Spin Control (17 page)

Intense? “Mom, don’t try to sound cool.”

“I’m not. I’m just trying to get it through your head that you’re doing the right thing. Think—what if I’d taken the time to date around, to make sure your father was really the right guy for me? What if I’d taken the time to be certain about my decision? That’s all you’re doing.”

“So going out with David was a good thing?”

She grins and reaches over to grab my foot where it’s hanging over the side of the armchair, then gives it a little shake, exactly the way Dad does. “Yes. It sounds like you’ve learned what you don’t want, at least for now. And in many cases, learning what you don’t want is as important as learning what you do want. Or
who
you want.”

“I think I know who I want.”

“For now.” She lets go of my foot. “Remember—you’re fifteen. You have plenty of time to learn as much as you can—about Georg, about other boys. About yourself. Use that time wisely.”

I must still look uncertain, because as she stands up to go to bed, she says, “And
trust in your friends. Jules and Natalie will understand. And so will Christie. Make the choices that are best for you, not the choices you think will please them.”

As she walks down the hall, I say to her back, “I don’t know what you’re thinking about teaching, Mom, but if you do go back, you’re going to be great.”

She stops, looks back at me, and says, “You know, I think I will. I wasn’t ready when I was young. Now I’m looking forward to it.” Her face splits into a big grin, and she adds, “Proves my point that it takes a while to learn what you really want in life.”

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
David, of course

WELL?!?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: David, of course

WELL … it went well. We played trivia, we
acted like the total geeks we are, we had a good time.

But—and please, please, do not kill me for saying this—as great as David and I get along, and as much as we have in common, I don—t think there’s a spark.

No cosmic connection, no yo-baby-do-I-belong-with-this-guy. Nothing like what you have with Jeremy.

In my gut, I still believe I’m David’s Armor Girl. It just took going out with him a couple of times to know it for sure.

And, in many ways, maybe he’s my Armor Guy. Someone I can enjoy being around, someone who gets along with my friends and who looks fantabulous and says all the right things to everyone.

But he’s not THE guy.

I promised to tell you the truth from now on, so there it is.

I’m really sorry!!

Of course, now I have to figure out what to say if (when) he asks me out again. I already have e-mail from him … opening that one next ….

Val

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Last night

Hey Valerie-who-is-also-Val,

Did we rock on trivia last night or what? Want to do it again before you leave, just so we can prove our utter geekiness?

Or—a bunch of the rugby guys are getting together at this guy Kevin’s house for a party the day before you leave. Might be fun.

Later,

David-not-Dave

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Last night

David-not-Dave,

One: Yes, we did, indeed, rock on trivia. Did you expect any less than us dominating the entire TGI Friday’s crowd?

Two: While I’d love to do it again, I can’t. Well, more accurately, I think it’d be a bad idea. I really do like you a lot—just ask Christie, since you know she’s painfully honest
about everything—but my life is in a chaotic mess right now, and I don’t want to lead you on. I just can’t do the whole relationship thing.

Three: I really am very, very sorry. You do know you’re pretty much the hottest guy in school, right? And that you should NOT take this personally?

I’m sure I’m messing this up, and should probably do this in person, but I am a wuss. Please forgive me?

Valerie-who-is-also-Val

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Valerie Winslow ((Attachment: valemaiL.doc)

Jeremy,

I must’ve blown it man. She thinks I’m a “bad idea” (I’ve attached the e-mail she sent me.) If it wasn’t for my dad getting on my case about everything, I’d just tell her to bite me.

Whatever. Maybe I’ll see if Melanie Fergusson wants to come to the rugby party.

David

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject BIG mistake …

Okay—huge apology. I meant to send that to Jeremy. I accidentally hit Reply instead of Forward.

And even then … you know I would never tell you to bite me (no matter what my dad says), so please, please, forgive me. I was suffering from Temporary Pissed-Offedness.

And I do forgive you. So I hope that makes us even.

Friends?

David

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
RE: BIG mistake …

Yes, friends. And you can tell me to bite you if you feel the need (but don’t expect me to actually do it!). Consider Temporary Pissed-Offedness as a total defense.

Besides—I’d hate to have to play against you in trivia when I get home from Schwerinborg for good. I’d much rather you were on my team.

Val

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
LOL!!

Oh. WOW. That e-mail exchange between you and David was TOO TOO FUNNY. (Yes, David forwarded it all to Jeremy, who forwarded to me.)

I already forgive you for not going out with him again. Even temporary anger is no reason for a guy to say “bite me” to YOU. Really. YOU are the coolest person on Earth.

AND … I just got the newest Orlando Bloom flick on DVD. Want to come over? My mom says she can pick you up. We can talk about David and Jeremy and your mom and whatever else you want. I’ve missed you so much!!

See you in an hour?

Love,

Christie

P.S.: Jules thinks you should walk up to David next time you see him and actually bite him.

P.P.S.: Natalie says she will not make any comments regarding violence one way or another until she is out of the maximum security block or the prison guards might not recommend her for parole.

The pilot’s voice comes over the intercom, waking up half the people on the flight. We’re starting our descent into Munich, so he says anyone who wants to go to the restroom should either go now or hold it until we land in Germany.

I glance at my watch, then back at the huge screen covering the wall at the front of coach class. It alternately flashes a map showing the plane’s location over Europe with a list of our airspeed, altitude, and the distance to Munich.

I’ve been watching it count down the miles (and kilometers) ever since the inflight movie ended an hour ago. Thankfully, we’re on time and I won’t miss my connection to Freital, because I cannot wait to get there. Dad will be waiting, and he says we’re going straight back to the palace because he has to work today. Prince Manfred’s hosting the president of Taiwan tonight, so Dad needs to do his protocol thing.

Fine by me. The sooner I get to the palace, the better.

I glance down at the piece of paper on
the tray table in front of me. I read nearly all of the Is Homosexuality a Sin? book, though I was getting some strange looks from other passengers and I finally put it away, figuring it’d be better to read the rest at home. Sometime when Dads not around.

So to kill time, I started making a list. Just to help me see everything in black and white.

David Anderson

•
Driven to do well in school (like me)

•
Has lots of the same friends I do

•
I’ve known him forever

•
Good-hearted and polite

•
The body. The hands. The eyes.

•
CONS: Anti-gay. Is careful with his behavior because of his dad’s job.

Georg

•
More adventurous than me, in a good way

•
Good-hearted and polite

•
The body. The hands. The eyes. The arms. The ACCENT.

•
CONS: The press office wants to sanction our every move. Is careful with his behavior because of his dad’s job.

Georg’s list is way shorter than David’s, probably because David and I have so much in common. Their cons are similar—they both have dads whose jobs change how they have to act when they’re with their girlfriends.

Except Georg doesn’t have the major cons that David has. Georg doesn’t care about my mom’s lifestyle. And even though he’s someday going to have his father’s job (like I suspect David will also have, or something like it), he doesn’t let it change his everyday behavior or who he is on the inside.

And he doesn’t let it change what he feels about me.

I crumple up the list, push up my tray table, then yank the airsick bag out of the seat pocket and stuff the list inside. I glance toward the back of the plane, and since there’s no line, I unbuckle, walk to the miniscule airplane lavatory, and push the airsick bag through the trash slot.

In exactly fifty-three minutes, the plane will land and nothing I wrote on paper matters. All that matters is that I’m DYING to see a certain prince named Georg Jacques von Ederhollern. Even if I have to sneak out of the palace apartment to do it.

I want to be his princess.

I cannot believe it. No Dad. Anywhere.

I scan the entire area where passengers exit the security gate, but no luck. A half-dozen or so people are dressed in black outfits, holding their driving hats and clutching signs bearing the last names of passengers other than me. Otherwise, it’s pretty darned empty.

The plane from Munich to Freital ended up ten minutes late due to the perpetual rain in this country, so even if Dad was running behind, which he never is, he should definitely be here.

I walk across the open area of the terminal to this huge wall of television screens showing arrival and departure information. Yep, they got my flight correct. It shows us right there in green, and says this is the
proper terminal for meeting passengers. Even though it’s all in German, I can understand that much.

“Excuse me,” a low voice says next to me. Since most people flying into Freital speak various European languages, I’m wondering how this person can possibly pinpoint me as American. But then I take a good look at the guy—who’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead—and drop my duffel bag on the ground.

“Georg!”

“Shhh!” He grins at me, then looks over his shoulder toward the passengers from my flight as they filter through the security gate to meet up with their rides. “I had to see you, so I talked your father into letting me come along.”

“Where is he?”

“Baggage claim.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I want to hug him right there, but I’m not absolutely positive where things stand.

“I think I made a huge mistake,” he says. “When I called you and said we had to cool it, I didn’t call back or e-mail you to explain.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” He looks at the floor while a young French-ish-looking couple with backpacks slung over their shoulders walks past us. “My parents were all on my case.” He frowns, then asks, “Is that how you say it? ‘On my case’?”

I think the smile on my face must be the dorkiest ever, but the way he always has to ask me about his English is
soooo
delicious. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Well, they were all on my case about the newspaper article, and telling me I had to call you that instant to make certain we weren’t seen together in public for a while, and all the press guys were in our apartment, discussing it with my father, and I caved.”