Royally Crushed (21 page)

“To protect me?”

“Yes.” He smiles at me in a way that lets me know he really loves me and views me as an adult, that he’s not just saying all this to exert his Dad Authority over me. “Reporters can be very, very nasty about personal issues, whether you’re fifteen or fifty. If they suspect you and Georg are dating, they’re going to dig into your personal life, and they won’t be kinder in their approach just because you’re not yet an adult.”

“My personal life is boring. I mean, I get straight As, and it’s not like they’re going to dig up some hacked-off ex-boyfriend to talk trash about me.” Because I don’t have any.

“But you were in trouble last year in Vienna when you
were caught smoking behind the school.” He pauses for a second, and looks me in the eye. This time, he definitely has the Dad Authority look. “And apparently the minister of the treasury saw you in the bathroom stall with Georg. He’s mentioned it to at least one other person.”

Yeah, no kidding.

So I ask Dad the question that’s been bugging me all afternoon. “Why would he do that? I mean, the guy was puking his guts out. You wouldn’t think he’d want anyone to know.”

My dad lets out a totally uncharacteristic grunt. “That’s exactly why he did it. To cover himself. A number of people saw him drinking at the event—drinking heavily—and they know he disappeared for a while. I’d be stunned if a reporter or two didn’t notice. But when a friend asked if he was all right, rather than making an excuse or dodging the question, the treasury minister claimed to have been in the restroom longer than usual because he saw something disturbing.”

“Me and Georg.” And I can guess which friend asked him if he was all right: Ulrike’s dad. The guy’s probably just as well-meaning and just as naive about people’s motives as Ulrike, though you’d think a diplomat—even someone assigned to boring Schwerinborg—would be a little more attuned to people’s bullshit.

“Yes. The minister told your friend Ulrike’s father that
he saw you and Georg huddled in a bathroom stall, and that he feared you were hiding in there to do drugs. He claimed he stayed in the restroom for several minutes to make sure you two weren’t doing anything illicit.”

I close my eyes for a sec to absorb this. I had no idea things could be this bad. So much for this being solely Steffi’s fault.

“Of course,” Dad says, “Ulrike’s father knew the whole idea was ridiculous, and told the treasury minister he knew better, since he watched me escort the minister out of the room when the minister was feeling ill. Ulrike’s father went to Prince Manfred right away—not to get either of you in trouble, but to ensure that any rumors would be stopped immediately. He knew the treasury minister was intoxicated, and he was worried that the minister might have told the same story to others.”

“So Ulrike’s dad was trying to protect you or something?”

“He was trying to protect all of us—Georg’s family and the two of us. Prince Manfred spoke to the treasury minister this morning. The minister apologized and admitted that he behaved badly at the party, both by becoming intoxicated and by using you and Georg as an excuse to cover his own inappropriate behavior. So the issue has been handled.”

I’m thinking, not quite, since Ulrike’s dad clearly told
her, and she told Steffi, who has the biggest mouth in the universe. “So no harm, no foul?”

“That’s what we thought, until Georg told his father about the reporter following you two to school today. Prince Manfred is worried that something may have leaked. It’s too much of a coincidence. Both the minister and Ulrike’s father insist they haven’t said a word to anyone else, and would never corroborate a news story about it since they know it’s not true, but you never know what someone might’ve overheard, or what that person might be saying to others.”

Yeah, like Ulrike overhearing and telling Steffi, thinking she was being helpful by preventing me from trying to get Georg hooked on drugs or something.

I’ve got to tell Ulrike this was all a mistake. She’ll understand. I can’t say anything to Steffi, but maybe if Ulrike hears the real story, Steffi will get a clue too.

As I brush the crumbs from my cookie into the trash, my eye catches a book on the table out in the living room. Mom sent it to me—she has this thing about self-help books—and all of a sudden, I have a duh moment.

I turn back around to look at Dad. “You know I’m clean, right? I study and don’t cut school, and the smoking thing is totally over, and I’ve never touched drugs of any kind?”

One side of his mouth curves up. “Yes, I know. You work hard and I’m proud of you.”

“Then what are you really afraid of the tabloids finding out? Are you afraid that a reporter might write about you and Mom?”

He gives me one of his
you’re smarter than you should be
looks. “It has occurred to me. Europeans are far more accepting of homosexuality than some Americans, but it still makes good tabloid copy. They’ll find a way to twist what happened with me and your mother to question Georg’s choices, or to question the manner in which Prince Manfred and Princess Claudia are raising Georg.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s reality. Tabloids will print whatever they can in order to sell more papers, and hope that it’s close enough to the truth to keep them from getting sued.”

I grab two green peppers out of the fridge since I know he’s going to chop them and add them to the chicken when it’s done, and I carry them to the sink. I have a sick feeling about what Dad’s going to say next and I don’t want to get all teary. I’m not the crybaby type at all, but I need to not look at him for a sec.

As I turn on the faucet to wash the peppers, I ask, “Does Prince Manfred think it’d be better if I stayed away from Georg?”

“No, but he is concerned about both of you.” My dad takes the peppers out of my hands and puts them on the counter. “I didn’t tell him about the cigarette incident. However, if the press sees you smoking around Georg, or if he is caught smoking—”

“I told you, we
weren’t
smoking. Those were in there when we got there.” It’s the truth. We weren’t, and they were there when we got there.

“You’re missing my point, honey. Do you think a reporter would care if the cigarettes were already there? If a reporter sees you smoking, or even with a pack in your hand, he’s going to snap a photo. Europeans smoke more than Americans, but they still don’t want their princes doing it. Plus, a reporter could use that photo to hint that you and Georg are doing other things you shouldn’t be doing, and that’ll open all this up again.”

I force myself to look at him. I’m completely surprised to see he’s not angry with me, just overly worried. “I’ll be careful, Dad. Please believe that I’m not smoking, and that I won’t.”

“I believe you.” I see a little muscle twitch in his cheek, so I know he’s making an effort not to get worked up about this. “Maybe it was wrong to use cigarettes as an example. It could be anything you do. Anything that can be twisted to show that you don’t appreciate European culture.
Speeding. Littering. Treating service providers like waiters or desk clerks badly. Do you understand?”

I nod. If I didn’t get it before, I sure do now.

“And I think Georg is terrific. If you recall, I’m the one who took you dress and shoe shopping before your big night out.”

“True.” And he did a fabulous job, too—when the shoe clerks weren’t flirting with him. Of course, the way he’s looking at me now, I know there’s a big
but
coming.

“But,” he says, true to form, “I think you and Georg need to have a long talk about this before you take your relationship much further. All right? Georg isn’t going to be like any other boyfriend.”

Like I’ve had any other boyfriend to compare him to. “I’m not sure what there is to talk about, though. We won’t do anything stupid, especially in public.”

“If you need advice, I know a very good protocol expert.” He smiles, but I know he’s dead serious. “If anything, anything at all, feels off to you, like that encounter with the reporter this morning, I want you to tell me immediately.”

The buzzer on the stove goes off, and Dad grabs his cup of marinade so he can pour the rest of it over the chicken since it’s midway through cooking. I’m tempted to tell him about what happened with Steffi—since apparently he doesn’t know that the treasury minister and Ulrike’s dad
were definitely overheard, probably on the phone after the party—but I figure it’s probably nothing. Just Steffi being her usual bitchy self. Once I talk to Ulrike, things will be cool on that front. And who knows? Maybe her father’s already talked to her if he thinks she overheard, and I’ll show up at school tomorrow and everyone will apologize.

It’s a long shot, but I’m willing to pin my hopes on it.

Dad glances over his shoulder at me as he closes the door to the stove. “Are we understood?”

“As long as you give me the big piece of chicken.”

Because what I really understand is that if things don’t go well tomorrow, then I’ll have to tell him.

The second sentence of Mom’s morning e-mail makes me laugh aloud, because ever since she moved in with Gabrielle she’s been living on things like wheatgrass and quinoa. If I were in her place, I’d be envious of my food, too, even if it is wacky Euro-McDonald’s half the time as I’m walking home from school. (And really, if she places such a high priority on good food, she should have stayed married to Dad.)

But the rest bugs me. Does Mom really think I need all the self-help books? I mean, she’s always had an addiction to them, and I did say nice things to her after she sent me
the first one . . . but I also specifically stated that she should not send another.

I so do not want to live life according to the publicity junkie, pseudo relationship expert of the moment. Especially my love life. I mean, if Dr. Phil knows so much about dating celebrities, why is he hawking books on television while wearing a bad suit instead of living in a mansion with some pinup wanna-be and attending pool parties?

And I won’t even start on the teaching thing. Mom taught school before I was born and swore she’d never do it again. I mean, I know Dad is giving her whatever she wants in the divorce—he’s practically paying for her and Gabrielle’s apartment himself. (It’s really disgusting and pathetic, if you think about it.) So I don’t get why she’s in such a rush to get back to work when she could take her time, think about something else she might want to do, and then go do that.

I click on the Reply button to: 1) tell her there’s now an official moratorium on self-help books, because even if I wanted them, I have no time to read them and no space to store them in my itty bitty bedroom; and 2) she should really think about it before she starts teaching school again. Because as ticked off as I am about her and Gabrielle and the whole divorce (I try not to be, but I can’t help it), I don’t want her to be miserable.

Just as I start to type, the phone rings and I grab it. The
only people who’d call me before school are my mom—which saves me typing time—or Georg. And I really, really want to talk to him so he knows what’s up.

But it’s Ulrike. And I think she’s crying.

“Valerie? I just wanted to say I’m so sorry. I hope you’re not too mad. I swear it wasn’t me, but I might have been the cause of—”

“Of what?” She sure didn’t seem this worked up yesterday at lunch. I’m wondering if she got in some major trouble. Or if she called Georg like I asked her to do and he read her the riot act.

Not that Georg would read anyone the riot act. He doesn’t get visibly angry about anything. He’s totally cool that way.

“Well, you should be mad, but I’m—”

“Ulrike, I’m not mad at you.”

At exactly that moment, Dad knocks on my bedroom door, scaring me half out of the chair. It’s nearly seven thirty, so the man should be at work. I cover the phone and yell that I’ll be just a sec.

“Ulrike, I’ve gotta go. My dad’s knocking on my door.”

“But—”

“Hey, we’ll talk at school. I’ll try to get there early and meet you in the year ten hallway, okay? But it’s no big deal, really. I know you were just trying to protect Georg.”

“Okay. But I’m so sorry, Valerie.”

I roll my eyes as I hang up. Ulrike’s too nice for her own good.

My dad knocks again, louder this time, and I’m about to say something I probably shouldn’t, like
what the hell?
, when he walks in.

He holds up the newspaper. Not just one of the ratty tabloids, but a regular, honest-to-goodness newspaper. And there I am on the front page. In color.

You’d think the picture would catch my attention, since it’s of me and Georg on our walk to school yesterday. Not because it’s a good picture—both of us have our backpacks over our shoulders, and my hair is flying all over the place and I look highly annoyed—and not that I didn’t kind of expect to see something about us in the paper. It’s more the angle. The photo is taken from the side, so it couldn’t have been the
Majesty
reporter. In fact, I’m certain I look annoyed in the photo because if it were much bigger, the
Majesty
reporter would be in it, since it looks like it was taken at the exact moment the guy asked Georg about his relationship with me.