Royally Crushed (44 page)

“Wow. Think Ulrike’s overdoing it a bit?”

Georg is staring at the large sheet of paper I have unfolded across my bed. Literally
across
my bed. Ulrike must have stolen it from one of those flip charts in the corner of the art room. The whole thing is covered with her scribbles, though I’m too tired to analyze all the detail she’s put into it. More than half the paper is a hand-drawn map of the hotel ballroom, complete with little circles and rectangles showing where I need to put chairs and tables outside the main doors, and diagrams of where the refreshment tables will be and the area we need to cordon off for the DJ and his equipment. She’s even marked in where the speakers will be located.

The rest of the page is one honking big to-do list. Actually, it’s three to-do lists: one for her, one for me, and one for the two guys she roped in to do the heavy lifting.

“I know.” I can’t get over it myself. I mean, did she
make extra copies of this thing for herself and for the guys? “I told her when I volunteered that she’d have to be specific with me, but I didn’t mean this. I think she needs to get a life.”

“This
is
her life.”

“Well, now it’s my life too.” I fold up the piece of paper—which feels like folding a bedsheet given its insane size—since I don’t want to think about item number one on my to-do list, which is to call the DJ and ask him a long list of questions about things like his music selection, his preferred speaker volume, and when he expects to take his breaks.

I mean, what if he doesn’t speak English?
Good
English?

To distract myself, I ask Georg how soccer practice went. He was wearing his sweats from soccer when he got here, but since our apartment is now broiling (the heat is never right—it’s either like living in Antarctica or the Sahara on any given day, and Dad and I can’t predict which we’ll get), he’s pulled them off and is only in his practice shorts and a T-shirt. I point to a row of evenly spaced scrapes on the side of his calf and ask what happened.

Tragic to mar that gorgeous bod, I tell you.

He shrugs like it’s nothing, though. “Got knocked into the wall trying to steal the ball. I missed and tried to change direction to catch the guy, but I was off balance and fell down.” He adds, “I, like, wiped out totally.”

I laugh so hard I snort. A genuine, sitcom-type snort. “You’ve been listening to me talk too much.”

He has the good sense to blush. “It’s good for me, though, isn’t it? I want to sound more natural when I speak English. So whenever I go to the States, I don’t stand out.”

I am so not going to tell him that his attempts to sound natural have the complete opposite effect.

“You’re going to have a lot to do at the dance, from the looks of it.” He takes a seat on my bed, leans back against the pillows (man, how I wish I could whip out my sketch pad and capture him just like that!), then says, “How late are you going to be there?”

“Probably until the end.” Which sucks rocks. “But you’ve got that party to go to, don’t you? So it’s not like you’d be home anyway. Unless it’s here at the palace.”

He shrugs but doesn’t say anything, which naturally makes me think he’s trying to keep the details of this party hush-hush. Since I just can’t leave it alone, I decide to go fishing. “It must be before the awards actually air, since
we’re so many hours ahead of California, right?”

“I guess. I haven’t paid attention to what time the telecast starts.” Even though he pauses on the word “tele-cast,” he’s being casual, not giving me a hint of info. Dammit.

Did I do something wrong? Why is this such a big fat hairy secret?

“Anyway,” he adds, “I was curious about when you thought you’d get home. You’ll probably get back about the time the—what do you call it when all the nominees are shown entering the theater? The preshow?—when that starts.”

When I tell him that’s my plan, he says, “That’s good. So you’ll be able to watch at least part of the show. I couldn’t believe when the Golden Globes were on last month that you stayed up almost all night to keep checking the winners online.”

“I know. I think Dad wanted to kill me, since it was a school night. But I felt like I was hanging out long-distance with Christie, Jules, and Natalie, since I was e-mailing them my comments. I think Dad kind of felt sorry for me, and who was I to tell him not to? The A-listers and I always watch together, and there was no way I was going to miss out.”

“Yeah, you mentioned how you guys do the awards
shows.” As he talks, he flexes and then points his toes, like his calves are sore from soccer. Judging from how beaten up he is, it’s no wonder. If he didn’t have to be a prince, I know he’d want to attempt a pro soccer career. He likes it that much.

“You planning to do that this weekend, too?” he asks.

“I guess. We haven’t really talked about it. I s’pose it depends on when I get back from the dance.” And on what Georg is doing then.

“Maybe going to the dance will distract you from the fact you can’t watch with your friends this time. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

Geez, but this is an awkward conversation, at least for me. He really shouldn’t be reminding me of how much I miss home. Or about the fact that I’m going to be stuck at this wacky Schwerinborg-type dance without him, so I won’t even have him to console me as the girls watch an awards show without me. Again.

I take Ulrike’s attack plan and stick it under the stack of books and binders piled on my desk. I don’t want to look at it.

Because it’s more than the fact that I’m missing the Oscar party with the girls in Virginia, or even the fact that Dad will probably take advantage of my absence and
disappear for the night with Fräulein Predator that’s got me feeling so mopey and blah.

It’s the fact that Georg will be celebrating with who-knows-who—dancing and chatting and being oblivious to the fact that all the cute Steffi types are desperately trying to hook up with him—when if he’d
really
wanted to, he could be spending the evening with me.

For some reason, he doesn’t. And he doesn’t even want to tell me why.

I swear, I am going to have a freaking coronary, right here at my desk. Dad will knock on my door in the morning to harass me to eat a healthy breakfast before I head out to school. He might even whip up some oatmeal or an omelet before coming back and knocking a second time. He’ll open the door, intent on reading me the riot act, only to find me slumped over my monitor, mouse in hand, dead from shock.

What the hell is Georg doing e-mailing with Christie? How would they even have each other’s e-mail address? What is this all about?

Oh, no. No, no, no. Could the girls be feeling him out about David? This is the last thing I need right now!

I know Christie wouldn’t be sneaky that way, but for all I know he’s also e-mailing Jules and Natalie. I don’t think they’d tell him about David, either, but they might drop hints if they thought it’d push me to tell Georg about David myself.

I do
not
want them dropping hints. I do not want them to have anything to do with this.

I wonder if he knows already? Maybe that’s why he suddenly had this Oscar party thing. . . .

I’m just about to text Christie, since I simply must know about the Georg thing, when a new e-mail from her pops up in my box.

*   *   *

“So, did you call the DJ yet?”

I should have known Ulrike would pounce first thing in the morning. It’s Wednesday, and since I managed to avoid her all day yesterday (it’s amazing how something can come up, say, in the computer lab, right at lunchtime, therefore saving me from a solid hour of listening to Ulrike fixate on the tiniest details of this dance), I knew I couldn’t hide from her today. Not without being really obvious, and the whole point of helping her was to keep her from having hurt feelings.

Now that she’s nabbed me at my locker between first and second period, I figure the only reason it’s taken her this long is because I didn’t stop here before school. Five bucks says she was waiting for me then, too.

“No, I wanted to do it when I got home from school today.” It’s sort of the truth. I was
thinking
about calling then, but I don’t exactly
want
to. “Though, are you sure you want me to make the call? It might be better—”

“No, you’re the best person for the job. My hands are full, and I just know the guys wouldn’t ask the right questions. Even when they have a list, they don’t do what they’re supposed to.”

I close my locker and spin the combo lock, but Ulrike puts a hand on my wrist to stop me from leaving. Her face is earnest as she speaks. “Val, this really means a lot to me.
Thank you. It’s a relief knowing I can count on you. You’re such a great friend.”

Well, crap. Now I have to call the DJ. “Thanks, Ulrike. I’m happy to do it.” I even keep a straight face as I say the word “happy.”

“Great. Promise to call or e-mail me after you talk to him, okay?”

As soon as I promise, she blasts off in the direction of senior hall—well, year twelve hall—presumably to harass the guys.

I glance at my watch and realize I have all kinds of time before I have to be at my next class. Since it’s only a few feet down the hall, I walk to a quiet spot near the doors to the quad so I can pull out my cell phone and the scrap of paper with the phone number.

Maybe if I call the DJ now, he won’t be there. I can see if his voice mail is in German or English, plus I’ll know I’ve done my duty for Ulrike (at least for the moment), and I won’t have to think about it all day.

I’m just about to dial when I hear Ulrike calling my name. I look up to see her jogging back down the hall toward me, her white-blond hair bouncing all over the place and her backpack smacking against her shoulder.

Great. She probably thought of more DJ questions.

“What’s up?”

“I forgot to tell you!” she says on a gasp. “You won’t believe who’s coming to the dance!”

“Really?” Please, please let her say Georg. Maybe she talked to him during first period? Heard some juicy bit of news that he’s canceling his party appearance so he can come be with me? I force my breathing to remain as calm as possible and ask, “Who?”

“Well, I was talking to my dad yesterday—you know he’s coming as a chaperone, right?—Well, he said he ran into your father yesterday at the palace. I guess Dad had some kind of economic meeting there.”

Since Ulrike’s dad is a German diplomat and he’s at the palace a lot, this isn’t really a shocker. “So what happened?”

Her grin gets even bigger. “He told your father about the dance and mentioned that they needed more chaperones. And your dad said he could do it. Volunteered on the spot, just like that! He even said he knew someone else from the palace who’d be able to come—this woman from the public relations office my dad’s worked with a few times before who has all kinds of security clearance—so now I have all the chaperones lined up. Isn’t that great? I was so worried we wouldn’t get enough and I’d have to go begging teachers.”