Me: But—

Mom: And while we’re angry I’d like to point out that your room is a mess, you haven’t practiced the piano in weeks, and you’re two inches shorter than I’ve always wanted you to be.

Me: But—

Dad: And stop calling us names. You’re grounded.

Okay, maybe my parents wouldn’t be that extreme. Well, at least my dad wouldn’t be. Mom tended to get worked up easily. She expected me to do everything flawlessly.

Apparently the SAT was one area where I was far from flawless.

I’d have to tell my parents eventually, but I could put it off as long as possible.

CHAPTER 2

The next day at school I decided I would definitely run for office. Then I decided I definitely wouldn’t. As I watched all the people passing me in the hallways, I asked myself, Would they vote for me? Did enough people think I could do the job—did enough people like me—to elect me? I hoped so, but I knew there might also be a very painful answer to this question. Did I really want to find out?

1 didn’t mention the possibility of my candidacy to anyone that day. I told myself I’d talk with my friends about it the next day, but somehow I never got around to mentioning it then, either.

Finally, I decided the best place to test-drive the idea was on my date with Brad. He would understand how I felt. Perhaps he’d even murmur words of encouragement to me.

He came to pick me up at five so we could go to dinner before we saw a movie. When the doorbell rang, I was in the middle of doing my hair, so I sent my mom to the door before one of my little brothers could get it. I have three younger brothers: Andy, who’s seven, and the twins, Joe and David, who are ten—all of whom are major pains. They seem to think anything female is hilarious and have no qualms about sharing aspects of my beauty regime with any guy who walks in the door.

“She puts this thick, gooey clay stuff on her face sometimes,” they told my last boyfriend. “You’ll be sorry if you marry her.”

So I sent my mom to answer the door. Which turned out to be a mistake. While I was finishing my curls she started discussing the evening plans with Brad.

Maybe the problem is I date too much. If I hardly ever went out, then my mom would be nervously trying to impress my dates in order to encourage them. As it is, my mom sees the guys in my life as something between an annoyance (“Okay kids, Samantha’s got a guy coming to pick her up in fifteen minutes, so get your stuff off the living-room floor before I throw it away!”) and an unlimited resource (“So, Bryce, I hear your father is an orthodontist.

Would he mind looking at Joe’s teeth sometime?”).

Today when I walked into the living room, Brad stood beside my mom with a trapped expression on his face, and I knew he’d become a resource.

Mom scooped up our nine-month-old tabby cat from the couch and smiled over at me.

“Brad tells me you’re going to El Marcado. That’s just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the animal clinic.”

“I’m sure it’s perfectly sanitary anyway,” I said, grabbing my jacket from the hall closet and slipping my purse over my shoulder.

Mom ignored me. “And you know I’m supposed to take Frisky in tonight to be spayed.

It would really be great if you could drop her off for me.”

“You want me to take the cat on our date?”

She scratched Frisky on the chin in casual manner. “Not on your date. Just to the vet’s office. It’s on the way to the restaurant.”

I shifted my purse on my shoulder, fiddling with the strap as I inched toward the front door. “Won’t the clinic be closed by now?”

“They stay open until nine.”

At this point Andy wandered into the living room. He was blond like me, and cute in that tousled way only seven-year-olds can get away with. He went over to Mom and started tugging on her shirt to get her attention.

“Don’t send Frisky away,” he whined. “We want her to have kittens.”

“No, we don’t,” Mom said.

“But kittens are so cute!” he said.

“Sure, they’re cute when they’re kittens, but they grow up to be cats. So Samantha and Brad are taking Frisky to the vet.” She stepped toward me, holding Frisky out.

I put my hand on the doorknob and sent her a pleading look. “Mom . . .” Please don’t make me do this. And please don’t start an argument in front of Brad. I’m trying to look mature, sophisticated, and just a little bit glamorous. Hauling a cat around with me is not a way to accomplish any of these goals.

Mom apparently has no telepathic powers. While she went on about how it wouldn’t be “any trouble at all” and how she’d taken Frisky in for shots three weeks ago and the cat “behaved perfectly fine,” she handed Frisky to Brad.

Brad stood there, frozen, holding the cat slightly away from his jacket, eyeing her l ike she might have fleas.

I knew he didn’t want to even hold the cat, let alone chauffeur her to the vet’s, but he was too polite to hand her back to my mom. Which is why, I suppose, Mom handed Frisky to Brad instead of to me.

“Thanks, dear,” Mom said. She took Andy’s hand and headed toward the kitchen. “I have so many other things to do, and this saves me a trip.” Over her shoulder she called out, “Have fun at dinner,” and then disappeared into the kitchen.

I reached over and took Frisky from Brad’s arms. “Sorry about this.”

“It’s okay.”

I knew it wasn’t. My telepathic powers apparently work much better than my mother’s, and I could tell Brad would rather have stitches than carry our cat around. So I would hold her, and we’d just try to get the feline-escorting part of the evening over as quickly as possible.

We walked out to Brad’s car, and I stroked Frisky's gray fur to let her know that everything was fine. Her name is a misnomer. She was only frisky for the first two months of her kittenhood. Immediately thereafter she became lazy, slothful, and a whole slew of less-than-cute adjectives, but by then it was too late to change her name. Besides, she probably wouldn’t answer to Lays-on-the-couch-licking-her-fur.

I climbed into Brad’s car and set Frisky down beside me while I put on my seat belt.

Brad got in on the other side and kept sending Frisky sideways glances while he fastened his own belt. I could tell he was wondering how much cat hair she shed per minute, so I picked her up and put her back on my lap. True, I would probably spend the rest of our date looking like I was wearing furry jeans, but better to look funny than to have your date upset because you’d messed up his upholstery.

Brad turned on the ignition, and Frisky s claws came out.

I calmly tried to peel her off my jeans without screaming. Screaming probably wouldn’t help soothe a nervous cat.

“It’s okay, Frisky,” I breathed out. “We’re just taking you on a trip to the vet.”

“Where they’ll cut you open and remove parts of your body,” Brad added.

“You’re not helping.”

“It’s not like she can understand English.”

Frisky peered out the window, her eyes darting back and forth at the scenery, and she let out a long, low meow. Not like the cute little myerts she uses when she wants food. This sounded more like a gravelly, possessed can opener.

“Is she all right?” Brad asked, taking his eyes off the road for longer than I liked.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. Just hurry.”

He sped up. A lot.

“Not that fast.”

He didn’t slow down. “I thought your mother said the cat traveled just fine when she went in for her shots.”

“Well, maybe Frisky remembers that the last time she went for a car ride she got stuck by a bunch of sharp needles.”

The speed did nothing to soothe Frisky. She leaped from my lap and prowled back and forth in the car, searching for a way out. Every once in a while she bellowed her gravelly meows at us.