MEG CABOT
Ready OR Not
AN ALL-AMERICAN GIRL NOVEL
To Laura Langlie,
a great agent and an even better friend
Contents
“Never doubt that a small group…
Okay, here are the top ten reasons it sucks to be me…
1 Which might explain why I finally got the guts to…
2 Okay, I’ve seen them before. Naked guys, I mean.
3 The thing is, I have an ace in the hole (whatever…
4 “Wait, so, what did it look like?” Catherine wanted…
5 When I got home from work that night, it was…
6 Except that I didn’t get to. Spend Saturday night…
7 “They were just all so…dirty.” That is what Catherine…
8 My parents were uncharacteristically cool about…
9 So I called him.
10 David got to the studio before I did. When I…
11 “I’m so excited,” Kris kept saying.
12 “It’s those damned art lessons,” the president said.
13 Theresa had to drive us to school the next day…
14 “Would you like more sweet potatoes, Sam?” the…
15 When I let myself into the house the next day…
Acknowledgments
Meg Cabot
Also by Meg Cabot
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
“never doubt that a small group
of committed people can change the world;
indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”
—Margaret Mead, anthropologist
“After you make a fool of yourself a few
hundred times, you learn what works.”
—Gwen Stefani
Okay , here are the top ten reasons it sucks to be me, Samantha Madison:
10. In spite of the fact that last year I saved the life of the president of the United States, got a medal for heroism, and had a movie made about me, I continue to be one of the least popular people in my entire school, which is supposed to be a progressive and highly rated institution, but which seems to me to be entirely populated, with the exception of myself and my best friend Catherine, by Abercrombie-and-Fitch-wearing, zero-tolerance-for-anyonewho-might-actually-have-a-different-opinion-than-theirown (or, actually, any opinion at all), blithely-school-song-chanting, reality-TV-show-watching neofascists.
9. My older sister—the one who apparently got all the good DNA, like the genes for strawberry-blond, silky-smooth hair, as opposed to copper-red, Brillo pad–textured hair—is the most popular girl at Adams Prep (and can, in fact, often be found leading the blithe school song chanters there), causing me to be asked on an almost daily basis by students, teachers, and even my own parents, as they observe me being tossed about the social strata, a lone depressive in a sea of endless pep: “Why can’t you be more like your sister Lucy?”
8. Even though I was appointed teen ambassador to the United Nations due to my alleged bravery in saving the president, I rarely get out of school to perform my duties. Nor, incidentally, am I paid for them.
7. Because of this, I have been forced to get an actual wage-earning job in addition to my apparently strictly volunteer work as teen ambassador to pay my ever-mounting bill at Sullivan’s Art Supplies, where I have to buy my own Strathmore drawing pads and lead pencils, since my parents have decided I need to learn the value of a dollar and acquire a “work ethic.”
And unlike my sister Lucy, who was also required to get a job in order to keep her in paint—the facial, not the art variety—I did not find employment in a cushy lingerie store at the mall that gives me a thirty percent discount and pays me ten bucks an hour to sit behind a desk and read magazines until a customer deigns to ask me a question about crotchless panties.
No, instead I got a crappy practically-minimum-wage-paying job at Potomac Video rewinding horrible Brittany Murphy movies and then putting them back on the shelves for more people to rent and be sucked into Brittany Murphy’s sick, twisted, Look-At-How-Much-Weight-I’ve-Lost-Since-I-Did-Clueless-and-Ashton-Broke-Up-with-Mefor-Dried-Up-Demi-and-I-Became-a-Bigger-Star-Than-Him, psycho, scrunchy-faced world.
And okay, at least I get to hang out with cool high school dropouts, like my new multipierced friend, Dauntra.
But still.
6. Between school, art lessons, my duties as teen ambassador, and my job, I have only one night a week to see my boyfriend in anything remotely resembling a social context.
5. As my boyfriend is as busy as I am, plus is also filling out college applications for next year, and happens to be the president’s son (and is therefore frequently called upon to attend state functions the one night I can do stuff with him), I either have to do the boring state function stuff with him, which doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for romance, or sit at home watching National Geographic Explorer with my twelve-year-old sister, Rebecca, every Saturday night.
4. I am the only nearly-seventeen-year-old girl on the planet who has seen every episode of National Geographic Explorer. And despite the fact that my mother is an environmental lawyer, I don’t actually care that much about the melting polar ice caps. I’d much rather make out with my boyfriend.
3. Regardless of the fact that I once saved the life of the president of the United States, I still have not met my idol, Gwen Stefani (although she did send me a jean jacket from her clothing line, L.A.M.B., when she heard I consider myself her number-one fan. However, the first day I wore said jacket to Adams Prep, I received many scathing remarks from my fellow students about it, such as, “Punk much?” and “Which way to the mosh pit?” revealing that fashion forwardness is still not a valued character trait in my peer group).
2. Everyone who is the least bit acquainted with me knows all this, and yet still persists in gushing to me about how fab my life is, and how I ought to be grateful for all the great things I have, like that boyfriend I never get to see and those parents who send me to such a great school where everyone hates my guts. Oh, and my close personal relationship with the president, who sometimes can’t remember my name, in spite of the fact that I broke my arm in two places saving his life.
And the number-one reason it sucks to be me, Samantha Madison:
1. Unless something drastically changes, it doesn’t look like things are going to get better anytime soon.
1
Which might explain why I finally got the guts to do it.
Make a change, I mean. And a pretty big one, too. For the better.
Who cares if my sister Lucy doesn’t necessarily agree?
Actually, she didn’t say she didn’t like it. Not that I would have cared if she had. I didn’t do it for her. I did it for myself.
Which is how I replied to her. Lucy, I mean. When she said what she did about it, which was: “Mom’s going to kill you.”
“I didn’t do it for Mom,” I said. “I did it for me. No one else.”
I don’t even know what she was doing home. Lucy, I mean. Shouldn’t she have been at cheerleading practice? Or a game? Or shopping at the mall with her friends, which is how she spends the vast majority of her time, when she isn’t working at the mall—which amounts to almost the same thing, since all her friends hang out in Bare Essentials (the lingerie store where she gets paid to do nothing), while she’s there anyway, helping her squeal over the latest J-Lo gossip in Us Weekly and fold G-strings?