Spin Control (15 page)

“No.”

“You sit at home trying to come up with new scientific theories, just for fun?”

“Definitely not.”

He scoots his chair closer to mine. “Then you’re not a geek. And neither am I. We just like competition, is all.”

“You’re way too popular to be a geek,” I tell him. And too gorgeous. He’s wearing a pricey-looking heather-green shirt that makes the gold flecks in his eyes stand out, and his jeans fit his body as well as they would any gym-ripped Levi’s model. “No
matter how smart you are or what kind of grades you get, your cool factor will always outweigh any geek tendencies. But when I was stressed out one afternoon last week, you know what I did? Worked ahead on Geometry. Get it? I used Geometry to relax.”

He laughs aloud and runs his thumb along mine. I look down at our hands, and it puts my brain into hyper-spin. It’s the whole thing I have for guys’ hands.

I just have to STOP.

I start to glance up at the TV screens, but freeze when I see he’s totally studying my face. “That’s not geeky, Winslow, that’s disturbed.”

He’s got a crooked smile as he says this, and I feel him pulling my chair closer to his with his foot. When I ask him what he’s doing, keeping my voice light and jokey, he answers back, “I think you need a better way to relax.”

Then he kisses me. Nothing too racy, but the promise of what he’d like to do later—when we’re not in a crowded restaurant—is definitely there, messing with my mind enough for me to ignore his corny
line about better ways to relax. (Did he get that from a movie, or what?)

He eases away, letting go of my hand a few seconds before the waitress comes to refill our sodas and ask if we’re finished with our dinners. I don’t even answer, I’m so distracted. I just let her take my plate.

A new trivia game starts, and David and I decide to defend our first-place finish. The couple at the bar’s still there to give us a challenge, and a group of kids I vaguely recognize from Vienna West (I think they’re seniqrs) are scooting into one of the booths with menus and a trivia pad. They keep looking at us. Probably wondering what Mr. Popular Smart Guy is doing out with the red-haired, pale-skinned goober girl.

We get the first question right, but don’t get the second until they eliminate two answers, since we forget exactly how many men rode into the valley of death in Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade” (six hundred). Then the third question pops onto the screen:

What’s the capital of the European country of Schwerinborg?

A) Baden-Baden

B) Zurich

C) Freital

D) Interlaken

David cracks up beside me. “Well, I’m guessing you know this one. It’s not Zurich, and I think Baden-Baden’s in Germany, so it’s either Interlaken or Freital … Freital, right?”

I nod, even though while he wasn’t looking I went ahead and punched the button next to choice C. Of course we’re the first ones to get it right, so we get the highest score on that question.

“Way to go, Winslow.” He drapes one arm around the back of my chair. I don’t object, but as he puts his hand on my back, tracing lines up and down, I start to get a funny feeling. Like something’s wrong with this picture.

But what, I can’t pinpoint. There aren’t any reporters or photographers in here (because, being paranoid, I keep looking for them), and when I think about it, this actually fits my idea of a perfect date. Playing trivia games, talking about nothing in particular with a complete hottie
who ’s, from all indications, totally into me. Being competitive without having to do it on a sports field, where I’m liable to get bashed and bruised. Hanging out and chatting and not feeling like we have to be anywhere at a certain time.

And the best part is that David really seems to like doing this too. Maybe, after dating super-popular types for so long, he’s gotten sick of having to show up at all their parties and put on a show for their friends.

Maybe.

I try to shake the feeling something’s off and just enjoy myself as we answer the next few questions. We’re in second place, behind the seniors. I know it’s them, because David says he’s seen them playing here before, and they always use the same team name: MONSTER. In all caps. To make them extra scary or something, I suppose.

There’s a break in the game, and a couple of the guys from the other table walk by on their way to the restroom and say hey to David.

“They’re on the rugby team,” he explains after they pass. “Well, some of
them. I don’t recognize the two guys on the end.”

“Oh.”

I look over and instantly get why I’m feeling so uncomfortable. The guys who are still in the booth are staring at me, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible while they either peek out from behind their menus or pretend they’re watching basketball on the TV behind me.

All except for this one guy with long brown hair who’s fidgeting with the plastic-encased menu that shows all the desserts. He puts it down and shoves his hair back from his face, and I realize it’s John.

PFLAG John.

He’s ditched the Kenny Chesney shirt for a navy blue NYU shirt that’s actually kind of cool. But more than the shirt or the fact that his hair looks cleaner than the last time I saw him, it’s his attitude that’s setting off my inner alarms. The way he’s intentionally not looking this way when all the other guys are.

Did he tell them about me? That my mom is gay? Is that why they keep looking over here?

I don’t think we’re supposed to talk about the stuff that comes up in meetings, and John didn’t strike me as the type who
would
tell, even if there’s no rule against it.

But if he did, will the rugby guys turn around and tell David?

Should I say something first? Make a pre-emptive strike?

Before I can decide, David (who’s totally oblivious to the fact that the MONSTER guys are watching us) starts talking about what’s going on at school—who’s going out with whom and all the other gossip I’ve missed since I transferred. I’m interested, but I have a hard time keeping up because, on the inside, I’m totally freaked about what the rugby guys may or may not know. Then David gets off on a tangent talking about Christie and Jeremy and whether they’ve done it.

I know for certain they
haven’t
. There hasn’t even been any south-of-the-border action. But from the way David is talking, Jeremy hasn’t confirmed the occurrence of full-blown sex one way or another to any of the guys, so they’re all starting to make assumptions. Assumptions I know

Christie—who quietly prides herself on being a good Catholic girl—would not want them to make.

“So what about you, Val?” David asks.

“What about me what?”

“What do you think about the whole sex-before-marriage thing?”

“Why, you wanna do it on the table right now or something?” I try to sound funny instead of defensive, but I’m not sure I succeed. I mean, where did THAT question come from?

Guess I’m really more worried about David’s opinions on sex between women at the moment.

Oh, ICK. I can’t believe I just thought that.

He raises an eyebrow. “You making the invitation?”

I don’t say anything (what can I possibly say?), and just grin like I made a big joke.

“Seriously, Winslow. Give me your ten-second opinion.”

Is he trying to get me into bed? After, like, a date and a half?

“I don’t have a problem with it.” How
can I have a problem if it’s never even come up? “The whole sex-before-marriage thing, that is. Not the sex here on the table thing. That, I cannot do. Sorry.”

He laughs. “Same with me.”

“Which part?”

“Both.”

The way he says it makes me think he’s testing me, though. Like there’s a question behind his question.

“Why do you want to know?” Maybe I’m misreading the I-want-a-relationship vibe that’s coming from him, which is usually different (or so Christie and Jules tell me) from the I-just-wanna-get-laid vibe. Besides, he can basically point to any of the girls in school and they’d be happy to give it up to him if all he wanted was a quickie hookup. No point in pursuing me, in that case.

“Well, I heard about that guy you’ve been seeing in Schwerinborg, and I just … I guess I wanted to know what your expectations would be if you decided you wanted to go out with me instead.”

Come again? “I don’t get it.”

“Well, I imagine Prince Georg what’s-his-name is the type who has certain
expectations when he’s going out with someone. Right?”

He’s so
not
that kind of guy, but I’m not going to tell David that. I want to know his point. “And?”

“And you know what my father does for a living.” He lowers his voice, as if he’s embarrassed. Or worried someone might overhear. “I just can’t—I can’t risk doing anything that’s going to reflect badly on him. So I wanted to let you know that up front. He’s on Capitol Hill this week lobbying to take condoms out of public schools, since he thinks they encourage teenagers to have sex, and next week he has a meeting with two senators to discuss the gay marriage issue.”

He reaches past me to punch the D button on the trivia pad, because while I was listening to him, a new question has popped up on the television screen. He looks back at me. “It’s not that I have a problem with condoms in schools. Or Christie and Jeremy doing whatever they do. Or even if you did it with that guy in Schwerinborg. I figure that’s your business, you know?”

“I guess—”

“It’s just that it’s really important for my dad to be successful in his job. To encourage Congress to support President Carew and his policies, which will help him get re-elected. So I can’t go around using the condoms from school, if you catch my meaning.”

Uh-huh. “You’re saying it’ll undermine his work if anyone finds out. And the wrong people
always
find out.”

“Exactly.” He gives me a flirty grin, but I have no idea how to interpret it.

I can’t believe I’m having
two
relationships where the guy’s dad’s job is a major impediment to my happiness. But Georg, who has a lot more pressure on him than David does, seems to handle it way better.

And it’s pissing me off.

“So you think I’m here with you because I want to get busy? That’s a pretty freaking big assumption you’re making.” Even if I have lusted after him for years and he knows it. (I’m guessing Jeremy’s told him about my mondo crush, since I know Christie’s told Jeremy.)

His face gets completely red. “That’s
not what I’m saying. It’s just that I like you a lot and I don’t want you to think … well, I just want you to know where I’m coming from. I’m in kind of a weird position. Plus, my dad’s trying to line me up with an internship in the Senate this summer. I can’t ruin that opportunity.”

He moves his hand up to play with my hair where it’s hanging down my back. “But I don’t want to ruin this opportunity either. Even if you are going back to Schwerinborg in a few days, I know you’ll be back for good after the elections, right? At least, that’s what Christie told Jeremy—that your dad plans to come back to the White House then.”

“Well, it’s not a firm plan or anything.” I don’t know why, but I feel like I shouldn’t give him a straight answer. I mean, as far as I know, the whole Dad-returning-to-the-White-House thing isn’t supposed to be public knowledge.

“So you understand?”

“Yeah.” I understand better than he knows. It’s like Georg, Take Two.

“So why did your dad leave the White House in the first place, if he’s considering
coming back after the election? There had to be a reason—something political, I’d guess—that might’ve made him want to leave for a while?”

He sounds totally casual about it, but I give him the Valerie Shrug. I’m not about to tell him my dad was temporarily “placed” with Prince Manfred because President Carew thought having an adviser going through a divorce from a lesbian could be an election-year liability.

I reach over to hit the A button on the trivia pad for
Michelangelo
(person who painted the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel), since—while I wasn’t even paying attention—we moved into first place ahead of MONSTER, and now I don’t want to lose the game.

I glance over at John. He’s still not paying attention to me.

Once David and I answer the next question with
John Glenn
, I turn and ask him what’s really on my mind: “So your dad’s dealing with the gay-marriage issue next week?”

“Yeah.”

I’m not even really sure how I feel
about it—I think I’ll hurl if Mom gets married to Gabrielle, or anyone female—but I ask anyway. “What do you think about all that?”

“About gay marriage?” He glances sideways at me. “Why, are you for it?”

Okay, I cannot believe I’m having this discussion on, like, our second date. But since I kind of started it, I say, “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it—I’m not up on politics as much as you are. But I don’t think someone who’s gay should be discriminated against.”

“It’s not discrimination. It undermines the whole institution of marriage to allow gay couples to marry.” He makes quotemarks in the air with his fingers as he says the word “marry.” “I mean, where do you draw the line? What happens when these so-called married couples have kids? Will those kids grow up to marry the opposite sex? Will they think marriage is a joke?”

“A joke?”

He makes a face of disgust. “You bet. If gay marriage is legitimized, a hundred years from now marriage as we know it will cease to exist.”

“I don’t think that would happen.” Geez, but this is a weird conversation. And freaking uncomfortable.

“Sure it will. Marriage wouldn’t be valued anymore.” He doesn’t sound judgmental at all, just very matter-of-fact. “Think about it. We’d be changing thousands and thousands of years of history by legitimizing homosexuality. If we, as a nation, say that anyone can marry anyone else, man or woman, then what’s special about marriage?”

Plenty, I want to tell him. But I don’t. He sounds so sure of himself, and frankly, I’m not sure at all. About any of it.

And it’s creeping me out to have PFLAG John only a few tables away while David and I are having this discussion.