“Ouch,” I say. Guess I never realized before that he would so get the whole who-my-parents-are-is-ruining-my-life thing.
“And,” he adds, leaning forward a little. “I don’t get any girl I want.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Okay, you had me with your life-isn’t-always-fun-for-a-prince shtick, but I have to tell you, I don’t believe the girl part of it. You’re lucky they don’t rip your designer clothes right off your body in the middle of the quad.”
He cocks his head sideways. “Would you go out with me, after the way I treated you at school today? Or what happened in the balcony yesterday?”
I’m about to make a sarcastic reply—I can’t help it, it’s what I do—but then I realize he’s serious. Completely serious.
How did that happen? Especially when I look like absolute hell?!
“Let’s make a deal. You talk to your mom, get your feelings out on the table, try to give her a break,” he says. “I think it’ll make you feel better, because in your gut, it’s what you really want to do. It’s what you’d do if you weren’t worrying about what everyone will think.”
I’m about to protest, but he says, “And I’ll do the same. You get honest with your mom, and I’ll be honest with you. I’d rather not be just friends.”
I think I’m going to hurl. In a good way though. I mean, he just made my stomach do the best kind of twist.
Whoa.
He scoots forward in his chair, and he’s sitting so close I can reach out and touch him and make it look like a total accident if I want.
“Meaning?” I don’t think I can breathe waiting for him to say something.
“Meaning I kind of freaked out yesterday when we got to the balcony. I was afraid maybe I offended you or I moved too fast … I don’t know. I didn’t even really plan to kiss you yesterday, I just did. And then, after having such a cool afternoon with you, I was a total ass this morning. I got all hung up on the reporter and Steffi—I just did what I wanted and kind of forgot everyone else. Including you.” He does that funky raising-one-eyebrow thing. “So you see, you’re not the only one who’s shallow.”
“I guess that’s a good thing,” I say, and even though it all seems surreal, I want him to kiss me again. Especially since yesterday I screwed up kissing him back. Maybe this time I’ll get it right.
His foot bumps against mine, and he doesn’t pull it back. “So does that mean you’d consider going out with me? Since we’re both so shallow and everything?”
“As long as we don’t double with Steffi.” I know. I know. I can’t be serious even when it’s important. Christie tells me not to get goofy when I’m nervous, but I do anyway. I’m going to have to work on that.
Later, though, because Georg actually laughs at that one.
“Well, I have this thing to go to tomorrow night. I know it’s last minute to ask, but I was hoping my parents wouldn’t make me go.”
“It sounds like fun already,” I tease him.
“Well, I thought it might be if you come. It’s this dinner and dancing thing. It’s in the reception hall—the room below where we were in the balcony. There’s a summit on global warming tomorrow in Zurich, and the British prime minister is going to be there. Afterward he’s coming here to meet with my dad. So they’re doing a banquet dinner, and then there’s going to be a ball before the P.M. flies back to London in the morning.”
As he’s describing who’s coming and what the whole evening’s about, I start getting concerned that my eyes might pop right out of my skull. This is way, way out of my league. It’s totally my dad’s kind of thing.
Geez, he’s probably coaching staff members on what to say and do at this exact moment.
“So?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. “Well, I was kind of expecting you to ask if I wanted to go to McDonald’s or catch a movie. Having dinner with a prime minister—not to mention your parents—is kind of a big first date.”
I hope I don’t sound like I’m dissing him, because I’m actually as psyched about this as I am scared to death. “And my dad is probably going to be there too. Wouldn’t that be kind of weird?”
“Maybe we can sneak out after dinner, then.”
I can’t help but smile at him. “We’d probably get in trouble.”
“Nah. I’d just say I was showing you the way to the ladies’ room or giving you a palace tour or something.”
“I’ve already had a palace tour.”
The grin on his face is downright wicked. “So I offered and you thought it would be rude not to accept.”
This is so going to get me in trouble, but I could just eat this guy alive. I love that he wants to do something risky, and that he wants me to do it with him. “Okay. Then I accept.”
I smile, and inside, I hope he’s going to kiss me, because he’s smiling too, as big as if he just kicked the winning goal in the final two seconds of a championship soccer match. But no. He starts talking about when and where we can meet up beforehand, then he ducks out of the library so he won’t be late to dinner.
When I’m alone again, I pick up the book and the letter from my mom to take them back to the apartment. I hope I don’t look too blotchy, or Dad’s going to think that Mom’s letter really messed me up. I sit down for a second to get my head on straight, and suddenly I realize that what I thought was my special place might be our special place. Mine and Georg’s.
And I’m completely cool with that.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: CALL!!
Val,
You are NOT going to believe this. Natalie got her TONGUE PIERCED yesterday! ! ! She didn’t tell us or even take any of us with her. Can you believe it?
Anyway, my mom said I can call you tomorrow night! Will you be there? It would be right after school for me, about nine at night for you. Let me know. I have all kinds of good dirt for you. Trust me, it’s important stuff that you MUST hear, and it has nothing to do with my cousins’ visit.
I just couldn’t wait to tell you about Natalie, though. Her parents haven’t seen it yet (though the way she’s moaning and groaning about how it hurts and not eating, you’d think they’d notice).
If they grounded her for a week for Girl Scouts, you just know she’s in for it big-time now. I’ll let you know what happens. Cannot WAIT to talk to you! Big, big news.
Love, Christie :)
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: CALL!!
Christie,
AACK! You are going to kill me twelve times over. I won’t be here tomorrow night!! Any chance you can call tonight (if you get this in time) or day after tomorrow?
I’m DYING to talk to you, and I have a lot of dirt too. You’re not going to believe it. Seriously, this is more unbelievable than Natalie’s piercing or whatever else it is you have to tell me.
I miss you!!
Val
PS—You do know that Natalie has a tattoo already, right? If you didn’t already know, though, I didn’t tell you. She has a little heart by her shoulder blade. Her parents DEFINITELY haven’t seen it. That’s why she “forgot” to pack a swimsuit when her family went to Florida last year.
PPS»I DID NOT TELL YOU, get it?! Pretend to see it yourself next time she’s trying on clothes at your place.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Are you INSANE?
Val,
What do you mean, I beat up my brother all the time even though his name is Mike, which is normal?
It’s so not normal. Think about it.
Okay … did you think about it?
His name is MICHAEL JACKSON, you freak.
So yes, I would have beat up Manfred for his name. Please. Give me some credit.
Jules
PS—When are you going to write to me about something important? Like that hottie you live with and what he said when
you gave him my phone number?
I am going on a date with Georg.
I am going on a date with Georg Jacques von Ederhollern of Schwerinborg.
I am going on a date with the guy who has the strangest name in the world and I’m completely and totally okay with that, because I’m learning not to sweat the small stuff.
I am going on a date with a guy who is laid back and easy to talk to and who can see through people like Steffi the same way I can.
I am going on a date with A FREAKIN’ PRINCE!! TOMORROW!!
This is too much. I have to tell Christie about it. About EVERYTHING. I mean, who has their first date with the British prime minister at the table?!
Since with the time difference I know Christie’s still at school, I flop in the living room after dinner, half watching a German-dubbed John Wayne movie, half freaking out over how strange my life has become.
And then I tell Dad.
I have to. I mean, he’s in charge of protocol. You think he wouldn’t find out I have a date with Georg?
He is currently sitting next to me on our not-so-comfy couch trying to absorb it all, and muttering to himself about all the stuff he wishes he’d thought to teach me about proper decorum. I keep telling him it’s not a real date, even though in my gut I know it is.
That’s what makes it so incredible.
“Look”—I turn to Dad and keep my voice as light and sincere as possible—“I talked to Georg about the whole thing, and he says that there’s no receiving line. I can meet his parents beforehand, so it’s nothing major, and at the dinner itself I don’t have to talk to anyone other than him if I don’t want to. So I can just lie low, okay?”
Dad picks up the remote and clicks off X-Men, the movie that’s now starting on TV, then presses his fingers to his temples. I want to say more—to explain that I won’t embarrass him, or that I didn’t keep hanging out with Georg on purpose so we could hook up—but I don’t think anything I say is going to make Dad any less worried.
I mean, X-Men is one of his favorite movies. He wouldn’t shut it off unless he was really concerned.
“Valerie”—he finally sits up straight and turns toward me—“is this something that’s really important to you?”
I stare at him for a sec, trying to figure out just what he’s asking. “Why? Is this going to make you lose your job?”
He goes from serious to laughing in a nanosecond. “No. Well, unless you do something truly horrific, like start a food fight with Prince Manfred or insult Princess Claudia’s taste in clothes in front of a reporter. You’re not planning to do that, are you?”
“Um, no.”
“So you like Georg, I take it?”
Well, duh. “I think he’s really nice, Dad. And you said just a few days ago that you think he has a good reputation.”
“That’s true.” He leans back against the arm of the couch and crosses his arms over his chest. “So you can go. But on one condition.”
I gesture for him to get on with it, even though I’m dreading the condition. Dad never gives good conditions. It’s always, you can go out, but you can’t stay out after nine—in other words, late enough to have any fun. And I’m planning on having a lot of fun with Georg.
A lot. I’m due.
“I get to play fairy godmother. So to speak. Help you pick a dress, coach you a little on what to say to Prince Manfred and Princess Claudia.”
The idea of my totally buffed-up Dad picking out a dress with me is hysterical. His clothes always look perfect, and totally stylish, so maybe it’ll be a bonding experience. And I can always veto his choice if he wants something butt ugly. I hope.
“Okay. But we don’t have much time to shop,” I tell him.
“Then let’s go now.” He jumps off the couch and pockets his wallet before I can even say anything. “I’ve heard Princess Claudia mention a few places that should still be open. But we’ll have to hurry. The stores here don’t stay open nearly as late as they do in the States.”
I follow him out the door, and I have to admit I’m not nearly as freaked as I was before I told Dad about the date.
And, you know, I didn’t even make one joke about Dad using the term fairy godmother in reference to himself, which is very tempting given the whole gay Mom thing. I must be learning.
Christie would be proud.
Nine
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Everything
Hi, Mom!
Dad said you called last night and gave him your new e-mail address. Is this an address for both you and Gabrielle, or just you? (I can’t really tell from your BarbnGabby handle.)
Anyway, Dad also said he told you about my date tonight. Thanks for being so excited for me. He even helped me find a fantastic dress. Can you believe it? I promise to send you another e-mail tomorrow to tell you how the whole thing tonight goes.
Also, your package arrived yesterday. I know I make fun of you a lot because you buy so many self-help books, (especially the one about somebody moving your cheese—I’m still not sure I get that one) but it was nice of you to send me the small stuff book. It’s really good, and no, that doesn’t mean you should buy me more books to balance me emotionally. One is enough, and I am now balanced.
Thank you.
I hope you’re happy in your new apartment and that you’re excited about teaching school again, though I will say it kind of surprises me. I didn’t think you liked it that much. I thought you’d do something else if you went back to work.
I’ll write again tomorrow.
Love,
Valerie
Go figure. Dad has really, really good taste in dresses. And he’s clearly been saving money—now that he’s not bringing home little gifts for Mom all the time, I suppose—because he let his credit card take a mighty hit yesterday without flinching. This never, and I mean never, happens. I don’t even get an allowance. All my money comes from baby-sitting. Well, all my money came from baby-sitting. Eventually, I’m going to have to learn enough German to get a job at the Schwerinborg McDonald’s or something.
Not that I can think about that right now.
I just hope Mom doesn’t find out how much he spent, though maybe she won’t care anymore. I mean, she and Dad finally agreed on a lump sum for alimony without having to deal with lawyers, and I know it’s plenty, even though he doesn’t have to give her any child support or anything.
But I am determined not to hold against her the fact she kept telling Dad (usually with Gabrielle in the room) that he could afford to pay her a hell of a lot more. Really.
Small stuff, right?
I take a deep breath—doing my best to think only good thoughts about Mom or nothing at all, because if I let myself, I could go on all day about her stupid choice of an e-mail address, let alone the money thing—and I turn back around to face the full-length mirror that Dad was brilliant enough to have installed on the back of the door to my bathroom. The bathroom’s so tiny I have to stand in the shower to see all of me in the mirror, but it doesn’t matter.
I look totally hot.
I’ve always hated my red hair. Not so much because it’s different—that’s the one thing I like about it—but because it makes me look not-quite-right in clothes and makeup.
Clothes have to stay basic—grays and blacks and stuff—or I could seriously blind someone. Contrary to popular belief and my mother’s shopping tendencies, jewel-tone greens and blues do not look good on redheads. It makes us look like we belong on the cast of Dynasty or Falcon Crest or some other corny, over-the-top eighties TV drama. Just picture Nicole Kidman as a teenager in electric pink and you get the idea. Hideous. So I limit the colored shirts I wear to my one—one—red floral top that Christie bought me for Christmas last year at Express and a funky blue halter I got at Abercrombie & Fitch.
And while clothes can be a challenge, makeup is worse. The chemists at your big cosmetics companies design makeup in shades that loo
k fantastic on your average brown- or blue-eyed, dirty-blond-to-brunette person. Those colors just don’t work on someone whose face is so shockingly white that wearing reflective gear for an evening run through the neighborhood is redundant.
But Dad outdid himself here. I mean, our shopping trip was almost like an episode of E!’s Fashion Emergency come to life. Only I was the emergency and he was this hunky version of Leon Hall and had all the store clerks melting.
First, he got me this killer—and I mean killer—dress. As in, the thing is a deep, blood red. Beyond red. I never, ever would have pulled this thing off the rack, but Dad insisted I try it on, and even though I argued with him the whole way to the dressing room, trying to explain the whole butt-ugly-redhead-in-bright-colors concept, I took back every word the instant I got the thing over my head and got an eyeful in the store’s three-way mirror.
It makes me look like a freaking goddess.
And the thing is, the other reason I wear a lot of black is because it lets me blend in and not look like I’m trying too hard to be noticed. This dress—believe it or not—does the same thing. It’s classy and understated. And it’s RED. Go figure!
I turn around in the shower for a final inspection. I’m being pretty harsh on myself as I look in the bathroom mirror, trying to see what I look like if I slouch, when I sit, or if I act flirty. But even if I try to look like a desperate girly-girl, which is pretty easy to do when you’re standing in a circa 1970s shower stall, I don’t.
In this dress, I actually look confident.
How did Dad do that?! It’s like he’s even better than Leon Hall. Maybe right up there with the hoity-toity hotel manager from Pretty Woman who knew just how to turn Julia Roberts from a total ho into Richard Gere’s dream girl.
Now that I think of it, Julia’s dress in that movie was red too. Freaky.
Anyway, the best part of the shopping trip came after the red dress, when Dad parked me at a cosmetics counter and told the ladies to go to work. He had them redo my face twice, since he didn’t like what they did on the first or second go-round. Then he handed the woman behind the register his plastic and gave her a limit, telling her to get me the most essential items needed to re-create the look, while he headed off to the shoe department.
Royally Jacked (Romantic Comedies, The) Page 11
