Royally Jacked (Romantic Comedies, The)

NIKI BURNHAM

Simon Pulse

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

Royally Jacked

How Not to Spend Your Senior Year
BY CAMERON DOKEY

Royally Jacked
BY NIKI BURNHAM

Ripped at the Seams
BY NANCY KRULIK

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Simon Pulse edition January 2004

Text copyright © 2004 by Nicole Burnham Onsi

SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Designed by Ann Sullivan

The text of this book was set in Garamond 3.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10

Library of Congress Control Number 2003110445

ISBN-13: 978-0-689-86668-5

ISBN-10: 0-689-86668-2
eISBN-13: 978-1-439-12056-9

For Lynda Sandoval,
the kind of friend who can peer-pressure me into jumping off a bridge. Thanks, because it was totally fun.

For their culinary expertise and their knowledge of Vienna schools, many thanks to Chuck and Cindy Burnham. Thanks also to Jennifer Haines and Tina Haines, who didn’t laugh when I asked about Uncle Kracker, MTV
Cribs,
or tongue piercing, and to Andrea DeJordy, for giving me James Van Der Beek (fictionally speaking) when I needed him.

I am also incredibly grateful to Julia Richardson, my editor at Simon & Schuster, for all her support, and to my fabulous agent, Jenny Bent. You guys rock the house.

And finally, a very special thanks to my family, for telling me to go write when I was tempted to do anything but.

Exactly two weeks, one day, and ten hours ago, my mother completely ruined my life. She announced over her usual dinner of Kraft macaroni and cheese (with tomatoes and broccoli bits mixed in—her attempt at being healthy), that she no longer wished to remain married to my dad.

She planned to move in with her new girlfriend, Gabrielle.

Yep.
Girlfriend
.

She went on and on about how it had nothing to do with me, and nothing to do with Dad, so we shouldn’t feel the least bit bad about it. She’d simply come to realize that she wasn’t the same person on the
inside she’d been showing everyone on the outside. Yeah, right.

Needless to say, I have not yet told
my
girlfriends, with whom I have a totally different relationship than my mother has with
her
girlfriend. Or partner. Whatever. I’m not exactly focused on how politically correct I am in describing my mom’s bizarro crush. Especially since I can’t describe Gabrielle to anyone yet. I can’t even deal with telling them about the
divorce,
which—if I actually let myself think about it for more than ten seconds—is crushing in and of itself. I mean, I had no clue. None. Totally oblivious.

And what’s worse—my friends will
freak
.

Then they’ll treat me all nicey-nice, giving me those sad eyes that say,
We’re soooo sorry,
when really they’re thrilled to have something scandalous to gossip about while they’re ignoring Mr. Davis’s weekly lecture about how we’re not keeping the lab area clean enough in Honors Chemistry. Or they’ll be so horrified by my mother’s newly found “lifestyle” that they’ll slowly start ignoring me. In tenth grade—at least
in Vienna, Virginia—this is the kiss of death. Even worse than not being one of the cool crowd. Which is the type of person I currently am. Not quite cool, that is.

So tonight I’m eating dinner at the table by myself, watching while my mom and dad stand in the kitchen and debate who’s going to get the mahogany Henredon sleigh bed and who’s getting the twenty-year-old brass bed I refused to have in my room (and that’s going to need duct tape to hold it together if anyone decides to get a little action on it).

“Hey, Mom,” I finally interrupt. “I know you want the Henredon, but when Gabrielle was here last week, she told me she thought the brass bed was wicked cool.”

My mother shoots me the look of death. “Nice try, Valerie, but I don’t believe Gabrielle’s used the phrase ‘wicked cool’ in her life.”

I deliberately roll my eyes. “She didn’t say that exactly. Geez, Mom. I think she said it was …” I pretend to struggle for the right phrase, something that will convince her. Given Mom’s behavior lately,
I’m betting she’ll do anything to make Gabrielle happy. “Shabby chic? Whatever that means. But it was obvious she really liked it.”

I shrug, then look back down at the Thai stir-fry my father made for me before my mom showed up at the door with her SUV full of empty boxes and a list of the furniture she wanted to take to her and Gabrielle’s new place.

If I’d had to bet which of my parents had coming-out-of-the-closet potential, I’d have put my money—not that I have much—on Dad. Let me state up front that he’s no wuss. He drinks beer and watches Vin Diesel and Keanu Reeves movies like a real guy. He goes to the gym every morning before work and has a smokin’ set of biceps and pecs. And according to my friends, he’s kind of hot. For a dad, at least.

It’s just that for one thing, his name is Martin, which sounds pretty gay. There’s a guy at school named Martin who’s a total flamer. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—I have no problem with people being gay. Really I don’t. I’m a live-and-let-live type. But Martin’s a
friend,
he’s not
my
parent
. That’s where I have the problem.

Aside from the name thing pegging Dad as potential gay material, he’s the chief of protocol at the White House, which means he reminds the president and his staff of things like, “Don’t invite the Indian ambassador to a hamburger cookout.” (The White House guys are always forgetting that one.) Dad can also describe the proper depth to bow to the Japanese prime minister and the trick to eating spaghetti or the oversized hunks of lettuce they always serve at state dinners without making a mess of yourself. He knows how to tie a bow tie without a mirror and can tell you what kind of jacket is appropriate for a morning wedding.

Believe it or not, these are marketable skills.

Oh, and my dad is an awesome cook. Unlike Mom. I’m guessing Gabrielle’s going to be cooking for them.

Playing casual, I flick my gaze toward my mom. “I’m just saying that if Gabrielle really likes the brass bed, maybe you could surprise her with it. That’s all.”

Getting that crap bed would serve them
right for what they did to me and Dad. Especially if it fell apart under them.

Ick. I do
not even
want to think about this.

My mother leans against the granitetopped island in our kitchen—designed entirely by Dad, appliances, cabinets, and all—and crosses her arms over her chest. She gives him the same cold stare I got when I was busted smoking a cigarette behind the high school last year. “I suppose, if the Henredon really means that much to you, I could take the brass bed.”

My dad’s mouth curls up on one side. “Sacrificing yourself for Gabrielle, Barbara?”

That’s about as nasty as my dad ever gets. My mom just huffs out of the kitchen, yelling over her shoulder, “I’m taking the brass bed. And the Waterford table lamp.”

“That was my mother’s! Take the mandarin lamps from our room instead. You get two that way. Fair enough?”

She’s already halfway upstairs. “Fine!”

“And don’t forget to take all your selfhelp books. There are two boxes of them next to the bed.”

My dad turns to me, his expression half sad, half angry with my mom. I think he wants to deck her. I guess she’s butch enough to take it now.

I know, I know.
So
not PC. But she’s the one who hacked off her long, wavy Catherine Zeta-Jones hair so she could look more like Rosie O’Donnell. Not that short hairs bad—it can be sexy. It’s just that there’s flirty, Dixie Chicks short, and there’s what-were-you-thinking short. No forty-five-year-old with a nice, conservative name like Barbara should wear her hair in a buzz cut. Especially when, at least until a couple weeks ago, she used to love going to the salon with me for a girls’ afternoon out so we could get our hair and nails done and be pampered like movie stars.

It suddenly hits me that she probably isn’t interested in doing those afternoons anymore. Now I’m getting depressed. And this isn’t something mom’s self-help books address. Not that I’d read them, even if they did. I have no desire to live my life according to Dr. Phil.

“I’m really sorry about all this, Valerie.”

I shrug. I’m good at shrugging just
right, so my parents think I really don’t give a rip about anything. “It’s not like it’s your fault, Dad.”

At least, I didn’t think so. I mean, was Dad not giving Mom enough attention during their marriage? He was always surprising her with romantic gifts and flowers—and he’d even taken her to the White House a few times for dinner—but was he being as protocol-minded with her in private as he was out in public?

I’m guessing not, since that’s no excuse for getting an ugly haircut and moving in with a woman named Gabrielle who’s ten years younger than you are. But I try not to think about my parents’ sex life. Either them together or, as the circumstances are now, them individually. Eee-yuck.

“I don’t think it’s either of our faults. These things happen.” He lowers his voice and adds, “But if you can save the Mottahedeh china from your mother like you did the sleigh bed, I’ll make you whatever you want for dinner tomorrow night.”

Whoa. I’m not really sure which china is the Mottahedeh, and I’m wondering why Dad thinks he’s going to need
any
china—it’s not like he’s going to be throwing dinner parties like he and Mom used to anytime soon—as if! But this whole begging-me-to-help-him thing is so not my father. Mom really must be knocking him for a loop.

“Even if I want Peking duck?” I ask.

Dad frowns. “You wouldn’t like Peking duck.”

“But it’s hard to make, right?”

“No. Just time consuming.” He squints at me for a moment. I think he’s trying to ignore the sound of my mother going through the upstairs closets, rooting around for anything Gabrielle might like. I still say he should get a lawyer. Mom’s going to run all over him. But he doesn’t want a scandal. Wouldn’t be proper, and Martin Winslow is all about proper.

Finally he says, “What if I take you out to dinner? Anywhere you choose.”

Ni-i-i-ce. “How ’bout the Caucus Room?”

If you’re not familiar with D.C., let me tell you that the Caucus Room is not cheap. It’s the kind of place all the rich kids from school go with their parents so they
can accidentally and on purpose bump into senators, Supreme Court justices, and the like, then brag about it the next day as if these people were their closest family friends and all hot to write them college recommendation letters. I have no idea if the food’s any good—it might totally suck—but I’ve always wanted to find out. Just because.

“Haven’t been there in a while,” Dad says, tapping his fingers against the gray-and-silver-flecked granite. I can tell he thinks it s funny this is where I want to go. “But if that s where you’d like to dine, then why not? I’m certain I could get a reservation.”

I am not believing my luck. I’d still take having my real mom back—the way she was before making her announcement, doctored Kraft dinners and all—over a dinner at the Caucus Room. But if my parents are going to get a divorce no matter what, as Mom informed me in no uncertain terms two weeks, one day, and ten and a half hours ago, and she’s determined to spend the rest of her life shacked up with some peppy spandex-wearing blonde eating soyburgers
and seaweed, I guess it’s as good a consolation as any.

My dad picks up the cordless and dials without having to look up the number. While he’s waiting for the restaurant to answer, he asks, “You do know which is the Mottahedeh?”

“The flowery blue-and-silver stuff?” I guess.

“That’s the Wedgwood. She can have that. The Mottahedeh has the tobacco leaf pattern in it. Lots of reds, blues, and greens.”

I’m still not sure what he’s talking about, but I tell him I’ll encourage her to take the Wedgwood, if she wants china at all. Honestly, I think she’s more focused on the bed thing.