Spin Control (4 page)

I hike my backpack further up on my shoulder and walk in, leaving the reporter out on the cobblestoned street. Once we’re out of earshot, Georg says, “He’s never spoken to me before, which means he thinks he knows something. Someone’s tipped him off.”

“He knew my name.” How is this possible? I mean, Georg and I had our first real date on
Friday
. And even then, no one but my dad and Georg’s parents knew it was an actual date. Georg’s parents promised to tell any reporters who asked that we weren’t “romantically involved,” but that
they’d invited me to the reception because my father was working there, and so Georg would have another teenager to talk to during the event.

We reach the door that leads to where all the sophomore lockers—excuse me,
year ten
lockers—are located on the first floor. Since Georg is in year eleven, he has to take the staircase just inside the door to the second floor, where he has his locker. But instead of going into the building and then us going our separate ways like I expected, he grabs my elbow and steers me a few steps away from the door, so we can talk in private.

“Georg, how could that guy possibly know my name? I’m a
nobody
!”

“You’re not a nobody—”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Georg says with a drawn-out sigh. He takes a long sip of his latte, looking over the lid to make sure no one’s watching us too closely. “I’ve walked to school with friends before—I do it all the time—and he’s never once bothered them or taken their picture. Well, he’s taken
mine,
but not theirs.”

I’m starting to really freak out now, but Georg says very calmly, “I think he’s just fishing, Valerie. That’s why he asked his question in English instead of German’so you would understand. He was probably hoping you’d make a comment.”

“That still doesn’t explain how he knew my name. At the reception on Friday, no one asked who I was. Your parents didn’t tell anyone. So …” I hold my hands out and give him a
what the hell is going on?
stare.

Georg frowns, and it’s clear he has no answer, so I ask the more important question. “What are we going to do now?”

“Nothing,” he says, keeping his voice low as a group of guys walk by, give us a quick look, then go through the door on their way to class. “Just act normal and pretend it didn’t happen. And if you see the reporter on your way home, ignore him. In the meantime, I’ll call my father on my cell and let him know about it.”

“He’s going to be ticked off.”

Georg runs his hand over his dark hair, something he does only when he’s exasperated, even though he’s sounding completely
Zen. “Hell be unhappy with the reporter, not with us. And if I let him know about it, he can tell us how to handle it.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath just as the warning bell rings. “We’d better hurry. I’ll see you tonight?”

He gives me the kind of smile you give someone when you want them to feel better. “Definitely.”

But as I scoot into French IV, I realize I don’t feel better at all.

By lunch, I feel like I’m ready to hurl.

I grab a very normal-looking turkey sandwich from the cafeteria (usually they have bulkie rolls with unidentifiable contents—stuff I’ve taken to calling Unknown Meat of Germanic Origin) and head out to the quad. I want to find Georg. I want to hear what Prince Manfred said about the whole reporter thing. I want to hear that this is just me and my wacky imagination, and that no one knows anything and even if they did, it’s no big thing.

What I get is Ulrike, Maya, and Steffi—which would be fine except for
Steffi, who’s looking at me like I stole my turkey sandwich out of her backpack or something.

“Hey, Valerie!” Ulrike waves me over to their picnic table—there are a few dozen of them around the quad—and offers me the seat next to her. While I unwrap the sandwich and pop the top on a Coke Light (since, here in Schwerinborg, it’s
Coke Light,
not Diet Coke), they all yak and yak about what happened in their classes during the morning, and who saw what movies and who went where over the weekend.

I’m scanning the quad for Georg, and I must be obvious, because of course Steffi asks me about it. I can tell from her face she’d been talking to Ulrike and Maya about Georg before I sat down. Heinousevil-bitch-girl.

“Yeah, he wanted to talk to me about something,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible while I fumble to make something up. “Probably some palace security thing. Who knows?”

I see Maya shoot Ulrike a look. I want to yell,
What?
but think better of it. Then
Steffi gives Ulrike this exaggerated look of concern that’s so fake, I want to smack her.

“Valerie, did you see Georg this weekend?” Ulrike turns to me and asks.

“Well, since we live in the same building, yeah,” I say. I don’t say it in a snotty way at all—more like,
sure, hard not to see him
. But since I’m guessing they already know about the dinner, I add, “And he was at this formal thing of Prince Manfred’s Friday night that my father brought me to. I think my dad wanted me to keep Georg company, since he was the only other person there under the age of forty.”

Maya’s eyes get wide, but she looks down at her Tupperware container and takes a bite of salad.

Now I’m so sick to my stomach I can’t even choke down my turkey, so I take a long sip of my soda. Why, why, why, WHY did I come out to the quad, when I should have known something like this would happen? And where the hell is Georg?!

Ulrike sets down her sandwich. “Valerie, I hope you don’t take offense, but”—she looks at Steffi, as if she needs to know it’s okay to tell me something
awful—“but at the reception, did you offer Georg drugs?”

I laugh out loud at this. I mean, I know it’s not a laughing matter, but are they freaking kidding me?

“Someone told you I gave Georg
drugs?
” Then I realize that they’re dead serious. “That’s insane! I’ve never even smoked pot or anything, ever.”

Geez, I knew there were probably going to be rumors about me and Georg, but at least this one I know I can argue. I look Ulrike-then Steffi-square in the eye and say, “Whoever told you guys that story is the one on drugs.”

They all look totally shocked, which makes me wonder who I could possibly have offended when
I’m
the one who should be totally offended.

Geez. Even if I was a total cokehead or pothead or whatever, I’m not stupid enough to give drugs to a FREAKING PRINCE!

Then Steffi gives me this sad, sympathetic look that I know is for the sole purpose of making Ulrike and Maya think she’s all choked up about the situation. “It
was the minister of the treasury. He saw you and Georg on Friday night, and he says you were trying to give Prince Georg drugs.”

The minister of the treasury?! He’s the guy who was so smashed at the dinner that my dad had to help him into the bathroom before he puked in public—like, all over Princess Claudia’s shoes. I didn’t think the guy even saw me and Georg, he was so plowed, but apparently he did.

And completely mistook what he saw for something else.

“Well, he’s way wrong,” I say. “You can ask Georg.”

“No, we can’t,” Maya finally speaks up. “He went home about an hour ago. Someone from the palace came in a big limo and picked him up.”

“Then ask him tomorrow. Or call him on his cell,” I tell them. Now I’m getting angry, because I know the truth. And I know Steffi’s going to spread this rumor fast and furious if I give her the chance, because she’d do anything to make certain I don’t get together with Georg. “You guys might not believe me—even though you
should
—but you’ve known Georg forever, and you know he wouldn’t lie to you about something like this.”

“Please don’t think we’re mad at you, or that we’re accusing you of anything, Valerie,” Ulrike says. “I mean, there are tons of people here who are into stuff they shouldn’t be. But—”

“Look, I know you’re a really nice person, and that you’re not trying to hurt my feelings.” I say this to Ulrike, though I’d say the same thing to Maya, too, if it wouldn’t make it obvious that I think Steffi’s an incredible bitch by leaving her out “—but I would never give anyone drugs, let alone do them myself. The worst I’ve ever done in my life is smoke a cigarette, and it’s been ages since I’ve done that. Seriously.”

Well, since I was in Virginia, at least. And even then, it wasn’t a regular thing at all. “And all of you had better talk to Georg before you spread any rumors”—this time I look directly at Steffi, because I’m deciding I have nothing to lose, and no way am I going to take her shit—“or you’re really going to hurt his reputation and his family.”

I wrap my sandwich back up in its plastic wrap, because there’s no way I’m going to eat it now. It’d come right back up. It’d be about as ugly as the treasury guy was, hurling all over one of the men’s room stalls on Friday night while my dad tried to clean him up and shuffle me and Georg out of the handicapped stall at the same time.

I stand up to leave, but a thought occurs to me and I turn to Ulrike. “Hey, your dad was at that dinner Friday night. He saw me there, and Georg, too. He’ll tell you we weren’t doing anything like that.”

She blushes all the way from the neck of her peach sweater to the roots of her whiteblond hair, and I realize she’s the source of the rumor. The treasury minister must’ve told her father, and he told her.

And Ulrike, of course, told Steffi, thinking she was being helpful or something. Because as nice as Ulrike is, she’s too naive to see through Steffi.

“Well, he’s wrong,” I say. I can feel my throat getting tight, so I force myself to keep my voice steady and calm, the way Georg would. “Way wrong. Call Georg. He’ll tell you the truth, even if you don’t believe me.”

Three

“Valerie? Can you come out here?”

I roll my eyes but yell out in a friendly voice, “Just a sec, Dad!”

When Dad calls for me instead of knocking on my door, it usually means he has something serious to discuss. And I have one guess what it is this time.

Geez, but I wish Georg would call me. I sent him an e-mail and left a message on his cell the second I got home from school, but nada. Nothing. Zip.

I’m guessing he ended up going back to school for soccer practice, in which case he can’t call me back, but I have no way of knowing for sure. And how the hell am I
going to handle my dad if I don’t know what’s going on with Georg?

I shove my Geometry book off my lap, stick my pencil and calculator in the page—not that I’ve been able to focus on it, since I’ve been replaying my lunchtime conversation over and over in my head, wondering what I should have said—then climb off my bed and go out to the living room.

Dad’s standing in our galley kitchen, putting chicken breasts in a pan for dinner. He’s humming to himself and smiling, but since he hardly even got mad at my mother when she made her little “It’s not you, it’s me” divorce announcement out of the blue, the fact he’s not growling or anything doesn’t give me much hope.

“You need me to chop veggies?” I ask, deciding to play innocent for as long as possible.

“Nope, I’ll do it while the chicken bakes. I just wanted to make sure we have a few minutes to talk.” He takes a bowl full of some yellowish marinade he’s whipped up and pours it over the raw chicken. As disgusting as that sounds, it looks and
smells completely delish, and my stomach starts this loud, low rumble. Partially because I know my dad is incapable of making bad food, and partially because, due to circumstances beyond my control, I didn’t eat lunch.

As Dad slides the pan into the oven, he asks, just a little too casually, “So school was all right today?”

“Same teachers, same homework.”

“And things are going well with Georg, honey?”

Oh, crap. “Sure.”

I just know I’m going to hate this conversation. I bet he knows Georg was here last night. He’s smart about stuff like that. And that’s just going to make him even more ticked off, especially if he already knows about everything that went down at school today.

But I’m still going to eat that chicken and enjoy it.

“I talked to Prince Manfred this afternoon. I understand a reporter followed you two to school this morning?”

I open a cupboard and snag a cookie, even though I know this is tempting fate.
Dad hates when I get snacky before dinner. “Yeah. He writes articles about Georg every so often. I think that happens when you’re royalty.”

He pins me with a stare that I know has nothing to do with the cookie. “But today the reporter asked Georg about his relationship with you. Right?”

I give him my I-don’t-care shrug. Dad calls it the Valerie Shrug, which is his way of telling he can see right through me, but I do it anyway. “Georg just told him you work at the palace. After that, the reporter left us alone.”

Dad raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, we were at the gate to school, so he kind of had to leave us alone. But it’s not a big deal.” I don’t think.

“Unfortunately, it is a big deal, Valerie. The reporter called the protocol office today and said he wanted to ask me a few questions. I didn’t return his call, but I’ll have to tomorrow.”

Dad takes off his apron and loops it over a hook inside our tiny pantry. I know, it’s weird he wears an apron, but he claims all good cooks wear aprons to protect their
clothing. Since he feeds me all his wonderful creations, I never say a word about the apron.

I mean, I have serious food issues. Not starvation or dieting issues, or how-fat-do-I-look-in-this-outfit? issues, but you-can-get-me-to-say-or-do-anything-if-you-feed-me-well issues. Dad knows this and uses it to his advantage all the time. It is not a coincidence that he called me out of my room to talk while making dinner. He wants me to smell the chicken.

“So what are you going to tell him?”

“Nothing—not unless Prince Manfred wants to issue a statement. But I wanted to warn you. You’re always careful, honey, but it may not be enough to simply be careful.”

I polish off the cookie and ask, “Should I not walk to school with Georg?”