Spin Control (14 page)

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Cool to my friends

•
Took me for manicure (though as a possible setup)

•
Tried to make marriage work for years so she wouldn’t hurt me or dad

As I keep scribbling to the bottom of the page, I realize that while the cons on my list are biggies, they all have to do with me and my attitude.

Okay, I’m not happy that my parents don’t live together anymore. I can add that
to the cons list. But otherwise, like John discovered when he made his lists, most of the cons have to do with me being angry or uncomfortable or disappointed.

The pros, on the other hand, have to do with my mother herself: that she loves me, and that she never would have come out if she hadn’t felt like she absolutely had to. The pros are all things that won’t change. And five years from now, the cons look like things that MIGHT not matter so much.

Well, maybe not the cheating.

Maybe I need to just suck it up, deal, and grow up a little. Though apparently (judging from Mel and the rest of the room), it’s one of those things that’s easier said than done.

I’m egotistical enough to think I have better emotional management skills than Mel, though. And if John can learn to deal—or at least try to deal—maybe I can too.

“How was it, honey?”

“Not as bad as I thought,” I admit as I climb into the back of Mom’s Toyota. I never did talk, but at the end of the meeting,
I did check out the table of books Yolanda had on display. Some weren’t for me, like
Our Trans Children
(sheesh, I REALLY hope I never need that one, though I did see one woman pick it up and she looked relieved to have found it), but there was one called
Is Homosexuality a Sin?

I grabbed that one.

Before I went outside to meet my mother, though, I hid it under my shirt. Totally immature, but I don’t care. I don’t want her to know I’m worried about this.

I mean, I’m
not
. I don’t think she’s committing a sin against God. I figure He wired her the way He did for a reason. But I still want to read the book. I have a feeling other people
do
think Mom is living a sinful life, and sooner or later, they’re going to tell me so. Some may just be concerned, like Christie (and maybe Christie’s mom—I don’t know). But what about the serious gay-bashers? The kind of people Yolanda was worried might harass her daughter when she moved into a new apartment, maybe egging her house or yelling at her to repent? I have no idea how to handle that kind of thing.

Mom puts her key in the ignition, but before she starts the engine, I lean forward into the front seat, totally ignoring Gabrielle, and give my mother my toughest stare. “But don’t ever, ever spring something like that on me again. I mean it, Mom.”

I know I shouldn’t talk to her this way, but I have to get it through her head—and Gabrielle’s—that leaving me at the PFLAG meeting without telling me what I was about to face was totally uncool.

“I know we probably could’ve handled it better,” Mom says with a big sigh. “We’ve talked about it ever since we heard from your father that you were coming to visit. And we talked about it the whole time we were waiting for you.”

“You waited outside?”

“Down the street.” Gabrielle has the good sense to look embarrassed. “Your mom and I didn’t want you to see us out the window and come running back to the car.”

“Very mature of you both.” Freaks. I’m in a Toyota SUV with freaks.

“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 turns to back up the Toyota. “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 if you do.” 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 soooo do not 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.”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: FWD: FOR VALERIE

Valerie, this is from your father. Mom.

---

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: FOR VALERIE

Barb, I don’t know if Val still has an e-mail account there, or if she can access her Schwerin borg e-mail from your apartment. Either way, would you please forward this to her at the proper address? Hope all is well. Martin

---

Dear Valerie,

Sorry I had to send this via your mother’s e-mail account. I know you’ll be back here in a few days, but I wanted to touch base with you before you return, and I’m usually working during the hours when you’re home to take a phone call.

I’ve met with the press office, and things here look positive. They pinpointed the source of the leak. It seems one of your schoolmates overheard a conversation and told several friends. That student’s father has the situation
in hand and has dealt with it.

The only story that’s been in the press since you left simply mentioned that you flew home for vacation. There has been no more speculation about anything questionable where you’re concerned. The press about Prince Georg’s trip to Zermatt and his charity stops at hospitals has all been positive.

So please, do not worry. And if you do keep in touch with your friends here, I think it best to not mention the incident. They understand that they were wrong to gossip in the school halls about these matters, and that what they believed happened at the palace was, in fact, not true.

I’ll pick you up at the airport when you arrive. I’II meet you just outside the security gate.

It’ll be good to have you home again. I want to hear all about your trip, and I have quite a bit to tell you, too.

Love, Dad.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Hi

Hi, David.

First, I must ask—RugbyDave? I know you play rugby, but I’ve never heard ANYONE call you Dave. Just David.

Second, if you’re still interested, and if your brother is willing to drive, I can go out tonight. Have to be home by 11:30.

Valerie

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Hi

Hey, Valerie.

To answer your question—I definitely prefer David to Dave. My family calls me Dave, though, and I thought “RugbyDavid” sounded stupid. So there you go.

And yes, I’m still interested. Yes, my brother can take us out and pick us up in time to get you home. (I’ll have my cell so I can call him whenever.)

How about if I get you at 6:30? I remember how to get to your mom’s place. We can go out to dinner near the mall if you’d like, so we can walk over for a movie if we want afterward. Or do whatever.

See you tonight

David-but-please-not-Dave

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Hi

6:30 is fine. I’ll watch out the window and come down so you won’t have to buzz. (Believe me, you’re better off not coming inside—my mom will ask a zillion questions.)

And I promise not to call you Dave. You’re definitely a David.

Later,

Valerie-who-IS-also-Val

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: WHOO-HOOOOOOO!!!!

Valerie,

Did last night not ROCK? I saw you and David holding hands in the movies, and I THOUGHT I saw him kiss you. Did he? Does this mean you’re going to give him a chance? (And does this all make you feel better about everything with your mom?)

Just a sec, Jeremy’s on the phone ….

WHY ARE YOU NOT CALLING ME THIS SECOND?!? Jeremy says David just e-mailed him and said that the two of you are going out again tonight!

I KNEW IT!!! I am SO FREAKING THRILLED FOR YOU!!

I just knew this would work out. You two belong together. Jeremy says David sounds totally pumped about the whole thing too. (it’s about time—this should have happened in jr. high, if you ask me!)

Anyway, call me FIRST THING tomorrow morning to let me know what happens, ’kay? I am DYING.

AND-I really hope this makes you feel better about everything that’s going on with your mom. I’m here for you if you EVER need to talk about all that, okay? No judgments, no worries—got it?

your extremely happy friend,

Christie

Nine

“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 jones 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 Heath’s new flick, 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 briefcases 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 Jane Seymour from television—as in Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. 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 V.D.

We get the last question right—what a 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?”