Spin Control (8 page)

P.S.: Is Christie gone or something? She hasn’t e-mailed. Also, she was supposed to call but never did.

Spin control.

This is how my dad explains the fact that I am now on a plane, taxiing (is that really a verb?) toward the Jetway at Dulles International Airport.

Apparently, after his conference with Prince Manfred and Princess Claudia, Dad worried that things might get out of hand in the press. (I immediately asked if they could possibly get any worse, and Dad assured me they could. He even offered several hypothetical examples that convince me his protocol-wired brain is actually quite warped.)

So for the week of Winter Break, they—they being my dad, Georg s parents, and all the suits in public relations at the palace—thought it would be a grand idea
for me to get outta town and let the RR. office deal with the press. Frankly, I’d rather stay in Schwerinborg to avoid 1) Jules’s ass-kicking; 2) dealing with Mom; and 3) making things even worse with Georg.

When I complained to Dad about not being consulted, he told me that I’m fifteen and should get over it already—though he said it in a more formal, dad-ish way that made it hard for me to argue against.

My dad explained that the P.R. guys would accidentally but on purpose leak a story about how I would spend my vacation in the United States with family (making me sound very goody-goody and nonjunkie-like), while Georg and some of the other guys from his year eleven class go skiing in Zermatt. Of course they would also accidentally but on purpose mention that Georg would be stopping to visit kids in hospitals on the way to and from Switzerland. All that nicey-nice prince stuff.

This is evidently what media types refer to as spin control: attempting to change or
control the direction that a particular story will take in the press.

So after the week from hell at school—where Steffi gave me these
I’m so so sorry
(NOT!) looks, Ulrike walked around with a horrible guilty expression plastered to her perfect face, Maya simply avoided me, and my dad drove me to school so the reporters would have to leave me alone—Prince Manfred had his limousine take me from the palace to the Freital airport. Dad gave me a hundred bucks just in case, then sent me off. And now here I am, back in the States, in what must be the world’s most butt-ugly airport.

Controlling spin.

According to my father, the hope is that the press will believe that: 1) Georg and I are not together (which might actually be true, depending on what “cool it” means); and/or 2) whether we’re together or not, we are good little kids and not the type to use drugs.

Although if anything will drive me to smoke weed, I decide it has to be the sight just past airport security. Yee-gads.

Mom brought Gabrielle.

I kind of figured she would, but seeing them together makes me want to hork up the airplane food. Don’t they realize I’m suffering enough already?!

“Val-er-eeeee!” My mom is jumping up and down and waving to make sure I recognize her in the crowd, as if her image hasn’t been burned on my brain from birth.

I wave back, hoping it’ll shut her up, even though I’m disappointed to see that she obviously still thinks her buzz cut is a good idea—she looks freshly shorn. I’d really been hoping she’d grow her hair back out. No woman my mother’s age—let alone a woman named Barbara—should wear her hair that short. Does she not own a mirror? Has she not seen a recent copy of
Glamour
or
Vogue
—or, geez, even
Good Housekeeping!

Once I pass through security, she gives me this monster hug. I suddenly realize that I’ve missed her hugs, even though she always hugs me so tight it crushes my shoulders because she’s one of those super lovey-dovey moms. You know, the kind who hugs you as if she thinks you’re never,
ever going to hug her again, every single time.

“Oh, Valerie, honey! I’m so glad to have you home!”

“Thanks.” I know I should tell her I’m glad to be here, but even though I’ve had almost a week to get used to the idea, I still can’t decide. I mean, Jules refuses to reconsider her threats to do me bodily harm (with Natalie s full support) and that’s the least of my problems. Four e-mails to Christie have gone completely unanswered, and all of my IMs have been ignored, which is a Very Bad Thing.

Even worse, Gabrielle is looking at me with this dopey, mom-ish smile, and I just know she’s going to tell me how much she’s looking forward to spending this week getting to know me better. I’ve gotta give her props for hanging back and trying to give me and Mom a little space to hug and say hello, but when I give Gabrielle a polite smile—because it’s the nice thing to do and I know it’s what Dad would expect—I still feel like a total faker doing it. Especially when she gives me this
I’m so excited you like me
look.

Blond freak. I mean, ICK.

“I’m really happy to see you, Mom,” I finally say, focusing on her. And it’s no lie—I am glad to see her. Just not her haircut or her girlfriend, particularly. I mean, she’s still my mom and I still love her, even if I feel like I don’t understand her anymore.

I try to act all happy and smiley as we pick up my suitcase from the carousel, and the two of them ask me about the flight and whether or not I’m hungry. But by the time we’re walking out to Mom’s green Toyota SUV, I’m only half-listening. My bullshit detector’s going off, and I can’t pinpoint why. Since it’s pretty finely tuned, even when I’m tired and grumpy, I figure I’m better off just keeping my mouth shut and watching the two of them.

Or not watching. As Gabrielle puts my suitcase in the back of the SUV and we all climb in, I figure it out: The two of them haven’t stood within five feet of each other since I came through security.

This has to be planned. I mean, given how inctense they were with each other in the weeks before I moved to Schwerinborg,
they must have discussed ahead of time how to act around me. Decided not to hold hands or do anything mushy.

While I know they’re doing it so I won’t freak out, it’s having the opposite effect. It’s making me wonder what they’re hiding. What they’re really like together on an everyday basis. And what they think of my being here.

I’m an intruder in my own mother’s car.

I grab an elastic out of my purse, yank my hair back into a ponytail, then turn and stare out the window. It feels bizarre to be back in the States, even though I’ve only been gone a few weeks. I’ve lived in Virginia all my life, but only now am I noticing how wide the roads are and how loud people are when speaking to one another compared to how they speak in Europe. And in Virginia, everything is spread out. We have to drive five miles to the mall, and three to a movie theater. School is nowhere near walking distance for 99 percent of the students.

At the palace, on the other hand, I can walk to anything. School. Shops. Whatever. Even my boyfriend’s—assuming I
have one. And lots of Europe seems to be that way. City-ish and walkable.

As we slide from one lane into another and the trees and houses of suburbia flash by out my window, I try to adjust mentally to being home. The air even feels different when I crack my car window, and when Mom turns on the radio to my favorite station, the sound of American English and the obnoxious commercials make my new life with Dad feel very far away.

And it makes Georg feel far away too.

I know I shouldn’t be so hung up on him, especially when I’m fairly certain I’ve been dumped, but I can’t help it. All week long he’s all I could think about. I saw him sneaking looks at me in the halls at school and he didn’t seem openly hostile or anything. He even shot me a little smile once when no one was looking—just enough to make me keep my hopes up. On the other hand, he never once approached me—let alone e-mailed me—and I sure as hell wasn’t going to walk up to him.

I just wish I knew whether his whole avoidance thing is part of the plan for spin control—I mean, is he avoiding me because
his parents say he has to, and maybe it’s a temporary thing? ’Cause that would explain the looks and the smile. Or is it because he’s figured out for himself that it’s not worth it to date me and he wants to extract himself from our relationship while he has a good excuse? Either way, as I lean my head back against the headrest and stare out the window, I feel very much alone.

The pathetic part is that I can’t help but wonder if he feels alone too. I mean, if he wants to break up with me, fine. Well, not fine. But it’d be a hell of a lot better if he’d just freakin’ say it. Just flat out end it. Otherwise, this whole living in limbo will slowly eat me alive.

But part of me thinks he doesn’t. Part of me is convinced that what we have is special, and “cool it” really means that we have to stay away from each other awhile so we can be together later—which, in a way, is totally romantic and totally believable, coming from Georg.

“Valerie, did you hear me?” Mom turns in her seat and frowns at me as she angles the car down the exit ramp and through the streets of Vienna.

“Sorry, Mom. Guess I’m tired.” I didn’t sleep well last night (go figure), and the flight has my body clock all screwed up. I left Schwerinborg at noon their time, and now its two p.m., Virginia time. I think that means eight or nine p.m. in Schwerinborg, but my brain’s just not operational.

“I suppose so. You haven’t said a word about where we’re headed.”

“Home, right?” I lean forward and don’t see anything unusual. Then it hits me: We’re headed toward MY home. The home where I grew up. Where I lived with Mom and Dad until Mom left to move in with Gabrielle. I’m so used to driving this direction from the airport that I forgot we weren’t supposed to come this way anymore. That we should have gone to Mom’s new place—the apartment she shares with Gabrielle.

“I thought you might like to see your friends for a while before we go to the apartment. And this gives me a chance to water your father’s plants and pay the bills.”

“Oh. Okay.” I still think it’s strange
that Dad is having Mom look after his stuff while he’s away, but he insists they’re still friends despite the divorce and that he’s more comfortable with her taking care of things than asking a neighbor or one of his buddies.

Geez, but I hope I never get divorced and have to deal with this level of weirdness in my life.

“Um, I didn’t tell my friends when I was getting in,” I tell Mom. “I mean, they know it’s today, but they don’t know what time unless you told them.”

“Of course I did,” Mom says, and her voice is just overflowing with happy-happy-happy. “Julia, Natalie, and Christie all agreed to come over. They should be at the house about twenty minutes after we get there. I wanted to give you a little more time, so you could shower or take a nap if you wanted, but your flight came later than scheduled.”

“That’s okay.” For one, the girls have seen me smelly and gross before. For two, even if I look like I just crawled out of the Potomac, they aren’t going to notice. They’re going to be far, far more interested
in telling me off than in whether I’ve loofahed in the last twenty-four hours.

And despite what Mom thinks, Christie probably won’t show. It’s completely unlike her to ignore e-mail. And I know the e-mail thing is no accident, because she was way worked up to call me, all the way over in Schwerinborg, and on her mothers dime, too. In exchange, her mother made her promise to be nice to her Tennessee cousins for a solid week when they came to visit. She even made Christie take them to the Smithsonian and all the typical Washington tourist sites.

Christie even went along on the freaking White House tour, which she’s totally sick of, so I know she really wanted to talk.

But after the Georg thing hit the
Washington Post
, she didn’t even bother to pick up the phone, so it doesn’t take superior insight to guess what her attitude toward me must be. She’s feeling totally betrayed, and I don’t blame her. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had, and so hiding all this from her is pretty huge.

“You don’t look very excited to see everyone, honey.” My mom is looking at
me in the rearview mirror, and I feel bad because I know she went to a lot of trouble to get everyone to come over. Five bucks says she even went shopping this morning and picked up treats of some sort from Giant. (Well, now that she’s living with Gabrielle, I guess they’d get groceries from Whole Foods instead—and I’m guessing Whole Foods does not carry Ho Hos, which Mom always used to keep in the pantry because they’re Jules’s fave.)

“I’ll be fine once I can eat and sleep a little,” I say as we pull into the driveway. Thankfully, no one’s beaten us here, so as soon as I break away from Mom and the freak, I dump my stuff in my room-which has to be ten degrees warmer than my room in the palace even though no one’s even been living here—and take a quickie shower.

Why I even bother, I have no idea.

Surprise, surprise. When I walk back into my bedroom in one of my mom’s old ratty robes, there’s Christie, sitting on my bed. She’s the same beautiful self she’s always been, and I instantly feel horribly, terribly
guilty for keeping so much from her.

“Hey.” The word comes out froglike—probably because my quickie shower ended up taking nearly half an hour. (I think my brain needed to soak.) “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Well, I did.” She doesn’t even bother to stand up. She’s not visibly mad or visibly happy, just blah—which means she’s about as angry as she can get.

“I guess we need to talk.” I sound like a total dork, but we’ve never had a fight before, ever, so I don’t know how to deal with Angry Christie. She’s usually the peacemaker in our group. “I didn’t mean to piss you off, really,” I tell her. “You’re my best friend. Ever.”

“So you keep secrets from me?”

“No—”

“Funny, because I swear the
Washington Post
knows more about your life than I do.”

I unwrap the towel from my head and toss it over my desk chair. “Okay, I did keep secrets from you. But I didn’t mean to. I was just confused, and I needed time to absorb everything. And”—I look her in
the eye, which doesn’t help matters, because she still looks very blah and unreadable, which, for Christie, is hard to do—“I didn’t think you’d understand.”