8. It was renamed Camp David in 1953 by President Eisenhower in honor of his grandson, David.
7. The camp is operated by navy personnel, and troops from the Marine Barracks in Washington, D.C., provide permanent security.
6. Guests at Camp David can enjoy a pool, putting green, driving range, tennis courts, horseback riding, and a gymnasium.
5. Camp David is made up of many different cabins situated around a main house. The cabins include: Dogwood, Maple, Holly, Birch, and Rosebud. The presidential cabin is called Aspen Lodge.
4. Camp David has been the site of many historic international meetings. It was there, during World War II, that President Franklin Roosevelt and British Prime Minister Winston Churchill planned the Allies’ invasion of Europe.
3. Many historical events have occurred at the presidential retreat, including the planning of the Normandy invasion, the Eisenhower-Khrushchev meetings, discussions of the Bay of Pigs, Vietnam War strategy sessions, and many other events with foreign dignitaries and guests.
2. President Jimmy Carter chose the site for the meeting of Middle East leaders that led to the Camp David Accords between Israel and Egypt.
And the number-one fact you probably didn’t know about Camp David:
1. It was about to become the place where I, Samantha Madison, would have sex for the very first time.
Maybe.
14
“Would you like more sweet potatoes, Sam?” the first lady asked me.
“Um, no, thank you,” I said.
See, this is the problem with being a picky eater and going to someone else’s house to eat. The fact is, there are very few foods I actually like. Thanksgiving is the worst. I mean, I hate practically every food the Pilgrims ever ate. I can’t stand dressing. You don’t even know what half the stuff in there really is, and the few things you can identify, such as raisins, are just gross.
I won’t eat anything red except for ketchup and pizza sauce, so that automatically rules out anything else with tomatoes. It also rules out cranberries. And—UGH—beets.
Basically, all vegetables gross me out. So that means no peas or roasted carrots or string beans or—yuck—Brussels sprouts.
I’m not even a huge fan of turkey. I mean, I only like the dark meat. But everyone considers that part, like, the worst, so I only ever get offered pieces from the breast, which are white meat, which I can’t stand, because even when it’s cooked by a master chef from the White House, it’s still sort of…gross.
In my family, it is understood that when it comes to Thanksgiving dinner, I’m totally cool with a peanut butter sandwich, which my grandmother always lovingly prepares with the crusts cut off.
Sure, my mom and dad used to complain because I wouldn’t even try whatever they’d gone to so much trouble preparing.
But over the years, I’ve trained them to just leave me alone. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to starve.
But this was my first Thanksgiving with David and his family. I hadn’t really had a chance to train them yet.
So I just had to sit there and pretend to eat everything they put on my plate while actually just rearranging it in artful piles (I’d learned my lesson about trying to hide it in my napkin), while secretly intending to go back to my room and scarf down the plastic-wrapped peanut butter sandwich I had waiting for me in my overnight bag.
Right next to the spermicidal foam and condoms Lucy had given me.
Which I was trying not to think about.
David was clearly doing the same (trying not to think about sex), since one of the first things we’d done upon arriving at Camp David—after our ride to it on Marine One, the presidential helicopter—was break out the board games, on account of the bad weather (it was raining).
Not just raining, but pouring so hard that before David actually showed up to get me, I’d wondered if Marine One was even going to be able to take off.
Which hadn’t been the only indication that Thanksgiving at Camp David wasn’t exactly going to be a picnic. No, I’d also woken up with a big zit on my chin. From the stress. You couldn’t really see it, but I could feel it. And it hurt.
I hadn’t taken either of these—the rain or the zit—as fortuitous (SAT word meaning “good fortune or luck”) signs. And it turned out I’d been right. At least, judging by how my day had gone so far.
I always thought—before I knew better—that our nation’s leader lived in the lap of luxury. Like I figured the White House was this huge mansion, with animal-skin rugs everywhere.
And while the White House is pretty nice, it’s not huge, and it’s not as nice as, say, Jack Slater’s house in Chevy Chase. I guess it’s nicer than the average American’s house—you know, it has a pool, and a bowling alley, and all of that.
But the stuff in it that’s the fanciest is, like, really old, and you aren’t actually allowed to use it. Everything else is pretty much stuff you’d find in any house, like mine, or Catherine’s. Just your average stuff.
And Camp David is even more plain. I mean, it’s huge, for a house, don’t get me wrong, with all these cottages spread out across all this land. And there’s a swimming pool there, too, along with a gym.
But it’s not fancy. I mean, the way you would think a world leader’s country house would be.
I guess that’s because our founding fathers were trying to move away from the idea of a ruling class. Also, the president doesn’t actually make all that much money. At least, compared to my mom and dad.
Of course, David’s family has money from the companies his dad ran before he became governor, and then president. But still.
Anyway, I’m just saying, Camp David is no castle. It’s more like a…well, a camp.
Which makes it kind of a weird place for someone to lose her virginity.
Or not lose it, as the case may be. Because I had given it a lot of thought over the past twenty-four hours, and the truth was, I wasn’t.
Ready, I mean.
Yes, I know I’d been practicing. A lot. A lot.
And, yes, I know I had said I was on national (okay, cable) television. I know everyone in the entire country—including my own grandma, no doubt—thinks I’m sexually active.
And I know the worst had already happened—being publically accused of being a slut by Kris Parks—and I’d already weathered that just fine.
But just because everyone thinks I’ve already Done It isn’t a good enough reason to Do It. I mean, it’s still this incredibly huge step. With sex comes great responsibility. An end of innocence. Not to mention possible STDs and unwanted pregnancy. Who needs the aggravation?
Especially when, let’s face it, high school is aggravation enough as it is.
So, I had made my decision.
Now I just had to break the news to David.
Which might have been another reason I had so much trouble actually getting anything down at dinner. I mean, David had to think he was Getting Some tonight. He had to. I’d seen the twinkle in his eye when he’d broken out the Parcheesi board (Yes! An actual Parcheesi board!) earlier that afternoon. He’d all but winked at me over the dice cup.
I was going to be crushing all of his adolescent dreams. He was going to hate me.
No wonder I couldn’t eat.
I was really relieved when the first lady excused David and me, and we went into the living room to watch the new Adam Sandler (yes, the president does get first run movies before they ever go on sale for anyone else). That took my mind off what I knew was going to happen after everyone else went to bed. Sort of. Up until the moment the movie ended, and next thing I knew, David was walking me to the door of my bedroom—which was in the main part of the house, not one of the cottages—and saying, “Good night, Sam.” In this kind of voice. This kind of “this is for my parents’ benefit” voice.