Spin Control (12 page)

Whoa. If it was possible for a person to make one wish and have it come true, this is what I would have wished for. But why-oh-why-why-why couldn’t he have said this to me a year ago? Or on any day at all since, oh, KINDERGARTEN? I was just getting over him, coming to terms with the fact I’m his Armor Girl, and that being the Armor Girl isn’t such a bad thing.

Does he not realize what he is doing to me here?

“They’re watching us,” I say, rolling my eyes in the direction of the curb. Part of me wants him to kiss me,
now,
but common sense (and the fact I can see Christie staring at me through the side window of the minivan) tells me that this is sooo not the time.

“I know. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing here with my hands in my pockets. They’d be somewhere else.”

Okay, now I think I’m going to die. Right here on the front step of a suburban, ugly-ass apartment building.

And I’d die a happy girl.

As I slide the key into the lock, he takes a step down so he’s on the sidewalk leading
back to Mrs. Toleski’s van. “Maybe we can get together tomorrow night? I can ask my brother to drive us somewhere. I know it’s lame, but I bet he’d—”

“Can I e-mail you tomorrow?” I need time to clear my head.

“You have my address?”

I nod. He gave it to me a few days before I left for Schwerinborg and asked me to keep in touch, but I never wrote. It didn’t feel right, since I’d never e-mailed or IM’ed with him while I was living here.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t memorize his e-addy the second he gave it to me.

“Before you go back, I think we should at least talk.”

I swallow hard. Wow, but I can tell from his face that he really means what he’s saying, and it’s making me insane because if I stand here one second longer, I’ll grab him and kiss him first. Christie watching and all.

“I’ll e-mail in the morning,” I say, surprising myself with how calm I sound.

I turn the key and walk into the lobby as casually as I can. When I turn to take the stairs up to the third floor, where my
mom’s apartment is, I see David strolling toward the van. His hands are still in his front pockets, which makes his jeans pull across his rear just enough to make me take a good, long look.

Yee-ow.

I have no clue what I’m going to do.

“How was your night, honey?”

“You’re still up?” My mom’s never been a night owl—she usually goes to bed at nine thirty, sometimes ten if there’s a good TV show on. But it’s past eleven thirty now, and since she’s sitting in an armchair with her reading lamp on and the rest of the apartment’s dark, I figure she’s up for one reason and one reason only.

Me.

“I wanted to get some time alone with you,” Mom says with a smile. She sets down her book—I notice she’s barely started it, which means she wasn’t really reading—and reaches out to pat the arm of the chair next to hers. “Sit and tell me about it.”

I leave my purse by the door, then drop into the empty chair. “The movie was
great. Wasn’t your style, though. Very commercial and big budget.” My mom loves indie flicks—all the stuff they show at festivals—that usually have choppy editing and too-deep-for-normal-people-to-understand hidden meaning. Dad and I always used to tease her about it. Most years, she hasn’t seen any of the Best Picture nominees for the Oscar.

“Was it the historical film with Heath Ledger?”

Historical film? She’s making it sound like it should be on A&E. I keep a straight face and reply, “Well, you know I wouldn’t miss Heath.”

“Bet he looked pretty hot, too.”

Come again? She’s mocked my Heath obsession forever, but I have to wonder, does SHE actually think he looks good? And then I totally crack up, because I can see from her face that she said it to be funny.

“You looked like you could use a good laugh,” she says.

“Definitely.”

I know, I know. It’s a strange thing to bond over, but I’m gonna take what I can get.

“Gabrielle’s asleep already. I thought it might be a good time for the two of us to just sit and chat—if you’re not too tired.”

“Sure.” I’m beat, even though I took a nap after the girls left this afternoon just so I wouldn’t crash at the movie, but I figure now’s as good a time as any to talk to her—especially if she’s in a jokey mood.

She looks a little uncomfortable even though she’s still smiling, and I get the impression she wants to talk about Dad—how he’s getting along in Schwerinborg, if he’s seeing anyone, if he’s making sure I’m eating healthy food, all that kind of thing.

Since the absolute last thing I want to do is report to Mom about Dad, or vice versa (mostly because Jules warned me about this happening and says not to even think about telling one parent about the other), I decide to make a pre-emptive strike. “You know, this afternoon I saw you kiss Gabrielle on the cheek in the kitchen when I was talking with the girls.”

One of Mom’s eyebrows arches up at this, but I keep going. “I know you two are trying to keep things low-key so you won’t freak me out. I mean, it was obvious at the
airport. You never got within arm’s reach of her, but you kept giving each other looks when you thought I wasn’t watching.”

“Was that upsetting to you?”

“No. Not really.” I pick at a piece of lint on the arm of the chair, then make a face. “Well, maybe it was. But I think you two should just act normal around me, even if I’m only here for a week. Dad says we’ll move back here for good after the next election, no matter who wins the White House, so I’m going to have to get used to you guys being together sooner or later.”

Mom reaches over and puts her hand on top of mine. “Gabby and I are doing our best to make this transition as painless as possible for you.”

“I know that.”

“But you’re still pretty uncomfortable with it?”

I nod. “I don’t have a problem with you being gay, I don’t think. It’s more that you found someone else so fast. I mean, even if you’d hooked up with a guy, I’d be torqued by all of this.”

Mom is quiet, and I know she wants me
to look at her. When I do, she just tilts her head and gives me one of those looks that says she knows better.

“Fine, I’m uncomfortable with the gay thing too. But I’m trying very hard not to be. I don’t
want
to be.”

“I appreciate that. More than you can ever know.” She gives my hand a squeeze and her eyes get all watery. “It might not seem like it sometimes, but you’re the most important person in my whole life, Valerie. I’d do anything for you and I want you to know that.”

“I do.”

“But I can’t not be who I am.”

In a completely non-snarky voice, I say, “You made that very clear.”

“I never wanted to hurt you or your father. I love him very much, and I always will. But when I met Gabrielle, I realized why I’ve been so … well, that’s probably a whole different conversation. Suffice it to say I realized that I’d been living a lie, and I finally understood, deep in my soul, why my marriage to your father never felt quite right. It wasn’t easy for me to do what I did, and it took me a long time to work up
the courage to leave. Mostly because I was afraid of how it’d affect you and your father. I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

“It did hurt, though.” It
still
hurts. “But I know it wasn’t on purpose. And Dads been great about it all. He’s never said one bad thing about you.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and stands up. “I think we woke up Gabrielle.”

At that moment, I hear the toilet in the hall bathroom flush. “Sorry. I was probably talking too loud. She won’t be pissed, will she?”

“Don’t say ‘pissed’—your father will kill me if you go back to Schwerinborg using that kind of language,” she says, though she’s smiling. “And no, she won’t be.”

A minute later, Gabrielle comes out into the living room. She has a sleepy look on her face and her hair’s looking pretty bad, but she seems agreeable enough, so I doubt she overheard anything. Not that she isn’t already aware of everything we talked about, anyway.

“How was your date, Valerie?”

I give her the Valerie Shrug. “Okay, I guess.” Like I’m going to discuss my love life with Gabrielle when I can barely talk about it with my parents—though I do give her props for being courteous enough to ask.

“Your friends seem pretty cool. I really like Christie. Jeremy and David are nice, too.”

Damn straight. “Thanks, I’ve always thought so.”

Mom gives my shoulder a quick squeeze—probably for being polite to Gabby—then starts organizing the magazines on the coffee table, which is always the signal she’s about to go to bed. “Gabrielle and I wanted to take you someplace tomorrow as a surprise, but I just had another thought. If I can get appointments, how about if we go to that day spa we always liked in Vienna first?”

“That’d be cool.” I haven’t had a manicure in ages and ages, and I love getting them. Maybe, if Mom’s feeling particularly guilty and they have an opening, I can get a facial, too. That’d rock.

But then I see a little look pass between
Gabrielle and my mom. I get the feeling that wherever else they were—or are—planning to take me isn’t going to be something I’ll like.

“So what’s the surprise?”

Mom gives me a grin that’s way too perky for this time of night. “Just that. A surprise. But I promise, you’ll like it.”

Right.

“What do you think?” I lean forward, pulling the seat belt to its max so I can extend my fingers into the gap between the two front seats of Mom’s SUV to show off my manicure.

“Love that red!” Gabrielle says, inspecting my nails. “What shade was that? I must’ve missed it.”

“It’s called Rock the Vote Red. It’s one of the Nicole colors.” I usually go for pinks, but the name of the polish screamed out to me. I figured picking “Rock the Vote” would be a good luck charm to make doubly sure whoever wins the White House in November hires (or remembers to rehire, in President Carew’s case) my dad.

I can only hope.

“Very pretty,” my mom says. “Which did you end up with, Gabby?”

“OPI British collection. Blushingham Palace.” She waggles her pink-tipped fingers in the air, and her whole attitude reminds me that she’s a freaking DECADE younger than my mom—at least. “I think I like your Rock the Vote color better, though. I’m going to have to remember to look at the Nicole colors next time we go back. I love supporting them, since the company gives so much money to charitable causes.”

Of course.

“I bought a bottle so I could do touchups,” I tell her. “I’m probably not going to take it on the plane, so you can have it if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.” The more people who wear getDad-his-job-back polish the better. Plus, for my mom’s sake, I figure I’m going to have to be nice to Gabrielle eventually. She might be a mom-stealer, and she might’ve made me eat whole-grain pancakes for breakfast (made with soy milk, which gave them a bizarre aftertaste—and pancakes should
not
have an aftertaste), but maybe, if I try reeeeally hard, I can convince myself she’s not so bad.

I see Mom smile to herself. “Maybe I’ll try out the color, then, too.”

“I’ve never seen you use color.” I look at Gabrielle. “Really. She’s worn nude polish or had a French manicure for as long as I can remember. Red would be a serious departure for her.”

“Well, life’s an adventure. We’ll drag your mother along kicking and screaming if we have to, right Valerie?” She reaches back to rub my head, like I’m in kindergarten or something. “She needs a little change in her life!”

Okay. Bonding moment over. The whole life’s-an-adventure philosophy is too much like that moving cheese book’s philosophy (yeah, I flipped through it, so sue me) and I do
not
need to be reminded of the cheese book.

“So will you tell me where we’re going now?” We’re headed out of Vienna, toward Burke. “Or is it still a surprise?”

“Hang on for another five minutes, honey, and we’ll be there.” She’s still smiling,
but the smile’s not reaching her eyes anymore. Wherever we’re going, I can tell she’s worried I might not like it.

And if she thinks that, I can safely assume I won’t.

Mom turns the SUV onto a suburban street, taking us through a neighborhood of colonial and Tudor-style homes, all with yards kept pristine by landscaping services. We pass a neighborhood park, then she slows down as we approach a church. Apprehension gets the better of me as we pull into the parking lot. There are six or seven cars parked by the back door, and that’s where Mom pulls in too.

“Um, Mom? You’re Episcopalian.” And I’m guessing Gabrielle believes only in Evangelical Vegetarianism. “You might’ve deduced from the red flag draped over the cross and the big sign out front that this is a Methodist establishment. And it isn’t even Sunday.”

“I’m well aware of the date and our location.”

“Are we going to a Bible study?” A gay Bible study, maybe? If so, this would take the cake. And it’s the kind of thing I
can totally see Mom wanting to bring me to, hoping it’ll make me feel better about her and Gabrielle, and to keep me from believing the Religious Right types who are bound to tell me that Mom and Gabby are going to hell, or that what they’re doing makes them not good Christians anymore.

We always went to church together—me, Mom, and Dad—until Mom moved out. Dad only goes sporadically in Schwerinborg, and I’ve gone with him, but I figure Mom’s been going all along. And she definitely believes in God, so I know she’s not going to hell.

But a Methodist church? Are they more open to gays or something? I know there were a few articles in the newspaper a while back about some gay pastor (or bishop?) in New Hampshire, but I can’t remember what kind of church it was.

Or if it was even New Hampshire. Could have been Vermont.

“It’s not a Bible study.” Mom shuts off the ignition and gestures for me to unbuckle ’cause she apparently wants me to come into the church. As she opens the
back door for me, she says, “It’s a pee-flag support group meeting.”

As I follow Mom and Gabrielle across the parking lot, I shoot her a look that says,
support group?
And
Pee Flag?
“A what?”