artist as Jack, if not more so. Even if that’s just my opinion.

It’s also my opinion that David’s a lot better looking than Jack, with his green eyes—no, really. They’re green. Not hazel, either, but pure green, like the grass on the Great Lawn in springtime—and kind of floppy, dark, curly hair.

Not that it’s a competition—whose boyfriend is hotter, mine or my sister’s.

But the truth is, mine totally is. Even though we’ve been going out for more than a year, my heart still does this funny, zingy thing every time I see him…David, I mean. Rebecca says this is called frisson.

I don’t care what it’s called, or what causes it. All I know is, I love David. He’s just so…there. When he walks into a room, he doesn’t just walk into it…he fills it, I guess on account of being so tall and big-boned and everything. When he kisses me, he has to stoop way down to reach my lips, and a lot of the time, he cups my face in his hands to hold it steady….

It’s super hot.

But not as hot as the way he looks at me sometimes…like now, for instance.

My parents, in addition to their “work ethic” thing, have also been on this autonomy kick (meaning that we have to start doing our own laundry now, instead of Theresa doing it) so that we learn how to function as normal—i.e., clean—members of society. So the only clean thing I’d been able to find to wear to class, since I hadn’t remembered to do my laundry, was this black shirt Nike had sent me, in the hopes I’d wear it the next time I went on TV—like at the town hall meeting on MTV next week.

Which is definitely another perk of being a national heroine…getting free clothes, and all.

Only, fond as I am of Nike, I try not to engage in blatant product placement. So I had never put on this shirt before. Which was why I didn’t know until I saw David’s face that it must be kind of sexy. The shirt, I mean. I don’t have big boobs—or little ones, really. Just normal-sized—but I guess this shirt must be sort of tight and I guess it makes what boobage I do have stick out more than usual…plus it has a V-neck, so it definitely shows more cleavage than the shirts I usually wear.

Which might explain why, when David finally recognized me, he didn’t even notice my hair. The minute he spotted me, his gaze went straight to my chest. Then, when he went to sit down on the drawing bench next to mine, all he said was, “Hey, Sharona.”

“Hey, Daryl,” I said back to him.

Daryl and Sharona are our white trash names. You know, what we think our names would be if we’d been born in a trailer park instead of Cleveland Park (me) or Houston, Texas (David).

Which is not to say that anyone who has the name Daryl or Sharona is necessarily white trash, or that anyone who lives in a trailer park is, either. Just that if we were white trash, they’d be the names we thought we’d have….

Okay, it’s a couple thing. You know how people who’ve been going out a long time have these couple things that they do? Like my mom and dad call each other “Schmoopie” sometimes, after an episode of a sitcom they saw once. The Daryl and Sharona thing is like that.

Only not repulsive.

“I like your shirt,” was what Daryl/David said next.

“Yeah,” I said. “That part was sort of obvious.”

“You should wear shirts like that more often,” Daryl/David said, not even looking the least bit ashamed of himself for so blatantly ogling (SAT word meaning “to view or look at with side glances, as in fondness”) me.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” I said. “Look up a little. What about the hair?”

He was still looking at my shirt. “It’s great.”

“David. You haven’t even looked at it.”

He tore his gaze from my chest and looked at my hair. His green eyes narrowed.

“It’s black,” he said.

I nodded. “Very good. Anything else? For instance…do you like it?”

“It’s…” He stared at my head some more. “It’s very black.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s called Midnight Ebony. Which led me to believe it might be black. Do you like it, is what I want to know.”

David said, “Well, you aren’t going to have to worry about anybody calling you Red anytime soon.”

“I realize that,” I said. “But do you think it looks good?”

“It looks…” David looked back down at my chest. “Great.”

Wow. I wonder if Nike is aware of the power their shirts have over the eye sockets of people’s boyfriends. At least mine, anyway. So much for being able to count on David for giving me an honest opinion on my new look. I guess I was going to have to wait for—

“What in God’s name did you do to your hair?” Susan Boone looked horrified.

“I dyed it,” I said, fingering a limp curl. I couldn’t tell from her expression whether or not she approved. She mostly looked the way Theresa and Lucy had…stunned. “Do you not like it?”

Susan bit her lower lip.

“You know, Sam,” she said. “There are thousands of women who would kill for hair the color yours used to be. I hope that black isn’t, er, permanent.”

“Semi,” I said weakly. The studio was filling up with life drawing students. Except for Rob, David’s Secret Service agent—being the first son, David isn’t allowed to go anywhere without being trailed by at least one Secret Service agent—I didn’t recognize anyone.

Still, even though I didn’t know any of the people in the Thursday class, they were all listening to our conversation—mine and Susan’s.

Oh, they were pretending they weren’t, fiddling around with their charcoal and drawing pads as they got settled.

But they were listening. You could tell.

“I just really needed a change,” I said, trying to defend my—apparently bad—decision.

“Well, it’s your head,” Susan said with a shrug. Then she nodded at the army helmet David had given me last year, the one decorated with Wite-Out daisies, sitting on its shelf over the slop sink. “Guess you won’t be needing that anymore.”

Which was true. I’d only worn it because Susan’s pet crow, Joe, who roamed around loose during our drawing sessions, was morbidly obsessed with my red hair, and often dive-bombed me if I wasn’t wearing protective headgear. I eyed the evil bird, wondering if he was going to leave me alone now.

But Joe was busy preening himself on his perch, not paying the slightest bit of attention to anyone—least of all Midnight Ebony–haired little old me.

Yes! It worked! No more Joe to worry about.

“I think it looks good,” David said, apparently finally able to register something other than the way my chest looked in my new shirt.

“Really?” I asked, hardly daring to get my hopes up. Finally, a positive response (from someone who’d actually seen it—Catherine’s over-the-phone reassurances didn’t count). “It’s not too, um, Ashlee Simpson?”

David shook his head. “No way,” he said. “Totally Enid from Ghost World.”

Since this was exactly the look I’d been going for, I beamed.

“Thanks,” I said. He really is the greatest boyfriend ever. Even if he is slightly obsessed with my chest.

“All right, everyone,” Susan said, coming to stand beside a low platform in the center of the room, which she’d covered with a brightly colored satin cloth. “Welcome to life drawing. As you can see, we have a couple of first timers here. This is David, Rob”—she pointed to David’s Secret Service agent—“and Samantha.”

Everyone murmured hello to us. I couldn’t tell how many of them recognized David or me from TV. Maybe none of them. Maybe all of them. In any case, they were cool about it, not staring or giggling or being all Johnson Family Vacation about it or anything. Not that I’d expected them to, seeing as how they were all adults, and artists, besides. I mean, you sort of expect artists to behave with a modicum (SAT word meaning “a small quantity”) more dignity than, say, your average, non-artist adult.

“Well, let’s get started then.” Susan called to someone who’d been hanging around the back of the room, “Terry? We’re ready for you, I think.”

Terry, a tall, thin guy in his twenties, came ambling over to the platform, wearing, for some reason, nothing but a bathrobe. I thought maybe this was on account of how we were supposed to be doing some kind of classical drawing.

Which was cool, because, hey, I didn’t know we got to draw the models in costume.

This was going to be a lot more challenging, I knew, than drawing a piece of fruit, or cow horns. Terry’s robe had a paisley pattern in it that was going to be hard to replicate. Especially in the places where the material folded.

I couldn’t help giving a little squirm in eager anticipation. I know only a geek would be excited about drawing paisleys. But I am a geek. Or so I am informed on an almost daily basis by my peers, nearly every time I open my mouth in school, even if only to utter something innocuous, like that Gwen Stefani wrote the song “Simple Kind of Life” the night before No Doubt recorded it.

Then Terry climbed up onto the raised platform and I saw that it wasn’t going to be hard to draw the paisleys on his robe at all. Because no sooner had I picked up my pencil than Terry tugged on the sash to his robe, and it fell into a puddle at his feet.

And underneath it, he was…well, completely naked.