"Your notebook."
"What?"
"It's on your notebook."
"Oh," It was true. The first day of school I'd written my locker number on my notebook so I
wouldn't forget it.
Sam was two thirds of the way around the pool now, and he looked over at me. Then he jumped
off without even spilling a drop of his wine and came back to the bench. He stood in front of
where I was sitting and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up straight. Then he shook
his head like he was trying to clear it of something unpleasant. "Sorry about my mother back
there," he said.
"Don't worry about it," I said. "You should meet my stepmother."
"Yeah?" he asked.
"God yes, she's ten million times worse than your mom." I thought for a second. "Like, she
collects really expensive glass figurines," I said.
"No way!" Sam said, and for the first time since his mom had come over to us, he smiled.
"Really," I said. "And once one of a pair of matching unicorns broke, and she started to cry."
Sam
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was still smiling. "At least your mom collects art," I said.
"And artists," he said. He stopped smiling and looked back at the gallery. "What about your mother?" he asked. "What does she do?"
"Actually, she doesn't do anything anymore," I said. "She's dead."
"Oh, wow," he said, turning back to face me. "That sucks."
"Yeah, I guess," I said. I never know how to tell people my mother's dead, since it's pretty much guaranteed to bring even the most scintillating conversation to a complete halt. It was a huge
relief that Sam hadn't made the Poor little Lucy frown most people made.
"Is that why you moved to New York?" he asked. "Did she die recently?"
"Oh, no, she died a long time ago," I said. "We moved because my dad remarried, and my
revolting stepsisters can't function outside a ten-mile radius of the Miracle Mile."
Sam squinted and looked up at the sky, like he was trying to figure something out. "Soooo,
you've got a stepmother who's a bitch and some evil stepsisters," he said finally.
"I know," I said. "It's so Brothers Grimm."
"Seriously."
As I looked at Sam, who was standing right in front of me and still looking up at the sky, I could
kind of see why someone like Jane, someone who could go out with
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any guy she wanted to, might go out with him. In his sports jacket, holding a glass of wine, he
looked good. Not good like Connor looked good. Not in the pure gorgeous way. This was
different. I considered how Sam had laughed when he was talking to Milton Newman. Even
though there must have been at least a dozen adults around him, even though he was talking to a
guy who was clearly a successful, well-known artist, he'd seemed totally relaxed.
That was it--Sam was cool.
He sat down on the bench next to me. "So," he said. "You're uprooted from San Francisco and dragged across the country to Long Island. You're a sophomore. You know no one. Yet in just a
few short months you manage to snag the captain of the football--sorry, the basketball team. Not
too shabby."
I took a sip of my wine, then turned to face him. "I really don't think the guy who went out with
last year's prom queen ought to be quite so condescending, do you?"
Sam laughed. "Touché," he said. After a minute he added, "She wasn't actually the prom queen."
"Still," I said, patting him lightly on the knee. "I feel the point is justified."
"Yeah," he acknowledged. "I suppose it is." He stretched his arms up, then dropped his hands onto his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "Hey, maybe you'll get to be prom queen this year," he said. Then he pointed at me. "Dreams come true, right?"
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I put my glass down on the pebbled ground. "Okay, can I just say that I didn't like you before,
and then for a few minutes I liked you, and now I'm not liking you again?"
"Sorry," he said. When I didn't say anything, he said it again. "Really, I'm sorry." He shook his head and chuckled. "I just cannot understand how someone who seems to care about art as much as you do cares about basketball."
I crossed my arms. "Why not? Why can't you accept that a person could like sports and art?"
"I don't know." He shrugged. "Failure of imagination, I guess."
"Failure of something," I said. "You should care about basketball. You should open your mind to the beauty of the game."
Sam shook his head from side to side, smiling. "Well, maybe I'll do that," he said.
"Speaking of the beauty of the game, what time is it?" I asked. I was pretty sure it was getting close to seven, which meant I needed to think about leaving. There was a seven-twenty train I
planned to be on, and Penn Station was about ten minutes from the gallery by cab.
Sam reached over and lazily pushed up the sleeve of his jacket. "It's seven-ten," he said.
I leaped up off the bench, my heart pounding. "Oh my god! How is that possible?"
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"Well, the big hand's on the--"
"No, no, I have to get out of here," I said. "I'm late."
He scrunched up his face in mock confusion. "Wait, let me guess ..." Suddenly he waved his
hand in the air. "I know, I know. It must be the night of the BIG GAME, right?"
I couldn't help smiling. "If I had the time, I'd punch you," I said.
"In that case, I'd better get you a cab,'* he said, and he turned and walked toward the gate. I
followed and waited on the sidewalk while he hailed a cab, trying not to tap my foot impatiently.
Luckily a cab pulled up right away; within a minute Sam was holding the door open for me.
As I slid into the backseat, it occurred to me how rude I was being. "Sorry to race off like this," I said, buckling my seat belt.
"No worries," he said. "I wouldn't want you to turn into a pumpkin right before my eyes." And then, smiling, he shut the door of the cab.
"Where to?" asked the driver.
"Penn Station, please." The cab sped off, and when we stopped at the corner for a light, I realized I hadn't even really said good-bye. I craned my neck around to see if Sam was still standing
outside the gallery, but he wasn't there. I leaned back against the seat.
"Do you know what time it is?" I asked the driver.
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"It's seven-fifteen," he said.
If I missed the seven-twenty train, the next one was the seven-forty, which meant there was no
way I'd get to the eight o'clock game before eight-thirty.
It was all Mara's fault. If she hadn't been such a witch, we wouldn't have gotten into a fight, and
if we hadn't gotten into a fight, I wouldn't have had to come to the city to avoid getting grounded,
and if I hadn't had to come to the city to avoid getting grounded, I wouldn't have stayed at the
gallery all that time talking to Sam, and if I hadn't stayed at the gallery talking to Sam, I wouldn't
have missed my train, and if I hadn't missed my train, I wouldn't be late to the game.
Tonight was a perfect illustration of why Cinderella and the Prince get married twenty-four hours