All-American Girl (5 page)

Top ten
reasons I would make a better girlfriend for Jack than my sister Lucy:

• 10. My love for and appreciation of art. Lucy doesn't know anything about art. To her, art is what they made us do with pipe cleaners that summer we both went to Girl Scout camp.
  
• 9. Having the soul of an artist, I am better equipped to understand and handle Jack's mood swings. Lucy just asks him if he is over himself yet.
  
• 8. I would never demand, as Lucy does, that Jack take me to whatever asinine teen gross-out movie is currently popular with the sixteen-to-twenty-four crowd. I would understand that a soul as sensitive as Jack's needs sustenance in the form of independent art films, or perhaps the occasional foreign movie with subtitles.
  And by that I am not referring to Jackie Chan.
  
• 7. Ditto the stupid books Lucy makes Jack read.
  Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus is not appropriate reading material for a
  guy like Jack.
  The Virgin and the Gypsy by D.H. Lawrence would
  do far more to stimulate Jack's already brilliant mind than any of
  Lucy's pathetic self-help manuals. Although I have never actually read
  The Virgin and the Gypsy
  . Still, it sounds like a book that Jack and I could really get into. For instance, we could take turns reading it out loud on a blanket in the park, which is something artists always do in movies. Just as soon as I am done re-reading
  Fight Club, I will give The V. and the G.
  a try to make sure it is really as intellectual as it sounds.
  
• 6. On Jack's birthday, I would not give him joke boxer shorts with Tweety Bird on them, the way Lucy did last year. I would find something highly personal and romantic to give him, such as sable paintbrushes or perhaps a leather-bound copy of
  Romeo and Juliet or one of Gwen Stefani's wristbands or something like
  that.
  
• 5. If Jack were ever late to pick me up for a date, I would not yell at him the way Lucy does. I would understand that artists cannot be held to pedestrian constraints like time.
  
• 4. I would never make Jack go to the mall with me. If I ever went to the mall, which I don't. Instead, Jack and I would go to museums, and I am not talking about the Aeronautical and Space Museum, which everyone goes to, or the Smithsonian to see Dorothy's stupid ruby slippers, either, but actual
  art
  museums, with actual
  art
  , such as the Hirschorn. Perhaps we could even take drawing pads with us and sit back to back on those couches and sketch our favorite paintings, and people would come up and look at what we were drawing and offer to buy the sketches, and we would say no because we would want to treasure the drawings forever as symbols of our great love for one another.
  
• 3. If Jack and I ever got married, I would not insist on a massive church wedding with a country club reception, the way I know Lucy would. Jack and I would be married barefoot in the woods near Walden Pond, where so many artistic souls have gone to receive succor.
  And for our honeymoon, instead of a Sandals in Jamaica, or wherever, we would fully go to Paris and live in a garret.
  
• 2. When Jack came over to visit me, I would never read a magazine while he sat at our kitchen table eating doughnuts. I would engage him in friendly but spirited and intellectual conversations about art and literature.
  

And the number-one reason I would be a better girlfriend for Jack than Lucy:

• 1. I would give him the loving support he so desperately needs, since I understand what it is like to be tortured by the burden of one's genius.
  

Fortunately
, it was raining on Thursday when Theresa drove me to Susan Boone's studio. That meant that the chances of her finding a parking space, scrounging around the backseat for an umbrella, getting out of the car, and walking me all the way to the studio door were exactly nil.

Instead, she stopped in the middle of Connecticut Avenue—causing all the cars behind her to honk—and went, “If you are not out here at exactly five thirty, I will hunt you down. Do you hear me? Hunt you down like an animal.”

“Fine,” I said, undoing my seat belt.

“I mean it, Miss Samantha,” Theresa said. “Five thirty on the dot. Or I will double-park and you will have to pay the impound fees if the station wagon gets towed.”

“Whatever,” I said, and stepped out into the pouring rain. “See you.”

Then I ran for the door to the studio.

Only I didn't, of course, go up that narrow stairway. Well, really, how could I? I mean, I had to fight the system, right?

Besides, it wasn't like I hadn't completely
humiliated
myself in there the day before yesterday. Was I really just going to go waltzing back in like nothing had happened?

The answer, of course, was no. No, I was not.

What I did instead was, I waited about a minute inside the little foyer, with rainwater dripping off the hood of my Gore-Tex parka. While I was in there, I tried not to feel too guilty. I knew I was
taking a stand, and all, by boycotting Susan Boone. I mean, I was showing that I was fully on the side of art rebels everywhere.

But my parents
were
paying a lot of money for these art lessons. I had heard my father grousing that they cost almost as much per month as the animal behaviorist. Susan Boone, it turned out, was kind of famous. Just what she was famous for, I didn't know, but apparently, she charged a bundle for her art tutelage.

So even though I was fighting the system, I didn't feel too good, knowing I was wasting my parents' hard-earned money.

But if you think about it, I am actually the cheapest kid Mom and Dad have. I mean, they spend a small fortune on Lucy every month. She is always needing new clothes, new pom-poms, new orthodontia, new dermatological aids, whatever, in order to maintain her image as one of Adams Prep's beautiful people.

And Rebecca, my God, the lab fees alone at Horizon pretty much equal the gross national product of a small underdeveloped nation.

And me? How much do Mom and Dad spend on
me
every month? Well, up until I got busted for the celebrity drawing thing, nothing, besides tuition. I mean, I'm supposed to wear my sister's hand-me-down bras, right? And I didn't even need new clothes this year: I just applied black Rit to last semester's clothes, and voilà! A whole new wardrobe.

Really, as children go, I am a major bargain. I don't even eat that much, either, seeing as how I hate almost all food except hamburgers, the Bread Lady's baguettes, and dessert.

So I shouldn't have even felt guilty about ditching art class. Not really.

But as I stood there, the familiar scent of turpentine washed over me, and I could hear, way up at the top of the stairs, the faint sound of classical music, and the occasional squawk from Joe the crow. I
was suddenly filled with a strange longing to climb those stairs, go to my bench, sit down, and draw.

But then I remembered the humiliation I had endured the last time I'd been in that room. And in front of that David guy, too! I mean, yeah, he wasn't as cute as Jack, or anything. But he was still a guy! A guy who liked Save Ferris! And who had said he liked my boots!

Okay, no way was I going up those stairs. I was taking a stand. A stand against the system.

Instead, I waited in the vestibule, praying nobody would come in while I was huddled there and say, “Oh, hi, Sam. Aren't you coming upstairs?”

As if anybody there would even remember my name. Except possibly Susan Boone.

But nobody came in. When two minutes were up, I cautiously opened the door and looked out at the rain-soaked street.

Theresa and the station wagon were gone. It was safe. I could come out.

The first place I went was Capitol Cookies. Well, how could I not? It looked so warm and inviting, what with the rain and all, and I happened to have a dollar sixty-eight in my pocket, exactly as much as a Congressional Chocolate Chunk. The cookie they handed me was still warm from the oven, too. I slipped it into the pocket of my black Gore-Tex coat. They don't allow food in Static, where I was going next.

They weren't playing Garbage there that afternoon. They were playing the Donnas. Not ska, but perfectly acceptable. I went over to where they had some headphones plugged into the wall so people could sample the CDs they were thinking about buying. I spent a nice half hour or so listening to the Less Than Jake CD I'd wanted but couldn't afford now that my mom had seen to it that my
funding for such items was shut off.

As I listened, I snuck bits of cookie from my pocket into my mouth and told myself that what I was doing wasn't all that wrong. Fighting the system, I mean. Besides, look at Catherine: for years her parents have been forcing her to go to Sunday school while they attend mass. Since there is, like, a two-year age difference between Catherine and each of her brothers, all three of them were in different religion classes, so she never knew until this year that Marco and Javier, after their mom dropped them all off, were waving good-bye and then ducking around the corner to Beltway Billiards. She only found out when her class let out early one day, and she went to look around for her brothers, and they were nowhere to be seen.

So basically for years Catherine's been sitting there, listening to her religion teachers tell her to resist temptation, etc., while it turns out the whole time her brothers—and pretty much all the rest of the cool kids who go to her church—have been next door, getting the high score on Super Mario.

So what does Catherine do now? She waves good-bye to her mom just like Marco and Javier, and then she, too, goes to Beltway Billiards—and works on her geometry homework in the glow of Delta Force.

And does she feel bad about it? No. Why not? Because she says if the Lord really is all-forgiving, like they taught her in Sunday school, He will understand that she really does need the extra study time or she will flunk geometry and never get into a good college and make a success of herself.

So why should I feel bad about skipping my drawing lesson? I mean, it is only a
drawing lesson
. Catherine, on the other hand, is skipping out on
God
.

Surely my parents, in the unlikely event that they find out what
I've done, will understand that I was merely trying to preserve my integrity as an artist. Of
course
they will understand this. Probably. Maybe. On a good day, anyway, when there haven't been any PCBs found in some Midwestern town's water supply, or too many plunges in the North African economy.

If anybody at Static thought it was strange that this fifteen-year-old redheaded girl, dressed in black from head to toe, was hanging around for two hours, sampling CDs but not buying any, they didn't say anything about it to me. The chick behind the counter, who had the kind of spiky black hair I've always wanted but have never had the guts to get, was too busy flirting with one of the other workers, a guy in plaid pants and a Le Tigre T-shirt, to pay any attention to me.

The other customers were ignoring me, too. Most of them looked like college students wasting time between classes. Some of them might have been in high school. One of them was a kind of old guy, like in his thirties, wearing army clothes and carrying a duffel bag. For a while he was hanging out by the headphones near me, listening to Billy Joel. I was surprised that a place like Static even had any Billy Joel, but they did. This guy kept listening to “Uptown Girl” over and over. My dad is actually a Billy Joel fan—he plays it all the time in the car, which makes driving with him mad fun, let me tell you—but even he is way over “Uptown Girl.”

My cookie was gone about midway through the Spitvalves' second album. I reached into my pocket and found nothing but crumbs. I thought about going over to Capitol Cookies to get another, but then I remembered I was broke. Besides, by that time it was almost five thirty. I had to go outside and wait for Theresa to pick me up.

I put my hood up and walked out into the rain. It wasn't the steady downpour it had been when I'd arrived, but I figured the
hood would keep anybody coming out of the Susan Boone Art Studio from recognizing me and being all, “Hey, where were you, anyway?”

As if any of them would have missed me.

It had gotten dark outside while I'd been in the record store. All the cars going by had their headlights on. And there were a lot more of them than before, because it was rush hour and everyone was trying to get home to be with their loved ones. Or maybe just to watch
Friends
. Whatever.

I stood on the curb across from the Founding Church of Scientology, squinting into the light drizzle and headlights in the direction from which Theresa was supposed to come. As I stood there, I couldn't help feeling kind of sorry for myself. I mean, there I was, a fifteen-year-old, left-handed, redheaded, boyfriendless, misunderstood, middle child reject, broke, standing in the rain after skipping her drawing class because she couldn't take criticism. What was going to happen if I grew up and started my own celebrity portrait painting business or something? Was I just going to quit if it didn't work out right away? Was I going to go hide in Static? Maybe I could just go ahead and get a job there, to make things easier. It didn't seem like a very bad place to work, actually. I bet employees get a discount on CDs.

While I was standing there being ashamed of myself for being a quitter, the old guy who was such a big Billy Joel fan came out of Static and stood next to me, even though the crosswalk sign was green. I looked at him from the corner of my eye. He was messing around with something under his rain poncho, which was in a camouflage pattern. I wondered if he was a shoplifter. At Static I'd noticed they had a Wall of Shame, where they stuck up Polaroids of people who'd tried to swipe something. This dude looked like as prime a candidate for the Wall of Shame as I'd ever seen.

And when, right after this, I saw all these flashing red lights coming out of the rain and darkness, I was like, Oh, yes, here come the cops. Mr. Uptown Girl is
so
busted.

Only it turned out the sirens didn't belong to the cops at all. Instead, they were part of the president's motorcade. First came the lead car, a black SUV with a rack of flashing red lights on its roof. Then came another black SUV, and behind it, a long black limo. Behind that were some more SUVs with flashing lights.

Instead of being excited that I was going to get to see the president go by—even though you can't really see him when he's in his limo because the windows are those weird ones the people inside the car can see out of but the people outside the car can't see into—I was like, Aw, crud. Because Theresa was probably somewhere behind the motorcade, which was crawling along at a snail's pace. Not only was she going to be in a really bad mood by the time she finally picked me up, but no way was I going to miss David coming out of Susan Boone's. He would probably see me standing out here and be like, Man, she's weird, and never speak to me again. Not that I cared, because I am fully in love with my sister's boyfriend. But it had been nice of him to notice my boots. Hardly anyone else ever had.

And besides, when you live in D.C., seeing the president go by is really no big deal, since he goes by all the time.

Then the strangest thing happened. The first SUV in the motorcade pulled up right in front of me…and stopped. Just stopped.

And the traffic light wasn't even red.

Behind the first SUV, the second one stopped, and then the limo, and so on. Traffic was totally stopped behind them, all along Connecticut Avenue. Then these guys with these earpieces climbed out of the cars and all went toward the limo.

And then, to my utter astonishment, the president of the United
States got out of his limo and walked, with a bunch of Secret Service guys clustered around him holding up umbrellas and looking around and speaking into their walkie-talkies, into Capitol Cookies!

That's right, just walked into Capitol Cookies, like he did it every day.

I didn't know that the president liked Capitol Cookies. Capitol Cookies are good, and all, but they're not the most famous cookies around, or anything. I mean, there's just the one store.

And wouldn't you think that if you were the president you could get the owner to send you a personal supply of cookies, so you wouldn't have to go ducking out of your limo, in the rain, just to get your hands on some? I mean, if I owned a bakery and I found out that the president of the United States liked my cookies, I would fully make sure he got a steady supply of them.

On the other hand, the people who owned Capitol Cookies would probably prefer to have the president be seen ducking into the store. That is way better publicity than you could ever get by privately shipping him his own supply.

And then, as I stood there in the dark and the rain, with the red lights from the top of the SUV in front of me flashing in my face, I saw Mr. Uptown Girl throw back his rain poncho.

And it turned out what he'd been doing under there had nothing to do with him being a shoplifter. Not at all. It turned out what he'd been doing under there had to do with a great big gun, which he brought out and pointed in the direction of the door to Capitol Cookies…the door through which the president, his cookies having been secured with miraculous swiftness, was just exiting.

I am not what most people would call a particularly brave person. I stick up for the kids at school who get picked on only because I remember what it was like to get picked on back when I lived in Morocco, and during the whole speech and hearing thing.