Royally Crushed (3 page)

Oh, damn. What if David’s only interested in me because I’m Christie’s friend? It wouldn’t be the first time a guy asked me out because he thought it’d get Christie to notice him.

Of course, at exactly the moment this occurs to me, a familiar car horn blasts not twenty feet away, practically rendering me deaf.

“Val-er-ieee! Oh, Val-er-ieee!” My mother is pulling into the parking spot nearest to the Dumpster and has her window down. I see Gabrielle in the passenger seat popping the top off a salad and picking out the croutons. Guess they’re not whole wheat or something.

I brace myself for Christie to ask who’s in the car. Why, why, why me? I hate lying to my friends, and Christie, of all people, would be most likely to understand.

But I am not ready to deal with this. Not yet, not even with Christie. Maybe I can say Gabrielle’s a neighbor. No, wait, Christie knows all my neighbors. Maybe someone from the Boosters? Or Mom’s book club?

Geez, I despise lying. I don’t think I can do it.

My mom sticks her head out the window and asks if we want a ride. Thank goodness, Christie says no, we’re heading back to school. My mom waves and takes off, but I can
tell she’s curious. And so’s Christie. Her mouth is hanging open, and she’s watching the back of the SUV as it rolls out of the lot.

Book club. I’m going to say Gabrielle’s from book club.

“Ohmigod.” Christie looks like she’s just swallowed her Altoids mint the wrong way. “What did your mom do to her hair?”

“DAD,” I WHISPER, “WHAT’S A TIMBALE?”

I should never have asked him to bring me here. For one, I can’t read half the menu. For two, he still hasn’t said what decisions we need to make.

And for three, I’m still thinking about David Anderson. And the fact that it’s Friday night, which means Jeremy probably won’t see him again until Monday at school, since cross-country season is now over and Christmas break is only a week away. No more Saturday meets or practices where they can get together to discuss
moi
.

“It means that it was baked in a mold,” Dad explains, and I can tell he’s thrilled by his own knowledge of this
useless information. I guess it
is
his job. “In most cases, the dish is cream based.”

In other words, seafood timbale is probably going to be disgusting. “Oh,” I say. “I’m not a fan of creamy.”

Or molds. Only Jell-O should go in molds, and even that’s iffy. But I don’t want to upset Dad, since I did ask to come here and he’s shelling out the big bucks.

“Me, either,” he says. “But you might like the crab cakes.”

I’m not a big seafood person, but since the rest of the menu’s steak (I definitely don’t like big hunks of meat), I decide to go with Dad and order the crab cakes to start and the poached snapper. It comes with mushrooms, which I do like.

Honestly, though, I could care less about the food. I want to know what this dinner is all about. It’s not just a reward for saving the Mottahedeh from Mom, and we both know it. As soon as the waiter’s gone, I look at Dad. I’m just too scared to ask. Thankfully, he brings it up first.

“Valerie, I told you last night we had some decisions to make.”

He looks nervous and Martin Winslow rarely gets nervous about speaking. I mean, he’s on the speed dial of not only the current president of the United States, but several former presidents, which means he’s used to talking to
anyone, anytime, about all kinds of strange topics. So I’m tempted to tell him to do whatever, that I don’t want to be involved. Especially since my opinions don’t seem to carry much weight. I mean, I thought I was being brilliant by suggesting my mom and dad have a cooling-off period before rushing into a divorce. The only way I know my mom even
heard
my opinion was that she later informed me she’d been “cooling off” for a decade.

“Well, now that your mother and I aren’t living together any longer, we need to decide where you should live.”

Before he’s even finished speaking, I can feel tears coming up in my eyes. I try to play it off by taking a long sip of my Diet Coke. I hate that Jules was right about this.

At least she had the Dad-has-a-girlfriend thing wrong.

“Well, I’m not sure Mom wants me with her,” I tell Dad. “Not
living
with her anyway.” It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud, but ever since she made her announcement, it’s what I’ve been thinking.

Dad shakes his head, and I start feeling bad for him, too, since Mom definitely doesn’t want to live with him. “No,” he says, “she does want you to live with her. And so does Gabrielle.”

I can tell he hardly wants to let Gabrielle’s name pass his lips, but he’s making an effort to be polite about it all. He takes a sip of his wine and adds, “I guess she and
Gabrielle have a two-bedroom apartment, and you’d have your own bathroom. So it’s something to consider.”

“But Gabrielle’s going to try to tell me what to do, right?” I remember when Jules’s stepfather—the guy her mom married in between being married to Jules’s dad and remarrying Jules’s dad—used to boss her around. One minute he acted like he was her new best buddy, but the next minute—as soon as Jules’s mom wasn’t around—he’d walk all over her. I remember thinking how glad I was I’d never have to deal with that. But now I guess Gabrielle’s going to be my stepmom. Or something.

“I don’t know Gabrielle well enough to speak for her,” Dad says, his tone making it clear he has no interest in knowing Gabrielle. “But I know your mom will do her best to make you happy, no matter what problems she and I might have. She loves you as much as she ever has.”

I think about this for a minute while I fish a roll out of the bread basket. “Do
you
want me to live with Mom?”

“I want you to do whatever you want. But your mother and I have talked about it, and whatever you decide now, we want you to know you can change your mind. We’re not going to fight about custody. We agree that you’ll be fine with either of us for the next two and a half years, before you go to college, and that you’re mature enough to make your own decision.”

Wow. I just stare at Dad. I totally expected him to ask my opinion, just to make me feel like I had a say, then do whatever the hell he and Mom wanted to do.

My dad gives me a look, though, that clues me in to the fact things aren’t so simple.

“What’s the catch?”

“Well, if you move in with your mother, you’ll switch schools. Her apartment’s closer to Lake Braddock. I’m sure you could finish out the year here, but then—”

“Forget it. I hate Lake Braddock.” No way do I want to graduate from there. And how could I leave Christie, Jules, and Natalie? Let alone David. Not that I have David to leave—yet. But I never will if I transfer. “Besides, if I stay with you, I can see Mom whenever. I mean, she’ll only be a few miles away.”

I think this will be okay. I’ll have my friends. I won’t have to let anyone know what’s up with Mom, at least not right away, since I know I’m going to cave and cry if I tell them now. I have to get a grip on this whole thing first.

And Dad won’t be so lonely if I’m home. Mom has Gabrielle, but he doesn’t have anyone. Well, except me. “I’m staying with you, Dad, definitely.” This wasn’t nearly as painful as I thought it’d be. “If that’s all right, I mean. I kind of like my room, so keeping it would be a plus. And this way I can stay at Vienna West.”

Dad twists in his chair, and that’s when I notice he hasn’t even touched his roll. “That’s the other part of the catch, Valerie. But in a way, I think it’s good news.”

I flip my hand in the air over the table in a get-on-with-it way.

He leans forward and keeps his voice so quiet I can hardly hear him. “I’m about to be transferred.”

“Transferred? To where?” As far as I know, there’s only one White House, and that’s his thing. He’s been there since I was five, which means he’s on his third president.

“Well, you know President Carew is quite conservative.”

“Oh, yeah.” He’s, like, the hero of the right-wing Republicans. Conservative think tanks pretty much got him elected. The guy’s very pro-gun lobby, anti-abortion, and totally against legislation that allows gays to marry or to adopt kids.

My dad is a registered Democrat, on the other hand. He’s voted that way every election since he was eligible. Even though he’s occasionally called on to help fix whatever media-catastrophe-of-the-moment there is at the White House, I’ve never once heard him utter a single word criticizing Republican presidents for their mistakes. Or cheering on the Democrats, come to think of it.

The way I figure, who cares who’s in the Oval Office or what they do in their personal lives if the economy is
good, health care is improving, and everyone’s employed?

But Dad never talks about his political beliefs to anyone. I only know where he stands because I pestered him about it once for a solid week and he finally told me. He also told me it was his job not to have a political opinion, or even a personal opinion of the men he’s worked for—some of whom I think drove him insane—so I need to keep the information to myself. Especially the fact he’s never voted for a Republican in his life—including the Republicans who’ve employed him.

“Well, President Carew is up for reelection next year, and his staff will come under a great deal of scrutiny. With your mother and I divorcing, and given the unusual circumstances—”

“You’re getting fired because Mom’s a lesbian?” I try hard to keep my voice down, but a man at the next table glances our way. I can’t help it though. This is just
so
wrong.

“No, Valerie.” He reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine, probably as much to shut me up as to comfort me. “No. I felt, with the election coming, that I needed to tell President Carew what was happening. We both decided it would be best for the administration if I took a job elsewhere. I don’t want this to become a political issue any more than he does. Could you imagine if the host threw it out for discussion on
Meet the Press
?”

I start feeling sick to my stomach, because I know stuff like that happens all the time.

I hate how D.C. works sometimes.

“The president was very understanding, and he found me another position. A great opportunity, actually.” He lets go of my hand, and I can see he’s actually excited he’s getting canned. “Do you know where Schwerinborg is?”

I do, but only because we did Europe in World History and Geography last year. We had a quiz where we had to fill in all the names of the countries on a map of Europe, and I aced it. Schwerinborg was one of those dinky countries like Andorra, Lichtenstein, and San Marino, where you couldn’t write the country name on the actual country. You had to fill it in on a line that pointed to the country.

Most of the class missed it. They either had no clue, or they wrote in “Smorgasbord.” We all laughed about that forever, because it totally pissed off the teacher. She thought they were being smart-asses.

“It’s very small, and it’s in the Alps, between Germany and Switzerland,” Dad explains, trying to get me jazzed about this. “They have a lot of skiing, and it’s quite beautiful. I’ll be chief of protocol to the royal family. I’ve been offered a two-bedroom apartment in the palace. The palace itself looks a lot like the Louvre—remember when we went there a couple of years ago on vacation?”

I remember the Louvre. I adore art, so spending the afternoon there was the highlight of the trip for me. Warning: The
Mona Lisa
is underwhelming, but if you ignore that, there’s a lot of other good stuff in there. And the building itself is really pretty.

The waiter brings our crab cakes, and they’re surprisingly good. “So, let me get this straight,” I say between bites. “You’re not even going to live in Virginia anymore? You’re moving to
Schwerinborg
? And you’ll be living in the palace?”

“Yes. Of course, I plan to come back after the next election. Either this president will be out of the White House and a Democrat will be in, so the circumstances of the divorce won’t be an issue, or President Carew will bring me back. I have his word, and he isn’t a man to go back on his promises.” My dad gets a self-satisfied smile on his face. “I’m very good at what I do. Whoever’s in the White House will want me there.”

“I know.”

“But in the meantime, I’d love to have you with me in Schwerinborg. I think it would be a real adventure to get to see more of Europe before you go to college.”

“Not that I’m saying yes, because I’m not . . . but where would I go to school? What’s involved here?” I mean, is there a Schwerinborg High? Do I have to learn German?
That I
cannot
do. French is my thing. I’ve had straight As in it since seventh grade. I think I might even get the French award this year, and that would rock on my college applications since those awards usually go to seniors and the occasional junior, and I’m only a sophomore.

“There’s a private American high school near the palace. Prince Manfred and Princess Claudia send their son there to help improve his English. Most of the foreign diplomats’ kids attend, as well. The program is impressive. The teachers are primarily Americans, and classes are conducted in English.”

My crab cake isn’t tasting so good anymore. Going to school at Lake Braddock versus attending some high school with a bunch of foreigners who’ll be able to talk about me in German behind my back?

“I’m not getting much of a choice here,” I point out, as if this isn’t obvious to him. “Either way, I don’t get to stay at my school. That’s totally unfair.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do. If you decide on Lake Braddock, you’ll still see your friends after school.”

“No, I won’t. None of us have cars.” Driver’s ed isn’t until next semester, and I’m one of the last of my friends to turn sixteen.

“I think your mother will make the effort.”

Now I really think I’m going to cry. There’s no way I
can avoid telling everyone about Mom if I live with her. I mean, what do I say about Gabrielle if she comes to pick me up at school? I lucked out that Christie didn’t catch on this afternoon. Jules and Natalie would have immediately, and I can’t handle their oh-poor-you-but-I’m-so-glad-it’s-not-me sympathy right now.