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.


 

Top ten reasons why my sister Lucy has it way better than I do:

10. Because of saving the president, and all, I’m a celebrity, so whenever I do something really stupid—such as wear my shirt to school inside out, as I occasionally do before I’ve had enough caffeine to fully wake myself up—I can always count on a picture of it showing up in People or Us Weekly (Celebrities—They’re just like us!).

9. While Lucy may have bombed the SATs, she never actually does anything as stupid as wearing a shirt inside out, so even if she had saved the president and was a national celebrity, they would never print pictures of her looking this dumb anywhere. Because this would never happen to her. She always looks perfect everywhere she goes, no matter how early in the morning.

8. She is dating a teen rebel who owns a motorcycle, even if she is not allowed to ride on it with him, and gets to do cool stuff like go to the opening night of a performance art piece featuring a punk rock band throwing pieces of raw meat at a screen on which are projected various photos of world leaders. Whereas I am dating the president’s son, so I get to do fun things like go to the opening night of Tosca at the Kennedy Center with the various world leaders themselves, which isn’t anywhere near as fun.

7. When I get my photo in Us Weekly almost every single week, wearing an inside-out shirt or whatever, it’s usually right next to Mary-Kate and Ashley. If Lucy were the celebrity, and not me, you can bet her picture would be next to someone way cooler, like Gwen Stefani.

6. Tons of designers send me free clothes, begging me to wear them instead of my inside-out shirts, so that their clothes will be in Us Weekly. Except of course I have to send most of them back, because my parents won’t let me wear leather bustiers and, also, unlike Lucy, I do not have the chest to hold up a bustier. Lucy would totally get to keep them.

5. My boyfriend apparently calls sex Parcheesi. I don’t know what Lucy’s boyfriend calls it. But I’m guessing probably not that.

4. Lucy can figure out sales tax in her head. Oh, and she can do a back handspring. All I can do is draw a naked guy. And apparently, I can’t even do that very well, since I concentrate on the parts and not the whole.

3. Mom and Dad totally like—and trust—my boyfriend. Lucy’s boyfriend? Not so much. So they spend hours arguing with her about him, telling her she could do better, et cetera. Mom and Dad basically ignore me.

2. I have only one friend—my best friend, Catherine, who is so sweet and sensitive I can’t even tell her about my boyfriend possibly wanting to have sex with me over Thanksgiving weekend on account of it would freak her out since she doesn’t even have a boyfriend anymore (unless you count the one in Qatar, which I don’t), whereas Lucy has nine million friends who she can tell anything to because they are completely shallow and have no emotions. Like cyborgs.

And the number-one reason why Lucy has it way better than I do:

1. She’s clearly already lost her virginity and has put it behind her, since it was obviously no big deal to her. It is a huge deal to me, however, which means I will probably be stuck with it (my virginity) until my thirties, or death, whichever comes first.


4

“Wait, so, what did it look like?” Catherine wanted to know.

I couldn’t believe she was so curious. I mean, I could. But I also couldn’t. Because I really didn’t want to talk about it.

“It looked like a penis,” I said. “What do you think? I mean, you’ve seen them before. You used to go skinny dipping at the shore with your brothers when you were little, you said.”

“Yeah, sure,” Catherine said. “But that was before they got, you know. Hair down there.”

“Okay,” I said. “Gross.”

“Well, it’s true. Seriously. How big was it?”

I was starting to be sorry I’d brought it up. I’d only done so because she’d asked how my life drawing class had gone. I’d thought to share with her the true meaning behind the words “life drawing.”

Now I wished I hadn’t.

“It was average, I guess,” I said. “I mean, it’s not like I have a lot of experience in that department.”

“I’m just glad I don’t have one,” Catherine said with a delicate shudder. “I mean, can you imagine, having it dangling there, all the time? How do they even ride bikes?”

“Sam?” Trust Kris Parks to choose that moment, of all the moments in the world, to sidle up to us where we stood in the lunch line and go, “Got a minute?”

Kris is not exactly my favorite person. And up until I became a semi-celebrity, the feeling was mutual.