Ready or Not (2 page)

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….

It's super hot.

But not as hot as the way he looks at me sometimes…like now, for instance.

My parents, in addition to their “work ethic” thing, have also been on this autonomy kick (meaning that we have to start doing our own laundry now, instead of Theresa doing it) so that we learn how to function as normal—i.e., clean—members of society. So the only clean thing I'd been able to find to wear to class, since I hadn't remembered to do my laundry, was this black shirt Nike had sent me, in the hopes I'd wear it the next time I went on TV—like at the town hall meeting on MTV next week.

Which is definitely another perk of being a national heroine…getting free clothes, and all.

Only, fond as I am of Nike, I try not to engage in blatant product placement. So I had never put on this shirt before. Which was why I didn't know until I saw David's face that it must be kind of sexy. The shirt, I mean. I don't have big boobs—or little ones, really. Just normal-sized—but I guess this shirt must be sort of tight and I guess it makes what boobage I do have stick out more than usual…plus it has a V-neck, so it definitely shows more cleavage than the shirts I usually wear.

Which might explain why, when David finally recognized me, he didn't even
notice
my hair. The minute he spotted me, his gaze went straight to my chest. Then, when he went to sit down on the drawing bench next to mine, all he said was, “Hey, Sharona.”

“Hey, Daryl,” I said back to him.

Daryl and Sharona are our white trash names. You know, what we think our names would be if we'd been born in a trailer park instead of Cleveland Park (me) or Houston, Texas (David).

Which is not to say that anyone who has the name Daryl or Sharona is necessarily white trash, or that anyone who lives in a trailer park is, either. Just that if
we
were white trash, they'd be the names we thought we'd have….

Okay, it's a couple thing. You know how people who've been going out a long time have these couple things that they do? Like my mom and dad call each other “Schmoopie” sometimes, after an episode of a sitcom they saw once. The Daryl and Sharona thing is like that.

Only not repulsive.

“I like your shirt,” was what Daryl/David said next.

“Yeah,” I said. “That part was sort of obvious.”

“You should wear shirts like that more often,” Daryl/David said, not even looking the least bit ashamed of himself for so blatantly ogling (SAT word meaning “to view or look at with side glances, as in fondness”) me.

“I'll try to keep that in mind,” I said. “Look up a little. What about the hair?”

He was still looking at my shirt. “It's great.”

“David. You haven't even looked at it.”

He tore his gaze from my chest and looked at my hair. His green eyes narrowed.

“It's black,” he said.

I nodded. “Very good. Anything else? For instance…do you like it?”

“It's…” He stared at my head some more. “It's
very
black.”

“Yes,” I said. “It's called Midnight Ebony. Which led me to believe it might be black. Do you like it, is what I want to know.”

David said, “Well, you aren't going to have to worry about anybody calling you Red anytime soon.”

“I realize that,” I said. “But do you think it looks good?”

“It looks…” David looked back down at my chest. “Great.”

Wow. I wonder if Nike is aware of the power their shirts have over the eye sockets of people's boyfriends. At least mine, anyway. So much for being able to count on David for giving me an honest opinion on my new look. I guess I was going to have to wait for—

“What in God's name did you do to your hair?” Susan Boone looked horrified.

“I dyed it,” I said, fingering a limp curl. I couldn't tell from her expression whether or not she approved. She mostly looked the way Theresa and Lucy had…stunned. “Do you not like it?”

Susan bit her lower lip.

“You know, Sam,” she said. “There are thousands of women who would kill for hair the color yours used to be. I hope that black isn't, er, permanent.”

“Semi,” I said weakly. The studio was filling up with life drawing students. Except for Rob, David's Secret Service agent—being the first son, David isn't allowed to go anywhere without being trailed by at least one Secret Service agent—I didn't recognize anyone.

Still, even though I didn't know any of the people in the Thursday class, they were all listening to our conversation—mine and Susan's.

Oh, they were pretending they weren't, fiddling around with their charcoal and drawing pads as they got settled.

But they were listening. You could tell.

“I just really needed a change,” I said, trying to defend my—apparently bad—decision.

“Well, it's your head,” Susan said with a shrug. Then she nodded at the army helmet David had given me last year, the one decorated with Wite-Out daisies, sitting on its shelf over the slop sink. “Guess you won't be needing that anymore.”

Which was true. I'd only worn it because Susan's pet crow, Joe, who roamed around loose during our drawing sessions, was morbidly obsessed with my red hair, and often dive-bombed me if I wasn't wearing protective headgear. I eyed the evil bird, wondering if he was going to leave me alone now.