Meg Cabot - Ready or Not

“But”—and this was the part that I was having the most trouble processing—“the other day, in the cafeteria. You called yourself a slut.”

“So?” Lucy tossed some of her shimmery red-gold hair. “So did Catherine.”

I stared at her, completely shocked. “So you…you just did that for me? And you and Jack—all that time—you never…you never…”

“Did It?” Lucy shook her head. “No way. I told you. He wasn’t The One.”

“But…but you thought he was. For a long time. You can’t tell me you didn’t. You even told me he was your first!”

“My first LOVE,” Lucy said. “Not my first…you know.”

“But…” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Lucy shrugged. “I mean, yeah, I guess I thought sometimes he might be. The right guy. But I never knew. You know? Not the way you know about David. Or I know about Harold.”

“You think Harold is The…One?” I asked.

I must have wrinkled my nose as I said it or something, though, because Lucy sounded defensive as she said, “Yes, I do. Why? What’s wrong with Harold?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I’m sure you two will be very happy together. After, you know. You pass your SATs, and everything.”

Apparently mollified, Lucy said, “So tell me all about it. Did it hurt the first time? Did his parents suspect? Where’d you guys Do It, his room or yours? What about the Secret Service? They weren’t around, were they? What about—”

Her questions went on and on.

And even though I felt way too dazed to answer them, I totally tried. Because I fully owed her. Way more now than I’d ever even realized.

It was the least I could do to repay her.

Besides, what are sisters for?

“Sam! You showed!” Dauntra waved at me wildly from behind the cash register when I showed up for my shift later that day.

Well, so much for her being mad at me. I’d fully thought she would be. On account of my having turned out to have been a mouthpiece for the president’s fascist initiative after all.

Although I had refused to go along with it at the last minute.

“Hey, D,” I said, ducking beneath the counter to join her. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

“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?