“That’d be cool.” Cool. Understatement of the year.
He smiles back, then he leans over and gives me a lightning-quick kiss on the cheek before walking out the door.
I cannot move.
A few seconds later Natalie comes back in, but I don’t even see her. I hear her first.
“Come on, Valerie. What is with you?”
David. David is what’s with me. Oh, crap.
Given the way this afternoon deteriorated on its way to evening, I should be really, really fried right now.
It’s seven P.M., and my dad just got home from work, which means I had to settle for chewy reheated pizza, even though he promised me yesterday he’d get home in time to make his divinely inspired chicken marsala. Why scientists can’t come up with microwave technology that makes a zapped pizza taste as good as one right out of the oven is beyond me, but that’s actually not the main reason I should be upset right now.
I glance across the kitchen toward Dad, who’s tuned in to CNN and shaking his head at some berserker pundit who’s ranting about the Democrats (of course) and how if they’d just been a little nicer to the Republicans, and supported them and their last proposed tax cut and a million other issues, maybe people would have voted differently in the last election and President Carew wouldn’t be in the White House. According to this freak, Democrats like my mom (and secretly, my dad) aren’t nice people, and that’s why they aren’t in the White House.
I hate listening to this stuff, because a) I really don’t care about politics unless they directly affect me, which is practically never; and b) I know it’s upsetting to Dad, who tries so hard to like everybody and be tolerant and play fair. That’s how he manages to keep his job no matter who’s in office.
And the icing on tonight’s cake? My mother—the main reason Dad has to leave the job he loves—is on her way over. She’s going to be taking care of the house while we’re in Schwerinborg, and Dad has a few things he wants to go over with her. I just know they’re going to get into it. Okay, not flinging dishes or anything, like divorcing couples always seem to on those Lifetime made-for-television movies, but still.
I’m not really upset by any of this, though. Really. Pizza, loudmouthed politicians, even Mom can’t faze me tonight.
I mean, David Anderson KISSED ME.
Not a genuine, pressed-up-against-my-locker-between-classes-clawing-each-other’s-clothes kiss, the way I’ve always dreamed he’d kiss me. But it was definitely premeditated—I mean, he was waiting for me to come get my notebook, or at least watching for an opportunity to get me alone—which makes me think maybe Christie was right. Maybe he really does like me.
After all these years of secret lust, scribbling Valerie Anderson and Valerie Winslow Anderson and the totally un-PC Mrs. David Anderson in the blank pages of my diary (because who has time to actually write real stuff in a diary?) before shredding the pages into the trash, mortified with my juvenile behavior—is it possible he feels the same way?
The sound of my dad snorting at the television brings me back to the real world. This man is taking me to Schwerinborg in five days. If I go, I might never find out what David’s really thinking. What am I going to DO?!?
Dad did say I could change my mind. So maybe I should. Or not. Oh, damn, damn, and triple damn.
I mean, it isn’t like David hasn’t had years and years to kiss me before now. Or at least give me his e-addy, if he wanted to talk or get to know me as a better-than-casual friend.
But does any of that matter if he’s interested now?
Then I realize why Dad is being so uncharacteristically vocal with the television. David’s father is on and he’s spewing his lobbyist crap.
What an unfortunate little co-inkee-dink.
I scoot to the edge of my chair for a better look. Mr. Anderson’s head is neatly framed in a little box that says Washington under it. There’s also a sharply dressed man in a box marked Boston and a prudish woman with square glasses above San Francisco. And they’re all saying that Carew was elected because people believe in his values, and that he has an excellent chance of being reelected. David’s dad loudest of all. Okay. Now I’m upset.
I let my head thunk against the table. This is too much for one day. Why, why, why does David have to think every word out of his dad’s mouth is gospel? And why do I have to hear all about Carew’s value system via CNN, when those values are now ruining my entire freakin’ life?
“Valerie?” Dad clicks off the set. “You all right?”
I lift my head off the table. “Oh, peachy.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Is it Wolf Blitzer, or the fact your mother’s on her way over?”
I try not to laugh. How many problems can I accumulate in one day? On top of the fact that I have a ton of geometry formulas to memorize before this week’s exam. Geometry is—thankfully and surprisingly—much easier for me than algebra was last year (algebra was created by Satan, I’m convinced), but it’s still no cakewalk. I’d rather take ten Friday quizzes from Mrs. Bennett than one end-of-quarter geometry exam.
And we won’t even discuss the paper I have due in English on Billy Budd. My theory is that if Herman Melville wanted anyone to actually read it, he’d have called it Killing a Sailor or Hang the Dude! or something equally attention grabbing.
“Look,” Dad says, “your mother and I have our problems, but we’re working them out. We don’t hate each other, and we’re not going to fight over furniture or place settings tonight.”
Good, I’m thinking, because what’s the point in having all the nice furniture if we’re going to Schwerinborg, anyway?
“How about we ask her to stay for a movie?” Dad crosses the kitchen and rubs my shoulder. “I’ll let you choose. What’s that DVD you just bought with the medieval knight?”
“A Knight’s Tale?”
“Sure. It looks interesting.”
“Mom won’t like it.” She’s into the indie film scene—the stuff that plays at Sundance and maybe a couple of art-fart theaters around your major metropolitan areas, if the producers are lucky. Not anything with drool-licious men like Heath Ledger wearing chain mail.
“What we watch isn’t the issue,” Dad says just as the doorbell rings. “Your mom wants to spend as much time as possible with you before we leave, and watching a movie together would make for a nice evening.”
“What about you, though?” I drop my voice to a whisper and follow him to the door. “I mean, if it bugs you being around Mom, I can go watch a movie at her place.” Even if it has one of those go-nowhere plots I don’t quite get.
“Look, Valerie,” Dad doesn’t even bother to lower his voice, and I know for a fact you can hear what’s said in the front hall from the front porch even when the door is closed. “Go wherever you’re most comfortable. I’ve known your mother for nearly twenty years. I’m not happy about the divorce, but she’s still the best friend I’ve ever had. We can handle seeing a movie together.”
If it was me whose wife was leaving me for another woman, I’d sure feel uncomfortable having her over for movies and popcorn. Too much like a date, even if your daughter is there and everything is ostensibly “for the sake of the kid.” But I guess Dad’s a better person than I am.
“Okay,” I shrug as he flips the deadbolt on the front door. “Just checking.”
This could be fun. I mean, if the two of them are nicey-nice, it might feel like it used to, before Mom upended everything. I could use a dose of that kind of normalcy, even if it s only for tonight and I know it’s not for real.
I smile at Mom, but I can tell from her face—as she and Dad walk through the house and discuss which plants need watering, how the alarm system works, and who to call when the sprinkler system needs to be turned on in the spring, since these are always tasks that fell to Dad—that she’s still surprised I decided to go to Schwerinborg with Dad instead of staying with her. She keeps glancing at me to see if I’m cool.
When we go into the family room for the
movie, I work up the guts to ask Mom where Gabrielle is. If that blond mom stealer is going to show up and plop on the sofa next to me while Heath Ledger is midtournament, I need advance notice.
Mom says Gabrielle’s out for the evening though. Get this: at a Weight Watchers meeting.
Shock must be as apparent on my face as it is on Dad’s, because my mother instantly looks from me, to my dad, and back to me before saying, “And what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing wrong with it. Just … interesting.” Dad hustles to pop the disc into the DVD player just to escape the issue, I’m sure, so Mom turns to me.
“Valerie?”
I can’t help but snort out loud. I’m not as polite as Dad. “Interesting ’cause she’s built like Brittany Murphy and Calista Flockhart. Total rail. She lives on vegetables and soy and stuff, right?”
“She used to be eighty pounds heavier,” Mom explains, using her I-wish-you-would-give-Gabrielle-a-break voice. “She was quite unhealthy. Borderline diabetic even. Her doctor sent her to Weight Watchers, and that prompted her to look into yoga and healthy living, and that’s how she became a vegan. Now that she’s lost the weight, she’s a lifetime member. Going to meetings every so often keeps her focused on living a clean, healthy life. I really admire her for it.”
This from the woman who believes chicken nuggets and SpaghettiOs to be food groups in their own right? What she has with Gabrielle must be love.
I don’t say anything, so Mom shoots a pointed look toward the kitchen, where the empty pizza box is sitting on the counter. “You could probably learn from her, Valerie. How many times have you eaten fast food in the last week?”
Oh, please. I hold up the popcorn I made for the movie. “Microwave light. Can’t be that bad.”
She ignores me and looks at Dad, who’s now sitting in the chair as far from her as possible, remote in hand. “You’re going to watch what she eats while you’re over there in Europe, aren’t you, Martin?”
“Mom!” I mean, it’s not like she’s a vegan or a size four. And if she gets on Dad’s case again, I’ll remind her of her own little trip to Wendy’s last week. Gabrielle might’ve had a salad, but I saw that Biggie Value Meal bag in Mom’s lap.
Thankfully the movie starts, allowing me to enjoy a little eye candy in the form of Heath Ledger. I think I’ll pretend he’s David. A nonpolitical, totally-into-me David.
“I think David Anderson looks a lot like Heath Ledger.”
It’s ten thirty and I should be asleep, since tomorrow’s a school day, but I can’t settle. I have David on the brain. And Jules keeps her cell phone, with the ringer turned on low, on her nightstand, so we can chat in the middle of the night without her parents realizing she’s awake either.
“Well, the hair, for sure,” Jules says. “But not his eyes. David’s are much nicer. More open, and green instead of brown. Heath’s are brown, right? And David has a slimmer nose.” She giggles, which is disturbing because Jules hardly ever giggles. “I can’t believe he kissed you—or that you waited until lunch to tell me about it. I told Natalie that now you can’t go to Schwerinborg. You can’t know how totally stoked I am over this.”
“On the cheek,” I remind her. “And I’m going. I have to.”
Jules gets really quiet, I guess because I told her the other night at Wendy’s that I didn’t have to go, that my parents were totally cool and gave me a choice. So I say, “Come on. Between this thing with David and you guys ragging on me, you’re making me feel like shit on a sidewalk. This isn’t an easy decision for me.” They don’t have half a clue how hard it really is.
“But you’ve loved David forever. And you’re leaving us,” Jules whines. “What the hell is going on with you? Something you’re not telling me.”
I roll over in bed so I’m facing my wall. I photocopied David’s yearbook picture last spring and stuck it to a tiny spot near my head where I can hide it with my bed pillows, so Mom and Dad won’t know how totally obsessed I am. And so David’s the last guy I see before I go to bed at night. Pathetic. I know.
I use my fingernail to lift the tape at the edge of the photo, and pull it off the wall so David’s stamp-sized face is flirting with me from my fingertip. “You’ve seen A Knight’s Tale, right, Jules?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, at the end of the movie, who’s Heath with? The snotty princess. I didn’t like her at all. She was totally manipulative and he didn’t even see it. He should have gone for the girl who made his armor instead. I mean, she saved his life with that armor, she was able to hang with his friends without dissing them like the princess did, and she was kind of cute. But he hardly even noticed her.”
“And this has to do with Schwerinborg how?”
Jules can be annoying when she wants to be. I squash up the photocopied picture and toss it into the trash. “Duh. I’m the Armor Girl.”
Jules groans, even though it sounds muffled by her sheets. “Get over it, Win-slow. You’re so not an Armor Girl.”
“Yes, I am. Think. In the movie, Heath doesn’t really know the Armor Girl—not the way she is on the inside. He likes having her around, she pushes him to be a better person, but he doesn’t really care about knowing her. He’s all caught up in the Shallow Princess because she’s gorgissimo, despite the fact that her incredibly stupid, completely selfish prove-your-love-to-me-by-losing-the-tournament demands nearly get him killed.”
I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “This is what all hot guys do, Jules. They take practical Armor Girls for granted, and to the world at large, this is okay. Everyone cheers when hot guy runs off with idiot Shallow Princess at the end, and the movie does a hundred mil at the box office. Armor Girl gets a kiss on the cheek and a scribbled e-mail address.”
“That’s bull. Besides, how do you know you’re not David’s princess?”
Hello? How long has Jules known me? I’m not bad looking, but certainly no princess. I’m a passable Armor Girl. And David knows me about as well as Heath knew the Armor Girl.
And even if David did get to know me, he’d always be able to ditch me for some princess. A Republican princess with a nice C cup, hair blonder than his, and a cute smile like Reese Witherspoon’s. Certainly someone whose mother didn’t have a midlife crisis involving a trip out of the proverbial closet.
“Well, let’s see. I’m not a cheerleader, and I goof on those who are. I don’t have naturally bouncy hair and don’t buy every single article of clothing from Bebe. And I would never tell a guy to lose a game to prove he’s in love with me.”
“But that doesn’t mean—”
“Look, Jules, I’m dying that he kissed me. But I have to be honest with myself here. He’s had his chances. And he’s dated Shallow Princesses for as long as I can remember.”
“Well, I think it’s wrong that you’re not giving him another chance. You’re as bad as the Shallow Princess in the movie, you just can’t see it. You’re moving to Schwerinborg to test his love.”
“Yeah, sure. And my parents agreed to get divorced just so I could test my theory.”
She’s quiet. I can tell she’s mad, but I can’t figure out why. I mean, it’s not her who’s the loser Armor Girl in this scenario. And I feel like I’m having a moment of great personal growth here—being able to have David kiss me and still walk away, knowing it’s the best thing. Maybe this means there’s someone better out there for me. Maybe even in Schwerinborg.
Someone who’d consider me a notshallow princess.
You’d think Jules would see that.
“Look,” Jules finally says. “I don’t think you should make major life decisions based on Heath Ledger movies.”
“The decision’s already made. I was just using the movie to illustrate the point so you, Christie, and Natalie would understand.”
“Well, if you want to analyze your life in terms of a Heath Ledger movie, try The Four Feathers. Especially the beginning.”
I hear my dad coming down the hall, so I tell her I’ll ch
eck it out, since I haven’t seen that one yet, and that I’ll see her tomorrow, but not to be mad.
After my dad sticks his head in my door to make sure I’m asleep, and I’m alone again in the dark and quiet, I decide I should be thankful Jules didn’t nail me with 10 Things I Hate About You. Then the movie trailer for The Four Feathers comes back to me. Duh. Thanks, Jules.
The Four Feathers is the one where all Heath’s friends accuse him of betrayal for not sticking with the group when things get rough, and not even bothering to give them a good explanation.
Which, in a way, is even worse than 10 Things I Hate About You. It’s group hate.
Four
I thought, for a brief three weeks, that my mother ruined my life. I was sadly, sadly mistaken. I have done it quite by myself.
Northern Virginia is sunny and filled with places to hang out. Parks. Malls. Even fast-food joints like Jules s Wendy’s, though clearly that s just where losers like me tend to congregate.
Schwerinborg, on the other hand, is prison gray. Everywhere. The sky, the apartment buildings and cathedrals, even the mountains are gray. Okay, I assume that it’s mostly gray because it’s December and foggy. But still. I’m not seeing teenagers. Anywhere.
“Valerie,” my dad whispers. He doesn’t have to elaborate. His warning tone, combined with a disturbing divot forming between his eyes, is enough.
I yank my fingers out of my mouth, but reluctantly. I can’t help it—whatever that bizarre party mix was they gave us on the Lufthansa flight from Munich to Freital, the capital (and frankly, I think the only real city) of Schwerinborg, is now permanently lodged between my gum and molar, and it hurts. But I suppose trying to pick it out while seated next to my dad, in a limo, no less, is a major faux pas.
Wonder what the German term is for faux pas?
Folkschen paschken?
This whole German thing has me in knots. In the Munich airport, where we switched planes, all the signs were in English, French, and German.
Royally Jacked (Romantic Comedies, The) Page 4
