Royally Crushed (7 page)

“Just as long as you take me skiing. Soon,” I tease him.
He’s
got
to lighten up. “When does school start here, anyway? They’re out for Christmas now, right?”

“They finished their second quarter same day you did. You don’t start—officially—for two weeks. But I’m afraid there are some placement exams you’ll need to take. Just so you’re in the right classes.”

I drop my McChicken back onto its wrapper. “Hey. You didn’t tell me that!”

“It’s not a big deal, Valerie. The exams aren’t the be-all and end-all of your placement. The school will also be looking at your transcripts and talking to you about which textbooks you were using and how much material your teachers in Virginia covered. And I know your school guidance counselor wrote up a report on how well you were doing in all your classes.”

I steal a couple of his fries. I figure he owes me, since any exam is a big deal, as far as I’m concerned. “When do I take these?”

“You’ll take two this week, and two next. So if we go skiing, it’ll just be a quick day trip. I think it’s wise for you to be well rested. Don’t you?”

He grabs some of my fries, just to get back at me. I find it hysterical he does this with me, since he’s so hoity-toity in public. I’m just waiting for the day he forgets who he’s with and mooches off the First Lady’s plate.

He pops a fry into his mouth and says, “You’re not going to bail on me because of a few exams, are you?”

“No, not yet,” I tell him, though he’s got to know that I’m only half serious.

“Well, if it helps, I do have another surprise for you.”

“Only if it’s better than Mickey D’s.”

’Cause that’s about the biggest surprise of my day so far, and on the grand scale of things, getting a meal that’s sure to make my butt expand isn’t exactly memorable. And it better not be one of those Chicken Soup books that’s supposed to cure my messed-up teenage soul. Like some bizarro introvert writer spewing platitudes can fix
my
life. Hah.

“I think so.” Dad wads up the burger wrappers and tosses them into the trash can beneath the kitchen sink. “What if I told you that Prince Manfred has arranged to have a computer, complete with Internet access, set up for us in about an hour?”

“Really? Then I say, ‘Bring it on, Manny!’” Contact with the outside world? Wha-hoo!

“Valerie—” My dad’s warned me for days that I have to be on my “public” behavior at all times at the palace.

“Oh,
come on
. You know I won’t refer to him that way to anyone but you. I’m not a complete idiot.” Good thing I’m an only child. I think I’m pretty normal, but
if my dad had another kid to compare me to, especially one with his meticulous personality, I’d be in trouble.

“Just to be sure, you won’t be here when the tech guys arrive.”

“You’re sending me
out
? Alone?” That’s what he thinks.

“Just to the library. There’s a small one here in the palace, and it’s very easy to find. I have a list of what’s covered on each of the placement exams, and Prince Manfred was kind enough to have your teachers send over copies of the textbooks you’ll be using.” Dad opens up one of the cabinets built into the wall of our living room and yanks out a stack of books. Same geometry text I had in Vienna, I notice. Same French book too. The rest are totally unfamiliar, but at least they’re in English.

Dad sets them on the table in front of me, then drops the list on top. “Take an hour or two to look it all over, and you’ll be set.”

I am not believing this. I just got off what has to be the longest plane flight ever, and he wants me to cram? I cross my arms over my chest. “I thought you said I wouldn’t have to study.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks. You just finished studying for your second-quarter exams last week, so you should be in good shape. Now quit making faces and remember that
it’s not going to be graded. It’s just to get a general idea of what you’ve been taught.”

“Dad—”

“When you get back, the computer will be ready. And I’ll see if I can get the fridge stocked in the meantime. All right?”

He can always bribe me with food. It’s pathetic. You’d think after my McChicken, this wouldn’t work. But it does.
Stock the fridge
in Martin Winslow language generally means he’s going to have something tasty for me while I veg out on the couch later.

I grab the list and look it over. Most of it isn’t too bad, but I’m going to have to remind myself how to diagram a sentence. We did that last year and I promptly forgot how. The way I figure, I can
write
a competent sentence, so why the hell would I need to diagram one? I bet Shakespeare never diagrammed a sentence, and he turned out just fine.

Dad gives me directions to the library, puts the textbooks, a blank notebook (like I’m supposed to take notes?), and a pencil in my hands, then shoves me out the door.

Thankfully, the library’s not as gray and boring as everything else. There’s a lot of light from the windows, which overlook the whole city, and the oriental rugs are all a bright, cheery red. And unlike our apartment (which you’d think would be nicer, being in a palace and all), there’s not a square inch of Formica to be seen. Just some comfy-plus armchairs,
two long tables I’m certain are antiques, a fireplace, and walls and walls of books. Old, expensive-looking books on polished, dark shelves.

I think I’m in heaven. I love libraries, and this has to be one of the best on the cozy scale.

I settle down in the chair closest to the fireplace, since someone on the staff—which I’m discovering is huge and mostly invisible—has built a fire and left a neatly stacked pile of logs to the side of the marble hearth. Of course, this means I spend a full fifteen minutes staring at the fire and not opening the geometry book.

I finally give up and open my notebook, figuring that if I scribble out a few formulas, Dad will feel like he’s being a good parent and I’m being a good kid. But instead of writing anything geometry related, I start sketching.

I have no idea what I want to do careerwise, though I can guarantee it won’t involve algebra or geometry. But if newsrooms are still using artists to sketch court scenes ten years from now—you know, those penciled pictures they flash on Court TV or MSNBC when there aren’t any cameras allowed in the courtroom—I’d love to do that for a living. I started back in sixth or seventh grade by sketching my teachers when I got bored in class. I’m awesome at faces and at showing emotions, and I draw fast. Obviously, I’m bored a lot.

Within a few minutes, I have a killer drawing. It’s me, Jules, Natalie, and Christie. Just our faces, all in a row, grinning at each other. I’m just about to pencil in David’s face when a voice behind me scares the bejesus out of me.

And I don’t understand a freaking word other than
Valerie
.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble once I’ve righted myself in the chair. I tend to sit sideways in armchairs, which gives Dad a near stroke when we’re in public. “
Sprechen Sie Englisch
?”

This is the only sentence I know in German. Yes, it’s pitiful.

Even worse than my attempt at German, I think I am going to have a stroke myself, right here in the palace library, now that I can see the guy. He’s standing about five feet behind me, near one of the long library tables. The face attached to the German-speaking voice is mesmerizing. Not necessarily handsome—well, at least not in a David Anderson look-alike way—but he’s definitely not bad. And he’s
my age
.

“I apologize.” He sticks out his hand, and it’s even sexier than David’s. Be still my heart! “I forgot you don’t speak German. I’m Georg.”

He says it like “
Gay
-org.” Not the world’s most attractive name. Not by a long shot. And the less I have to hear about anything gay right now, the better. Yes, I’m just that
shallow. But his accent is one hundred percent to die for. I can ignore the name to hear that accent again. Yum.

And suddenly I get self-conscious about the fact I’m in my Adidas track pants and a T-shirt, with my hair in a ponytail.

I shake his hand and smile. “I’m Valerie Winslow. But it sounds like you already knew that.”

“I hope you don’t mind my intrusion. I saw you sitting in here, and thought I’d introduce myself.”

“It’s no intrusion,” I say. Like I wanted to be sitting here studying geometry? But I can’t say that, because this guy sounds almost as formal and polite as my dad. I’ve never met a teenager as stiff as this one.

“My father told me you were moving in.” He leans forward, putting his elbows on the back of the armchair next to mine. “It’ll be nice to have another high schooler around here. I hate being the only nonadult in this place.”

“You live here?” I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess if my dad and I get an apartment here, it only makes sense that some of the other staff get them too. “Do your parents work here?”

“They sure do.” A slow, totally hot smile spreads across his face. I
so
want to draw it. It’s just that fascinating and different.

It’s like I can actually
see
him letting down his guard,
and I get that feeling of relief that comes from knowing the other person you’re talking to has decided you’re cool.

Okay, he’s not David Anderson. But he’s growing on me. Definitely.

“Cool.” I wave for him to sit down. “You like it here?”

He walks around and takes a seat. He doesn’t flop like most guys would. Even though he looks completely relaxed, he sits properly, without putting his feet on the chair or anything, unlike me. Dad would love this guy. Which also makes me think maybe Dad’s right and I’m going to have to spruce up my etiquette skills before anyone else here sees me.

I’m also guessing now that Georg’s maybe a year or so older than me. Don’t know why, there’s just something about him. Confidence, maybe? And his English is fantastic. Better than my French, and I really work hard at it. “I like it well enough, but it’s my home country, so I’m biased. What do you think so far?”

I shrug, but not the leave-me-alone-already shrug I give my parents. This one’s more polite. “I’ve only been here since ten a.m. Not much time to get a real impression.”

“That’s diplomatic. You can be honest.”

I know I just met this guy, but his smile gives me the feeling he’s for real. I think this about very, very few people, so I decide to tell the truth. “Well, Schwerinborg is pretty gray. And kind of boring. But I’m willing to give
it time.” I say this in a jokey-jokey voice, ’cause I don’t want to offend him or anything. For all I know, he loves living here.

“It’s not this gray all the time. I promise.” I can tell from the look in his eyes he’s trying to gauge my reaction to what he’s saying. I must still be doing all right, because he isn’t as formal as when he first walked in and said hello. “It’s not going to be like living in the States, though. You’re not going to be able to hang out at a mall. Or make fun of the contestants in the Miss Teen USA pageant.”

“That’s okay. I can’t handle pageants, even as a form of amusement, and I’m definitely not the mall type. And if I get really homesick, I can always go to McDonald’s.”

He grins. “True. I hardly ever get to eat there, but I could nosh on fries all day.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Did you just say ‘nosh’?” It sounds so bizarre, coming out in that accent.

One of his dark eyebrows arches up. “That’s not right?”

“It’s right. I just wouldn’t think it’d be a word you’d use. Your English is amazing.”

“I’ve had to take it since kindergarten. If it’s no good now, I’m in trouble.” He gestures toward my notebook. “But I could never draw like that. No matter how many classes I had.”

Oh, geez. I still have my sketch on my lap. I’m always
careful in class not to let anyone see what I’m doing. Not so much because my teachers will get their panties in a twist about it, but because I don’t want my friends telling me I made them look fat or made their lips too big or whatever.

“It’s no big deal, really. I’m supposed to be studying—”

“You’re very talented.” He shifts a little closer on his chair and leans forward for a better look. “Are those friends of yours?”

I nod. I’d shut my notebook, but that seems like it’d be rude at this point.

“Do you draw all your friends?”

“I suppose so. Not intentionally, or anything. My pencil just starts going with whatever’s on my mind. So at some point, all my friends and family get sketched.”

“I bet they’re flattered.”

I shake my head. “Are you kidding? They think I make them look awful.”

He runs a finger across the top of my notebook, just above Natalie’s head, then taps the paper. “If that’s awful, then your friends must all look like supermodels. If you ever drew me, I certainly wouldn’t complain. I’m sure you’d do a great job.”

Is Georg flirting with me? Whoa. Guys do
not
flirt with me. Especially not guys with accents. I mean, that David kiss last week is about the only flirting I’ve had in
my whole freakin’
life
. And it took me
years
to get to that point with David.

“Are you asking?” I say, because even though I’m not sure what he’s thinking, I can’t help flirting back.

He leans back in the chair and gives me a shrug I take to mean
Why not
?

“Well, grab a book and read,” I say. “Or do whatever it is you do when you usually come in here and I’ll draw you.” I give him a smile I’m sure he thinks is beyond dopey. I have to cover the fact that my hand is shaky.

“All right. I usually come here just to sit in front of the fire. You know, to get away from my parents for a while. But I can find a book. Or we can talk, if you can draw and talk at the same time.”

“Um, I can’t draw as well if you’re watching me back. I have a thing about that.” That’s a lie, because I usually can. I’ve listened to my chemistry teacher drone on and on about neutrons and protons and atomic numbers, yet still manage to sketch him standing behind his monster desk and then ace the exam the next day. But Georg is throwing me off. “It might be better if you read.”