by Meg Cabot
“They’re at that thing,” Lucy said, turning back to her magazine. “You know. Some benefit for North African orphans, or whatever. I don’t know. All I know is, Theresa cancelled because Tito broke his foot moving a refrigerator, so I’m stuck here making sure Miss ET Phone Home doesn’t blow the house up. Oh my God.” Lucy lowered the magazine. “You should see it. Rebecca has a little friend over, spending the night. Remember when you used to have Kris Parks spend the night, and you two would play Barbies until the crack of dawn, or whatever? Well, guess what Rebecca and her friend are doing? Oh, just creating a DNA strand out of Tinkertoys. Hey, what about this suit?” Lucy showed me the suit. “I was thinking we could get you one like it for your medal ceremony. You know. We’ve only got about two weeks left to get you a really hot outfit. I told Mom we should have hit the outlets on the way home from Grandma’s—”
“Luce,” I said.
I don’t know what made me do it. Talk to my sister Lucy, of all people, about my problems.
But there it was, all coming out. It was like lava, or something, pouring out of a volcano. And there was absolutely no way I could stuff it all back up once it came oozing out.
The weirdest part of it was, Lucy put the magazine down and actually listened. She looked me right in the eye and listened, and didn’t say a word for like five minutes.
Normally, of course, I don’t share details about my personal life with my big sister. But since Lucy is an expert on all things social, I thought she might be able to shed some light on David’s weird behaviour—and possibly my own. I didn’t mention anything about Jack, you know, being my soulmate and all. Just the stuff about the party, and how mean David had been to me at the International Festival of the Child, and the weird frisson and stuff like that.
When I was through, Lucy just rolled her eyes.
“God,” she said. “Come to me with a hard one next time, OK?”
I stared at her. “What?” I mean, I had just revealed my soul to her—well, most of my soul, anyway—and she seemed disappointed that my problems weren’t juicier. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s totally obvious what’s going on with you and David.” She swung her slippered feet up on to the coffee table.
“It is?” Strangely, my heart had started speeding up again. “What, then? What’s going on between us?”
“Duh,” Lucy said. “I mean, even Rebecca figured it out. And her own school admits she has like zero people skills.”
“Lucy.” I was trying very hard not to scream in frustration. “Tell me. Tell me what is going on between David and me, or I swear to God, I’ll—”
“God, chill,” Lucy said. “I’ll tell you. But you have to promise not to get mad.”
“I won’t,” I said. “I swear.”
“Fine.“ Lucy looked down at her fingernails. I could see that she’d just gotten a new manicure. Each nail was a perfect oval, with a clean white tip. My own nails, of course, had never looked that clean, being almost constantly embedded with pencil dust from drawing.
Lucy took a deep breath. Then she let it out and said, “You love him.”
I blinked at her. “What? I what?”
“You promised not to get mad,” Lucy said warningly.
“I’m not mad,” I said. Though of course I was. I had poured my heart out to her, and this is what she came up with? That I was in love with David? Could there be anything further from the truth? “But I don’t love David.”
“God, Sam,” she said, rolling her head against the back of the couch with a groan. “Of course you do. You say when he smiles at you, your heart feels like it’s flipping over. And that when you’re around him, your face always feels hot. And that since he’s been so mad at you for parading him around Kris’s party like a prize trout you’d caught in some dating fishing stream, you’ve felt miserable. What do you think all of that is, Sam, if not love?”
“Frisson?” I suggested, hopefully.
Lucy picked up one of the satin sofa pillows and hurled it at me. “That’s what love is, you idiot!” she yelled. “All that stuff you feel when you look at David? That’s what I feel when I look at Jack. Don’t you get it? You love David. And if I am not mistaking the signs, I think it’s a pretty safe bet to say he feels the same way about you. Or at least he used to, before you, you know, screwed it all up.”
I couldn’t tell her that she was wrong, of course. I couldn’t tell her that it was impossible for me to be in love with David, since I’d been in love with her boyfriend from almost the first time she’d brought him home.
But I had to admit, it did sound a little . . . possible. I mean, given the whole frisson thing. Much as I loved Jack, I had to admit my heart didn’t start beating faster when I saw him. Not like it did with David. And I never had trouble meeting Jack’s gaze—even though his pale-blue eyes were every bit as beautiful as David’s green ones. And while I blushed around Jack, well, the truth is, I’m a redhead: I blush around everybody.
But the person I blush around most is David.
And what about that thing David had pointed out? I mean about Jack’s urban rebellion being kind of ... well, bogus? Because it was bogus, now that I thought of it, for him to shoot out the windows of his dad’s medical practice in protest of something that, yeah, might hurt animals, but which helped sick people.
And the time he’d skinny-dipped at the Chevy Chase Country Club? What had he been protesting then? The country club’s restrictive bathing-suit rule? You know, I bet there are a lot of people at the Chevy Chase Country Club you wouldn’t want to see swimming nude. So wasn’t a bathing-suit policy a good thing, then?
So what did it all mean? Was it possible Lucy was right? Was such a thing even remotely likely? That I had somehow fallen out of love with Jack, and into love with David, without even being aware of it myself . . . until now?
And how could I, Samantha Madison, who for so long had thought she’d known everything, have turned out to know so very, very little?
I was still trying to figure it out when, five minutes later, I’d left Lucy (feeling satisfied that she had solved all of my problems) in the living room, and gone into the kitchen for a snack, since the food at the party had hardly been satisfying.
You can imagine my discomfort when, as I was biting into a turkey sandwich I’d just made (with mayo, nothing else, on white bread) Jack came in.
“Oh, hey, Sam,” he said, wandering over to the refrigerator. “I didn’t know you’d gotten home. How was the party?”
I swallowed the hunk of sandwich I’d been jamming into my mouth just as he’d walked in. “Um,” I said. “Fine. Wuthering Heights over?”
“Huh?” He was busy peering into the fridge. “No, not yet. Commercial. Hey, so what’s the deal, Sam?” He took a carrot out of the vegetable crisper and bit into it noisily. “Is my painting going to New York or what?”
I had known I was going to be having this conversation sooner or later. I’d just hoped it would be later.
But I might as well, I figured, get it over with.
“Jack,” I said, putting down my sandwich. “Listen.”
Before I could get the words out of my mouth, however, Jack was going, with a look of total disbelief, “Wait a minute. Wait. Don’t say it. I can tell by the look on your face. I didn’t win, did I?”
I took a deep, steadying breath, preparing myself for the pain I knew was going to come flooding in when I said the word that would hurt him so much.
“No,” I said.
Jack, who had left the refrigerator door hanging wide open, took a single step backwards. Clearly, I had hurt him. And for that, I would be eternally sorry.
But incredibly, no hurt came. Really. I’d been ready for it. I’d been totally prepared for it to come pouring over me, this intense sorrow for having hurt him.
But it didn’t come. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I was sorry to hurt his feelings, but doing so caused me no hurt whatsoever.
Which was weird. Very weird. Becau
se how could I hurt the man I loved—my soulmate, the man I was destined to be with for ever—and not feel his pain throbbing along my every nerve ending?
“I can’t believe it,” Jack said, finding his voice at last. “I cannot freaking believe this. I didn’t win? You’re seriously telling me I didn’t win?”
“Jack,” I said, still stunned by the fact that I didn’t feel even a tremor of his pain. “I’m really sorry. It’s just that there were so many great entries, and—”
“This is unbelievable,” Jack said. He didn’t say it, exactly. He sort of yelled it. Manet, who had come into the kitchen as soon as he’d heard the fridge open, as was his custom, lifted both ears upon hearing Jack’s raised voice. “Un-freaking-believable!”
Jack,“ I said. ”If there’s any way I can make it up to you—”
“Why?” Jack demanded, his bright-blue eyes very wide and very indignant. “Just tell me why, Sam. Can you do that? Can you tell me why my painting didn’t get chosen?”
I said, slowly, “Well, Jack. We got a lot of entries. I mean, a whole lot of them.”
Jack, so far as I could tell, wasn’t even listening. He went, “My painting was too controversial. That’s it. It has to be. Tell the truth, Samantha. The reason it didn’t win was because everyone thought it was too controversial, didn’t they? They don’t want other countries to see how apathetic the youth of America are today, is that it?”
I said, shaking my head, “No, not exactly . . .”
But of course I should have been just like, Yes, that was it. Because that would have been more acceptable to Jack than the real reason, which I lamely revealed a second later, when he demanded, “Well, why, then?”
“It’s just,” I said, wanting to make him feel better, but at the same time wanting him to understand, “that you didn’t paint what you saw.”
Jack didn’t say anything at first. He just stared down at me. It was like he couldn’t quite process what he’d heard.
“What?” he said, finally, in a tone of utter disbelief.
I should have known. I should have gotten the hint. But I didn’t, of course.
“Well,” I said. “I mean, Jack, come on. You have to admit. You didn’t paint what you see. You go around making these paintings of these disenfranchised kids—and they are really great, don’t get me wrong. But they aren’t real, Jack. The people you paint aren’t real. You don’t even know people like that. It’s like . . . well, it’s like me sticking that pineapple in. It’s nice, and everything, but it isn’t honest. It isn’t real. I mean, you can’t see a Seven Eleven parking lot from your bedroom window. I doubt you can even see a garbage can.” I did not, of course, know for a fact what Jack can see from his bedroom window. I was only guessing about the garbage can.
Still, I must have hit pretty close to the truth, since I managed to thoroughly enrage him.
“Didn’t paint what I see?” he bellowed. “Didn’t paint what I see? What are you talking about?”
“W-well,” I stammered, taken aback by his reaction. “You know. What Susan Boone said. About painting what you see, not what you know—”
“Sam!” Jack yelled. “This isn’t a damned art lesson! It’s my chance for my artwork to make it to New York! And you ruled my painting out because I didn’t paint what I see? What is wrong with you?”
“Hey.” A familiar voice broke the tense silence between Jack and me. I looked over and saw Lucy standing in the doorway, looking annoyed.
“What’s going on?” she wanted to know. “I could hear you yelling all the way across the house. What is with you?”
Jack pointed at me. Apparently, he was so upset he couldn’t even find the words to explain to his own girlfriend what I’d done.
“Sh-she . . .” he sputtered. “Sh-she says I d-didn’t paint what I see.”
Lucy looked from Jack to me and then back again. Then she rolled her eyes and went, “Oh, God, Jack, would you get over yourself, please?”
Then she stomped up, took him by the arm and started steering him from the kitchen. He let her, like a man in a daze.
But Jack wasn’t the only one who felt dazed. I did too.
And not because of the way he’d yelled at me. Not even because, soulmates though we might be, I did not, even for a second, feel Jack’s pain as he heard the bad news.
No. The reason I felt dazed was because of what happened when Jack first came sauntering into the kitchen, when I’d been cramming that sandwich into my mouth, totally not expecting to see him. He’d come into the room, filling the doorway with his big shoulders . . .
And my heart hadn’t flipped over.
My pulse hadn’t gotten any quicker.
I had no trouble at all breathing, and not even a hint of a blush crept over my cheeks.
None of the things that happened when I saw David happened when Jack came strolling into the kitchen. There was no frisson. There was not the slightest hint of frisson.
Which could mean only one thing:
Lucy was right. I am in love with David.
David, whose Dad even can’t stand me, on account of the way I don’t agree with him over the whole painting thing.
David, who got me the daisy helmet and said he liked my boots and carved my name in a White House window sill.
David, whom I’m pretty sure never wants to see me again on account of how I used him to try to make Jack jealous.
David, who all along has been the perfect guy for me, and I was too stupid—too blind—to see it.
Suddenly the turkey sandwich I’d been chowing down on didn’t taste all that good. In fact, it tasted wretched. And the bits I’d swallowed down felt like they might come right back up.
What had I done?
What had I done?
More importantly ... what was I going to do?
Top ten Reasons I Am Most Likely to Die Young (not that that would be such a tragedy, under the circumstances):
10. I am left-handed. Studies show that left-handed people die ten to fifteen years sooner than right-handers, due to the fact that the entire world, from automobiles to those desks you take the SATs at to cash machines at the bank, is slanted towards the right-handed. Finally, after a while, we lefties just give up the struggle and croak rather than try one last time to write something in a spiral-bound notebook with all those wires poking into our wrist.
9. I am red-headed. Redheads are eighty-five per cent more likely to develop terminal skin cancer than anyone else on the planet.
8. I am short. Short people die sooner than tall people. This is a known fact. No one knows why, but I assume it has something to do with short people like me being unable to reach bottles of vital antioxidants at the General Nutrition Centre because they always put them on the highest shelves.
7. I have no significant other. Seriously. People in a romantic relationship just plain live longer than people who are single.
6. I live in an urban area. Studies show that people who live in areas of dense population, such as Washington, DC, tend to perish sooner than people who live out in the country, like in Nebraska, thanks to higher emissions of carcinogens like bus exhaust and random gunfire from urban gang warfare.
5. I eat a lot of red meat. You know what group of people live the longest of anyone? Yeah, that would be this tribe of people who hang out in like Siberia somewhere, and all they eat is yogurt and wheatgerm. Seriously. I don’t think they are vegetarians, I think they just can’t find any meat because the cows all froze to death. Anyway, they all live to be like a hundred and twenty years old.
I can’t stand yogurt, let alone wheatgerm, and I eat hamburgers at least once a day. I would eat them more often if I could get someone to make them for me. I am so dead.
4. I am a middle child. Middle children die sooner than their older and younger siblings due to being routinely ignored. I have never seen documented proof of this, but I am sure it is true. It is a story just waiting to be busted wide open by 60 Minutes or whatever.
3.
I have no religious affiliation. My parents have completely ignored our religious upbringing, thanks to their own selfish agnosticism. Like just because they aren’t sure of the existence of God, we aren’t allowed to go to church. When, meanwhile, there is statistical evidence that churchgoers live longer and have happier lives than non-churchgoers.
And just where is my memorial service going to be performed when I die? I wish my parents had thought about these things before they went with this whole, “Let the kids decide for themselves what they want to believe‘ thing. I could very well be dead before I ever even get to explore all my religious options. Though at the moment I am leaning strongly towards Hinduism because I am totally into reincarnation. On the other hand, I doubt I could give up beef, so this might be a problem.
2. I am a dog-owner. While pet owners in general live longer than non-pet owners, cat owners live the longest. It is entirely likely that thanks to Manet being a dog, I could perish five to ten years sooner than if he were a cat.
And the number one reason I am likely to die young:
1. My heart is broken.
It really is. All the signs are there. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat—not even burgers. Every time the phone rings, my pulse leaps . . . but it’s never for me. It’s never him.
I realize it is my own fault—I messed everything up myself. But that doesn’t make it feel any better. Self-inflicted wound or not, it’s still there.
And the fact is, human beings can’t really function with a broken heart. I mean, sure, I could live without David. But what kind of life would it be? An empty shell sort of a life. I mean, I had a perfect chance at love, and I blew it. BLEW IT! Due to the fact that even though my eyes were open, I was not seeing. I wasn’t seeing anything at all.
I give myself two weeks before I croak.
I stood on Susan Boone’s front porch, feeling lame. But then, since I’ve pretty much felt lame my entire life, this was no big surprise.
On the other hand, usually I feel lame for no particular reason. This time I really had a reason to feel lame.
