“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.”


Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Beth Ader, Jennifer Brown,

Michele Jaffe, Laura Langlie, Abigail McAden,

and, most of all, Benjamin Egnatz.

Meg Cabot

is the author of many best-selling, critically acclaimed books for teens, including the Princess Diaries books, the Mediator series, the 1-800-Where-R-You series, all-american girl, and Teen Idol, as well as Nicola and the Viscount and Victoria and the Rogue. She also writes books for adults, including The Boy Next Door, Boy Meets Girl, and Every Boy’s Got One. She currently lives in Key West and New York City with her husband and a one-eyed cat named Henrietta.

Visit Meg’s website at: www.megcabot.com

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