Royally Crushed
Authors: Niki Burnham
Also by Niki Burnham
Sticky Fingers
Scary Beautiful
Goddess Games
And for more romantic stories:
Endless Summer
by Jennifer Echols
Love, Love, Love
by Deborah Reber
and Caroline Goode
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.
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.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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This Simon Pulse paperback edition March 2011
Royally Jacked
copyright © 2004 by Nicole Burnham Onsi
Spin Control
copyright © 2005 by Nicole Burnham
Do-Over
copyright © 2006 by Nicole Burnham
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The text of this book was set in Garamond 3.
Manufactured in the United States of America
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Control Number 2011920045
ISBN 978-1-4424-0648-3
eISBN-13: 978-1-4424-4214-6
These books were previously published individually by Simon Pulse.
ROYALLY JACKED
For Lynda Sandoval,
the kind of friend who can peer-pressure
me into jumping off a bridge.
Thanks, because it was totally fun.
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 shoot ’em up 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.” 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
want to think about this.
My mother leans against the granite-topped 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 self-help 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 politically correct. But she’s the one who hacked off her long, wavy hair. Not that short hair’s
bad—it can be sexy. It’s just that there’s flirty, feminine 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’s 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?
