If I Have a Wicked Stepmother, Where's My Prince?

"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 Co

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 ca