And even if he did like me, you know, in a romantic way, there was the little fact that I am completely and irrevocably in love with my sister’s boyfriend.
Whatever. I was so hungry by then, I didn’t even care that David was only being nice to me because he felt sorry for me.
From the first bite, I knew: Carl was right. He really had made one of the best burgers I’d ever eaten. I bolted down roughly half of mine before surfacing for air.
David, who’d been watching me eat with a sort of stunned expression on his face—on the rare occasions when I do find something I like to eat, I have a tendency really to go for it—went, “Better?”
I couldn’t respond, because I was too busy chewing. I gave him a thumbs-up with my cast hand, though.
“So does it hurt?” he wanted to know, indicating my broken wrist.
I swallowed the huge wad of meat in my mouth. I really would like to be a vegetarian. Seriously. You would think an artist would be way more conscious of the suffering of others, even of the bovine variety. But hamburgers are just so good. I could never give them up.
“Not so much any more,” I said.
“How come nobody’s signed it?” he wanted to know.
“I’m saving it,” I said, looking down at the nice vast expanse of white plaster around my wrist, “For German class.”
He got my meaning. No one else had, except of course for Jack. Only true artists understand the lure of a blank white canvas.
“Oh, sure,” he said, knowingly. “That’ll be cool. So what are you going to go for? A sort of Hawaiian motif? Plenty of pineapples, I’m assuming.”
I gave him a very sour look. “I think I’m going to go for a patriotic theme,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “Of course. What could be more fitting? You being a Madison, and all.”
“What does that have to do with it?” I wanted to know.
“James Madison,” David said, his eyebrows up again. “Fourth president. He’s a relation, right?”
“Oh,” I said, feeling like a dork. “Him. Yeah. No, I don’t think so.”
“Really?” David looked surprised. “Are you sure? Because you and his wife Dolly have a lot in common.”
“Me and Dolly Madison?” I laughed. “Like what?”
“Well, she saved a president too.”
“Oh, what,” I said, still laughing. “She gave old James the Heimlich or something?”
“No,” David said. “She saved a portrait of George Washington from being burned up with the rest of the White House when the British attacked it during the War of 1812.”
Wait a minute. The British had burned down the White House? When had this happened?
Obviously during a war we hadn’t learned about yet over at Adams Prep. We don’t have US History until eleventh grade.
“Whoa. Cool,” I said, meaning it. In history class they never tell you about cool stuff like First Ladies running around saving paintings. Instead all you ever get to hear about are the stupid pilgrims and boring old Abraham Lincoln.
“You sure you aren’t any relation?” David asked again.
“Pretty sure,” I said, regretfully. How cool would it be if I really were related to someone who had done something as brave as rescue a piece of fine art from a fire? Too cool for words, actually. Were we related to Dolly Madison? I mean, my mom frequently pointed out that I had to have inherited my artistic temperament from my dad’s side of the family, since there were no artists on hers. The Madisons had clearly been great art lovers throughout the ages.
Only it must have skipped a few generations, since I was the only one in the family that I knew of who could draw.
All of a sudden David got up and went to the window.
“Come here and look at this,” he said, moving aside the curtain.
I got up to follow him curiously, then saw that he was pointing down at the window sill. It was painted white, like the rest of the trim in the room . . .
But embedded deeply in the paint were words, words that had been carved into the sill. Looking closely, I could make out some of them: Amy . . . Chelsea . . . David . . .
“What is this?” I wanted to know. “The memorial First Kids window sill?”
“Something like that,” David said.
Then he pulled out something from the pocket of his jeans. It was one of those little Swiss Army knives. He started gouging into the wood. I probably wouldn’t have said anything about it if I hadn’t seen that the first letter he’d carved was an S.
“Hey,” I said, with some alarm. I mean, I am an urban rebel and all, but vandalism that isn’t for the sake of a good cause is still just that. Vandalism. “What are you doing?”
“Come on,” David said, grinning up at me. “Who deserves it more than you? Not only are you possibly related to a president, but you saved the life of one too.”
I looked nervously back over my shoulder at the door, behind which I knew stood a Secret Service agent. I mean, come on. Son of the President or not, this was destruction of public property. Not just public properly, but the White House. I’m sure you could go to jail for years for desecrating the White House.
“David,” I hissed, lowering my voice so no one would overhear me. “This isn’t necessary.”
Intent upon his work—he had gotten to the letter A now—David did not reply.
“Really,” I said. “I mean, if you want to thank me for saving your dad, the burger is enough, believe me.”
But it was too late, because he was already starting on the M.
“I suppose you think just because your dad is the President,” I said, “you can’t get in trouble for this.”
“Not that much trouble,” David said, as he carved. “I mean, I’m still a minor, after all.” He leaned back to admire his handiwork. “There. What do you think of that?”
I looked down at my name, Sam, right there with Amy Carter’s and Chelsea Clinton’s, not to mention David’s. I hoped a large family would not move into the White House next, as there would be no more room left on the window sill for the kids to add their names.
“I think you’re insane,” I said, meaning it. It was a shame, too, because he was so cute.
“Oh,” David said, folding up the Swiss Army knife and sticking it back in his pocket. “That really hurts, coming from a girl who flushes crab-stuffed flounder down the toilet and likes to throw herself at strange men with guns.”
I stared at him for a minute, completely taken aback.
Then I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. It was pretty funny, after all.
David started to laugh too. The two of us were standing there, laughing, when the Secret Service agent from the hallway came in and went, “David? Your father is looking for you.”
I stopped laughing. Busted again! I looked guiltily down at the window sill—not to mention the empty plates where the burgers had been.
But I didn’t have time to dwell on my misdeeds, because we had to get back to the dining room in a hurry. I mean, you don’t keep the President of the United States waiting.
When we got in there, though, it turned out the President hadn’t been the only one waiting. Everyone’s face was turned expectantly towards the doors. When David and I walked through them, to my very great surprise all the people in the room burst into applause.
At first I couldn’t figure out why. I mean, were they clapping because David and I had finally found our way back from the bathroom (they couldn’t possibly have known, could they, about the burgers, unless Carl had told them while serving the chocolate mousse)?
But it turned out the reason they were clapping had nothing to do with that. I found out why they were clapping when, on my way back to my seat, my mom suddenly stopped me and leaped up to give me a big hug.
“Oh, honey, isn’t it great?” she asked. “The President just named you teen ambassador to the United Nations!”
And all of a sudden that delicious burger felt like it might come right back up.