Ready or Not

3

The thing is, I have an ace in the hole (whatever that means. Something good, anyway).

And that ace is Mom and Dad.

Because NO WAY are Mom and Dad going to let me skip Thanksgiving at Grandma’s to go away with my boyfriend.

Even to Camp David.

Even with the president.

Which means no sex. Or Parcheesi, as David apparently calls it.

I won’t pretend like I am too upset about this. About my mom and dad not letting me go away with David. I mean, I’m not all that positive I even want to go. Okay, sure, I want to go when David’s hands are under various articles of my clothing…

But the minute they aren’t anymore, I have to admit, I’m not completely jazzed about the idea.

Because, let’s face it, sex is an awfully big step. It completely changes your relationship. Or at least it does in the books Lucy likes to read, the ones she leaves lying around next to the bathtub that I occasionally pick up to peruse when I’ve run out of Vonnegut or whatever. In those books, whenever the girl and the guy start Doing It, that’s it. That’s all they do. So long going to the movies. So long going to dinner. All they ever do when they get together is…well, It.

Maybe that’s just books and not how it is in real life. But how am I supposed to know for sure? It’s just that I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

So if—although when is more like it—Mom and Dad say I can’t go, it won’t be the worst thing in the world. That’s all I’m saying.

I dropped the bomb the minute I got back from life drawing. I decided that since Mom and Dad were just going to say no anyway, I might as well dispense with the beating-around-the-bush-and-dropping-of-subtle-hints thing. I mean, so what if they say no? David is going to have to learn to live with disappointment.

Mom and Dad were sitting there at the dining room table with Lucy, who looked moderately upset, for some reason. Probably her favorite contestant on American Idol got voted off or something.

“Mom, Dad,” I said, completely interrupting without remorse or preamble, “can I go to Camp David for Thanksgiving with, um, David”—I’d never realized until I said it just then that David has the same name as the presidential retreat. How weird is that? Plus, it sounds stupid to say—“and his parents?”

“Of course, honey,” my dad said.

It was my mom who went, “Oh, God, Sam. What did you do to your hair?”

“I dyed it,” I said. Meanwhile, my heart had totally skipped a beat. “What do you mean by ‘Of course, honey,’ Dad?”

“Is it permanent?” my mom asked.

“Semi,” I said to Mom. “Are you serious?” I asked Dad. “What about Grandma?”

“Grandma’ll get over it,” my dad said. Then he, too, became fixated on my hair. “What are you supposed to be?” he wanted to know. “One of those mango characters you’re always reading about?”

“Manga,” I corrected him. “What are you saying, exactly? That I can go?”

“Go where?”

“To Camp David. With David. For Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving weekend. OVERNIGHT.”

“I don’t see why not,” my mom said. “I assume his parents will be there? Well, fine. Next time you want to do something like this, Samantha, let me know beforehand. I’ll make an appointment with my colorist. That over-the-counter stuff can’t be good for your hair.”

And just like that, it was over. They both turned their attention back to Lucy and whatever her glitch was…probably that she had a cheerleading practice that conflicted with some college tour they wanted her to take. They had been on her case about narrowing down some choices for college for a while now.

Leaving me to be all, um, hello? Remember me? Your other daughter? The one whose boyfriend just asked her to spend Thanksgiving weekend playing Parcheesi with him? And you said yes? Uh-huh, THAT daughter?

I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. My parents were letting me go away for the weekend with my boyfriend.

And okay, you could see why they would, on account of his dad, being the president.

But just because your dad is the president doesn’t mean you don’t want to play Parcheesi. I mean, had they ever thought of that?

Apparently not. Apparently, my parents are the most clueless people on the face of the planet.

And now, thanks to them, it looked like I was going to Camp David for Thanksgiving, to get an up close and personal look at my boyfriend’s inguinal ligament.

Okay. This isn’t happening.

And yet, apparently, it is.

I was still reeling from the shock of it all when Lucy came flitting past my bedroom door a little while later. I had my headphones on—I was listening to Tragic Kingdom, in the hopes that Gwen’s assurance that she’s “just a girl in the world” would soothe my frazzled soul—so all I saw were Lucy’s lips moving for a minute. When she didn’t give up and go away after a while, I pulled my headphones off and went, in a voice unfriendly enough to startle my dog, Manet, from her sleep, “What?”

“That’s what I was asking you,” Lucy said. “Why do you look as if you just found out John Mayer died?”

Because in Lucy’s world, if John Mayer died, people would freak. In my world if that happened? No one would notice.

“Um, because this year while you’re helping Grandma light her pilgrim candle replicas of John and Priscilla Smith, I’m going to be losing my virginity to my longtime boyfriend at Camp David.”

That’s what I want to tell her.

But since I can’t help thinking this isn’t the wisest thing to confide to my sister, I just say the first thing that popped into my head, which is, “I don’t know. I guess I’m just upset because…because…today, I saw my first, um, you-know-what.”

I saw right away that I should have said something else. Anything else. Because this had the opposite effect of what I’d been hoping for—that Lucy would go away.

Instead, she came barreling all the way into my room, not even looking where she was going and knocking over my Hellboy action figures, which I had artfully set up along the top of my dresser to portray the Liz-on-the-sacrificial-slab scene.

“Really?” Lucy asked, all eager. “David’s? What’d he, whip it out while he was kissing you good night out there just now? That is so gross. I hate when they do that.”

“Um, no,” I said, somewhat taken aback. Do guys actually do this? David certainly never has. But maybe only because he’s too polite.

But it sounded like it’s happened to my sister a lot. And she supposedly has a steady boyfriend! And okay, he’s away at college, but still. What goes on at those parties she goes to, the ones at the popular people’s houses? No wonder Kris Parks had embraced Right Way with so much vigor. She was probably psychologically scarred from guys whipping it out right and left in front of her.

“It was this guy named Terry’s,” I said. “He’s a nude model Susan Boone made us draw.”

This didn’t seem to strike Lucy as any better than David having whipped it out.

“Ew!” she said. “You saw some skanky model guy’s penis before you saw your own boyfriend’s? That is sick.”

Considering that’s exactly how I’d been feeling a few hours before, it was funny that I heard myself replying, “Yeah, well, that’s what life drawing is all about. Because you can’t learn to draw the human figure if clothes are obscuring the muscles and skeletal frame.”

And then—I can’t even begin to figure out why—I found myself confiding in her.

I know. Confiding in Lucy. I must have been out of my mind. Obviously ultra-cool Dauntra from Potomac Video would have been the logical person to turn to for guidance in this area. But no. I had to go and let my sister Lucy in on it. It was like my mouth just went running off by itself with no input whatsoever from my brain.

“But that’s not all of it,” I heard myself saying, to my horror. “Get this: David asked me to come to Camp David with him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lucy said. “I was there when Mom and Dad said you could go, remember? Poor you. I mean, God, how boring. He couldn’t take you to the mall, like a normal boyfriend?”

This was the perfect opportunity for me to drop it. I mean, considering Lucy clearly didn’t understand a word I was saying.

But no. My mouth just kept on going.

“Lucy,” I said. “I don’t think you understand. David asked me to spend the weekend with him at Camp David.”

“Um,” Lucy said. “Yes, I know. You said that already. And I repeat, ew, how boring. I mean, what is there to do at Camp David? Ride horses? Throw rocks into some lake? I mean, I guess you two could paint, seeing as how you both like that kind of thing. But it’s gonna be even more boring than Grandma’s. I mean, it’s not like there are any good outlet stores nearby.”

“Lucy,” I said, again. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t getting it. And I couldn’t believe I was still trying to make her understand. What was I doing? Why was I telling her? “David asked me to come away with him. For the weekend. And Mom and Dad said yes.”

Lucy sniffed. “Yeah, I noticed. You know, you’re lucky they like him so much. Your boyfriend, I mean. They would never let me spend the weekend with Jack. But, of course, David’s parents are going to be there.”

“Yes,” I said. It was hopeless. She was never going to understand.

And why should she? I mean, in Lucy’s world, people like me—and let’s face it, David—just don’t, well, Do It. The idea that geeks might possibly have hormones, too, was very clearly an alien one to Lucy.

Or so I thought. I had basically given up on the whole thing and was thinking to myself, Well, actually, this is GOOD, since I didn’t want her to know anyway, when Lucy suddenly grabbed my wrist and, her Lancôme-lined eyes very wide, went, “Oh my God. You don’t mean…Oh my God. You and David? And at CAMP DAVID?”

And that was that. She knew.

It was strange, but it was actually kind of a relief. Embarrassing, but a relief. Don’t ask me why.

“Where else would you suggest?” I asked her, kind of sarcastically, to cover up my complete and utter mortification. “Under the bleachers?”

“Ew,” Lucy said. “With all the wadded-up gum people have spat out? No.” She had sunk down onto my bed—poking Manet, who was collapsed on top of my duvet, to get him to move over—and sat there, looking sort of stunned. “That is a really big step, Sam. Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Part of me is,” I heard myself admitting. “And part of me isn’t. I mean, part of me really, really wants to, and part of me—”

“—is scared to death,” Lucy concluded for me. “Well, don’t be. Just make sure you use two methods of birth control,” she went on, in the same bossy way she always advises me not to wear my high-tops with a skirt or my legs will look fat. “I mean, he should wear a condom, but you should have a backup method, just in case. You have to start the Pill on the first Sunday of your period, and you just had yours last week, so even if you went to Planned Parenthood tomorrow, it wouldn’t do you any good for Thanksgiving. I’d suggest spermicidal foam.”

I just stared at her. With my mouth hanging open, I’m pretty sure.

But Lucy didn’t seem to notice my shock.

“Don’t buy the foam from any place in the neighborhood,” she went on, briskly. “Someone we know might see you. And then it’ll be all over school…and, in your case, all over the nightly news. You’re bound to be recognized. God, saving David’s dad was the worst thing you ever did. I mean, you can’t do anything without everyone in the world wanting to know your business. Even with the hair. I mean, people can still tell it’s you. It’s just you with stupid-looking black hair. Look, do you want me to buy it for you?”

I just stared at her some more. Honestly, it was like I understood the words coming out of her mouth. I just couldn’t believe she was saying them.

“You can’t count on the guy taking care of it, Sam,” Lucy said, apparently mistaking my stunned silence for indignation that she was poking her nose into my business. “Even a guy like David, who goes to that genius school. I mean, sure, he’ll pick up some condoms. But condoms break. Sometimes they come off. Before they’re supposed to, if you get my drift. You have to be…what’s it called? Proactive. I’ll pick something up for you after school tomorrow. Spermicidal foam is easy, you stick the applicator in like a tampon and just plunge it right in. You should have no problems.”

“Ngrh,” was all that came out of my mouth, due to my extreme freaked-outedness.

Lucy patted me on the head. Seriously. She patted me on the head. As if I were Manet.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “What are sisters for? I think you’re doing the right thing, by the way. I mean, you guys have been going out forever, and David’s a great guy, even if he is, you know, a little weird. What’s with all the eighties bands T-shirts? And that whole art thing is a big yawn. But it’s not like he has any choice. If he tried to bust out, even a little, it would be all over Teen People. And who needs that?”

“But—” I was pleased that I was at least capable of formulating words again. Sadly, I couldn’t seem to make them go into a cohesive sentence. “But don’t you—I mean, what about…Kris?”

Lucy blinked at me. “Kris who?”

“Um. Parks.”

Don’t even ask me why, at that particular moment, she popped into my head.

“What has SHE got to do with it?” Lucy wanted to know, wrinkling her perfect nose.

“Well,” I said, “just that…I mean, you don’t think that David and I should, um, wait?”

“Wait? For what?” Lucy looked generally puzzled.

“Well, like…you know.” I shifted uncomfortably. “Um. Marriage?”

Lucy’s eyes got very big. “Oh my God,” she said. “What, you dye your hair, and you’re Amish all of a sudden?”

“No.” Now I felt even more uncomfortable. “It’s just, you know. The slut factor, and all.”

Lucy looked confused. “Since when does having sex with your boyfriend make you a slut?”

“Well,” I said, coughing to clear my throat, which felt phlegmy all of a sudden. “You know. Kris. And, er, Right Way—”

Lucy laughed like this was the most hilarious thing she had ever heard. “Just stick to worrying about the Right Way for YOU, Sam.”

Then she got up and said, “Well, it was nice having this little sex chat with you, but I have to go now. Mom and Dad got my SAT scores, and they are not what you would call pleased. They say I have to take them over. Oh, and get this: I have to get a tutor. And they’re threatening to make me quit cheerleading so I’ll have time to study. Can you believe it?” She shook her head sadly. “As if it matters what I got on my SATs when I want to be a fashion designer. You don’t need good test scores to do that. Just a decent internship with Marc Jacobs. Anyway, I have to go call everyone I know now and tell them what total ruiners Mom and Dad are. See you.”

Then she drifted off to her own room before I could say another word.

And just when I’d finally thought of some words to say, too. Because suddenly, I had some questions for her. Like, just how big is the average you-know-what, when it’s, you know, in its inflated state?

And how long does the foam stay in after you, you know, Do It?

But then I thought maybe a blow-by-blow about Lucy’s first time with Jack might be more than I could take, especially considering the fact that I, like just about everyone else in my family, wasn’t so wild about Jack. He’s a little more tolerable now that he’s away at college and isn’t always hanging around, expounding on his theories about how artists are so put upon and misunderstood by the rest of the world.

Which I will admit that at one time in my life I actually found quite intriguing.

But that was a dark period in my existence upon which I do not like to dwell. Not now that I’m in love with David, who never says things like, “The man is keeping me down” and “Society owes artists a living wage.”

Which is one of the many reasons I love him…though it also helps that he’s so enthusiastic about how I look in my Nike shirt.

I just wonder if I love him enough to let him see how I look with it off.