Dear George Clooney

by Susin Nielsen

  It was going to be a long night.

  Mom had rented The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Mr. Fox was voiced by George Clooney, which I knew Phoebe would find interesting from a psychological perspective.

  “Mom met George Clooney once,” I announced, when we heard his distinct voice for the first time.

  “Really? You met George Clooney?” asked Dudley, clearly impressed.

  “I met a lot of actors when I worked in production,” my mom said. “But George was by far the sweetest. And the hottest.”

  “He said he hoped their paths would cross again,” I added.

  “George Clooney has good taste,” Dudley replied, then he actually gave my mom a kiss on the lips, right in front of us. I had to force myself not to gag. “Actually, I get told quite often that I could be his twin,” he joked, sticking out his nonexistent chin and giving us a cheesy smile. Mom laughed too hard, and Rosie laughed too, even though she had no idea what was funny.

  “In your dreams,” I said under my breath.

  Throughout the movie, Dudley sat on the red couch, with my mom on one side and Rosie on the other. I sat as far away from them as possible on the gold couch, even though I could barely see the TV screen. It was a good movie, but I couldn’t concentrate because, out of the corner of my eye, I could see both my mom and my sister leaning in to Dudley. He held my mom’s hand throughout practically the whole film, like a lovesick teenager. Honestly, it was all very ick.

  After the movie Mom brought out Pictionary, but I didn’t want to play. I felt sick. Mom said it was the eight vanilla creams I’d eaten. I knew better.

  So I went upstairs while the three of them played the game. I read one of the Cherub books, envying James and his sister Lauren, who were not only kid spies, but orphans too. After a while, Mom brought Rosie up to bed. I helped get her into a pair of pull-ups, and she fell asleep almost instantly. I got into my pajamas and lay awake for as long as I could, waiting to hear Dudley leave. I thought I heard the door open and shut around midnight, just before I fell into a deep sleep.

  I woke around 3:00 a.m. with serious stomach cramps. I burped and it tasted like acid and vanilla, a truly nasty combination.

  I stumbled out of bed and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. My eyes were only half-open, so I didn’t see him till the last second. He was coming from the other direction, also heading to the bathroom.

  Dudley.

  Naked Dudley.

  Well, almost naked – he was wearing underpants, thank you, God.

  I screamed.

  He screamed.

  And I tried not to look, I really did, but his blinding white flesh was right there in front of me, and I couldn’t help but notice his moobs, his flabby stomach, and his hairy legs, which were too skinny for the rest of his body.

  Mom came running out of her bedroom, a robe wrapped around her.

  “Omigod, Violet, I’m sorry. I should have told you Dudley might stay over.”

  “Violet, I – I –” Dudley stuttered.

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. I pushed past the two of them and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

  Then I proceeded to barf up every single one of those vanilla cream chocolates.

  — 15 —

  Thanks to the severe trauma I’d suffered, I didn’t manage to fall back to sleep until 5:00 a.m. It was eleven the next morning when I finally woke up.

  I got out of my pajamas and slipped on yesterday’s clothes. I didn’t want to go downstairs. Even though I was pretty sure The Wiener would be long gone by now, I knew I was destined for one of Mom’s talks.

  I was half-right. When I got downstairs, I found Rosie in the living room, snuggled up to Dudley while he read her Stanley’s Party, one of her favorite books. I couldn’t even look at him.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s having a shower,” Dudley replied, and he blushed.

  Good, I thought. You should be embarrassed! You should also buy some new underpants and a gym membership!

  “Rosie, where’s Mom?” I asked, ignoring Dudley.

  “Dudley just said. She’s having a shower.” Then she looked up at Dudley with big adoring eyes. “Keep reading.”

  “You can read later, Rosie. Let’s go to Liberty Bakery and get some treats.”

  “Too late. Me and Dudley already went,” she replied.

  My insides felt sour. “But I always go with you.”

  “You was sleeping,” she said simply.

  “We brought you back a monster-sized scone. And Ingrid made a big fruit salad. I’ll get a plate ready for you,” said Dudley, starting to get up.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said, even though my stomach was growling loud enough for them to hear.

  “I wanted to mention …” Dudley continued, and for one horrified moment, I thought he was going to bring up the traumatizing events of last night, “… if you ever need help with your math homework, I’m a bit of a whiz….”

  I gave him the hairy eyeball, which shut him up. Mom entered the living room a moment later, dressed for the day, her hair freshly washed.

  “Good. You’re up. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me for a moment?”

  Sigh.

  I shuffled into the kitchen behind her. Mom poured herself a cup of coffee. I leaned against the counter.

  “I want to apologize again, Violet. I should have told you Dudley might stay over.”

  “Yes. You should have.”

  “The truth is, it took us by surprise, too.”

  Ew. “Yeah, well. Don’t let it happen again,” I said. There was a pause. “I can’t promise that –” Suddenly a sound reverberated through the house –a sound I hadn’t heard in over a year.

  “The doorbell’s working,” I said.

  My mom smiled. “Dudley fixed it this morning.”

  From where I stood, I could see Dudley as he answered the door. Our door. It was some guy from Greenpeace, and Dudley started chatting to him about climate change. Rosie ran to join him. She leaned into him and wrapped her little arms around his leg, as if she was afraid that if she didn’t, he’d leave and never come back.

  “He’s going to fix the washing machine next,” Mom continued. “Apparently it just needs a new thingamajig. We won’t have to do laundry at Phoebe’s anymore.”

  “We?”

  “You know what I meant –”

  “Nobody asked him to fix our doorbell.”

  Mom took a deep breath. “You’re right. He just went ahead and did it while I was making coffee.”

  “He should have asked first.”

  “Violet –”

  “It’s not his doorbell! It’s our doorbell!” I felt tears pricking my eyes, and I hated myself for it. I jumped up and ran out of the kitchen, pushing past Dudley, Rosie, and the Greenpeace guy at the door.

  “You’re not wearing shoes!” Rosie shouted after me.

  I didn’t care. All I could see was black. I felt like I wanted to punch something or someone. I felt like I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.

  At Phoebe’s house, Günter opened the front door. He took in my T-shirt and bare feet. “I’ll get you some slippers” was all he said as he pulled me into their house.

  “You saw him naked?”

  “Not totally, thank God. He was wearing underpants.”

  We were sitting in Phoebe’s bedroom. Günter had brought me a bowl of porridge, which I was devouring.

  “What kind?”

  “Briefs. Old ones. They were all saggy in the bum.” I shuddered at the memory. “He probably gets his underwear at yard sales, too.”

  “So, they must have, you know, dot dot dot …”

  “Duh.”

  I slurped up the last of the brown-sugar-flavored milk from my porridge bowl. “You know the weird part?” I continued. “The dot dot dot doesn’t bug me as much as the doorbell. The doorbell makes me crazy.”

  “That’s because it’s not about the doorbell,” Phoebe said. “It’s abou
t what the doorbell represents. If your dad was still living with you, he would have fixed the doorbell, right? That sort of stuff was his territory, as man of the house.”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  “So by fixing your doorbell, Dudley’s acting like he’s the man of the house. It’s like he’s auditioning to become your father’s replacement.”

  I groaned; it was worse than I thought. “And Mom and Rosie are falling for it.”

  “You really dislike him, huh?”

  “There’s just something about him, Phoebe. He’s always this jokey kind of guy … but it’s like there’s something darker lurking underneath.”

  Phoebe thought for a moment. “Okay, then. Here’s what we need to do. One, more detective work. And two,” she grabbed her laptop from under a pile of dirty socks on the floor, “you need to write another letter to George Clooney. And write one to his manager while you’re at it.”

  This is what I wrote.

  Dear Sir:

  I sent your client, George Clooney, a letter a few weeks ago. Yesterday I received a form letter in response. I won’t lie: That hurt.

  It also made me suspect that you, Sir, are not actually giving him his mail. I am positive that if George had actually read my letter, he would have responded. Don’t deny it; I’m on to you.

  George deserves to read his own letters. He is not a child. Remember: You work for George. George does not work for you.

  I am enclosing a copy of the letter I sent on January 19 in the hopes that this time, Sir, you will do the right thing and give my letter to the man it was intended for.

  Thank you in advance,

  Violet Gustafson

  Dear Mr. Clooney,

  Hello again. It’s me, Violet Gustafson, Ingrid’s daughter. I hope that by the time you read this, your manager has done the right thing and passed on the letter I sent you almost a month ago (I’ll enclose another copy just in case). You should really have a talk with him, George. I don’t have actual physical proof, but I’m almost positive he’s reading your mail and not even giving you a chance to see it. Maybe it’s time for a new manager.

  (George’s manager, if you are reading this right now, STOP. Take a long look at yourself in the mirror and DO THE RIGHT THING.)

  Anyway, George – please read my letter. If you detect a note of urgency in my tone this time, you would be correct. See, last time I wrote, my mom had just started dating this guy named Dudley Wiener (yes, it’s his real name). I didn’t bother mentioning him because, to be honest, I figured he’d be like the dinosaurs by now, i.e., ancient history.

  But he isn’t, George. It’s over a month later and he’s still very much in the picture. Trust me when I say she deserves so much better. So please – don’t wait a moment longer. Respond to my letter ASAP.

  With anticipation and appreciation,

  Violet Gustafson

  Phoebe and I printed the letters and put them into two separate envelopes. We walked to the corner and put them into the mailbox. Then we went back to her place to eat bagels and cream cheese from Solly’s and strategize about our next stakeout.

  WHEN: Next Saturday.

  WHERE: Dudley’s house.

  OBJECTIVE: If The Wiener has a skeleton in his closet, we will find it.

  — 16 —

  “You’re right. Detective work can be kind of boring,” Jean-Paul said to me on Saturday morning, as we crouched together behind the newspaper box at Main and Eleventh. Phoebe was in Skip to My Loo across the street.

  That’s right. Jean-Paul was with us. I still couldn’t believe it.

  What happened was this: He’d finally showed up at school on Tuesday morning. When Phoebe and I walked past his locker, I said, aiming for casual, “Oh, hey, Jean-Paul. Where have you been?”

  “My dad flew me to Winnipeg for a long weekend.”

  “How was it?”

  “Great,” he said. “We played hockey on the outdoor rink every day. And he took me to Ray and Jerry’s. It’s this awesome steak house. Mom hardly ever cooks red meat, so I stuffed myself.”

  “Sounds fun,” I said. I was about to walk away, but Phoebe grabbed my arm, forcing me to stay.

  “We’re going on another stakeout this Saturday,” she told him.

  “Cool. Can I come?”

  “Well, it won’t be very interesting,” I started.

  “Of course you can come,” Phoebe said.

  Jean-Paul smiled. “Great. You can give me the details later. See you in class.”

  Then he walked away. Phoebe just looked at me and shook her head. “Honestly, Violet. What would you do without me?”

  “I’ve often asked myself the same question.”

  Phoebe, Jean-Paul, and I had met up at 9:00 a.m. sharp at the corner of Main and King Edward. First we’d headed to The Wiener’s apartment, which wasn’t far from his shop. I’d realized on Friday that I didn’t actually know where he lived, and I agonized over how to ask my mom for his address without raising suspicion. But, as usual, Phoebe saved the day: She just looked him up in the online white pages. He was, not surprisingly, the only “D. Wiener” listed.

  The building Dudley lived in was a bit shabby. His apartment was on the second floor, and the windows were spotted with rain. Through our binoculars, we could make out only a few things: shelves overflowing with books; a floral-patterned couch that seemed an odd choice for a man; a fish tank; and a dying fern. At one point, I tried to sneak into the building behind a little old lady, but she gave me the hairy eyeball and closed the door in my face. Twenty minutes after that, Dudley stepped out, dressed for work. We’d followed him, staying about a block behind. Aside from buying a muffin and a coffee at Bean Around the World, he didn’t make any stops before reaching his shop. Phoebe waited for a good ten minutes after he’d turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN before she crossed the street.

  “That’s a unique toque,” Jean-Paul said to me.

  “I’ll pretend that was a compliment,” I replied. I was wearing the beagle toque Amanda had made me for Christmas.

  “Anyway, look who’s talking,” I said, “you’re dressed for a stakeout in Siberia.”

  He laughed. “You’re right! This is how we dress for winter in Winnipeg.” He was wearing a down-filled parka with a big fake-fur-lined hood. When he had it up, he had no peripheral vision. On his feet was a big pair of Sorel winter boots. “But at least I’m warm. How are you?”

  “Fine.” That was a lie. It was a cold, damp, drizzly March day, and despite having two layers of fleece under my rain jacket and a pair of long johns under my jeans, I was shivering.

  “Your nose is red,” Jean-Paul said. He pulled off a mitten and touched the tip of it with his finger. “And freezing.”

  Body contact. I felt tingly all over. The monologue going on inside my head was deafening.

  This is the moment. This is your chance to invite him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance.

  (But I don’t want to go to the dance! I don’t believe in this sort of stuff!)

  Liar! You’re totally in love with him!

  (You’re the liar. I am not in love. Love is –)

  Nothing but trouble, blah blah blah. Shut up and ask him!

  Honestly, it was not pleasant. But I couldn’t shut it off.

  I opened my mouth to respond – then I saw him wipe his hand on his jeans before he slid his mitten back on. The inner monologue started up again.

  Oh, God. Is my nose running? Did his finger come away wet? Gross! I can’t ask him to the dance moments after he’s touched my snot!

  As my inner voice continued to torment me, Phoebe bounced up beside us. “Nothing interesting, sorry,” she said, grabbing my backpack and pulling out a sandwich. We’d told our parents we were going to the library to work on a school project, so the pack was filled with decoy books as well as food.

  “I’ll go in for a while,” said Jean-Paul.

  Then he did the most amazing thing. He took off his parka and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Here,
wear it while I’m gone. It’ll warm you up in no time.”

  I pulled the parka close as he headed across the street, breathing in his scent.

  “Did you do it?” Phoebe demanded. “Did you invite him to the dance?”

  I shook my head. Phoebe had invited Andrew at school the day before, and he’d said yes.

  “But the dance is on Wednesday, Violet.”

  “I know, I know. I tried. But I’m very conflicted –”

  “Violet, seriously. This is getting tired. It’s obvious you like him. So take the plunge! Take a chance on romance. Be like the Nike ad: Just Do It!”

  “Okay, okay, enough.”

  Phoebe and I ate more sandwiches while we waited for Jean-Paul. His coat was luxuriously warm. Within ten minutes, I was completely toasty. After twenty minutes, I wanted to have a nap.

  I was stifling a huge yawn when we saw Jean-Paul leave the store. He walked across the street, then he strolled right past us, motioning for us to follow him. He ducked around a corner. We gathered up all of our gear, and, after making sure Dudley wasn’t looking out the window, we joined him.

  “You won’t believe this,” he told us. “I went in and started to browse. He remembered me. He asked if my mom liked the soap. Then the phone rang. He went behind the counter to answer the call. It must have been a friend or someone he knew.”

  “Male or female?”

  “I don’t know. But I heard him say, I can’t tonight. I already have plans.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “He’s coming to our place for a dinner party. My mom thinks it’s time he met her friends.”

  “Then the friend must have asked about Sunday because he said, Sunday’s no good either, I’m afraid. I’m going to see my wife.”

  — 17 —

  “Coing to see my wife could mean a lot of things,” Phoebe reasoned, as the three of us trudged back up Main Street.

  “It could mean she’s in the hospital,” said Jean-Paul. “Or a mental institution.”