Do-Over (3 page)

“Not me.” Maya holds up her hands like she’s warding off Satan. “When I set up, someone has to come through after me and redo it the right way. I’m awful at that kind of thing, and you know it.”

Steffi says she’ll try to make it there early but isn’t sure what her plans are yet.

In other words, she’s hoping she’ll find
something better to do, but she’s hedging so she won’t upset Ulrike.

Before my mind can stop my mouth, I pop out with, “I’ll help you.”

I’m totally not the school dance volunteer type, but the look on Ulrike’s face when both Maya and Steffi act like they’re gonna bail is too much for my guilty conscience to handle. I turn to face Ulrike and add, “You’re just going to have to be very specific directing me what to do so I don’t screw it all up. All right?”

“Thanks, Valerie!” Ulrike looks so grateful and Steffi so anxious, like this is eating her up inside, that I know I made the right choice.

“No problem.” Take that, Steffi.

“Can you be at the hotel at six?”

Hotel? “Um, which hotel?”

She says something very German-sounding, so I ask her to repeat it slowly. Since German is Ulrike’s and Steffi’s native language, this kind of thing just rolls off their tongues all the time. Maya’s lived here long enough (and taken enough German) to understand them, but not me. After taking French all through school (with straight As,
thankyouverymuch) anything in German still sounds like someone horking up a loogie to my ears. I know maybe five or six words other than what I’ve figured out from road signs and reading the McDonald’s menu, and that’s only because Dad drilled them into me. Things like “excuse me,” “please,” and “thank you.” Typical Dad words.

Ulrike grabs her backpack out from under the cafeteria table and scribbles on a piece of paper. “Here’s the address and the hotel’s name. It’s only two blocks from the school, over on Blumenstrasse, so you should be able to find it.”

I study the page. I can’t begin to pronounce the hotel’s name. It looks kinda like Jagger, as in Mick and the Rolling Stones, but that’s not what it sounded like when Ulrike said it. “This is where the dance is?”

“They have a great ballroom. Prom is there most years, too,” she explains.

In other words, the press will have a much easier time getting in than they would at the school.

And Georg is going to be that much less likely to go.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Skiing

Just got a call on the cell from Mom. Dad says I can go to Scheffau. See you at home after I’m done with soccer practice?

Love, G-

He signed it
love
!

I think I’m going to pop right out of my seat in computer lab. Knowing Georg, he’d never say it unless he really,
really
meant it either. Whaaa-hoooo!

I mean, once he handed me a McDonald’s bag with my fave sandwich in there, and when I thanked him, he said something about how it was “true love.” But that’s not the same, I don’t think.

I keep seeing all these articles in magazines about how relationships are doomed if one person likes the other one more, and it’s always the one who’s more head over heels who gets hurt. They make me wonder if I’m stupid, letting myself become more dopey in love with Georg than he is with me.

But now I’m thinking we might actually both be equally googly-eyed for each other.

I try not to look too obviously happy about what I’m reading, since I don’t want anyone in the computer lab getting too curious. From the time stamp, it looks like he must have been here at lunch. He has a paper due in his English Lit class next week, so I’m guessing he was here working on it. It also explains why I didn’t see him anywhere in the caf at lunch, though I probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway, what with Ulrike talking about the dance and me off in la-la land, daydreaming about skiing with my boyfriend.

Oh, shit. Skiing.

With my
boyfriend
.

What in the world was I thinking? I drop my head against the keyboard. The girl sitting next to me asks me if I’m all right, and I mumble something nonsensical but reassuring-sounding back to her. She gives me an “uh-huh” before turning back to her own e-mail.

How could this not have occurred to me before? Like, the exact minute Dad suggested we bring Georg along?

I’m going to have to wear ski pants. The
ultimate in how-big-is-Val’s-ass fashion. And not only will Georg see it, photographers are bound to immortalize it. In print.

Oh, man. It might even end up in some online database, where anyone who wants to can pull it up at will, print copies, and plaster them all over the school. Knowing Steffi, she’d show the absolute worst picture to everyone and say, “Doesn’t Val look so cute in this picture? Isn’t it so lucky for her that Georg’s parents let her tag along on his ski trip?” or something like that.

I raise my head and start tapping out an emergency missive. I’m tempted to put “Save My Ass!” in the subject line of the e-mail, but I know Dad won’t appreciate my language or the humor. And I’ve gotta stay on his good side, since he’s the only person who can help me now.

Assuming I handle this correctly.

I settle for “Major Emergency!” and type a note explaining the situation in the nicest language I can muster (since this is going to the palace, after all). Then I hit send.

Two

Four hours after I get home from school, still no Dad.

Georg has come and gone. I’ve not only finished my homework, but I’ve worked ahead, super geek that I am. I’ve been forced to find dinner for myself (horrors), and worst of all, even if Dad walks through the door right this very minute, I’m going to have seriously limited shopping time. Unlike stores in the forward-thinking United States, most of Schwerinborg’s shops tend to close right around dinnertime.

Unable to distract myself with food, I leave my microwaved carnage on the table and go check my e-mail for the zillionth time.

Nothing.

Not even the usual spam offering me low mortgage rates or asking if I want to increase my size to please my partner (and those messages never do mean my pathetic barely-B cups.)

How is this possible?

I open my sent folder to make sure I used the correct e-mail addy for Dad. Of course I did.

I groan out loud. The man clearly doesn’t understand my emergency. It’s Wednesday. If we leave for our ski trip on Friday right after school . . . well, the clock is ticking. Even if he had some government event to attend tonight, you’d think he’d take two secs to e-mail me back and let me know.

Just to cover my ass (so to speak), I decide to e-mail my best buddy Christie in Virginia. Like Ulrike, Christie is one of those perfect people I could hate based on looks alone if she didn’t possess an uncommon cool quotient. Since her fashion sense is as good as my Dad’s—and Christie’s a lot less likely to ridicule my ski pants dilemma—I figure she’ll be able to steer me in the right direction.

Since she’s six hours behind me, if I’m really lucky she’ll be sitting at a computer at school.

At worst, she’ll check e-mail when she gets home in a couple of hours. Either way, she’s probably going to be able to help before Dad.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Fashion Assistance, Please!!

Hey, Christie!

Three things: First, I’m really glad I got to see you, Jules, and Natalie over winter break. You have no clue (and I mean none) how much I’ve missed you guys while I’ve been here. I’m making friends, but it’s just not the same as hanging with my A-listers.

Second, things with Georg are going way better than when I got there for vacation. Remember how I told you he met me at the airport when I came back to Schwerinborg? Well, we’re totally on track and back together now.

Which brings me to number three: Dad is taking me skiing this weekend and he said Georg can come. (I know! I’m totally psyched . . .) However, I have a major fashion problem. Ski pants. I e-mailed Dad at work and asked him to take me shopping tonight, since he’s usually good at helping me find stuff that doesn’t look hideous. (Remember I told you about
that killer dress I wore to that palace dinner I got to attend with Georg? That was all Dad.) But if you have any suggestions at all . . . HELP!!! I’m gonna have to shop either tonight or tomorrow, ‘cause we’re leaving on Friday.

Freaking out in Schwerinborg,

Val

PS—How’s everything with Jeremy? He’s not mad that you hung out with me, Jules, and Natalie for most of vacation, is he? If he is, just blame me. Tell him I had a boyfriend crisis and a mom crisis at the same time (both of which are totally true) and he should be good with that.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Rɛ: Fashion Assistance, Please!!

VAL!!!

This is really Twilight Zone, because I was writing an e-mail to you at the exact second yours appeared in my in-box. (I’m in the library . . . we’re supposed to be doing research on World War I for Mrs. Bennett’s class.) I was worried about you and Georg, so I’m thrilled everything is cool on that front. He sounds incredible (and I know he looks incredible!)! Lucky you!

Jeremy was totally okay with me hanging out with you over break. He’s all obsessed with training for a marathon, if you can believe it, so he has zero time for me these days anyway. It was a big deal when we all went to that Heath Ledger movie together while you were here.

Yeah, I know. I wish he’d chill out over the marathon too.

On the ski pants thing—the ones you already own aren’t that bad. Does your mom have them? ɛ-mail or call her and have her overnight them to you immediately. It’s probably pricey to send them from Virginia, but I bet it’s cheaper than buying new pants.

Now, I’m not saying you can’t do better. What you need to look for are black ski pants (pretty much all they sell anyway). Skip the overalls type. Too hard to pee. Look for something with a good boot cut and that hugs your rear end and lifts. I’ll send you a few links to web pages to show you what I’m talking about. And if you have to wear your old pair, no biggie. Besides, I bet Georg won’t care.

BTW—you did tell him you went out with David Anderson a couple times when you were here over break, didn’t you? He must’ve handled it pretty well!

Write soon!

Christie

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: RE: Fashion Assistance, Please!!

Christie,

1—Checked web pages. Gotcha. Will also have Mom overnight the old pants (though I think they might have a hole in a bad location . . . will have to check.) Thankyou, thankyou, for saving my tail on this one, literally and figuratively. Will report back on what I end up wearing.

2—What is up with Jeremy? He’s always been obsessive about running, but a marathon is insane. Think of the chafing!

And has he not looked at you lately? Does he not realize that you are beyond beautiful and that some other guy will snag you if he doesn’t pay attention? (Okay, you and I both know you’d never break up with Jeremy for another guy. But Jeremy doesn’t know that. Work it just a little bit. Seriously. Like, compliment another guy on his shirt or something where Jeremy can hear you and that’ll be enough to wake him up.)

3—No, I didn’t tell Georg. It hasn’t come up. AND IT WON’T.

4—Dad’s finally here. Gotta go. Will write soon!

Love, Val

My dad is a freakin’ miracle worker. As I pull on my ski helmet just outside the lodge, I shoot a smile at him. He’s sitting on a bench about fifteen feet away, closing the latches on his boots and watching me at the same time. I mouth a “thank you” and give a little pull at my pants so he knows what I mean. He just winks at me and goes back to work on his boots.

Not only did he come home with dinner for me on Wednesday night (leftover cordon bleu from some government dinner that was way better than the preprocessed hunk o’ meat I nuked in the microwave and ended up tossing in the trash can), he also brought four pairs of ski pants. He took part of his after-noon off from work to buy them, then rushed back to the palace for an evening meeting with Prince Manfred about an upcoming state visit from the Georgian President (not Georgia as in plantation tours and the Atlanta Braves, but Georgia as in the former Russian republic, and apparently a very important trade partner of Schwerinborg), meaning no time to call or e-mail. He walked into the apartment around eight thirty, right
after I fired off that last e-mail to Christie, and tossed a shopping bag at me like it was no big thing, telling me to choose whichever pair fit best and he’d return the others.