“Oh,” Terry said, appearing to think about that. “Okay. Well, that’s cool.”
Which isn’t all that reassuring, if you think about it. I mean, seeing as how it was coming from someone who makes a living standing around without any clothes on.
Still, I guess I wasn’t as cool in the studio as I thought I’d been, since on the way down to the car—David had offered to give me a lift home—he asked, barely able to contain the laughter in his voice, “So, what’d you think of Terry’s…inguinal ligament?”
I nearly choked on the Certs I’d slipped into my mouth.
“Um,” I said. “I’ve seen bigger.”
“Really?” The laughter disappeared from David’s voice. “His was pretty, um, pronounced.”
“Not as big as some of the ones I’ve seen,” I said, meaning the guys on Manhattan public access.
Then, seeing the stunned expression on David’s face, I wondered if he knew that’s what I meant—the guys I’d seen on TV, I mean.
Also, whether we were really talking about inguinal ligaments.
“I just hope it’s a female model next time,” Rob, the Secret Service agent, said, looking sadly down at his drawing pad. “Otherwise, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do to the guys back at the office.”
David and I laughed—nervously, in my case. I mean, I was still kind of shocked. I know that, as an artist, and all, I should see a naked body as just that—a naked body, the subject of the piece I was creating.
It was just that I couldn’t help thinking about David’s you-know-what and wondering if it was as big as Terry’s (probably not, judging by his reaction to my inguinal ligament comment).
Which of course led me to wonder if I even wanted to see David’s you-know-what. Up until today, I’d been pretty certain I did. You know. Someday.
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
Of course, it wasn’t like there’d been all that many opportunities for this kind of thing between us. Trying to find a private moment with the son of the leader of the free world is challenging, to say the least. Especially when there’s always some guy with an earpiece lurking around.
Still, we did our best. There was my house, of course. My parents have a rule about boys in the bedrooms—i.e., they aren’t allowed in them.
But my parents aren’t always home. And Theresa’s not usually around on weekends. When everyone else is gone—at one of Lucy’s games, or Rebecca’s qigong demonstrations, or whatever—David and I occasionally get a chance to engage in a little tonsil hockey, and sometimes more than that. Last Sunday, as a matter of fact, things between us got so, well, heated that we didn’t even hear the front door slam. It was only because Manet, my dog, scrambled up from my bedroom floor to go greet whoever it was who’d come home early—Rebecca, dropped off from a friend’s slumber party at the Smithsonian—that we didn’t get caught in an extremely compromising position.
Not that I imagine Rebecca would have cared. When we came down the stairs, acting like we’d been doing nothing more exciting than homework, she just went, “Did you guys know that trans fats, like the ones found in Oreos, account for only about point five percent of daily calories for Europeans, as opposed to an estimated two point six percent for Americans, and that that’s one reason why Europeans are so much skinnier than Americans, despite all the Brie they eat?”
Walking me to the door after dropping me off from wherever we’d been was really the only time David and I could count on the two of us being left alone for a few minutes…at least until Theresa or one of my parents realized we were out there and started flicking the porch light on and off.
I’m telling you, it’s hard when your boyfriend is the president’s son.
Anyway, as he walked me to my front door the evening of our first life drawing class, David pulled me into the shadows beneath the big weeping willow tree in the front yard—as was his custom—and pressed me up against the trunk as he kissed me.
This was also his custom. I must say, both these customs delighted me very much.
Although that night, I was still sort of weirded out by the whole naked Terry thing and couldn’t quite, you know. Get into it.
I think David could tell, since at one point he lifted his head and went, conversationally, “Did you really think that guy’s inguinal ligament was small?”
“No,” I said, to tease him. “Do you really like my hair?”
“Yes,” he said to tease me back. “But I really, really like this shirt you have on. Do you want to go to Camp David with me for Thanksgiving? You can come if you promise to wear this shirt.”
“Okay,” I said—then slammed my head against the trunk of the tree as I whipped it back to look up at him. “Wait. WHAT did you just say?”
“Thanksgiving,” he said, his lips moving up the side of my neck, toward my right ear lobe. “You’ve heard of it, surely. It’s a national holiday, traditionally celebrated by ingesting large amounts of turkey and watching football—”
“I know what Thanksgiving is, David,” I said. “What I mean is—Camp David?”
“Camp David is the official presidential retreat away from the White House, located in Maryland—”
“Stop goofing around,” I said. “I know what Camp David is. How did you talk your parents into letting you invite me there?”
“I didn’t have to,” David said with a shrug. “I just asked them if I could bring you, and they said sure. I’ll admit that was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before they saw what you did to your hair. But I’m sure they’ll still let you come. So…want to?”
“Are you SERIOUS?” I couldn’t believe he was being so jokey about it. Because this was big. I mean, huge. My boyfriend was asking me to go away with him. Overnight.
And okay, his parents were going to be there, and all. But even so, it could only mean one thing.
Couldn’t it?
“Of course I’m serious,” David said. “Come on, Sharona. It’ll be fun. There’s all sorts of stuff to do there. Horseback riding. Movies. Parcheesi.”
Parcheesi? Was that some kind of weird boy code name for sex? Because that had to be what he was thinking we were going to do, right? I mean, have sex? Isn’t that what couples who go away for the weekend together do?
“Don’t even tell me you don’t want to, Sharona,” David was saying. “I know you do.”
But how? How could he know I wanted to? Had I been giving off some I-want-to-have-sex vibe without even knowing it? Because I’m not sure I want to. Okay, sometimes I’m sure I want to, but not most of the time. And especially not now, having been forced to sit there and look at a naked guy for three hours….
“You said you guys always go to your grandma’s in Baltimore for Thanksgiving,” David went on. “And that it’s totally boring there. Right? So get out of it. And come to Camp David with me.”
What should I say? I didn’t know what to say!
“My parents will NEVER let me go away with you.”
Seriously. That’s what came blurting out of my mouth. Not “I’m not sure I’m ready yet, David,” or “Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about, David, or do you really mean Parcheesi as in…Parcheesi?”
No. None of those things. Instead, I just said my parents wouldn’t let me.
Which was sort of a comforting thought, actually. Especially in that it was true, and all.
“Sure they will,” David said, in his usual unrufflable manner. “It’s Camp DAVID. You’ll be there with the PRESIDENT, and tons of Secret Service. Of course your parents will let you come. Besides, they trust you. Or at least they used to, before you did that to your hair.”
“David. Don’t joke. This is…” My heart was beating kind of hard, and not just because of frisson. “This is a really big step.”
“I know,” he said. “But we’ve been going out for more than a year. I think we’re ready. Don’t you?”
Ready for what? A weekend sleepover at Camp David, complete with turkey and Parcheesi? Or sex?