Lucy’s thoughts on the matter were much less esoteric than Rebecca’s.
“Dinner at the White House,” she said. “Do you think it would be OK if I brought Jack?”
“NO,” both my parents said, loudly, and at the same time.
Lucy sighed dramatically. “That’s OK. It’ll be more fun to go without him. I can flirt with that Dave guy. He’s hot.”
You see? You see how little Lucy deserves a guy like Jack? I sucked in my breath, filled with indignation on Jack’s behalf ...
“Hello,” I said. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”
Lucy just stared at me like I was nuts. “So?” she said. “Does that mean I can’t ever look at another guy? Did you get a load of David’s green eyes? And that butt—”
“That’s it,” my dad said. “No butts. There will be no discussions of anyone’s butt while I am in the room. And preferably while I am out of it, as well.”
“That goes double for me,” Mom said.
I heartily concurred. Imagine, looking at another guy’s butt, when she already had Jack’s to look at whenever she wanted!
But Lucy seemed completely oblivious to her own selfishness and disloyalty. She just shrugged and said, “Whatever,” before wandering over towards the window . . .
“Stay away from the window!” both my mom and I yelled.
But it was too late. A huge roar went up from the crowd standing outside. Lucy, startled at first, soon got over it and started waving like she thought she was the Pope, or somebody.
“Hello,” she called, even though there was no way they could hear her. “Hello, all you little people. Hello, Good Morning, America!
It was kind of funny that at that moment the door opened and a lady in a blouse with ruffles at the neck, who introduced herself as Mrs. Rose, the hospital’s chief administrator, went, to Lucy, “Miss Madison? Are you ready for your press conference?”
Lucy, her eyes wide, spun around.
“Not me,” she said. “Her.” And stabbed one of her pointy nails in my direction.
Mrs. Rose looked at me.
“Oh,” she said. Fine. Are you ready, then, dear? They just want to ask you a few questions. It will only take five minutes. And then you’ll be free to go home.”
I looked at my mom and dad. They smiled at me encouragingly. I looked at Theresa. She did the same. I looked at Lucy. She went, “Whatever happens, don’t touch your hair. I finally got it perfect. Don’t mess it up.”
I looked back at Mrs. Rose.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m ready, I guess.”
Top ten Things Not to Do at a Press Conference:
10. When the reporter from the New York Times asks you if you were scared when Larry Wayne Rogers (aka Mr. Uptown Girl) pulled a gun out from under his rain poncho, it is probably better not to say no, that you were relieved, because you’d thought he’d been pulling out something else.
9. Just because they put water out for you doesn’t mean you have to drink it. Especially if when you drink it, you accidentally miss your mouth because it is so slippery with lip gloss, and all the water goes dribbling down the front of your sister’s blouse.
8. When the reporter from the Indianapolis Star asks if you are aware that Larry Wayne Rogers attempted to shoot the President out of a desire to impress the celebrity with whom he was obsessed for many years—Billy Joel’s ex-wife, the model Christie Brinkley, about whom Billy wrote the song ‘Uptown Girl’—it is probably better not to say, “What a loser!” Instead, you should express your concern for the very serious problem of mental illness.
7. When a CNN news correspondent wants to know if you have a boyfriend, it would be cooler just to say, “Not at the current time,” than to do what I did, which was choke on my own spit.
6. Staring fixedly at Barbara Walters’ head, wondering if that is really her hair, or some kind of space helmet? Yeah, not such a good idea.
5. When Matt Lauer stands up to ask his question, it is probably best not to squeal into the microphone, “Hey! I know you! My mom has the hugest crush on you!”
4. If a piece of your own hair becomes affixed to your lip gloss, it would probably be better to brush it away with your hand, rather than trying to blow it out of the way as if you were Free Willy.
3. When a reporter from the Los Angeles Times asks if it is true that you just met the President and his family, and wants to know what that was like for you, you might want to come up with something more descriptive than, “Um. Fine.”
2. Just as a general thing, when you have saved the life of the leader of the Free World, most people really want to hear about that and, sadly, don’t care to hear a long-winded description of your dog.
And the number one thing not to do at a press conference:
1. Don’t forget your sunglasses. Otherwise, so many people will be snapping flash photos of you, all you will be able to see in front of you is a big purple blob, so when you descend from the podium, you will trip because you can’t see where you are going, and land in local news anchorwoman Candace Lu’s lap.
Here’s what happens when you stop a crazy guy from killing the President of the United States:
Suddenly, everyone—everyone in the entire world—wants to be your friend.
Seriously.
And I am not just talking about get-well balloons and Thank You Beary Much bears (all of which we donated to the children’s wing before leaving). When I got home from the hospital the day after that little incident outside Capitol Cookies, there were a hundred and sixty-seven messages on our answering machine. Only about twenty of them were from people I actually know and like, such as Grandma or Catherine or whoever. All the rest of them were from reporters or people like Kris Parks, who seemed to have forgotten all about the whole Speech and Hearing thing.
“Hi, Sam,” she sang into the machine, in her smarmy Kris Parks voice. “It’s me, Kris! Just calling to see if you want to come to my party next Saturday night. My parents are going to be in Aruba, so we’re going to have a blast! But it won’t be any fun unless you’re there.”
I couldn’t believe it. I mean, you would think Kris would at least try to be a little more subtle than that. She hadn’t invited me to a party at her house since the third grade, and here she was, making out like we’d never stopped being friends. It was unreal.
Lucy didn’t share my outrage, though. She just went, “Cool, party at Kris’s. I’m bringing Jack.”
To which both my parents replied, “Oh, no, you aren’t,” then added that we weren’t allowed to go to parties at which there wasn’t at least one parent in attendance. Especially with Jack, who got caught skinny-dipping in the Chevy Chase Country Club pool during last year’s Christmas ball (the Slaters were members, though, so the incident was hushed up. Unfortunately not enough to keep it from my parents, however. I suppose they would be happier if Lucy was going out with a guy who never questioned authority and meekly accepted what was doled out to him, like most people of our generation, instead of someone who thinks for himself, like Jack).
Lucy didn’t look too upset about my parents saying she wasn’t going to be allowed to take Jack to Kris’s party. Instead, she went to the window to wave some more at all the reporters who were out on our front lawn.
Kris Parks’s message wasn’t even the most unbelievable one, however. We also got calls from half the reporters who’d been at the press conference, wanting to know if they could arrange exclusive interviews with me. All the television news shows—like 60 Minutes, 48 Hours, Dateline, 20/20—want to do a feature on me, and asked us to call them at our earliest convenience.