Royally Crushed (45 page)
Authors: Niki Burnham
“That’s great, Ulrike!” Man, can I fake enthusiasm. “One less thing on your to-do list, huh?”
She says something appropriately giddy, then flounces off
toward her class once more. Me, I just sink against the wall.
Not only is Georg not coming, but now I have to endure a dance with my father there? I guess it’s not that bad, since it’s not like I’m going to be dancing with anyone.
But I can just guess who else from the palace is coming.
They’re going to be at a dance. Together. With slow music and glowing crystal chandeliers and a general aura of romance all around them.
If Dad gets all kissy-face with his girlfriend at this dance, I’m gonna be humiliated. Not that he’s gotten kissy-face with her in public yet, but there’s always a first time. I mean, he’s not in the same situation I am—it’s not like Fräulein Predator is being followed by tabloids.
Dad might be one of the world’s leading experts on protocol, but with my luck, he’ll get all starry-eyed over The Fräulein, forget his professional training, and do something stupid at the exact moment my new friends are there to see it. Like planting a big one on The Fräulein.
Or worse, he’ll do it when Steffi’s around, since it’ll give her the perfect opportunity to make a comment about how wonderful it is that someone in my family is getting some action—though she’ll say it in a much less crass way, one that’ll make it impossible for me to say anything back without looking like I’m just another American lacking in good taste.
“Hi, Valerie!” Speak of the she-devil.
“Hey, Steffi!” She looks all perky and tiny and perfect. Her brunette hair has every curl in place, but it’s not obvious she spent the time on herself I know she must take.
False advertising, if you ask me. Any guy who asks her out is going to think she’s low maintenance and find out pretty fast that she’s not.
“Just saw Ulrike,” she says, playing with the shoulder strap on her designer—no, really,
designer
—backpack. “She said your dad volunteered to chaperone at the dance. That’s so cute!”
I thank her, then head past her to class. I can feel her staring at my back as I walk, like she’s checking to see if she’s mortally wounded me with her “cute” comment.
I have to pay better attention to who’s around me in the halls so I can take evasive action next time.
“GUTEN TAG. DARF ICH IHN HILFEN?”
“Um, hello?” I can tell already this is going to rot. After the “good day” part, I have no idea what the guy said. “Is Helmut there?”
I know it’s pronounced like “Hell-moot” and not like “Helmet,” but I still don’t like saying it aloud. I can’t fathom how anyone gives their kids these wacko names non-German-speaking people can’t begin to say without wanting to crack up.
It’s taken me weeks to get used to
Georg
and
Manfred
. Adding
Helmut
to the mix is like God daring me to say something snarky aloud, probably at whatever time it can get me into the most trouble.
Still, I figured it’d be best if I got on the phone and got the whole call over with the second I got home from school, before I gave myself any more time to think about the joke potential of the guy’s name. Or to think too much about the call itself and what I’ll do if Helmut the DJ doesn’t speak English.
If I tell Ulrike she’s going to have to do this herself, I think her stress meter will smash right through the red zone.
There’s some mumbling in German on the other end of the line—maybe the equivalent of telling me to hold on?—and then the voice comes back on. “
Entschuldigung
. . . uh, sorry. My dog was scratching for outside. May I help you?”
Yes! His accent is pretty thick, but he’s understandable.
I quickly introduce myself and run through Ulrike’s list. The guy seems friendly enough—as if he was expecting all the questions—and he doesn’t act like I’m being obnoxious for speaking in English to him, even though I sure feel that way. Before I know it, I’m set. And since Helmut has apparently worked on dances for Ulrike before, he even asks me to tell her he’ll be there for the sound check in plenty of time, so she shouldn’t worry.
I immediately fire off an e-mail to her. It’s a quarter to
four, so she’s probably just getting home from school herself. She’s going to be relieved to know she can put a check mark next to one of her to-do list items. I know I’m relieved. The only items I have left are things I have to do at the dance itself.
The real question, of course, is whether those are going to be enough to distract me from everything that’s going on—or
not
going on—around me.
It’s so pathetic when the most successful ten minutes of my day consist of making a phone call to a guy named Helmut.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Another thought . . .
Hi Val,
I’ll take your word for it on the schnitzel. I really have no desire to try the stuff. I’m not that big a fan of chicken nuggets, so I can’t imagine I’m missing out.
I called Brad, but I’m not sure how well the whole conversation went. I told him that if he’s in a serious relationship, I should probably live elsewhere. Nearby, if I can afford a place close to his, but not in the same apartment.
He was pretty quiet and said he’d think it all over and call me tomorrow. He has an important accounting exam this week, and I know he’s stressed out about that (I caught him in the middle of studying) so I’m not sure how much of the “call you tomorrow” was exam-related and how much was him being pissed off at me. Guess I’ll find out soon enough. But no matter what he says, I’m glad I called and told him. Thanks for pushing me in the right direction.
And . . . you probably already heard it from her, but I talked to Natalie Monschroeder yesterday after school. Even asked her out. She said her parents are ticked off about her getting her tongue pierced and that they’ve been keeping her in the “maximum security block” (her exact words) but that they’re offering her a few furloughs. So she’s going to ask them if she can go out this weekend.
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
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
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
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?! DON’T DO IT!!!
John will wait. Really. I realize that you think he’s an amazing guy. 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 (a.k.a. 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 could’ve faked sick but knew it’d be WRONG!)
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
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 find 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, 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 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.
