keep quiet about what was on my mind for one more second.

"Guess what," I said, when we stopped for a red light. I was almost giggling with excitement.

"What?" asked Sam. He looked over at me expectantly.

Sam's look made me feel a little silly. I mean, it wasn't like my news was all that thrilling. Still, it

felt thrilling to me. "I finally got an idea for my self-portrait."

"Hey, that's great," said Sam, smiling. A car behind us honked, and Sam put the car in gear. "Can I ask what it is, or are you not ready to say yet?"

I wrinkled my face and shook my head. "I don't mean to be rude, but..."

"Wait, you're worried that I'll judge your poor etiquette?" asked Sam, laughing. "Didn't you once nominate me for the Rudest-Person-Alive Award?"

I turned toward him. "Oh, yeah, what ever happened with that?" I asked.

He made the left onto my block. "They gave it to some guy in Manhattan who clips his nails on

the subway."

"Too bad," I said. "Are you upset?"

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Sam shrugged. "Win some, lose some." I pointed out my house, and Sam pulled up in front of it

and killed the engine. "Do you mind if I ask what your inspiration was?"

"Gardner's Art Through the Ages. I'm a shameless thief," I admitted.

"Well, like Picasso said, 'Good artists borrow. Great artists steal.' And as you know, I myself

have stolen more than my fair share of ideas. Which is not to say I'm a great artist," he added

quickly.

"I don't know," I said. "You're pretty great." I watched a blush creep up his cheeks as he tapped out a drum solo on the steering wheel in an attempt to ignore what I'd just said. "God, you're so

easy to embarrass," I said. "Look at you, turning all red."

"Come on," he said. I watched him fight the smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

"This is so much fun," I said. "It could be a new parlor game. Make Sam Blush."

"Ha ha," he said.

"What a brilliant artist you are, Sam," I said loudly. "What natural talent. What technique."

Sam was smiling, but he was also beet red. "Are you going to stop?"

"And your brushwork." I kissed the tips of my fingers. "It's nothing short of genius."

He turned on the engine. "Well, bye, Lucy. Thanks for all your help."

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"Not to mention your extraordinary use of color."

"Really, thanks for everything." He cranked up the volume on Dylan's wail.

"Seriously, Sam, you should rent yourself out for parties. You're more reliable than Old

Faithful."

Sam cupped his hand around his ear. "What's that, Lucy?" he shouted. "You say you have to

go?"

"Actually, I do have to go," I shouted back. Teasing Sam was pretty great, but I'd told Madison

I'd check out a dress she'd e-mailed me a picture of. It was already later than I'd expected to get

home. If I didn't call soon, she could go into prom dress-related conversation withdrawal.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, as I opened the door.

Sam held his hands out and then pointed from the stereo to his ear, shaking his head. "Sorry,

Lucy, can't hear a word you're saying," he shouted. "Thanks again."

Laughing, I shut the door and watched Sam pull away from the curb just as my cell phone rang. I

grabbed it. "I'm walking into the house as we speak," I said. "I'll look at it and call you right back."

"Five minutes," she said.

"Five minutes," I promised. I'd been planning on grabbing a snack, but now I figured I'd better

go online first. When you say you'll call someone in five minutes, you can't call them in twenty.

Being royalty is no excuse for being rude.

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Chapter Twenty-one

When Connor finally got around to calling, it was easy to tell that my paranoid fantasies of him

riding off into the sunset with Kathryn Ford were a little misplaced.

"Hey, Red," he said. He sounded really bad. "Sorry I haven't called. I've been kinda sick."

"Yeah, you don't sound so good."

"I don't feel so good. Me and Matt and Dave started throwing back shots of tequila." There was a pause, and I heard Connor swallow. "I can't even talk about it." His voice was thin, as if it took effort to speak.

I felt terrible for him. "Are you okay?" I'd never been hung over, but I once spent twenty-four

hours throwing up from a bad clam.

"I'll live. But what's your good news?"

For a second I couldn't remember, then it came back

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to me. "Oh, I was potentially grounded forever, but now I'm not."

"That's awesome, Red."

There was a knock at my door. "Lucy," called Princess Two, "dinner."

"Connor, can I call you back? My stepmother goes insane if I'm not upstairs for dinner at seven

on the dot."

Connor groaned. "Don't say dinner. Please."

Like the painting of a masterpiece, the search for the perfect prom dress is not a matter to be

undertaken lightly. One must have the single-mindedness of purpose, the courage, the blind

devotion to the task at hand of a true believer. One must have strength. One must have vision.

One must have one's father's credit card.

To obtain said father's credit card, I spent the first Saturday of spring break being ordered around

by Mara, who wanted to see what the living room would look like if the couch was where the

love seat was and the love seat was in the den. As I moved glass figurines, end tables, and a

hideous grandfather clock around the house, I knew Jessica and Madison were at Miracle Mile,

wrapping themselves in silk and satin, being waited on hand and foot by obsequious salesladies

catering to their every whim. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and Monday, when I

walked into Roses Are Red with my dad's Visa in the back pocket of my jeans, I knew my blood,

sweat, and tears had paid off.

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"This one is nice," said Madison, extracting a pale pink dress from where it was wedged between

two other pink ones. We were waiting for the saleslady to come back with the dress Madison had

put on hold Saturday. "I tried it on but it made me look all washed out."

I looked at the dress. "I don't know, Madison," I said. "Pink?"

She put the dress back and came over to me. "You know what you have to do?" She stared

intensely into my eyes. "You have to picture yourself on prom night, okay?"

The saleslady came out from the back. "I'm sorry, dear, I just don't think we have the dress you're

describing."

From across the store, Jessica rolled her eyes at me and spun her finger next to her temple.

"Are you kidding?" asked Madison, turning to the woman. "I was just here Saturday."

The saleslady smiled vaguely. "Are you sure you have the right store? Because there are so

many--"

"Oh my god," said Madison, "can I just come back there and look?" Before the woman had a chance to answer, Madison had pushed past her, through the curtains and into the nether regions

of the store. I gave the saleslady a little shrug, and she smiled at me, fluttering her hands in the