Free All-American Girl by Meg Cabot

Would you care to comment on how it feels to be the sister of a national heroine?’ and I was all set to say that it feels great, when these two suits practically push me back inside the house, telling me it is for my own protection. I am so sure. What I want to know is, is plastering that hideous photo of you all over the television for my protection? I mean, really, people are going to think I am related to a hideous freak—which is how you look in that photo, Sam, no offense—and believe me, that is notgoing to do anyone any good whatsoever.”
    It was good to know that however much some things might change, one thing, at least, always remained the same: my sister Lucy.
    So anyway, they made me spend the night in the stupid hospital. For observation, they said. But that wasn’t it. I’m sure they were still checking to make certain I didn’t secretly belong to any radical antigovernment groups, and wanted to keep an eye on me in case I tried to escape and join my comrades, or whatever.
    I tossed and turned quite a bit, unable to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in, because usually I sleep on my side, but it turns out the side I sleep on is the side I had the cast on, and I couldn’t sleep on the cast because it was all hard and lumpy, and besides, if I put any weight on it my arm would throb. Plus I missed Manet, which is kind of funny because he is so hairy and smelly you wouldn’t think I’d miss him stinking up my bed, but I totally did.
    I had finally managed to doze off when my mom—who didn’t seem to have any problem at all sleeping in the bed beside mine, and who woke looking fresh as a daisy—got up and threw back the curtains to my hospital room window, letting the morning light in. Then she went, in a manner that, to someone who has hardly gotten any sleep and besides which has a very sore arm, might be somewhat irritating, “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
    But before I had time to ask what was so good about it (the morning, I mean), Mom went, in a shocked voice as she looked out the window, “Oh…my…God.”
    I got out of bed and came to see what my mom was Oh-my-God-ing about, and was shocked to see that there were about three hundred people standing along the sidewalk in front of the hospital, all looking up in the direction of my room. The minute I appeared in the window, there was this roar, and all these people started pointing up at me and waving these posters and screaming.
    My name. They were screaming my name.
    My mom and I stared at each other, slack-jawed, then looked down again. There were news vans with huge satellite dishes on their roofs, and reporters standing around with microphones, and police officers everywhere, trying to hold back the huge crowd of people who had shown up, apparently just hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl who’d saved the life of the president.
    Well, they caught a glimpse of me, all right. I mean, even though I was, like, three stories up, they sure didn’t seem to miss me. Possibly that’s because I was in two hospital gowns and had this great big wad of red bed head coming out of my scalp, but whatever. They caught a glimpse of me, all right.
    â€œUm,” my mom went as the two of us stood there, looking down at the big mess below. “I guess you should…I don’t know. Wave?”
    That sounded like a reasonable suggestion, so I lifted my good arm and waved.
    More cheers and applause rose from the crowd. I waved again, just to make sure it was all because of me, but there was no doubt about it: those people were cheering. Cheering for me. Me , Samantha Madison, tenth grader and celebrity drawing aficionado.
    It was incredible. Like being Elvis, or something.
    It was after I’d waved the second time that there was a knock on my door, and a nurse came in and went, “Oh, good, you’re up. We thought so when we heard the screaming.” Then she added,