I've got a meeting in about..." She looked at the clock. "... Three minutes. So if you want to hang out until five-thirty I can do it. Or we could wait until tomorrow."
"Can I help?"
They both turned to look at me.
"Are you sure you don't mind?" asked Ms. Daniels. "It's not heavy, it's just cumbersome."
"Really, you don't have to," said Sam. "I can bring it home another time."
"No," I said. "I'd like to." It was the least I could do considering how he'd invited me to my first and only New York gallery opening. Besides--it would be fun to hang out with Sam. "Just tell
me what to do."
I couldn't see how the enormous painting we were carrying had a snowball's chance in hell of
fitting into the backseat of Sam's car--a gorgeous, yellow VW bug that dated back to the days of
Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin--without getting completely scratched up. Luckily I didn't voice
my doubts, since with just a little pulling and pushing, the canvas slid easily into the
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minuscule space; there was even room for us to sit in the front with our seats more or less
upright.
"That was incredible," I said, shaking my head with awe as we pulled out of the parking lot. "I won't lie to you--when I first saw the proportions of the objects in question, I had some
concerns."
"Oh, ye of little faith," said Sam. He stopped the car and turned to me. "Wait. Where am I taking you?"
"Home, I guess." I gave him my address.
"I'm sure I'll be able to recognize it," he said, driving on. "It's the one with the turret room accessible only by ponytail, right?"
"Well, yes and no. There is a secret tunnel that runs under the moat to the basement where I'm locked up at night, but it's guarded by a fairly aggressive dragon."
"Of course," said Sam. "I would have been disappointed with anything less." Without taking his eyes of the road, Sam fished around the pocket of his car door for a CD, found it, and popped it
in. Subterranean Homesick Blues filled the car as Sam reached across me and opened the glove
compartment. I thought he was looking for a different CD, but he took out a box of Raisinets.
"Chocolate?" he asked, holding the box between his knees as he opened it one-handed.
"Sure," I said, and he shook some into my hand.
"So, how's it going? I see your stepmother has yet to hire a local woodsman to take you into the
forest and kill you."
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"Well, she tried," I said, throwing a few Raisinets into my mouth. "But it's really hard to get good help nowadays. You'd be amazed how much trouble she's having just finding a local
woodsman."
"These things take time," acknowledged Sam. We drove along in silence until finally I couldn't
keep quiet about what was on my mind for one more second.
"Guess what," I said, when we stopped for a red light. I was almost giggling with excitement.
"What?" asked Sam. He looked over at me expectantly.
Sam's look made me feel a little silly. I mean, it wasn't like my news was all that thrilling. Still, it
felt thrilling to me. "I finally got an idea for my self-portrait."
"Hey, that's great," said Sam, smiling. A car behind us honked, and Sam put the car in gear. "Can I ask what it is, or are you not ready to say yet?"
I wrinkled my face and shook my head. "I don't mean to be rude, but..."
"Wait, you're worried that I'll judge your poor etiquette?" asked Sam, laughing. "Didn't you once nominate me for the Rudest-Person-Alive Award?"
I turned toward him. "Oh, yeah, what ever happened with that?" I asked.
He made the left onto my block. "They gave it to some guy in Manhattan who clips his nails on
the subway."
"Too bad," I said. "Are you upset?"
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Sam shrugged. "Win some, lose some." I pointed out my house, and Sam pulled up in front of it
and killed the engine. "Do you mind if I ask what your inspiration was?"
"Gardner's Art Through the Ages. I'm a shameless thief," I admitted.
"Well, like Picasso said, 'Good artists borrow. Great artists steal.' And as you know, I myself
have stolen more than my fair share of ideas. Which is not to say I'm a great artist," he added
quickly.
"I don't know," I said. "You're pretty great." I watched a blush creep up his cheeks as he tapped out a drum solo on the steering wheel in an attempt to ignore what I'd just said. "God, you're so
easy to embarrass," I said. "Look at you, turning all red."
"Come on," he said. I watched him fight the smile teasing the corner of his mouth.
"This is so much fun," I said. "It could be a new parlor game. Make Sam Blush."
"Ha ha," he said.
"What a brilliant artist you are, Sam," I said loudly. "What natural talent. What technique."
Sam was smiling, but he was also beet red. "Are you going to stop?"
"And your brushwork." I kissed the tips of my fingers. "It's nothing short of genius."
He turned on the engine. "Well, bye, Lucy. Thanks for all your help."
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"Not to mention your extraordinary use of color."
"Really, thanks for everything." He cranked up the volume on Dylan's wail.
"Seriously, Sam, you should rent yourself out for parties. You're more reliable than Old
Faithful."
Sam cupped his hand around his ear. "What's that, Lucy?" he shouted. "You say you have to
go?"
"Actually, I do have to go," I shouted back. Teasing Sam was pretty great, but I'd told Madison
I'd check out a dress she'd e-mailed me a picture of. It was already later than I'd expected to get
home. If I didn't call soon, she could go into prom dress-related conversation withdrawal.
"Thanks for the ride," I said, as I opened the door.
Sam held his hands out and then pointed from the stereo to his ear, shaking his head. "Sorry,
Lucy, can't hear a word you're saying," he shouted. "Thanks again."
Laughing, I shut the door and watched Sam pull away from the curb just as my cell phone rang. I
grabbed it. "I'm walking into the house as we speak," I said. "I'll look at it and call you right back."
"Five minutes," she said.
"Five minutes," I promised. I'd been planning on grabbing a snack, but now I figured I'd better
go online first. When you say you'll call someone in five minutes, you can't call them in twenty.
Being royalty is no excuse for being rude.
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Chapter Twenty-one
When Connor finally got around to calling, it was easy to tell that my paranoid fantasies of him
riding off into the sunset with Kathryn Ford were a little misplaced.
"Hey, Red," he said. He sounded really bad. "Sorry I haven't called. I've been kinda sick."
"Yeah, you don't sound so good."
"I don't feel so good. Me and Matt and Dave started throwing back shots of tequila." There was a pause, and I heard Connor swallow. "I can't even talk about it." His voice was thin, as if it took effort to speak.
I felt terrible for him. "Are you okay?" I'd never been hung over, but I once spent twenty-four
hours throwing up from a bad clam.
"I'll live. But what's your good news?"
For a second I couldn't remember, then it came back
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to me. "Oh, I was potentially grounded forever, but now I'm not."