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?

He had to be talking about sex. I mean, guys don’t ask you to go to Camp David with them just for pumpkin pie and board games, right?

RIGHT?

“I don’t know, David,” I said hesitantly. “I mean…I think…I think I’m going to have to think about this. This is happening awfully fast.”

But was it? I mean, really? Considering recent events in the make-out department? Wasn’t “a weekend at Camp David” just the next natural step?

“Come on,” David said, his hand creeping up my shirt. “Say yes.”

No fair. He was using his extremely talented fingers to manipulate my emotions. Or, er, not my emotions so much as my, um, appendages (SAT word meaning “body parts”).

“Say you’ll come,” he whispered.

I would just like to say that it’s very hard to know what the right thing to say is when a guy has his hand up your bra.

“I’ll come,” I heard myself whisper back.

How do I get myself into these things?

I mean, seriously.


 

Top ten places people commonly lose their virginity:

10. Backseat of his car, like Diane Court in Say Anything (although, considering it was with Lloyd Dobler, this probably wasn’t so bad).

9. Hotel after the prom. This is such a cliché. So many girls think there’s something romantic about losing it after the prom, apparently not realizing that the prom is just another thing the popular crowd invented to make the people in the non-popular crowd feel bad for not getting invited.

8. Your parents’ bed while they’re away for the weekend. Ew. EW. It’s your parents’ bed, the place where you (possibly) were conceived. GROSS.

7. HIS parents’ bed while they’re away for the weekend. And it won’t be at all embarrassing if his mother happens to find your Hello Kitty underwear at the bottom of her sheets.

6. In a tent at summer camp. Hello. It’s a tent. EVERYONE CAN HEAR YOU.

5. On a beach. Sand. It gets everywhere.

4. Anywhere out of doors at all. One word: Bugs.

3. His room. Um, okay, have you ever happened to catch a whiff of his socks? His whole room smells like that. Seriously. Even if he happens to live in the White House. And he can’t tell. He really can’t. It’s like his nostrils have gotten accustomed to it, the way yours have gotten accustomed to the smell of your own deodorant.

2. Your room. Oh, really? You’re going to Do It in front of Raggedy Ann and Mr. Snuffles? I think not.

And the number-one place people commonly lose their virginity:

1. Camp David. Well, okay, maybe this isn’t the place where most people lose their virginity. But it’s apparently the place where I’m going to lose mine.


3

The thing is, I have an ace in the hole (whatever that means. Something good, anyway).

And that ace is Mom and Dad.

Because NO WAY are Mom and Dad going to let me skip Thanksgiving at Grandma’s to go away with my boyfriend.

Even to Camp David.

Even with the president.

Which means no sex. Or Parcheesi, as David apparently calls it.

I won’t pretend like I am too upset about this. About my mom and dad not letting me go away with David. I mean, I’m not all that positive I even want to go. Okay, sure, I want to go when David’s hands are under various articles of my clothing…

But the minute they aren’t anymore, I have to admit, I’m not completely jazzed about the idea.

Because, let’s face it, sex is an awfully big step. It completely changes your relationship. Or at least it does in the books Lucy likes to read, the ones she leaves lying around next to the bathtub that I occasionally pick up to peruse when I’ve run out of Vonnegut or whatever. In those books, whenever the girl and the guy start Doing It, that’s it. That’s all they do. So long going to the movies. So long going to dinner. All they ever do when they get together is…well, It.

Maybe that’s just books and not how it is in real life. But how am I supposed to know for sure? It’s just that I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

So if—although when is more like it—Mom and Dad say I can’t go, it won’t be the worst thing in the world. That’s all I’m saying.

I dropped the bomb the minute I got back from life drawing. I decided that since Mom and Dad were just going to say no anyway, I might as well dispense with the beating-around-the-bush-and-dropping-of-subtle-hints thing. I mean, so what if they say no? David is going to have to learn to live with disappointment.

Mom and Dad were sitting there at the dining room table with Lucy, who looked moderately upset, for some reason. Probably her favorite contestant on American Idol got voted off or something.

“Mom, Dad,” I said, completely interrupting without remorse or preamble, “can I go to Camp David for Thanksgiving with, um, David”—I’d never realized until I said it just then that David has the same name as the presidential retreat. How weird is that? Plus, it sounds stupid to say—“and his parents?”

“Of course, honey,” my dad said.

It was my mom who went, “Oh, God, Sam. What did you do to your hair?”

“I dyed it,” I said. Meanwhile, my heart had totally skipped a beat. “What do you mean by ‘Of course, honey,’ Dad?”

“Is it permanent?” my mom asked.

“Semi,” I said to Mom. “Are you serious?” I asked Dad. “What about Grandma?”

“Grandma’ll get over it,” my dad said. Then he, too, became fixated on my hair. “What are you supposed to be?” he wanted to know. “One of those mango characters you’re always reading about?”

“Manga,” I corrected him. “What are you saying, exactly? That I can go?”

“Go where?”

“To Camp David. With David. For Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving weekend. OVERNIGHT.”

“I don’t see why not,” my mom said. “I assume his parents will be there? Well, fine. Next time you want to do something like this, Samantha, let me know beforehand. I’ll make an appointment with my colorist. That over-the-counter stuff can’t be good for your hair.”

And just like that, it was over. They both turned their attention back to Lucy and whatever her glitch was…probably that she had a cheerleading practice that conflicted with some college tour they wanted her to take. They had been on her case about narrowing down some choices for college for a while now.

Leaving me to be all, um, hello? Remember me? Your other daughter? The one whose boyfriend just asked her to spend Thanksgiving weekend playing Parcheesi with him? And you said yes? Uh-huh, THAT daughter?

I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. My parents were letting me go away for the weekend with my boyfriend.

And okay, you could see why they would, on account of his dad, being the president.

But just because your dad is the president doesn’t mean you don’t want to play Parcheesi. I mean, had they ever thought of that?

Apparently not. Apparently, my parents are the most clueless people on the face of the planet.

And now, thanks to them, it looked like I was going to Camp David for Thanksgiving, to get an up close and personal look at my boyfriend’s inguinal ligament.

Okay. This isn’t happening.

And yet, apparently, it is.

I was still reeling from the shock of it all when Lucy came flitting past my bedroom door a little while later. I had my headphones on—I was listening to Tragic Kingdom, in the hopes that Gwen’s assurance that she’s “just a girl in the world” would soothe my frazzled soul—so all I saw were Lucy’s lips moving for a minute. When she didn’t give up and go away after a while, I pulled my headphones off and went, in a voice unfriendly enough to startle my dog, Manet, from her sleep, “What?”

“That’s what I was asking you,” Lucy said. “Why do you look as if you just found out John Mayer died?”

Because in Lucy’s world, if John Mayer died, people would freak. In my world if that happened? No one would notice.

“Um, because this year while you’re helping Grandma light her pilgrim candle replicas of John and Priscilla Smith, I’m going to be losing my virginity to my longtime boyfriend at Camp David.”

That’s what I want to tell her.

But since I can’t help thinking this isn’t the wisest thing to confide to my sister, I just say the first thing that popped into my head, which is, “I don’t know. I guess I’m just upset because…because…today, I saw my first, um, you-know-what.”

I saw right away that I should have said something else. Anything else. Because this had the opposite effect of what I’d been hoping for—that Lucy would go away.

Instead, she came barreling all the way into my room, not even looking where she was going and knocking over my Hellboy action figures, which I had artfully set up along the top of my dresser to portray the Liz-on-the-sacrificial-slab scene.