Royally Crushed (22 page)

But no. I don’t give a fly about the picture or the fact that the
Majesty
guy obviously wasn’t the only shutterbug around. And I’m guessing Dad isn’t concerned about the photo, either.

It’s the screaming headline.

“OH, SHIT!”

As soon as the words are out, I slam a hand over my mouth, because I can’t believe I said what I just said in front of Dad. I mean, as if I haven’t screwed myself enough here with the headline alone.

I don’t have to know German to translate the two-inch-high type. It says something to the effect of:

THE BAD AMERICAN . . . ?

I think it means bad. Maybe evil or dangerous. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not good, even if they did pose the headline in the form of a question,
Jeopardy!
style.

I look at my dad to gauge his reaction, and I realize things must be really bad, because he isn’t even pissed at
me for swearing, despite the fact I have never, ever said anything like that around him before.

Normally, I’m pretty sure he’d kill me. Martin Winslow is all about polite and proper behavior, and swearing is at the top of his Not To Do list. But instead of jumping all over me, giving me a lecture about how a young lady doesn’t use words like that, he just shoots me a
you can say that again
grimace that makes me think he’s already uttered a few four-letter words himself.

“Who was on the phone?” he asks, nodding toward the receiver.

“Ulrike.”

His eyebrows jerk up. “Was she calling about the article?”

“We just started talking when you knocked, so I don’t know.” Her tearful I’m sorry’s make more sense, though, if she was. “Maybe.”

Oh, crap. Not only does the headline mean everyone will know about it—it means half the school already knows about it. They’re probably texting one another right now, debating whether THE BAD AMERICAN is really bad or evil or whatever.

I bet Steffi’s borderline orgasmic.

Dad takes a deep breath, the kind adults make when they’re really worked up about something and are trying to
stay calm, where you can actually hear the air whooshing in and out of their nostrils.

“All right. No more telephone for the time being, not unless I hand you the receiver. Let me answer if it rings.”

“I was about to leave for school, anyway.” I have to be there in about half an hour, so it’s not like I’m going to be calling everyone and asking if they saw the gigantic headline.

“Let’s hold off for a while. If you go, I’ll drive you there. Definitely no walking today.”

Wow. I’ve never been allowed to skip school. I hate to ask, but I do anyway. “So what does the article say, exactly?”

“I assume you can figure out the headline?”

“I think so. Enough to know it’s not good.”

Dad pushes my door the rest of the way open and hands me the newspaper, then walks over to my bed and sits down while I stare at the front page.

“Prince Manfred says it essentially means ‘The Corrupt American.’ Of course, they added an ellipse and question mark after it, as if to suggest your level of corruption is open to debate, but I don’t think that makes it much better.”

I’m thinking not, either. “Well, no matter what the article itself says, I’m not corrupt. I mean,
corrupt
makes it sound like I’m embezzling money from the royal family or something.”

Not that I’d have the foggiest clue how to do that. I’m not even sure what embezzle means, exactly, other than something to do with stealing. Guess I’d better find out before the SATs. Now that I think about it,
embezzle
strikes me as an SAT word.

Dad shifts on the bed, and it’s clear this whole conversation is giving him a headache. “The article states that there are unsubstantiated—and Prince Manfred said it uses that word,
unsubstantiated
, several times—rumors that you and Georg are close. It doesn’t come out and say you’re dating, but it strongly hints at it. It also states that you left the Friday night reception together, then were seen entering an unused restroom on a lower floor of the palace.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. I’m just staring at the words on the page, wishing they were in English. Or even French, since my French is pretty good. I want to read this for myself, and it’s killing me that it’s just a bunch of funny-looking words I can hardly pronounce, let alone understand.

“So, where does the corrupt part come in?” I can hear the
Jeopardy!
music playing in my head as I stare at Dad, because I just know it’s gonna be the whole druggie thing Ulrike talked about.

“The article hints that you and Georg could have been
going into that restroom to take drugs. Again, it doesn’t make a definitive claim, but anyone reading the article can draw that conclusion.”

And there the
Jeopardy!
music ends. “That’s a lie!”

“Well, the bulk of the article talks about who you are, how you came to live at the palace, and then speculates on what influence you might have on Georg. It doesn’t actually say you’re ‘corrupt’—it’s written more as a ‘what if this person spending time with the prince is a corrupting influence?’ and what that could mean for the country.”

Like I’m going to single-handedly take down the monarchy of Schwerinborg? Puh-leeze.

“Can’t we sue them? I mean, for making it sound like I’m some kind of junkie or something? All I did was walk into a bathroom with Georg. While I’ll admit that hiding out in a men’s room is not normal behavior, it doesn’t mean I’m corrupting him.”

I have no clue how suing a newspaper would work, but it’s just wrong that they’re able to write this when it’s totally, completely false. I mean, could this hurt my chances of getting into a good college? Did they even think about that?

He takes another of his loud, deep breaths, then adjusts his tie, and stands up. “No. Litigation isn’t an option at this
point, so don’t even think in that direction, Valerie. Besides, as bad as it sounds, you’re not actually being accused of anything.”

He gives me a look of sympathy, but thankfully he doesn’t say “I told you so.” “The next few days are probably going to be difficult, honey. I know you did nothing wrong, and the royal family knows that too. It’s been a slow news week, so the papers are just itching for a good story and they’re blowing this out of proportion. I think the best thing to do right now is to lie low and let it pass. Prince Manfred has a staff who handle public relations, and they’ll advise us as to how we can speed up—”

The phone rings, and Dad reaches past me to grab it, saying that it might be the P.R. guys.

Instead, after a second, he hands the phone to me with a warning look to keep it short. “I’m going to Prince Manfred’s offices and find out what’s going on. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t go to school yet, and don’t answer the phone.”

I nod, hoping he’ll boogie, because I am dying to know who’s on the phone. Especially since he seems to think it’s okay for me to talk to whoever it is.

As soon as Dad shuts the door, I say hello. And thankyou, thankyou, thankyou God, it’s Georg.
Finally.

“What’s going on? I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday!” I concentrate on my words so I don’t sound
desperate or ticked off, but I probably do, anyway. Mostly because I am.

“I know, I’m so sorry, Valerie. I wanted to call, but I couldn’t.”

“It’s not your fault,” I force myself to say in an understanding tone of voice that’d make Dad proud. “These things happen.”

Well, I suppose they do if you’re the girlfriend of a prince. But it’s only been, like, three days, and already I’m sick and tired of everyone telling me they’re
so sorry
. No wonder poor Princess Di was paranoid. I can’t even imagine how many times during her life she must’ve had bad things happen, then everybody calling and apologizing to her after the fact.

And her prince didn’t even love her like mine does.

“So what’s going on?” I ask again, trying to push the Princess Di images out of my head, since I’m clearly not anything like Princess Di was (rich, pretty, famous, etc.). “My dad just showed me the paper. Is that why you left school yesterday?”

“Yeah. Someone on the newspaper staff leaked the headline to our press office. The source wasn’t certain it was going to run, but the P.R. guys wanted to talk to both me and my dad so they could formulate a response in case the story did go to press. That’s why they sent the car to pick me up.”

“Oh.” So they’ll work to defend him from nasty newspaper articles, but clearly not me. I suppose that’s the way the world works, but having it flung in my face, even though I know he doesn’t mean to, sucks rocks.

I hear him messing with something, like he’s flipping through the paper. “I’m really sorry, Valerie. I wanted to call you, but after the meeting, they drove me back to school for practice, then they were waiting to drive me home to talk to the P.R. guys again as soon as soccer let out. I didn’t get a free minute the rest of the night. I didn’t even get my homework done.”

Whoa. He’s neurotic about getting his homework done—almost as bad as I am. Though in his case, it’s mostly ’cause he’s afraid if he doesn’t, it’ll end up in the paper.

How’s that for irony?

“Wow.” I try to sound sympathetic, because I mostly am. “That totally blows.”

“I got in around ten, then woke up at four a.m. so I could try to get my Trig homework finished, but I couldn’t focus. All I wanted to do was call you because I was so worried the story would be in the paper. I was hoping it wouldn’t be, since you and I both know there’s nothing worth reporting. But one of the press office guys woke up my father just before five a.m. to let him know the story ran, and that it was worse than they’d thought. On the front page.” He
takes one of those deep Dad-like breaths. “I assume your father told you what the headline says?”

“Yeah. Apparently your dad translated for mine.” And I’m guessing the conversation that followed wasn’t particularly comfortable.

“Well, after I saw it, I really couldn’t concentrate on Trig. I’ve been dying to call you ever since, but I wanted to wait until I knew for certain you were awake.”

He sounds so sweet, and so Georg-ish, that I feel a major case of guilt. It’s not his fault all this happened or that he couldn’t call last night. I mean, it couldn’t have been fun spending hours and hours holed up with a bunch of public relations types.

“Well, I’m really glad you called me,” I tell him. “Even if it is with lousy news. I’ve been dying to hear your voice.” His accent makes me melt, even if the rest of the world rots.

“I know. I wanted to hear your voice, too. I just don’t want you to worry too much. The meetings went forever, but they all seem convinced it’s going to blow over.” He pauses for a sec, then adds, “That’s the right way to use it, isn’t it? Blow over? To mean something will go away soon?”

“Yep, you used it exactly the right way.” His English is awesome, but sometimes he’s not sure of certain phrases. It’s incredibly cute, especially because he gets all embarrassed by it.

I really wish I could just shove the newspaper to the bottom of the recycling bin, curl up on my bed with Georg, and lie there. Just to
be
, and to not have to think about school or Steffi or reporters or anything else other than the way Georg talks to me, the way he smells when he’s just taken a shower, or how much I love it when he wraps his arms around me and rubs my back.

And, for just a little while, I want to make him forget he’s a prince. I want to let him hang out in my cold bedroom with the cracked wall and be normal—maybe watch TV or listen to some music or something—and not have to worry about how every little thing he does gets hyperanalyzed by his family, the palace staff, all our classmates, and even the media.

“Are you going to school today?” I ask as I stuff my homework into my backpack, just in case. “Dad hasn’t said whether he wants me to go yet or not, but if we both end up having to hide out inside the palace all day, our parents shouldn’t mind if we do it together.” Then at least one good thing could come out of all this crap.

“I don’t know yet.” He sounds a little cagey, and my alarms suddenly start going off. I get a really, really bad feeling. But instead of keeping quiet, I spout off and ask him if something else is wrong.

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing. Just tell me.” I know,
bad, bad move. Guys don’t like being pushed to talk. Jules is always telling me that when a guy hedges with an answer, to let him hedge or you’re not going to like the answer when he finally gives you one. But now I know he’s not telling me something, and if I don’t find out what it is, I’ll go over the edge.

“My parents are worried about us, that’s all. I don’t think they were expecting things to get so exaggerated in the press.”

“I don’t think so either.” I tell him about my conversation with Dad last night (apparently Dad didn’t know about the possible newspaper article then, thank goodness) and about the one this morning. Georg tells me that his parents told him the same thing, basically: to lie low.

“So what did they say about us? Anything?”

He’s quiet for a second too long. “Not much. But I think it’d be best if we cool it for a while.”

“Cool it? What does that mean?”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

No, I really have no clue. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair. “All right, then.”

“Really? You’re okay with it?”

What can I say if he won’t tell me what he means by
it
? And I’m sure not going to ask him to clarify—
again
—since “cool it for a while” is certainly not going to work with my
thought of hanging out together today, no matter what he means.

But what’s really freaking me out is that I can’t read whether he’s okay with it—whatever
it
is he’s proposing—from the way he asks.

And I can’t tell whether “cool it” is his idea, his parents’, or what. For all I know, it’s the press office’s, or the entire population of Schwerinborg’s.

“I think my dad’s back,” I say, even though it’s completely untrue. “Maybe we can talk later?”