Royally Crushed (30 page)

“I’m really sorry, honey,” Mom says, sounding mostly sincere. “But I knew you’d never go otherwise, and I wanted you to try it out at least once just so you’d hear what other people in your situation are doing to deal with their concerns, and to see that you have resources.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that.”

“Well, I won’t do it again. All right?”

I just give a little huff as I sit back in my seat and buckle my belt. I forgive her, but only if she keeps her word and doesn’t pull this crap again. Even if it
was
helpful.

She flicks her gaze toward me as she puts the Toyota in reverse. “So was it helpful?”

Can she read my mind?

“I guess.” Doesn’t mean I’m all happy happy happy
about her being a lesbian, but I do feel better than I did before I came to Virginia. Well, about the whole gay-mom thing. The who-the-hell-am-I-dating? issue is something else entirely. Coming home made that a lot worse.

“Well, when you come to visit me during your school break this summer, maybe you can go again. Just for reassurance, or if you have anything you need to talk about. I promise not to spring it on you.” Mom’s face squinches into a grimace when I shoot her a death look. “Sorry. I’ll drop the whole subject. I’m just glad you went and I hope you’ll consider going again next time you come.”

I shrug. Maybe.

“So,” she says as she turns the SUV out of the parking lot and back toward the apartment, “what did you think of John? He seemed very nice.”

“He’s fine.”

“Maybe if things with David don’t work out, or with that boy in Schwerinborg . . .”

That
boy
?

“Mom, I don’t need you playing matchmaker for me. I have enough trouble with Christie, Jules, and Natalie as it is.”

“All right, all right,” Mom says. “But did you notice that he’s a Kenny Chesney fan? I love Kenny Chesney.”

“Mom? No.”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOU’RE ABOUT TO HAVE
your asses kicked by two sophomores.”

I can’t help but grin at David’s remark as we huddle over a sticky round table in the bar area of TGI Friday’s. We just ate here last night, but we figured it’d be easiest to eat here again since it’s next door to the movie theater. (Plus, I’ve had a serious craving for American French fries for a while now. They just aren’t the same in Schwerinborg.)

In the end, though, we skipped the movies because, with the obvious exception of the one we already saw, they all sucked. Plus, TGI Friday’s has a trivia game running on the television screens (well, on the TVs that aren’t showing college basketball, which I don’t give a rat’s ass about), and
tons of people are playing. This presented us the opportunity to do what the two of us do best and show off our geeky smartness—without Christie or Jeremy here to make fun of us—and we couldn’t resist.

“You just
know
we’re the only ones who’ll get this,” I say, carefully tapping the D key for
Badajoz
on the answer pad, because we both (naturally) knew that was where the British surrounded a French fortress in March 1812.

“I dunno.” David studies the rows of restaurant booths on our right, then slides a look to our left, toward a married couple sitting at the bar with a trivia pad in front of them. “I think they’re the ones who got that question about Henry the Eighth right.”

We decided earlier—judging from their intense focus, expensive gray suits, and the leather bags they have tucked in front of their barstools—that they’re lawyers or investment bankers or something else requiring a fair amount of smarts. And that they’re probably our toughest competition.

“Yeah, I think so too. But this question is way more obscure. I wouldn’t have known it if it hadn’t been drilled into us in European History last year.”

We watch the television as two of the wrong answers, the Falkland Islands (as if!) and Trier disappear from the screen, leaving Badajoz and Casablanca.

“Not many people know that Jane Seymour was Henry the Eighth’s third wife, though,” he argues, eyeing the couple at the bar. “They only know the actress Jane Seymour. If they knew about the original Jane Seymour, they’ll know Badajoz.”

“No way. Remember how we learned about Henry’s wives back in eighth grade?” I reel them off on my fingers, along with the little ditty our teacher taught us to help memorize what happened to each of them. “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived. Every kid learns that one. And since only one wife died—well, other than from having her head lopped off—she’s easier to remember.”

“You get off on knowing this kind of useless information, don’t you?”

His smile is so perfect, I have to smile back. “Yeah. And you do, too, so shut up.”

David puts his hand over mine on the table. He gives it a subtle tug, urging me to look at the couple again, so I do, just in time to see them switch their answer. They must’ve had Trier.

The television flashes the correct answer: Badajoz. Then the scores pop up, and we were the only ones to get it right.

“Do we rock, or what?” He sounds totally shocked. “There’s only one question left, and unless we completely blow it, they can’t catch us.”

The couple at the bar look around, scanning the rest of the people sitting at the bar with drinks and trivia pads, then past us to analyze the players at dinner tables.

“They can’t figure out who knew it,” David says. “They assume it’s one of the other groups of adults. Or someone who made a lucky guess.”

“You’d think they’d know better.” I look up at the scores, which are still flashing. David put our team name in the trivia pad as V.D.—totally juvenile, but also kind of funny, since it’s hysterical hearing other teams speculate about the identity of V.D. And whether V.D. actually has venereal disease or doesn’t know the abbreviation’s usual meaning.

We get the last question right—what does a milliner make? (hats)—but so do a lot of other people. Doesn’t matter, though, because we just beat at least ten other teams.

“I feel like such a geek,” I tell him.

“You’ve got a pocket protector I don’t know about?”

“No.”

“You sit at home trying to come up with new scientific theories, just for fun?”

“Definitely not.”

He scoots his chair closer to mine. “Then you’re not a geek. And neither am I. We just like competition, is all.”

“You’re way too popular to be a geek,” I tell him. And
too gorgeous. He’s wearing a pricey-looking heather-green shirt that makes the gold flecks in his eyes stand out, and his jeans fit his body as well as they would any gym-ripped model. “No matter how smart you are or what kind of grades you get, your cool factor will always outweigh any geek tendencies. But when I was stressed out one afternoon last week, you know what I did? Worked ahead on Geometry. I actually used Geometry to relax.”

He laughs aloud and runs his thumb along mine. I look down at our hands and it puts my brain into hyper-spin. It’s the whole thing I have for guys’ hands.

I have to stop.

I start to glance up at the TV screens, but freeze when I see he’s totally studying my face. “That’s not geeky, Winslow, that’s disturbed.”

He’s got a crooked smile as he says this, and I feel him pulling my chair closer to his with his foot. When I ask him what he’s doing, keeping my voice light and jokey, he answers back, “I think you need a better way to relax.”

Then he kisses me. Nothing too racy, but the promise of what he’d like to do later—when we’re not in a crowded restaurant—is definitely there, messing with my mind enough for me to ignore his corny line about better ways to relax. (Did he get that from a movie, or what?)

He eases away, letting go of my hand a few seconds
before the waitress comes to refill our sodas and ask if we’re finished with our dinners. I don’t even answer, I’m so distracted. I just let her take my plate.

A new trivia game starts, and David and I decide to defend our first-place finish. The couple at the bar’s still there to give us a challenge, and a group of kids I vaguely recognize from Vienna West (I think they’re seniors) are scooting into one of the booths with menus and a trivia pad. They keep looking at us. Probably wondering what Mr. Popular Smart Guy is doing out with the red-haired, pale-skinned goober girl.

We get the first question right, but don’t get the second until they eliminate two answers, since we forget exactly how many men rode into the valley of death in Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade” (six hundred). Then the third question pops onto the screen:

What’s the capital of the European country of Schwerinborg?

A) Baden-Baden

B) Zurich

C) Freital

D) Interlaken

David cracks up beside me. “Well, I’m guessing you know this one. It’s not Zurich, and I think Baden-Baden’s in Germany, so it’s either Interlaken or Freital . . . Freital, right?”

I nod, even though while he wasn’t looking I went ahead and punched the button next to choice C. Of course we’re the first ones to get it right, so we get the highest score on that question.

“Way to go, Winslow.” He drapes one arm around the back of my chair. I don’t object, but as he puts his hand on my back, tracing lines up and down, I start to get a funny feeling. Like something’s wrong with this picture.

But what, I can’t pinpoint. There aren’t any reporters or photographers in here (because, being paranoid, I keep looking for them), and when I think about it, this actually fits my idea of a perfect date. Playing trivia games, talking about nothing in particular with a hot guy who’s, from all indications, totally into me. Being competitive without having to do it on a sports field, where I’m liable to get bashed and bruised. Hanging out and chatting and not feeling like we have to be anywhere at a certain time.