Do-Over (14 page)

I assume she meant it and it wasn’t an excuse. She did seem a lot less hostile than when I saw her at the Giant. But can you casually mention to her that if she’s not interested, that’s cool with me? She can just tell
me no. (Though if she truly wants to go out, I’m willing to wait until she’s out of prison. No pressure.)

Keep me up to date on the goings-on of life in the beautiful country of Schwerinborg, schnitzel and all, John

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Natalie

John,

Trust me when I tell you that Natalie has no problem telling people no. If she said she’ll try to get out, it’s ‘cause she wants to. Congratulations! (You obviously passed inspection.)

Let me know what Brad says. I bet he understands.

Val, having something non-schnitzel-ish for dinner tonight

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: That John Guy

Val,

So that John guy asked me out. We ran into each other after school in the parking
lot. You’re right—he’s a senior here at Vienna West. And I have to say . . . now that I’ve really had a chance to look him over . . . he’s even hotter than I thought when we were talking at the grocery store. He’s got that brown hair flopping in his eyes, so it’s not something you notice right away, but his face is really fantastic without being too Pretty Boy. (You know I hate the model-type look on guys. So not my thing.)

But here’s the bad part: I don’t know if I can go! Friday’s out, since my parents are having a dinner party here at the house with Dad’s dental partner and his wife. I’m expected to help Mom (in her words) “clean the house from top to bottom” and get the food ready. Then I have to sit there and be Wonderful Teenage Daughter for the evening. You know what I mean . . . where Mom and Dad brag to Dr. and Mrs. Petrie about how I’m doing sooo well in school and I have lots of friends and they’re sooo proud of me. (I ask you, could there be anything more hideous than attending a dentist dinner party? And on a Friday night?!)

Then Saturday’s the Oscar party at Jules’s house, which I’m not even sure Mom and
Dad will let me out of the prison block to attend. And do I really want to take John to that? We’ve never had the guys there before—not even Jeremy—so I hate to even ask Christie and Jules. I’d feel like I was violating a Sacred Awards Show Trust or something.

Yeah, the dirty words are flying through my brain fast and furious.

I’m thinking maybe the dinner party will end early and I can sneak out. Or maybe I can fake being sick and sneak out even earlier (I’m a lot better at faking sick than you are).

Help!

Nat

To:
[email protected]

From’.
[email protected]

Subject: RE: That John Guy

Nat,

Don’t make me fly back there just to smack you.

You cannot sneak out. CANNOT. Got it? Promise me?!

DONT DO IT!!!

John will wait. Really. I realize that you think he’s an amazing hottie. I also realize that you
have been incarcerated a long time and are probably at your desperation point. (Don’t get pissed at me . . . it’s true and you know it.) But if you get caught sneaking out, the warden (aka Dr. Monschroeder, DDS) is gonna throw away the key to your prison cell this time and then you’ll never see John.

My advice: Kiss up like mad at the dinner party. Be so nice to your parents they’ll feel guilty for keeping you locked up for so long.
Then
figure something out.

Val (who coulda faked sick if I wanted to, but I knew it would be WRONG!)

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: RE: That John Guy

Val,

FINE. I will not sneak out. I will be Daddy’s Little Darling at dinner. I will even chew with my mouth closed and be careful when I speak so Dr. Petrie doesn’t see my tongue stud and ask Dad how he could “let me do that” to myself. (Which would inevitably be followed by a dental debate on the possible damage tongue studs can do to one’s teeth.)

In the meantime—you’d better tell Georg about David. It’s been, what, like two weeks already? And I assume you’ve convinced Christie that Jeremy’s not about to dump her, right?

Nat

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: RE: That John Guy

Nat,

FINE. I will talk to Georg. Soon.

And I’m working on Christie. You know how she is.

Now stay in the house!

Your well-meaning friend,

Val

“And you’re sure you talked to the DJ?”

Ulrike’s totally frantic on the phone. It’s T minus two hours to liftoff (that is, dance time), and despite the fact that Helmut isn’t supposed to show up at the hotel for another hour, she’s suddenly certain that he’s not coming. (Probably because she didn’t talk to him herself. For all her nicey-nice tendencies, she’s a serious control freak.)

“Ulrike, I talked to him. He’s probably not answering his phone because he’s trying to do what
I’m
trying to do right now. Finish eating dinner so I have time to get ready.”

For the last forty-eight hours, she’s been in a state of constant motion. Selling tickets like crazy in the school halls. Putting up extra signs to encourage people to attend. Calling the hotel over and over to make sure they have the lighting right, the electrical hookups for the DJ correct, the room cleared properly. . . . Not to mention trying to finish the paper on the First Crusade she had due today in her history class.

It’s exhausting just thinking about it all.

“I’m sure you’re probably right. I just wish I knew for sure. And I forgot to have you ask if we need to provide him with drinks while he’s working. I can’t remember what we did last time. Do you think I need to assign someone to him as an assistant or something? To get him water or—”

“Ulrike”—I put my fork down, because there’s no point in trying to get in another bite until I’m off the phone—“take a deep
breath. Maybe five deep breaths. You only have an hour, so nothing you do now is really going to matter, right?”

“But—”

“You’ll be a lot better if you go get yourself something to eat so you don’t pass out halfway through the evening. Then put on that outfit you bought on your trip to Italy and do your hair like a normal person would before a dance. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

She takes an in-and-out breath loud enough for me to hear, then in a calmer voice says, “Okay, okay. You’ll be there in an hour too, right?”

“Same time as Helmut. Don’t worry. Now let me finish eating so I’m not late.”

I feel like I’m talking her down off the ledge the same way I have to talk Christie down after every little Jeremy-related panic moment she has. It’s a total feeling of déjà vu.

It makes me miss Christie. At this very moment, Christie’s probably trying to figure out what to wear to Jules’s house for the Oscar party, even though her brain is totally fixated on Jeremy and why he’s more
obsessed with running than with her.

Ulrike finally hangs up, sounding reassured, though I’m sure the slightest thing is going to set her off again.

She’s being
such
a party-obsessive girly-girl. I know it’s the most sexist thing in the world to think—especially since I like to think of myself as being an unprejudiced type—but in her case, it’s true.

“I didn’t think you’d still be eating, Valerie. Are you going to be ready on time?” Dad asks, strolling in from his bedroom. He’s all dressed up in beige pants and a stylish, well-fitted shirt—though I guess that’s not dressed up for
him
, since he frequently wears tuxes when he works in the evening. But he’s not exactly greeting the Canadian prime minister tonight over caviar and champagne. He’s going to be watching three hundred or so teenagers dancing and partying.

“I’m wearing what I have on,” I tell him. “And don’t look at me that way. It’s totally fine for a school dance.” Especially when I don’t have a date and I’m not even remotely trying to impress anyone. And it’s not as if I haven’t
tried
with my hair and makeup.

“Shouldn’t you wear a dress?”

“Bite your tongue.” Hell, no!

A pair of wrinkles mars the space between his brows. I have to admit, he looks pretty damned good for a school dance chaperone. Not like the usual dowdy parent or substitute gym teacher they rope in for these things. But that doesn’t give him permission to nag me.

To change the subject, I gesture to the garment bag he has looped over his forearm and raise a brow. He’d better not be changing into any outfit requiring a garment bag. What he has on is uptight enough.

“Oh, this is Prince Georg’s tuxedo. I was just about to take it over to his family’s apartments.”

“Why do you have his tux? I thought all his good clothes were done by the cleaners downstairs.” One of the perks of being a prince is having a dry cleaner right there in the palace to get his clothes looking good at a moment’s notice. Of course, the downside is that Georg actually has to wear tuxes. Regularly. The dinner parties he has to attend with his parents are nothing like Natalie’s with her dad’s dentist pals.

Dad grabs his wallet from the kitchen counter and pockets it. “I offered to pick it up while I was getting my own suits this afternoon. He mentioned that he had an Academy Awards party to attend tonight and I suggested he wear this one. Don’t you think he’ll look good in it?”

Great. Now Dad’s offering Georg style tips? I suppose it does come with his job, but it’s just wrong for my own father to go making my boyfriend look good when he’s going to be out without me. And where there’ll probably be a bunch of gorgeous—and rich—chicks flirting with him.

“I guess. So, um, where’s this party Georg’s going to?” If Dad’s dressing him for it, maybe he has some info.

“I’d have to look at my calendar; I can’t remember offhand,” Dad says, heading for the apartment door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll go pick up Anna and we can head over to the hotel. All right?”

“All righty!”

My enthusiasm is so obviously faked that Dad pauses with the door open to glare at me. “I think this evening will be fun, Valerie.

Don’t write it off as a waste of your time until you’ve given it a chance. Attitude is everything.” He even has the gall to hold up Georg’s tux and tell me that Georg’s making the most of the night and that I should follow his example.

I plaster a smile on my face and wave him out the door.

The sooner he goes, the sooner we can get to the dance, and the sooner this whole wretched night will be over.

I decide to do one last e-mail check while Dad’s gone, just to see if the A-listers have sent me their last-minute Oscar picks (since half the fun of the evening is seeing who’s best at predicting the winners). Nada from any of them. But there is one from a familiar address.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
The great catching-up e-mail

Hey, Valerie,

Heard from Brad. He told me he’s bummed that I don’t want to live with him and his boyfriend, but he understands. And better yet—he has an apartment
for me! His boyfriend has a fantastic studio (he sent pics) about two blocks from where Brad’s living now, and he hasn’t sublet it yet, so it’s mine for the asking. (And I suppose if Brad and the boyfriend ever break up, we can swap places back again.)

I’m still not sure about Natalie—she says she has “an idea” for tonight if she can, and I quote, “convince the jailer that a furlough is in order.” So I suppose until I hear from her, I’m going to hang out at home. (She mentioned that you have a dance to go to tonight . . . have to say, I’d rather hang out at home waiting for a call—or not—from Natalie than go to a school dance. Not my thing at all. I bet you have a great time, though.)

More later,

John

“Ulrike really did a fantastic job. It’s beautiful in here and insane at the same time,” Maya tells me. And she’s right. The doors have opened, the place is packed, and every-one is jamming to Helmut’s (surprisingly modern and dance-y) tunes. But despite the kickin’ music, there’s a surreal air to it all. There actually are chandeliers in this place—and they’re amazing. I keep catching myself staring at them, analyzing the way
the light reflects off the hundreds of tiny crystals. Even the walls in this place are beautiful. They’re a rich nutmeg color with gold-painted trim. There are heavy velvet curtains tied back with gold cord alongside each of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Other than the thumping music and the fact that everyone’s dressed like they just walked out of the trendiest European shops, you’d think the place was taken straight from the pages of Cinderella.

If Georg were here, I’d be having the time of my life.

As it is, I have to admit that things aren’t that bad. I’ve been hanging out at the refreshment table (put in the proper place at the proper time by the guys, just as their to-do list instructed), and Ulrike has finally relaxed now that everything’s in full swing. Maya’s been dancing like crazy, even to Snoop Dogg. (I can’t believe they have Snoop Dogg in Schwerinborg, but they do . . . and everyone knows the words just as well as they do to the bizarro German pop songs I couldn’t begin to sing.)

I hand Maya an extra-large glass of the free punch Ulrike convinced the hotel to
provide. As she slugs it down, I say, “You ought to tell Ulrike. I think she’s just now figuring out that this is all going to be okay.”

Maya laughs. “Remember how I said I wouldn’t volunteer because I thought I’d mess things up? Total lie. I’ve seen Ulrike put these things together before. I know how she gets. I volunteered last time and swore I’d come up with an excuse if she asked again. Did she make you call the hotel a million times asking the same questions?”