By Meg Cabot
Top Ten purposes Samantha Madison is in Deep Trouble
10. Her tremendous sister is the most well-liked woman in school
9. Her little sister is a qualified genius
8. She's in love along with her titanic sister's boyfriend
7. She bought stuck promoting star photographs in school
6. And now she's being pressured to take artwork sessions
5. She's simply kept the president of the United Statesfrom an assassination attempt
4. So the entire international thinks she is a hero
3. even if Sam is familiar with she is way, faraway from being a hero
2. And now she's been appointed teenager ambassador to the UN
And the number-one cause Sam's existence is over?
1. The president's son simply could be in love with her
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Manet, spotting a squirrel across the street, dragged me to the curb, nearly giving me whiplash. “I can still draw celebrities,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over Manet’s hoarse barking. ” Catherine considered this. Then she asked, in a pleading tone, “Then would you PLEASE draw Heath for me? Just once more? ” “I guess,” I said with a sigh, as if it were this very big pain in the neck for me. Except of course it wasn’t. Because when you love something, you want to do it all the time, even if no one is paying you for it.
Not because of the Church of Scientology, but because of the record store Susan Boone’s studio was on top of. As if I’d had something to do with picking the place out! Although I have to say, Static, one of the few record stores in town that I’d actually never been to before, looked tempting—almost as tempting as Capitol Cookies, the bakery next door to it. You could even hear the strains of one of my favorite songs thumping through the walls as we walked toward the store (we had to go around the block once and park a million miles away on Q Street; you could tell Theresa wasn’t going to be insisting on walking me to the door again after this).
Oh, yeah. I’m definitely going to give free drawings of Orlando Bloom to someone like Kris. Not. People like Kris—maybe because she was never forced to attend speech and hearing lessons, much less a school where no one spoke the same language she did—cannot seem to grasp the concept of being nice to anyone who is not size five, blond, and decked out in Abercrombie and Fitch from head to toe. In other words, anyone who is not Kris Parks. Catherine and I were talking about this on our way home from the cathedral grounds—Kris, I mean, and her insufferability—when this car approached us and I saw my dad waving at us from behind the wheel.