After school Chelsea, Aubrie, and Rachel offered to drive me to Baskin Robbins so I could drown my sorrow in double fudge brownie, but I took a rain check. I just wanted to go home, where I could fall apart in private; and although I didn’t come right out and tell them so, they seemed to understand.

On the way driving home, I decided to tell my mother about my SAT score. No matter how upset she got, I couldn’t feel more awful than I already did, so it was good timing. Ranting, raving, threatening—none of these things would even faze me.

Besides, now that my political hopes had been squelched, Mom needed to get used to the idea that I wasn’t going to college. I was going to be one of those people who lived on a street corner, mumbled things no one understood, and ate discarded Big Macs. In my spare time I’d try to catch pigeons. It would be an easy, carefree life.

Mom was unpacking groceries into the refrigerator when I walked into the kitchen. I got a glass from the cupboard, then went to the sink to get some water. I took a long drink, a deep breath, and blurted out, “I lost the election, I bombed my SAT test, and I’ve given up any hope of having a happy future.”

Mom shut the refrigerator door. “You lost the election? Oh honey, I’m sorry—” Then she stopped, and I could almost see her processing the rest of the information. “What did you say about the SAT?”

“I bombed it.”

“What do you mean, you bombed it?”

“I got a three hundred and fifty on the math portion. It dragged my score down.” I didn’t mention that my other score didn’t have very far to drag.

Mom shut her eyes and opened them slowly. She was on the verge of a lecture—you could almost see the words “What have you been doing all these years during your math classes?” about to spring from her lips. But instead she asked, “What was your composite?”

“Eight hundred and ten.”

“Eight hundred and ten?” Mom looked up at the ceiling, then back at me with a cold stare. “When did you find out about your score?”

“A few weeks ago.”

Mom took a box of cereal from the grocery bag, shoved it into the cupboard, and slammed the cupboard door shut. “So basically, everyone but your parents knew your score all along, and you didn’t tell us so I could make a fool of myself in front of everyone by insisting you hadn’t got your scores yet.” She then took a loaf of bread and flung it into the bread box with enough force to ensure we’d be eating three-inch sandwiches all week. “I even called the school and complained that your scores hadn’t come in.”

Quietly I said, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be angry.”

“Well, that worked out really well. I’m not angry at all now.”

Tears stung my eyes, and I didn’t try to stop them from coming. “This isn’t about you. It’s my score, my problem, and I feel really awful about it. It would be nice if you could just be a little sad for me.”

I didn’t wait for her to answer. I turned and walked out of the kitchen and upstairs to my bedroom. Once there, I lay down on my bed and buried my face in my pillow to muffle the sound of my crying.

After a few minutes Mom walked into the room. I didn’t even know she’d come in until she sat down on my bed. She put her hand on my back and said, “I’m sorry, Samantha.

I handled that all wrong. I shouldn’t have yelled.” She rubbed her hand slowly across my back. “I make a lot of mistakes as a parent, but I’m trying to be better. Isn’t that as much as any of us can do?”

I sat up and gave her a hug, and she held me for a while. I know she never thought I listened to her, but her words kept repeating in my mind. “I’m trying to be better. Isn’t that as much as any of us can do?”

I wanted so badly for those words to be true for me too. “I’m sorry about everything.”

“Things will seem better tomorrow. We’ll talk about what we can do to help your studies.”

I nodded, even though I had the feeling what-we-could-do would probably involve things that were hard, painful, and required me to sit in front of textbooks for long hours.

Still, I felt better about my score when she left. I wondered why I didn’t tell her in the very beginning about it, instead of carrying the secret around like a lead weight.

I lay there for a while longer, staring at the ruffle on my pillow sham while I tried to figure out how much my GPA would rise if I aced all of my finals.

A few moments later Mom opened my door and peered in at me. “Logan Hansen is here to see you.”

“Why?”

Mom shrugged. “The guys who come to see you generally don’t give me lengthy explanations when I let them in. Why don’t you go downstairs and ask him.”

If it had been anyone else in the world, I would have told my mother to send him away. Santa Claus himself could have shown up to explain his whereabouts since my childhood, and I would have turned him out.

But somehow I wanted to see Logan, or at least I wanted to know why he’d come by.

Before I left, I checked my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were puffy, but there was nothing I could do about that. I trudged down the stairs. Logan was waiting for me by the front door.

“I suppose you think I look beautiful,” I said.

“I do.” He nodded toward the coat closet. “Get your jacket. If we catch an early dinner, we’ll have time for a movie.”

“I thought we weren’t going out till Saturday.”

He shrugged. “You need someone to cheer you up today.” My eyes were swollen, and I didn’t want to pretend I was in an upbeat mood. “Thanks, Logan, but I don’t think tonight will work out.”

“Why not?”

I said the only thing I could think of. “I’ve got homework to do.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Now you want to get serious about your schoolwork? Now, when I’m trying to take you out?”

I smiled despite myself. Somehow Logan made me feel as though things could be normal again. Suddenly I did want to go out with him, but still I hesitated.

“Go on,” he said. “Get your jacket, purse, and all that girl stuff you women lug around on dates. I’ve got reservations at the Hilltop, and they won’t hold the window seats forever.”

I found myself walking up the stairs to get my things, even though I still hadn’t quite decided to go with him.

“Bring your homework along too,” he called after me. “We’ll work on it while we wait for dinner.”

“And to think I accused you of not knowing how to be romantic,” I called back. I went to my room and picked up my jacket and purse but left my homework on my desk.

When I came back downstairs, he was leaning against the doorway. “I know how to be romantic. I thought I’d already proven that to you.”

“Oh yeah, at the prom, when you told me I was cliquish.”

“If you recall, I said other things too.”

“Some of which made me step on your foot.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I remember that. You’d better not wear heels tonight.”

I called to my mom that I was going to dinner with Logan, and she yelled back, “Don’t stay out too late.”

Then Logan opened the front door for me, and we walked to his car. I got in silently, and so did he. Perhaps neither of us felt like small talk. I stared out the window as he pulled into the street and wondered if we’d drive all the way to the restaurant without speaking.

Finally he said, “You know, Samantha, being president would have been nice, but you have a lot of other opportunities to do things with our class next year. And if you want to go into politics, you’ll have other chances. Just remember, Abraham Lincoln lost half a dozen elections before he won the presidency.”

I wondered, but I didn’t ask, what Lincoln’s SAT scores had been.

Instead, I fiddled with the safety belt strap on my lap and decided I’d better tell Logan the truth about my political ambitions, or I’d have to endure an entire evening of presidential triumph stories.