Here, it’s all German, all the time. I can’t figure out a thing, although ausfahrt is apparently the word for “exit,” since I see it on every ramp.
I probably shouldn’t think too hard about that one, or I’ll be grossed out. Don’t want to spew chunks in the back of the limo, which was pretty nifty of Prince Manfred, my dad’s new boss and the ruler of this dinky little country, to send to pick us up. Definitely a step above working for President Carew. When he sent a car for my dad, it was only a Buick.
Though I’m still wondering if, while this is great for Dad, I’ve screwed myself royally by coming here. At least they speak English at Lake Braddock. Plus Jules and Natalie stopped speaking to me—in any language—from Tuesday to Friday, though they did show up at the house on Saturday, a couple hours before Dad and I left for the airport, so they could say good-bye.
They didn’t apologize for ignoring me all week though. Even if they are pissed off, that’s no excuse. I mean, we’ve been friends for years. You’d think they’d want to spend as much time as possible together during my last few days, but no.
Christie was better, but not much. She kept talking to me all week at least, but never in front of Jules or Natalie, and she kept giving me these weepy looks that made me want to smack her beautiful, unblemished face. I understood though. Jules and Natalie were going hard core on her, trying to get her to pressure me into staying. I’d probably have caved to the Jules-Natalie assault machine if I’d been in Christie’s shoes.
I almost caved myself, right before Dad and I left for the airport, when it was just me and Christie alone in my room for the last time. We were talking about all the stuff I’m going to miss next semester—like track season, driver’s ed, and the art class trip up to New York to tour the museums—and I started to get emotional. Then Christie asked me where Mom was, and how come she wasn’t there to say good-bye.
I used the book club excuse I’d concocted at Wendy’s, but I came just-this-close to telling Christie everything. Only the thought that Christie would probably tell Jeremy (and therefore, through the grapevine, David, Jules, and Natalie) the real scoop about my parents’ divorce forced me to zip my lip.
The limo takes a sharp turn, past one of the signs saying ausfahrt, of course. At the top of the ramp, we turn twice more, then head into a downtown area. The streets are much, much narrower than in D.C., and most of them are made of cobblestone, which is pretty neat. We pass through a congested square with a statue in the center, and I’m trying to figure out who’s riding the sculpted horse (I’m guessing its not Napoleon), when atop a slight hill, I see a true edifice. I love that word but never get to use it. This place justifies it.
I grab my dad’s arm and ask if it’s the palace. I get to see a lot of awesome buildings, living near D.C., but this rocks them all.
“It is.” Dad’s happy I’m excited about something for the first time in at least a week. “Think you can stand living there?”
I squint up as the limo driver pulls onto a side road and noses the car uphill, toward the building. Now that we’re closer, I can see that it’s definitely Louvre-like. It’s constructed of gray stone, and looks a bit like D.C.’s nicer office buildings, but with columns and detailed trim under the eaves. The windows are all beyond tall, and hung with what I’m guessing are very expensive curtains. There are carvings of goddesses on the exterior, in between each of the windows.
No kidding. Goddesses.
I cannot imagine living in a place like this.
“If the inside s as pretty as the outside, I think I’ll make do,” I tell Dad. As long as I don’t drop a Diet Coke on a fancy silk chair or one of the antique rugs or anything. And so much for eating sushi, if they even have it in Schwerinborg. I tend to spray soy sauce everywhere when I eat. You’d think Dad would be able to teach me the trick to that though.
I’m just about to ask him, but thank God, we pass a McDonald’s, and it’s walking distance from the palace! Happy, happy, joy, joy. At least if I need a fry fix, I’m covered.
Four hours later, after getting a tour of the palace, filling out paperwork, and making a two-minute exploration of our apartment—and two minutes is all it needs, since apparently a palace “apartment” is pretty much like a hotel suite, meaning a couple of rooms off a second-floor hallway—Dad is kind enough to give me the McChicken I’ve been craving. Between sips of Diet Coke—excuse me, Coke Light—I gently point out that, contrary to exterior appearances, our new place isn’t exactly the Ritz.
The furnishings in our apartment are somewhat … spare. Not spare in a Calvin Klein, black-and-gray, ultramodern way, but spare as in basic. In sharp contrast to the heavy tapestries and floor-to-ceiling mirrors that are in the main hallways and public areas of the palace, our apartment boasts two sofas worthy of a Holiday Inn. Across from the sofas, there’s a TV—with cable, thankfully—set on top of a rickety black melamine stand.
Dad’s room has a double bed, a dresser, and a small bathroom. My bedroom, on the opposite side of what I’ll call the living room, is painted an uninspired brown. I have to wonder who decorated the place. I mean, who sleeps in a brown room? It has a twin bed, an armoire that my dad calls a schrunk, and a minuscule bathroom. The shower is beyond small, so I have no clue how I’m going to shave my legs. And there’s not even a countertop where I can put my stuff. Just a pedestal sink.
I do not want to keep my face wash on the back of the toilet. I mean, really. I tell Dad that schrunk should be the German word for “bathroom,” not for “armoire,” because honestly, the armoire thingie is about the same size as the bathroom.
What’s worse, the electrical outlets are all weird, and Dad says I’m going to have to buy a new hair dryer, since mine won’t work here. I forgot about that from our trip to France last year. I hadn’t bothered to do my hair then, since I knew I wouldn’t meet any cute French guys with my parents two inches off my elbow the entire time.
Unfortunately we can’t go shopping for a couple days, because Dad says he has to acquaint himself with his new job and his new boss. Bummer, because that means I won’t be able to commence my David Anderson look-alike hunt anytime soon. It’s pretty much the only thing I have to do in this country until school starts, so I figure I should take the time to make sure my hair isn’t completely ugly.
And that’s the whole apartment, other than the eat-in kitchen—complete with a Formica-topped table and four terribly tacky chairs—where I’m rapidly discovering that Schwerinborg’s version of a McChicken comes with a sauce that smells vaguely of onions.
At least the fries are good. Dad scored some ketchup to go with them, which is a relief. We had trouble with that in France—they eat ’em with mayo, for some bizarre reason. But the French can be excused their quirks because they speak such a kickin’ language.
“Valerie? Thanks.” Dad sets down his Big ’N Tasty and gives me a smile like I haven’t seen on him in a long, long time.
“For what?”
“For coming. I know this isn’t like home, and the adjustment isn’t going to be easy, but having you here with me means more than you’ll ever know.”
I take another bite of my McChicken. I’m actually having fun sitting here with Dad, just the two of us, but I don’t want to talk about it. I get uncomfortable when Dad gets all mushy on me, because he never used to. It’s like an alien infiltrated his brain the day Mom decided to go gay. Or, I should say, the day she made her emotional breakthrough and realized her true self.
Someday I really will be able to think about my mom in PC terms. And when I do, I’ll mean it. Just not today.
“You know, Valerie, change is hard on everyone. Even an old geezer like me,” he jokes. He’s older, yeah, but no geezer, and he knows it. I saw at least three different women checking him out during our tour of the palace this afternoon. “This experience is what we make it, though. I think this could turn out to be a wonderful thing for both of us.”
“Just as long as you take me skiing. Soon,” I
tease him. He’s got to lighten up. “When does school start here, anyway? They’re out for Christmas now, right?”
“They finished their second quarter same day you did. You don’t start—officially—for two weeks. But I’m afraid there are some placement exams you’ll need to take. Just so you’re in the right classes.”
I drop my McChicken back onto its wrapper. “Hey. You didn’t tell me that!”
“It’s not a big deal, Valerie. The exams aren’t the be-all and end-all of your placement. The school will also be looking at your transcripts and talking to you about which textbooks you were using and how much material your teachers in Virginia covered. And I know your school guidance counselor wrote up a report on how well you were doing in all your classes.”
I steal a couple of his fries. I figure he owes me, since any exam is a big deal, as far as I’m concerned. “When do I take these?”
“You’ll take two this week, and two next. So if we go skiing, it’ll just be a quick day trip. I think it’s wise for you to be well rested. Don’t you?”
He grabs some of my fries, just to get back at me. I find it hysterical he does this with me, since he’s so hoity-toity in public. I’m just waiting for the day he forgets who he’s with and mooches off the First Lady’s plate.
He pops a fry into his mouth and says, “You’re not going to bail on me because of a few exams, are you?”
“No, not yet,” I tell him, though he’s got to know that I’m only half serious.
“Well, if it helps, I do have another surprise for you.”
“Only if it’s better than Mickey D’s.”
‘Cause that’s about the biggest surprise of my day so far, and on the grand scale of things, getting a meal that’s sure to make my butt expand isn’t exactly memorable. And it better not be one of those Chicken Soup books that’s supposed to cure my messed-up teenage soul. Like some bizarro introvert writer spewing platitudes can fix my life. Hah.
“I think so.” Dad wads up the burger wrappers and tosses them into the trash can beneath the kitchen sink. “What if I told you that Prince Manfred has arranged to have a computer, complete with cable Internet access, set up for us in about an hour?”
“Really? Then I say, ‘Bring it on, Manny!’” Contact with the outside world? Wha-hoo!
“Valerie—” My dad’s warned me for days that I have to be on my “public” behavior at all times at the palace.
“Oh, come on. You know I won’t refer to him that way to anyone but you. I’m not a complete idiot.” Good thing I’m an only child. I think I’m pretty normal, but if my dad had another kid to compare me to, especially one with his meticulous personality, I’d be in trouble.
“Just to be sure, you won’t be here when the tech guys arrive.”
“You’re sending me out? Alone?” That’s what he thinks.
“Just to the library. There’s a small one here in the palace, and it’s very easy to find. I have a list of what’s covered on each of the placement exams, and Prince Manfred was kind enough to have your teachers send over copies of the textbooks you’ll be using.” Dad opens up one of the cabinets built into the wall of our living room and yanks out a stack of books. Same geometry text I had in Vienna, I notice. Same French book too. The rest are totally unfamiliar, but at least they’re in English.
Dad sets them on the table in front of me, then drops the list on top. “Take an hour or two to look it all over tonight, and you’ll be set.”
I am not believing this. I just got off what has to be the longest plane flight ever, and he wants me to cram? I cross my arms over my chest. “I thought you said I wouldn’t have to study.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks. You just finished studying for your second-quarter exams last week, so you should be in good shape. Now quit making faces and remember that it’s not going to be graded. It’s just to get a general idea of what you’ve been exposed to.”
“Dad—”
“When you get back, the computer will be ready. And I’ll see if I can get the fridge stocked in the meantime. All right?”
He can always bribe me with food. It’s pathetic. You’d think after my McChicken, this wouldn’t work. But it does. Stock the fridge in Martin Winslow language generally means he’s going to have something tasty for me while I veg out on the couch later.
I grab the list and look it over. Most of it isn’t too bad, but I’m going to have to remind myself how to diagram a sentence. We did that last year and I promptly forgot how. The way I figure, I can write a competent sentence, so why the hell would I need to diagram one? I bet Shakespeare never diagrammed a sentence, and he turned out just fine.
Dad gives me directions to the library, puts the textbooks, a blank notebook (like I’m supposed to take notes? As if!), and a pencil in my hands, then shoves me out the door.
Thankfully, the library’s not as gray and boring as everything else. There’s a lot of light from the windows, which overlook the whole city, and the oriental rugs are all a bright, cheery red. And unlike our apartment (which you’d think would be nicer, being in a palace and all), there’s not a square inch of Formica to be seen. Just some comfy-plus armchairs, two long tables I’m certain are antiques, a fireplace, and walls and walls of books. Old, expensive-looking books on polished, dark shelves.
I think I’m in heaven. I love libraries, and this has to be one of the best on the cozy scale.
I settle down in the chair closest to the fireplace, since someone on the staff—which I’m discovering is huge and mostly invisible—has built a fire and left a neatly stacked pile of logs to the side of the marble hearth. Of course, this means I spend a full fifteen minutes staring at the fire and not opening the geometry book.
I finally give up and open my notebook, figuring that if I scribble out a few formulas, Dad will feel like he’s being a good parent and I’m being a good kid. But instead of writing anything geometry related, I start sketching.
I have no idea what I want to do careerwise, though I can guarantee it won’t involve algebra or geometry. But if newsrooms are still using artists to sketch court scenes ten years from now—you know, those penciled pictures they flash on Court TV or MSNBC when there aren’t any cameras allowed in the courtroom—I’d love to do that for a living. I started back in sixth or seventh grade by sketching my teachers when I got bored in class. I’m awesome at faces and at showing emotions, and I draw fast. Obviously, I’m bored a lot.
Within a few minutes, I have a killer drawing. It’s me, Jules, Natalie, and Christie. Just our faces, all in a row, grinning at each other. I’m just about to pencil in David’s face when a voice behind me scares the bejesus out of me.
And I don’t understand a freaking word other than Valerie.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble once I’ve righted myself in the chair. I tend to sit sideways in armchairs, which gives Dad a near stroke when we’re in public. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”
This is the only sentence I know in German. Yes, it’s pitiful.
Even worse than my attempt at German, I think I am going to have a stroke myself, right here in the palace library, now that I can see the guy. He’s standing about five feet behind me, near one of the long library tables. The face attached to the German-speaking voice is mesmerizing. Not necessarily handsome—well, at least not in a David Anderson look-alike way—but he’s definitely not bad. And he’s my age.
“I apologize.” He sticks out his hand, and it’s even sexier than David’s. Be still my heart! “I forgot you don’t speak German. I’m Georg.”
He says it like “GAY-org.” Not the world’s most attractive name. Not by a long shot. And the less I have to hear about anything gay right now, the better. Yes, I’m just that shallow. But his accent is one hundred percent to die for. I can ignore the name to hear that accent again. Yum.
And suddenly I get self-conscious about the fact I’m in my Adidas track pants and a T-shirt, with my hair in a ponytail.
I shake his hand and smile. “I�
�m Valerie Winslow. But it sounds like you already knew that.”
“I hope you don’t mind my intrusion. I saw you sitting in here, and thought I’d introduce myself.”
“It’s no intrusion,” I say. Like I wanted to be sitting here studying geometry? But I can’t say that, because this guy sounds almost as formal and polite as my dad. I’ve never met a teenager as stiff as this dude.
“My father told me you were moving in.” He leans forward, putting his elbows on the back of the armchair next to mine. “It’ll be nice to have another high schooler around here. I hate being the only nonadult in this place.”
“You live here?” I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess if my dad and I get an apartment here, it only makes sense that some of the other staff get them too. “Do your parents work here?”
“They sure do.” A slow, totally hot smile spreads across his face. I so want to draw it. It’s just that fascinating and different. Kind of crooked and very Colin Farrell-esque.
It’s like I can actually see him letting down his guard, and I get that feeling of relief that comes from knowing the other person you’re talking to has decided you’re cool.
Okay, he’s not David Anderson. But he’s growing on me. Definitely.
“Cool.” I wave for him to sit down. “You like it here?”
He walks around and takes a seat. He doesn’t flop like most guys would. Even though he looks completely relaxed—I think it’s the whole Colin Farrell thing he has going—he sits properly, without putting his feet on the chair or anything, unlike me. Dad would love this guy. Which also makes me think maybe Dad’s right and I’m going to have to spruce up my etiquette skills before anyone else here sees me.
I’m also guessing now that Georg’s maybe a year or so older than me. Don’t know why—there’s just something about him. Confidence, maybe? And his English is fantastic. Better than my French, and I really work hard at it. “I like it well enough, but it’s my home country, so I’m biased. What do you think so far?”
Royally Jacked (Romantic Comedies, The) Page 5
