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….