Royally Crushed (6 page)

“Yeah.”

“Well, at the end of the movie, who’s Heath with? The snotty princess. I didn’t like her at all. She was totally manipulative and he didn’t even see it. He should have gone for the girl who made his armor instead. I mean, she saved his life with that armor, she was able to hang with his friends without dissing them like the princess did, and she was kind of cute. But he hardly even noticed her.”

“And this has to do with Schwerinborg how?”

Jules can be annoying when she wants to be. I squash up the photocopied picture and toss it into the trash. “Duh. I’m the Armor Girl.”

Jules groans, even though it sounds muffled by her sheets. “Get over it, Winslow. You’re so not an Armor Girl.”

“Yes, I am. Think. In the movie, Heath doesn’t really know the Armor Girl—not the way she is on the inside.
He likes having her around, she pushes him to be a better person, but he doesn’t really care about knowing her. He’s all caught up in the Shallow Princess because she’s gorgissimo, despite the fact that her incredibly stupid, completely selfish prove-your-love-to-me-by-losing-the-tournament demands nearly get him killed.”

I flip onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “This is what
all
hot guys do, Jules. They take practical Armor Girls for granted, and to the world at large, this is okay. Everyone cheers when hot guy runs off with idiot Shallow Princess at the end, and the movie does a hundred million at the box office. Armor Girl gets a kiss on the cheek and a scribbled e-mail address.”

“That’s bull. Besides, how do you know you’re not David’s princess?”

Hello? How long has Jules known me? I’m not bad-looking, but certainly no princess. I’m a passable Armor Girl. And David knows me about as well as Heath knew the Armor Girl.

And even if David
did
get to know me, he’d always be able to ditch me for some princess. A Republican princess with a nice C cup, hair blonder than his, and a perfect smile. Certainly someone whose mother didn’t have a midlife crisis involving a trip out of the proverbial closet.

“Well, let’s see. I’m not a cheerleader, and I mock those
who are. I don’t have naturally bouncy hair and don’t buy every single article of clothing from the designer of the month. And I would
never
tell a guy to lose a game to prove he’s in love with me.”

“But that doesn’t mean—”

“Look, Jules, I’m dying that he kissed me. But I have to be honest with myself here. He’s had his chances. And he’s dated Shallow Princesses for as long as I can remember.”

“Well, I think it’s wrong that you’re not giving him another chance. You’re as bad as the Shallow Princess in the movie, you just can’t see it. You’re moving to Schwerinborg to test his love.”

“Yeah, sure. And my parents agreed to get divorced just so I could test my theory.”

She’s quiet. I can tell she’s mad, but I can’t figure out why. I mean, it’s not her who’s the loser Armor Girl in this scenario. And I feel like I’m having a moment of great personal growth here—being able to have David kiss me and still walk away, knowing it’s the best thing. Maybe this means there’s someone better out there for me. Maybe even in Schwerinborg.

Someone who’d consider me a not-shallow princess.

You’d think Jules would see that.

“Look,” Jules finally says. “I don’t think you should make major life decisions based on Heath Ledger movies.”

“The decision’s already made. I was just using the movie to illustrate the point so you, Christie, and Natalie would understand.”

“Well, if you want to analyze your life in terms of a Heath Ledger movie, try
The Four Feathers
. Especially the beginning.”

I hear my dad coming down the hall, so I tell her I’ll check it out, since I haven’t seen that one yet, and that I’ll see her tomorrow, but not to be mad.

After my dad sticks his head in my door to make sure I’m asleep, and I’m alone again in the dark and quiet, I decide I should be thankful Jules didn’t nail me with
10 Things I Hate About You
. Then the movie trailer for
The Four Feathers
comes back to me. Duh. Thanks, Jules.

The Four Feathers
is the one where all Heath’s friends accuse him of betrayal for not sticking with the group when things get rough, and not even bothering to give them a good explanation.

Which, in a way, is even worse than
10 Things I Hate About You
. It’s group hate.

I THOUGHT, FOR A BRIEF THREE WEEKS, THAT MY
mother ruined my life. I was sadly, sadly mistaken. I have done it quite by myself.

Northern Virginia is sunny and filled with places to hang out. Parks. Malls. Even fast-food joints like Jules’s Wendy’s, though clearly that’s just where losers like me tend to congregate.

Schwerinborg, on the other hand, is prison gray. Every-where. The sky, the apartment buildings and cathedrals, even the mountains are gray. Okay, I assume that it’s mostly gray because it’s December and foggy. But still. I’m not seeing teenagers.
Anywhere.

“Valerie,” my dad whispers. He doesn’t have to elaborate.
His warning tone, combined with a disturbing divot forming between his eyes, is enough.

I yank my fingers out of my mouth, but reluctantly. I can’t help it—whatever that bizarre party mix was they gave us on the Lufthansa flight from Munich to Freital, the capital (and frankly, I think the only real city) of Schwerinborg, is now permanently lodged between my gum and molar, and it hurts. But I suppose trying to pick it out while seated next to my dad, in a
limo
, no less, is a major faux pas.

Wonder what the German term is for
faux pas
?

Folkschen paschken
?

This whole German thing has me in knots. In the Munich airport, where we switched planes, all the signs were in English, French, and German.

Here, it’s all German, all the time. I can’t figure out a thing, although
ausfahrt
is apparently the word for “exit,” since I see it on every ramp.

I probably shouldn’t think too hard about that one, or I’ll be grossed out. Don’t want to spew chunks in the back of the limo, which was pretty nifty of Prince Manfred, my dad’s new boss and the ruler of this dinky little country, to send to the airport for us. Definitely a step above working for President Carew. When he sent a car for my dad, it was only a Buick.

Though I’m still wondering if, while this is great for Dad, I’ve screwed myself royally by coming here. At least they speak English at Lake Braddock. Plus Jules and Natalie stopped speaking to me—in any language—from Tuesday to Friday, though they did show up at the house on Saturday, a couple hours before Dad and I left for the airport, so they could say good-bye.

They didn’t apologize for ignoring me all week though. Even if they are pissed off, that’s no excuse. I mean, we’ve been friends for
years
. You’d think they’d want to spend as much time as possible together during my last few days, but no.

Christie was better, but not much. She kept talking to me all week at least, but never in front of Jules or Natalie, and she kept giving me these weepy looks that made me want to smack her beautiful, unblemished face. I understood though. Jules and Natalie were going hard core on her, trying to get her to pressure me into staying. I’d probably have caved to the Jules-Natalie assault machine if I’d been in Christie’s shoes.

I almost caved myself, right before Dad and I left for the airport, when it was just me and Christie alone in my room for the last time. We were talking about all the stuff I’m going to miss next semester—like track season, driver’s ed, and the art class trip up to New York to tour the
museums—and I started to get emotional. Then Christie asked me where Mom was, and how come she wasn’t there to say good-bye.

I used the book club excuse I’d concocted at Wendy’s, but I came just-this-close to telling Christie everything. Only the thought that Christie would probably tell Jeremy (and therefore, through the grapevine, David, Jules, and Natalie) the real scoop about my parents’ divorce forced me to zip my lip.

The limo takes a sharp turn, past one of the signs saying
ausfahrt
, of course. At the top of the ramp, we turn twice more, then head into a downtown area. The streets are much, much narrower than in D.C., and most of them are made of cobblestone, which is pretty neat. We pass through a congested square with a statue in the center, and I’m trying to figure out who’s riding the sculpted horse (I’m guessing it’s not Napoleon), when atop a slight hill, I see a true
edifice
. I love that word but never get to use it. This place justifies it.

I grab my dad’s arm and ask if it’s the palace. I get to see a lot of awesome buildings, living near D.C., but this rocks them all.

“It is.” Dad’s happy I’m excited about something for the first time in at least a week. “Think you can stand living there?”

I squint up as the limo driver pulls onto a side road and noses the car uphill, toward the building. Now that we’re closer, I can see that it’s definitely Louvre-like. It’s constructed of gray stone, and looks a bit like D.C.’s nicer office buildings, but with columns and detailed trim under the eaves. The windows are all beyond tall, and hung with what I’m guessing are very expensive curtains. There are carvings of goddesses on the exterior, in between each of the windows.

No kidding.
Goddesses.

I cannot imagine
living
in a place like this.

“If the inside’s as pretty as the outside, I think I’ll make do,” I tell Dad. As long as I don’t drop a Diet Coke on a fancy silk chair or one of the antique rugs or anything. And so much for eating sushi, if they even have it in Schwerinborg. I tend to spray soy sauce everywhere when I eat. You’d think Dad would be able to teach me the trick to that though.

I’m just about to ask him, but thank God, we pass a McDonald’s, and it’s walking distance from the palace! Happy, happy, joy, joy. At least if I need a fry fix, I’m covered.

Four hours later, after getting a tour of the palace, filling out paperwork, and making a two-minute exploration of our apartment—and two minutes is all it needs, since apparently a palace “apartment” is pretty much like
a hotel suite, meaning a couple of rooms off a second-floor hallway—Dad is kind enough to give me the McChicken I’ve been craving. Between sips of Diet Coke—excuse me, Coke
Light
—I gently point out that, contrary to exterior appearances, our new place isn’t exactly the Ritz.

The furnishings in our apartment are somewhat . . . spare. Not spare in a Calvin Klein, black-and-gray, ultramodern way, but spare as in basic. In sharp contrast to the heavy tapestries and floor-to-ceiling mirrors that are in the main hallways and public areas of the palace, our apartment boasts two sofas worthy of a dilapidated motel. Across from the sofas, there’s a TV—with cable, thankfully—set on top of a rickety black melamine stand.

Dad’s room has a double bed, a dresser, and a small bathroom. My bedroom, on the opposite side of what I’ll call the living room, is painted an uninspired brown. I have to wonder who decorated the place. I mean, who sleeps in a brown room? It has a twin bed, an armoire that my dad calls a
schrunk
, and a minuscule bathroom. The shower is beyond small, so I have no clue how I’m going to shave my legs. And there’s not even a countertop where I can put my stuff. Just a pedestal sink.

I do not want to keep my face wash on the back of the toilet. I mean,
really
. I tell Dad that
schrunk
should be the German word for “bathroom,” not for “armoire,” because
honestly, the armoire thingie is about the same size as the bathroom.

What’s worse, the electrical outlets are all weird, and Dad says I’m going to have to buy a new hair dryer, since mine won’t work here. I forgot about that from our trip to France last year. I hadn’t bothered to do my hair then, since I knew I wouldn’t meet any cute French guys with my parents two inches off my elbow the entire time.

Unfortunately we can’t go shopping for a couple days, because Dad says he has to acquaint himself with his new job and his new boss. Bummer, because that means I won’t be able to commence my David Anderson look-alike hunt anytime soon. It’s pretty much the only thing I have to do in this country until school starts, so I figure I should take the time to make sure my hair isn’t completely ugly.

And that’s the whole apartment, other than the eatin kitchen—complete with a Formica-topped table and four terribly tacky chairs—where I’m rapidly discovering that Schwerinborg’s version of a McChicken comes with a sauce that smells vaguely of onions.

At least the fries are good. Dad scored some ketchup to go with them, which is a relief. We had trouble with that in France. They eat ’em with mayo, for some bizarre reason. But the French can be excused their quirks because they speak such a kickin’ language.

“Valerie? Thanks.” Dad sets down his Big Mac and gives me a smile like I haven’t seen on him in a long, long time.

“For what?”

“For coming. I know this isn’t like home, and the adjustment isn’t going to be easy, but having you here with me means more than you’ll ever know.”

I take another bite of my McChicken. I’m actually having fun sitting here with Dad, just the two of us, but I don’t want to
talk
about it. I get uncomfortable when Dad gets all mushy on me, because he never used to. It’s like an alien infiltrated his brain the day Mom decided to go gay. Or, I should say,
the day she made her emotional breakthrough and realized her true self
.

Someday I really will be able to think about my mom in politically correct terms. And when I do, I’ll mean it. Just not today.

“You know, Valerie, change is hard on everyone. Even an old geezer like me,” he jokes. He’s older, yeah, but no geezer, and he knows it. I saw at least three different women checking him out during our tour of the palace this afternoon. “This experience is what we make it. I think this could turn out to be a wonderful thing for both of us.”