Ready or Not (16 page)

“Well,” Debra said, “that was cool. See you guys.” Then she wandered over to where Jeff Rothberg was sitting, straddled him, and stuck her tongue in his mouth.

And I knew then that Adams Prep had gone back to normal.

Only this time, in a good way.

“Did you really see Kris Parks in Random Alvarez's limo?” I asked Lucy, after the bell rang, and we were making our way back to class. “Or were you just guessing about that?”

She was still sort of dazed with happiness over the whole Harold thing, so it was hard to get her to focus. But after I punched her in the arm a few times, she came to. “Ow. You didn't have to HIT me. Of course I really saw her in the limo. Do you think I would lie about something like that?”

“Actually,” I said, “for me? Yeah. I think you would. Because Random's limo had tinted windows. There was no way you could have seen anyone sitting inside it.”

“You know what, Sam,” Lucy said, the tiniest of grins flickering across her lips, “you better duck into the girls' room and do something about your hair. It's totally pooching out in the back again, and it looks really stupid. See you after school.”

And she disappeared down the hall, her pleated mini swaying as she walked.

And I realized I would probably never, ever know the real truth.

And I also realized that actually? It really didn't matter.

Top ten things you probably didn't know about Camp David:

  10.   Located 70 miles from the White House in the Catoctin Mountains of Maryland, Camp David was established in 1942 as a place for the president to relax and entertain away from the sweltering heat and humidity of Washington, D.C., in the summer.

    9.   Franklin Delano Roosevelt's name for the presidential retreat was Camp “Shangri-La” after the mountain kingdom in James Hilton's book
Lost Horizon
.

    8.   It was renamed Camp David in 1953 by President Eisenhower in honor of his grandson, David.

    7.   The camp is operated by navy personnel, and troops from the Marine Barracks in Washington, D.C., provide permanent security.

    6.   Guests at Camp David can enjoy a pool, putting green, driving range, tennis courts, horseback riding, and a gymnasium.

    5.   Camp David is made up of many different cabins situated around a main house. The cabins include: Dogwood, Maple, Holly, Birch, and Rosebud. The presidential cabin is called Aspen Lodge.

    4.   Camp David has been the site of many historic international meetings. It was there, during World War II, that President Franklin Roosevelt and British Prime Minister Winston Churchill planned the Allies' invasion of Europe.

    3.   Many historical events have occurred at the presidential retreat, including the planning of the Normandy invasion, the Eisenhower-Khrushchev meetings, discussions of the Bay of Pigs, Vietnam War strategy sessions, and many other events with foreign dignitaries and guests.

    2.   President Jimmy Carter chose the site for the meeting of Middle East leaders that led to the Camp David Accords between Israel and Egypt.

And the number-one fact you probably didn't know about Camp David:

    1.   It was about to become the place where I, Samantha Madison, would have sex for the very first time.

Maybe.

“Would you like more sweet potatoes, Sam?” the first lady asked me.

“Um, no, thank you,” I said.

See, this is the problem with being a picky eater and going to someone else's house to eat. The fact is, there are very few foods I actually like. Thanksgiving is the worst. I mean, I hate practically every food the Pilgrims ever ate. I can't stand dressing. You don't even know what half the stuff in there really is, and the few things you
can
identify, such as raisins, are just gross.

I won't eat anything red except for ketchup and pizza sauce, so that automatically rules out anything else with tomatoes. It also rules out cranberries. And—UGH—beets.

Basically, all vegetables gross me out. So that means no peas or roasted carrots or string beans or—yuck—Brussels sprouts.

I'm not even a huge fan of turkey. I mean, I only like the dark meat. But everyone considers that part, like, the worst, so I only ever get offered pieces from the breast, which are white meat, which I can't stand, because even when it's cooked by a master chef from the White House, it's still sort of…gross.

In my family, it is understood that when it comes to Thanksgiving dinner, I'm totally cool with a peanut butter sandwich, which my grandmother always lovingly prepares with the crusts cut off.

Sure, my mom and dad used to complain because I wouldn't even
try
whatever they'd gone to so much trouble preparing.

But over the years, I've trained them to just leave me alone. I mean, it's not like I'm going to starve.

But this was my first Thanksgiving with David and his family. I hadn't really had a chance to train them yet.

So I just had to sit there and pretend to eat everything they put on my plate while actually just rearranging it in artful piles (I'd learned my lesson about trying to hide it in my napkin), while secretly intending to go back to my room and scarf down the plastic-wrapped peanut butter sandwich I had waiting for me in my overnight bag.

Right next to the spermicidal foam and condoms Lucy had given me.

Which I was trying not to think about.

David was clearly doing the same (trying not to think about sex), since one of the first things we'd done upon arriving at Camp David—after our ride to it on
Marine One
, the presidential helicopter—was break out the board games, on account of the bad weather (it was raining).

Not just raining, but
pouring
so hard that before David actually showed up to get me, I'd wondered if
Marine One
was even going to be able to take off.

Which hadn't been the only indication that Thanksgiving at Camp David wasn't exactly going to be a picnic. No, I'd also woken up with a big zit on my chin. From the stress. You couldn't really see it, but I could
feel
it. And it hurt.

I hadn't taken either of these—the rain or the zit—as fortuitous (SAT word meaning “good fortune or luck”) signs. And it turned out I'd been right. At least, judging by how my day had gone so far.

I always thought—before I knew better—that our nation's leader lived in the lap of luxury. Like I figured the White House was this huge mansion, with animal-skin rugs everywhere.

And while the White House
is
pretty nice, it's
not
huge, and it's not as nice as, say, Jack Slater's house in Chevy Chase. I guess it's nicer than the average American's house—you know, it has a pool, and a bowling alley, and all of that.

But the stuff in it that's the fanciest is, like, really old, and you aren't actually allowed to use it. Everything else is pretty much stuff you'd find in any house, like mine, or Catherine's. Just your average stuff.

And Camp David is even
more
plain. I mean, it's huge, for a house, don't get me wrong, with all these cottages spread out across all this land. And there's a swimming pool there, too, along with a gym.

But it's not
fancy
. I mean, the way you would think a world leader's country house would be.

I guess that's because our founding fathers were trying to move away from the idea of a ruling class. Also, the president doesn't actually make all that much money. At least, compared to my mom and dad.

Of course, David's family has money from the companies his dad ran before he became governor, and then president. But still.

Anyway, I'm just saying, Camp David is no castle. It's more like a…well, a
camp
.

Which makes it kind of a weird place for someone to lose her virginity.

Or
not
lose it, as the case may be. Because I had given it a lot of thought over the past twenty-four hours, and the truth was, I wasn't.

Ready, I mean.

Yes, I know I'd been practicing. A lot. A
lot.

And, yes, I
know
I had said I was on national (okay, cable) television. I know everyone in the entire country—including my own grandma, no doubt—thinks I'm sexually active.

And I know the worst had already happened—being publically accused of being a slut by Kris Parks—and I'd already weathered that just fine.

But just because everyone thinks I've already Done It isn't a good enough reason to Do It. I mean, it's still this incredibly huge step. With sex comes great responsibility. An end of innocence. Not to mention possible STDs and unwanted pregnancy. Who needs the aggravation?

Especially when, let's face it, high school is aggravation enough as it is.

So, I had made my decision.

Now I just had to break the news to David.

Which might have been another reason I had so much trouble actually getting anything down at dinner. I mean, David had to think he was Getting Some tonight. He
had
to. I'd seen the twinkle in his eye when he'd broken out the Parcheesi board (Yes! An actual Parcheesi board!) earlier that afternoon. He'd all but winked at me over the dice cup.

I was going to be crushing all of his adolescent dreams. He was going to hate me.

No wonder I couldn't eat.

I was really relieved when the first lady excused David and me, and we went into the living room to watch the new Adam Sandler (yes, the president
does
get first run movies before they ever go on sale for anyone else). That took my mind off what I knew was going to happen after everyone else went to bed. Sort of. Up until the moment the movie ended, and next thing I knew, David was walking me to the door of my bedroom—which was in the main part of the house, not one of the cottages—and saying, “Good night, Sam.” In this kind of voice. This kind of “this is for my parents' benefit” voice.

Because he knew neither of us would
really
be going to sleep.

Anytime soon.

Or so he thought.

I felt totally panicky as I closed the door to my room behind me. My room was a pretty good example of how
not
fancy the presidential retreat is. It was just this ordinary room, white with wood paneling and a navy blue bedspread over a queen-sized bed. There were bookshelves on the wall filled with books about—I am not kidding you—birds and bird-watching. It had its own bathroom and a view of the lake. But really, that was about all it had going for it.

But this room, apparently, was the place where David thought we were going to Do It. After everyone else had gone to sleep, and David came back.

Which might explain why suddenly I felt so…

Nauseous.

And it wasn't just all the marshmallow from the top of the sweet potatoes, either.

The peanut butter sandwich helped a little.

But after I'd eaten it, I didn't know what to do. I mean, I couldn't start getting ready for bed, or anything, because who knew what the sight of me in my pajamas might do to David? Inflame his senses, or whatever, and make it even harder on him when I said no. Not that my pajamas were very sexy, or anything, being flannel, with pictures of suitcases on them, under the words
Bon Voyage
written all over (my grandma had gotten them for me for my birthday last year, for when I traveled as teen ambassador to the UN).

No, it was much better to remain fully clothed. So I did. I sat down on the edge of my bed and waited. It wouldn't be long now. David would be showing up any second. As soon as he was sure his parents were safely asleep. It was past midnight, so he had to be coming soon. Presidents get up way early, so surely his mom and dad had already hit the hay. He would be coming any minute.

Any minute now.

And I was ready for him. I had my speech all planned out. “David,” I would say, gazing tenderly into his eyes, “you know I love you. And I know I said on national (cable) television the other night that I was ready to say yes to sex. But the fact is, I'm not. I know you love me enough to understand, and that you'll wait for me. Because that's what real love is…being willing to wait.”

Actually I got that last part from this pin the Right Wayers had been giving out at lunch a couple of weeks ago. It was a pin in the shape of a heart that said
Love Means…Willing to Wait.
At the time, I had made gagging noises for Catherine's benefit when I'd read it.

But now it was sort of starting to make sense.

I wished I hadn't taken that pin and stabbed it through the chest of the
Nightmare Before Christmas
Sally action figure at work. I could have used it now. I could give it to David, as a symbol of my commitment to have sex with him someday. Some day
other
than today.

I could totally picture myself giving it to him, and maybe saying something really memorable and touching. Maybe something like, “‘Hey, you on the other side. Let her go. 'Cause for her, I'll cross over, and when that happens, you'll be sorry.'”

It really seemed to me like a situation that was crying out for a quote from
Hellboy.

Anyway, I was ready. I had brushed my teeth—just so my breath wouldn't offend as I gently let him down—and examined my zit. No improvement. The good news, though, was that you still couldn't see it, even without makeup. I could just
feel
it, all sore and angry at me. I don't actually wear that much makeup, just mascara and cover-up mostly, and a little lip gloss. Still, I figured I should keep it on for the Big Gentle Let Down, so at least my eyelashes would be the same color as my hair. It just seemed like, you know, I should try to look my best for The Big Sex Talk, even though David has seen me looking
far
from my best more times than I can count.

Yep. I was ready. Ready and waiting. Just one thing was missing.

David.

Speaking of which…where
was
he? It had been nearly an hour since we'd all gone off to bed. It was almost twelve thirty now.

Suddenly, I started feeling nauseous in a different way. Had David changed his mind? Had I done something to make him not want to have sex with me? Was it my zit? Had he noticed it?

But it seemed highly unlikely a guy would change his mind about having sex with his girlfriend over a zit.

But wait a minute. I didn't even
want
to have sex with him. So what did I care?

Was it something else, then? Was it what had happened on MTV? Oh my God, had my announcing I'd said Yes to Sex on national (cable) television killed the spontaneity or something? They are always going on about how sex should be spontaneous in
Cosmo.
Had I somehow ruined that?

Well, what if I had? Good. I don't want to Do It, anyway.

But this didn't seem very likely, either. Sex isn't the same kind of big deal to boys that it is to girls. Or at least it doesn't seem that way. Oh, sure, boys all
want
to have sex. But they don't
obsess
over it the way we do. They just
do
it.

At least, that's how it seems in movies, like
American Pie.

So where
was
he? This waiting around was
killing
me. I just wanted to tell him I wasn't going to Do It and get it over with already.

I waited for five more minutes. Still no David.

What if something had happened to him? What if he'd tripped in the shower and hit his head and was lying there unconscious with his mouth open, his lungs filling up with water even as I was sitting here?

Worse, what if David had simply changed his mind?

HOW COULD HE CHANGE HIS MIND AFTER I'D BEEN DOING ALL THAT PRACTICING?

Before I even knew what I was doing, I was on my feet and storming for the door. How dare he? How DARE he change his mind after putting me through what he'd put me through all week? HE wasn't going to be the one to decide we weren't having sex after all
. I
was the one who was going to decide that. I had already decided that, long before he had.

I charged down the dark, empty hallway, thinking of all the things I was going to say to him—or not say to him. He certainly wasn't getting any
Hellboy
quotes out of me now. No way. He'd had his opportunity for
Hellboy
quotes and completely wasted it. No more
Love Means…Willing to Wait
for him. He was going to get
Bon Voyage
. That was what he was going to get.

When I got to David's room, I could see light shining out from the crack under his door. So he was still up. He was still up! He just hadn't bothered to move his lazy butt on down the hall to let me know we weren't having sex after all. Yeah, thanks! Thanks for letting me know! Who knows how long I would have stayed up, waiting to say no to sex, before I realized he wasn't even coming?

Which was why I threw open his door without even knocking, and stood there, glaring at him, my chest heaving. But not in a romance novel kind of a way. More in an I'm Going to Kill You kind of way.