My dad lowered his paper again. “It’s important for you kids to learn the value of a—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupted my dad. “A dollar. I know.” Like anything even costs a dollar anymore. “Speaking of which, did Lucy switch shifts, or what? Why is she home so early? Usually she doesn’t get back from the mall until ten.”
I noticed the glance my mom and dad exchanged. Don’t think I didn’t.
“We decided that, given Lucy’s SAT score, she needs to devote more time to her schoolwork, and less to her social life and work schedule,” my mom said lightly.
It took me a minute to figure out what she meant. Then, when I finally did, my jaw dropped all over again.
“Wait a minute,” I cried. “She gets to quit her job just because she bombed the SATs? That’s not fair!”
“Shhh, Sam.” My mom glanced nervously toward the dining room. “Lucy’s very upset about having to give notice at Bare Essentials. You know how much she loved that employee discount—”
“So if my grades start to slip,” I demanded, “can I quit Potomac Video?”
“Sam!” My mom gave me a reproachful look. “What a thing to say. You love your job. You’re always talking about your little Donna friend, and how cool she is—”
“Dauntra.”
“Dauntra, I mean. Besides, you can handle a fuller schedule than your sister can. You’ve always been able to.”
“Count your lucky stars about it, too,” my dad remarked, returning to his paper, “or we’d make you quit art lessons the way we’re making her quit cheerleading.”
I stared, totally shocked.
“Wait…you made her quit cheerleading?”
“The SATs are more important than cheerleading,” said my dad. He would think that, seeing as how in high school, he was pretty much like…well, like Harold, from the stories I’ve heard.
“She’s just taking some time off,” Mom said. “If she brings her grades up, she can get back on the team. We spoke to the coach. She understands that it just got to be too much…cheerleading, homework…”
“It wouldn’t have gotten to be too much,” my dad said, from behind the paper, “if a certain person didn’t come down every weekend and expect to spend every waking moment with her.”
“Now, Richard,” Mom said. “I spoke to the Slaters. And they agreed to have a word with Jack—”
“Lot of good that will do,” my dad said with a grunt, still not looking out from behind the paper. “The guy never listens to them—”
“Richard,” my mother said.
I took this as my cue to leave the room. It is never fun listening to my parents fight about Lucy’s boyfriend. Which they do almost every time his name comes up. Not that they aren’t in complete agreement in their opinion of him: They both hate his guts. They just have different ideas over how best to handle the situation. My mom believes if they in any way try to thwart the relationship, that will only make Lucy’s affection for Jack stronger—sort of like how Hellboy’s affection for Liz just got stronger after they tried to keep him from seeing her when she fled to the mental institution.
My dad, on the other hand, thinks they should just forbid Lucy from seeing Jack anymore, and that will take care of the problem.
Which is why Lucy and Jack are still going out. Because everyone (except my dad) knows that telling a girl she can’t go out with some guy just makes her want to go out with that guy even more.
This is another way in which Lucy’s life is vastly superior to my own. She gets to date a guy my parents don’t like or trust, causing them to worry about her all the time.
Lucky Lucy.
Although, if you think about it, her luck has kind of run out—at least about the cheerleading thing. I mean, it might be undermining the feminist cause, but she really loved doing it. And now it’s been stripped away from her.
And yet, she hadn’t looked too unhappy down there with old Harold. Which is weird, because, regardless of whether or not she misses cheerleading, one thing she’s definitely going to miss, if Mom and Dad have their way, is Jack…. Where IS he, anyway? Why isn’t he beating down the door, insisting on seeing her? Had Dr. and Mrs. Slater had “a word” with him, as my mom had said they were going to?
But Jack, being an urban rebel and all, isn’t the type to agree not to see his girlfriend just because his parents say she’s having trouble in school, and he needs to give it a rest, or whatever. In fact, since he started at RISD, Jack has been playing up the malcontent artist thing more than ever, what with the new motorcycle, and all.
And okay, my parents have expressly forbidden Lucy to ride it, even though Jack bought her a helmet (not that Lucy was particularly thrilled with it. She’d wanted a pink one. Also, she says it mashes her hair down).
But that doesn’t mean Jack can’t use the bike to cruise by our house, as I often hear him doing, in the middle of the night….
Although, come to think of it, I hadn’t actually heard the roar of Jack’s Harley too often lately. What’s up with that? I would have to find out from Luce after Harold leaves.
In the meantime, I had the package Lucy had said she’d left for me.
It was sitting right where Lucy had said she’d left it, in the middle of my bed. I looked inside the nondescript brown paper bag and saw two boxes. The first said, RIBBED FOR HER PLEASURE! in masculine-looking type.
Oh my God. My sister bought me a box of condoms.
Feeling a little sick, I looked at the other box. It had curly writing with flowers on it. Inside, I found a canister and a plastic, tampon-like applicator, along with an insert.
HOW TO USE CONTRACEPTIVE FOAM, the insert said.
Oh my God.
OH MY GOD.
I shoved everything back into the box, and then the boxes back into the bag, and the bag under the bed.
This was not something I was ready for. No, no, no. Not ready. SO NOT READY. So very, very not ready.
I mean, was I, Samantha Madison, really going to do this? Was I really going to have sex with my boyfriend?
I couldn’t help thinking about that girl Kris had mocked earlier in the day…Debra, or whatever her name was. She had had sex with her boyfriend. Allegedly, anyway. What if David and I Did It, and word got out, like it had about Deb? Would people call me a slut behind my back?
Probably.
Although it would hardly be worse than what they already call me (Freak, Goth, Satan Worshiper, Punk, Psycho, etc.).
But it wouldn’t just be people at school. I mean, with my uncanny ability to get my picture in magazines (mainly their Fashion Don’ts lists, but whatever), news of my sex life would probably be spread all over the tabloids. Not that I’d ever made it a point to go around telling everyone I’m a virgin or any of that. But, you know. It would be embarrassing if my grandma read about it….
It was right then that Lucy came barging into my room, without knocking, of course.
“Hey,” she said breathlessly, having clearly just run up the stairs. “Can I borrow your calculator?”
I glared at her. “What happened to yours?”
“I loaned it to Tiffany the last time we were at The Cheesecake Factory and were trying to figure out how much tip to leave, and she forgot to give it back. Come on, just let me borrow yours for tonight. I’ll get mine back tomorrow.”
I handed her my calculator. It was actually the least I could do, considering the present she’d left me.
“Oh, thanks,” she said. And started to leave.
“Wait—” I said. Thank you for the condoms and spermicide. That’s what I wanted to say. What came out instead was, “How’s it going? I mean, with, um, Harold?”
“Oh,” Lucy said, smoothing a silky strand of titian hair behind one ear. “Fine. You know, Harold thinks it isn’t because I’m not smart that I did so poorly. He thinks I suffer from test anxiety.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Harold thinks if I apply myself, I can raise my score by a hundred points—maybe more—just by practicing some breathing exercises before I go into the examination room.”