A/N: Hey, peeps. Don't skip to the story and read this. It takes like five seconds. Kay? Kay. So I wrote this story about two years ago and it was horrible: if you have read the original version of All-American-Dude? please erase it out of your mind. I am so sorry to have done that too you.
Anyway. I love David and was so mad when the books were over so this was the product. I hope it sounds boyish enough considering I'm a girl…. It does say dude in the name!
Disclaimer: David is sexy, but not mine. Everything here is Meg Cabot's. Who is not me, but that's obvious...
Chapter One: Trouble in Paradise
Today isn't different than any other day, not really. It's a Thursday, just another boring day of the week. I woke up in the White House, like usual. My dad's still the president, again, like usual. This made my mom the first lady, and me? I'm the president's son. Oh, how my life is so "usual".
I walk through the same dreary halls of Horizon, as I do every day. The school I've had the great pleasure of attending after my dad selfishly decided to run for president. Making my mom and I have to drop everything and move from Houston all the way to Washington D.C. I'm telling you: my life sucks.
I pass by students who give me the occasional wave and smile. I politely smile back, mostly because I have too. I can't very well tell my fellow classmates how I really feel about their class uniforms and pocket held calculators. I would be lucky to have any of my extremities by the end of that conversation considering that social security escorts me to class on a daily basis.
Just in case you haven't figured it out yet, being the president's son is not all it's cracked up to be. The moment I arrived at Horizon, everyone was so very "infatuated" with the president's son. I had to tough it out and smile and greet and laugh because I'm so very lucky to be here. The morons at my school can figure out synthetic equations and algebraic and graphic solutions, no problem. However, when it comes to socialization skills, they are none the wiser.
This is one of the many things wrong with Horizon Sure, It may be one of the top schools in the nation and everyone here does happen to be a certified genius; however, it is also limited in its focus on the sciences and mathematics, and continually ignores the arts. Had I not had the perk of being the president's son and was still forced to attend Horizon, I am sure I would have been considered an outcast, social security or not, the love I have for the arts is not a talent appreciated in this school. Though I'm sure my love for Ska and Reel Big Fish bands would not be either.
I mull this over as I head over to my locker. Just one away from Riley, my good friend and currently the school's social reject, which might be one of the reasons we happen to get along so well. "Any special plans today man?" he asks me. We both stand in front of our lockers; however, Riley seems to be having some problems opening his. He tries the locker combination. It fails. He tries again. No such luck. I notice that he happens to be trying to open the wrong locker. I don't mention it.
"I don't have any special plans today." It's a down right lie man, I live for Tuesdays. I rush in placing my notebooks from my locker into my backpack. The rushing is because Tuesday afternoons I spend with Susan Boone in art class. It's a refreshing break from my usual schedule. You would think this would be exciting enough, except there happens to be more. I also know we have a new student arriving today. Rumor has it that this new student's a girl, who is approximately a year younger. Maybe it is wishful thinking but I can't help but imagine her, hoping she's cute, maybe even smart and of course, a talented artist. Well not even that. I just pray that she shares an interest in art that could level mine.
"Don't lie, man. What are you rushen' for?" Riley grunts, while pushing on the locker with all his force. He can't seem to get it open so he resolves in punching it a few times. Yeah, maybe that will help. "Is it a girl?"
He's right in a sense, there is a girl; a girl I'm going to talk to today. When he notices me hesitate in answering his question, Riley stops his assault on his locker. Good, the person who actually owns locker 735 will probably appreciate that.
"I knew it was a girl. Who is it?" My only response is a shrug. I grab my backpack and throw it across my shoulder. I glance at my watch. Not late. Yet. Probably should start to leave soon. The guys are probably waiting for me, and trust me: you do not want social security on your back.
"It's Stefani, isn't it?" You don't want Riley on your back either. He stands in front of his locker, smirking at me. I wish he would go back to slamming his head against the locker again. It would make my get away so much easier. "You're going to tap that, aren't you?
"Ugh, dude. No. It's not Stefani." I was never going there again. One date and one measly kiss and she assumed that we should be connected by the hip. (No pun intended). I'm not the type to lead a girl on, and I quickly told her that I wasn't interested and that this wasn't going anywhere. She took it well, and we're still friends but sometimes I feel like she wants more.
"Why not Stephanie? I'd tape that." Yeah, he would. I have noticed for some time that he might have honest feelings for Stephanie. But, alas, just like a typical teenager, he would never admit it. Riley's parents are strict, too strict, and Rile, in an effort to disobey everything his parents say, sleeps with almost every girl he meets. He slept with Stephanie before and after we went out. Not that I ever mentioned that I knew any of this.
Instead I say, "You'd tap anything." And Stephanie is anything. I never noticed how much they really have in common. Stephanie who is pretty with short cropped brown hair and hazel eyes, would make a great companion to Riley, with his blue eyes and over grown hair that now reaches down to his shoulders. His dad continuously tries to encourage Riley to cut his hair, but Riley being the rebel he is, refuses. I think Riley just needs someone to keep him in check. I bet Stephanie could do that. Now it's just a matter of getting them together, while trying to convince both of them to stop sleeping around.
Riley turns back to his locker and bangs his head on it a few times, after that he winks at me and says, "I'd tap your mom if you'd let me. She's sexy as hell and I want a piece of tha-." I walk away before he can finish his sentence. I can only handle so much of Riley at one time.
I'm not a complete ass like Riley though, so before I'm completely around the hall and out of sight I turn around to warn him about the recipient of the locker, I really do. However I'm distracted by the image I see. "Why. Wont. You. Open?" Each word is followed by a hit in the head to the locker via Riley. The image is almost comical and before I can speak, the girl who actually owns locker 735 takes a step toward Riley. She taps him on the arm, and when Riley turns around she conveniently shoves him into said locker.
I know her name, Ashley Base. I've seen her around and she's a typical "I'm too cool for school" kind of girl. She's pretty; however, her previous light brown hair was died black and she wears a leather jacket over her bright red uniform to show her contempt for school rules. I already like her, and not just because she slammed Riley against a locker. Whatever. He probably deserved it anyway.
Apparently, Riley believes so too. If the way he stares at her is any indication. As if he had just fallen in love or something. The whole scene is almost laughable as I watch people who walk by give them incredulous looks. Ashley continues to look furious, and Riley who up until this moment was just gaping at her, takes a step away for her locker and immediately apologizes. I can tell he means it too. Even he has his moments.
I turn around and continue down the hall way, glancing down at my watch to make sure I wasn't late. I try to make it to Susan Boone's as fast as I can. It's a good thing I did too, because I wouldn't have wanted to miss a minute of meeting Samantha Madison.