“Maybe your mother could rig something up,” he said, looking kind of pained. “A nice sling to, um, hide it.”
If I hadn’t already known from his attitude about the whole painting contest, I would have known it from the way he was eyeing my cast: Mr. White had no appreciation for art.
By the time he was done yammering on about all the people who would be at the International Festival of the Child, it was five o’clock and time to go home. No way was I going to be able to sneak off to find David now. I’d missed him once again.
This didn’t exactly put me in a real festive holiday mood, know what I mean? I didn’t even care that we had four whole days off from school. Ordinarily, four days of being Deutsch-free would have delighted me. But for some reason this year it wasn’t so exciting. I mean, technically it meant that if David didn’t show at the International Festival of the Child, it would be five whole days until I saw him again. I could have called him, I guess, but that wasn’t the same. And I didn’t have his email address.
Even the fact that Theresa was in the kitchen baking when I got home didn’t cheer me up. It was just pumpkin pies (blech) for tomorrow. And they weren’t even for us. They were for Theresa’s own kids, and grandkids too. What with being with us all week, the only chance Theresa had to get ready for Thanksgiving was when she was at our house. My mom didn’t mind. We always had Thanksgiving at my grandma’s in Baltimore, anyway, so it wasn’t like she needed the oven, or anything.
“What’s the matter with you?” Theresa wanted to know when I came into the kitchen, dropped my coat and backpack and started right in on the Graham Crackers without even complaining about how come we only got the good stuff when Jack came over.
“Nothing,” I said. I sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the back of the novel Rebecca was reading. She’d apparently abandoned romance for sci-fi once again, since she held the latest installment in the Jedi Academy saga. I felt, all things considered, that she had made a wise decision.
“Then stop with the sighing already.” Theresa was tense. Theresa was always tense before the holidays. She said it was because she never knew which one of his ex-wives Tito was going to show up with ... or if he’d show up with an entirely new one. Theresa said it was more than any mother should be forced to bear.
I sighed again and Rebecca looked up from her book.
“If you’re upset because Jack’s not here,” she said in a bored voice, “don’t be. He and Lucy’ll probably be rolling in in a few minutes. They just walked down to the video store to get a copy of Die Hard. You know that’s Dad’s favourite holiday movie.”
I sniffed. “Why would I be upset about Jack not being here?” I demanded. When Rebecca just rolled her eyes, I went, in maybe a louder voice than I ought to have, “I don’t like Jack, you know, Rebecca. In that way, I mean.”
“Sure, you don’t,” Rebecca said—but not like she believed it—and went back to her book.
“I don’t,” I said. “God. As if. I mean, he’s Lucy’s boyfriend.”
“So?” Rebecca turned a page.
“So I don’t like him like that, OK?” God, was I going to have to spend the rest of my life denying my true feelings to everyone I knew? I mean, at school everyone was all, Sam and David, Sam and David. Even the press, since our big ‘date’ had been all, Sam and David, Sam and David. There’d been something about it on the news. The national news. Not like the lead story, or anything, but like one of those little human interest things five minutes before the news hour was up. It was totally humiliating. The reporters were all, “And Christmas isn’t the only thing in the air here in the Capital. No, young love seems to be in the air, as well.”
It was totally revolting. I mean, it was no wonder David hadn’t shown up to Susan Boone’s. The place had been crawling with reporters, a bunch of whom had yelled, as I’d darted past them, “Did you and David have a nice time at the party, Sam?”
Which reminded me of something. I looked at Rebecca and went, in the snottiest voice I could, “Besides, if I supposedly like Jack so much, what’s with this frisson thing you said you sensed between me and David? Huh? How can I have frisson with one guy if I’m supposedly in love with someone else?”
Rebecca just looked at me and went, “Because you are completely blind to what’s right in front of you,” then went back to her book.
Blind? What was she talking about, blind? Thanks to Susan Boone, I had never seen better in my life, thank you very much. Wasn’t I drawing the best eggs in the studio? And what about those gourds I’d done yesterday? My gourds had been better than anyone’s. My gourds had blown everyone else’s gourds out of the water. Even Susan Boone had been impressed. During critique at the end of class, she’d even said, “Sam, you are making enormous strides.”
Enormous strides. How could a blind person be making enormous strides in ART class?
I mentioned this to Rebecca, but she just went, “Yeah? Well, maybe you can see eggs and gourds, but you sure can’t see anything else.”
I said the only thing then that an older sister can say to a younger one who is acting like she thinks she is all that. Lord knows, Lucy has said it to me often enough.
After I said it, Theresa sent me to my room.
But I didn’t care. I liked it better in my room anyway. In fact, if I had my way, I’d never come out of my room again, except maybe for meals and, of course, for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But that’s it. Because every time I leave my room, it seems like I just get into trouble. I’m either saving people from getting assassinated or getting into arguments about Picasso or being told I’m blind.
Well, that’s it. I’m staying in my room for ever. And nobody can stop me.
They fully made me come out of my room to go to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving dinner.
I tried to lock myself right back in there the minute we got back, but unfortunately there was a message on the machine from Mr. White, reminding my parents about the International Festival of the Child, at which my attendance was required. Apparently, if I wasn’t there some crisis of world proportions would break out, so my mom said I had to go.
But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
I mean, let’s face it, this Teen Ambassador thing was getting old. It was worse than German, practically. Every time Jack saw me he was all, “So where’s my ticket to New York?” which is of course what the winner of the From My Window contest got—an all-expenses-paid trip to New York. Plus, you know, international fame and celebrity.
And I had to pretend to be all, “Ha ha ha! A winner has yet to be announced, Jack.”
To which Jack would reply, “Yeah, but it’s me, right?”
And then I would be all, “We’ll see.”
We’ll see. Even though I knew good and well the winner wouldn’t be him. But what could I say? I mean, I didn’t want to be the one to break the news to him. I knew how much this contest meant to him.
So I just said nothing. I smiled and said nothing. While inside, I wept.
Well, OK, not wept, but you know what I mean. I was bummed.
Anyway, Saturday night I show up at the stupid International Festival of the Child, which was at the White House, and which as far as I could tell was just some bogus concert and a dinner. There weren’t even any kids there, that I could see. I was the only one!
And the music, no surprise, wasn’t that exciting. The Beaux Arts Trio. That’s who they booked. I guess Alien Ant Farm wasn’t available.
The Beaux Arts Trio wasn’t that bad, though. They only played classical music, like the kind we listened to on the radio in Susan Boone’s studio. And while it wasn’t exactly Gwen Stefani, it was still nice, in its own way.