Spin Control (6 page)

And I won’t even start on the teaching thing. Mom taught school before I was born and swore she’d never do it again. I mean, I know Dad is giving her whatever she wants in the divorce—he’s practically paying for her and Gabrielle’s apartment himself. (It’s really disgusting and pathetic, if you think about it.) So I don’t get why she’s in such a rush to get back to work, when she could take her time, think about something else she might want to do, and then go do that.

I click on the Reply button to: 1) tell her there’s now an official moratorium on self-help books, because even if I wanted them, I have no time to read them and no space to store them in my itty bitty bedroom; and 2) she should really think about it before she starts teaching school again. Because as ticked off as I am about her and Gabrielle and the whole divorce (I try not to be, but I can’t help it), I don’t want her to be miserable.

Just as I start to type, the phone rings and I grab it. The only people who’d call me before school are my mom—which saves me typing time—or Georg. And I
really, really want to talk to him so he knows what’s up.

But it’s Ulrike. And I think she’s crying.

“Valerie? I just wanted to say I’m so sorry. I hope you’re not too mad. I swear it wasn’t me, but I might have been the cause of—”

“Of what?” She sure didn’t seem this worked up yesterday at lunch. I’m wondering if she got in some major trouble. Or if she called Georg like I asked her to do and he read her the riot act.

Not that Georg would read anyone the riot act. He doesn’t get visibly angry about anything. He’s totally cool that way.

“Well, you should be mad, but I’m—”

“Ulrike, seriously, I’m not mad at you.”

At exactly that moment, Dad knocks on my bedroom door, scaring me half out of the chair. It’s nearly seven thirty, so the man should be at work. I cover the phone and yell that I’ll be just a sec.

“Ulrike, I’ve gotta go. My dad’s knocking on my door.”

“But—”

“Hey, we’ll talk at school. I’ll try to get
there early and meet you in the year ten hallway, okay? But it’s no big deal, really. I know you were just trying to protect Georg.”

“Okay. But I’m so sorry, Valerie.”

I roll my eyes as I hang up. Ulrike’s too nice for her own good.

My dad knocks again, louder this time, and I’m about to say something I probably shouldn’t, like
what the hell?
, when he walks in.

He holds up the newspaper. Not just one of the ratty tabloids, but a regular, honest-to-goodness newspaper. And there I am on the front page. In color.

You’d think the picture would catch my attention, since it’s of me and Georg on our walk to school yesterday. Not because it’s a good picture—both of us have our backpacks over our shoulders, and my hair is flying all over the place and I look highly annoyed—and not that I didn’t kind of expect to see something about us in the paper. It’s more the angle. The photo is taken from the side, so it couldn’t have been the
Majesty
reporter. In fact, I’m certain I look annoyed in the photo because if
it was much bigger, the
Majesty
reporter would be in it, since it looks like it was taken at the exact moment the guy asked Georg about his relationship with me.

But no. I don’t give a fly about the picture, or the fact that the
Majesty
guy obviously wasn’t the only shutterbug around. And I’m guessing Dad isn’t concerned about the photo, either.

It’s the screaming headline.

Four

“Oh, shit!”

As soon as the words are out, I slam a hand over my mouth, because I can’t believe I said what I just said in front of Dad. I mean, as if I haven’t screwed myself enough here with the headline alone.

I don’t have to know German to translate the two-inch-high type. It says something to the effect of:

THE BAD AMERICAN … ?

I think it means bad. Maybe evil or dangerous. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not good, even if they did pose the headline in the form of a question,
Jeopardy!
style.

I look at my dad to gauge his reaction,
and I realize things must be really bad, because he isn’t even pissed at me for swearing, despite the fact I have never, ever said anything like that around him before.

Normally, I’m pretty sure he’d kill me. Martin Winslow is all about polite and proper behavior, and swearing is at the top of his Not To Do list. But instead of jumping all over me, giving me a lecture about how a young lady doesn’t use words like that, he just shoots me a
you can say that again
grimace that makes me think he’s already uttered a few four-letter words himself.

“Who was on the phone?” he asks, nodding toward the receiver.

“Ulrike.”

His eyebrows jerk up. “Was she calling about the article?”

“We just started talking when you knocked, so I don’t know.” Her tearful I’m sorry’s make more sense, though, if she was. “Maybe.”

Oh, crap. Not only does the headline mean everyone will know about it—it means half the school already knows about it. They’re probably IM’ing one another
right now, yakking about the whole thing, debating whether THE BAD AMERICAN is really bad or evil or whatever.

I bet Steffi’s borderline orgasmic.

Dad takes a deep breath, the kind adults make when they’re really worked up about something and are trying to stay calm, where you can actually hear the air whooshing in and out of their nostrils.

“All right. No more telephone for the time being—not unless I hand you the receiver. Let me answer if it rings.”

“I was about to leave for school, anyway.” I have to be there in about half an hour, so it’s not like I’m going to be calling everyone and asking if they saw the gigantic headline.

“Let’s hold off for a while. If you go, I’ll drive you there. Definitely no walking today.”

Wow. I’ve never been allowed to skip school. I hate to ask, but I do anyway. “So what does the article say, exactly?”

“I assume you can figure out the headline?”

“I think so. Enough to know its not good.”

Dad pushes my door the rest of the way open and hands me the newspaper, then walks over to my bed and sits down while I stare at the front page.

“Prince Manfred says it essentially means ‘The Corrupt American.’ Of course, they added an ellipse and question mark after it, as if to suggest your level of corruption is open to debate, but I don’t think that makes it much better.”

I’m thinking not, either. “Well, no matter what the article itself says, I’m not corrupt. I mean,
corrupt
makes it sound like I’m embezzling money from the royal family or something.”

Not that I’d have the foggiest clue how to do that. I’m not even sure what embezzle means, exactly, other than something to do with stealing. Guess I’d better find out before the SATs. Now that I think about it,
embezzle
strikes me as an SAT word.

Dad shifts on the bed, and it’s clear this whole conversation is giving him a headache. “The article states that there are unsubstantiated—and Prince Manfred said it uses that word,
unsubstantiated,
several times—rumors that you and Georg are
close. It doesn’t come out and say you’re dating, but it strongly hints at it. It also states that you left the Friday night reception together, then were seen entering an unused restroom on a lower floor of the palace.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. I’m just staring at the words on the page, wishing they were in English. Or even French, since my French is pretty good. I want to read this for myself, and it’s killing me that it’s just a bunch of funny-looking words I can hardly pronounce, let alone understand.

“So, where does the corrupt part come in?” I can hear the
Jeopardy!
music playing in my head as I stare at Dad, because I just know it’s gonna be the whole druggie thing Ulrike talked about.

“The article doesn’t hint that you and Georg could have been going into that restroom to take drugs. Again, it doesn’t make a definitive claim, but anyone reading the article can draw that conclusion.”

And there the
Jeopardy!
music ends. “That’s totally bogus!”

“Well, the bulk of the article talks
about who you are, how you came to live at the palace, and then speculates on what influence you might have on Georg. It doesn’t actually say you’re ‘corrupt’—it’s written more as a ‘what if this person spending time with the prince is a corrupting influence?’ and what that could mean for the country.”

Like I’m going to single-handedly take down the monarchy of Schwerinborg? Puhleeze.

“Can’t we sue them? I mean, for making it sound like I’m some kind of junkie or something? All I did was walk into a bathroom with Georg. While I’ll admit that hiding out in a men’s room is not normal behavior, it doesn’t mean I’m corrupting him.”

I have no clue how suing a newspaper would work, but it’s just wrong that they’re able to write this when it’s totally, completely false. I mean, could this hurt my chances of getting into a good college? Did they even think about that?

He takes another of his loud, deep breaths, then adjusts his tie, and stands up. “No. Litigation isn’t an option at this
point, so don’t even think in that direction, Valerie. Besides, as bad as it sounds, you’re not actually being accused of anything.”

He gives me a look of sympathy, but thankfully he doesn’t say “I told you so.” “The next few days are probably going to be difficult, honey. I know you did nothing wrong, and the royal family knows that too. It’s been a slow news week, so the papers are just itching for a good story and they’re blowing this out of proportion. I think the best thing to do right now is to lie low and let it pass. Prince Manfred has a staff who handle public relations, and they’ll advise us as to how we can speed UP—”

The phone rings, and Dad reaches past me to grab it, saying that it might be the P.R. guys.

Instead, after a second, he hands the phone to me with a warning look to keep it short. “I’m going to Prince Manfred’s offices and find out what’s going on. I’ll be back in a few minutes—don’t go to school yet, and don’t answer the phone.”

I nod, hoping he’ll boogie, because I am dying to know who’s on the phone—
especially since he seems to think it’s okay for me to talk to whoever it is.

As soon as Dad shuts the door, I say hello. And thankyou, thankyou, thankyou God, it’s Georg.
Finally
.

“What’s going on? I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday!” I concentrate on my words so I don’t sound desperate or ticked off, but I probably do, anyway. Mostly because I am.

“I know, I’m so sorry, Valerie. I wanted to call, but I couldn’t.”

“It’s not your fault,” I force myself to say in an understanding tone of voice that’d make Dad proud. “These things happen.”

Well, I suppose they do if you’re the girlfriend of a prince. But it’s only been, like, three days, and already I’m sick and tired of everyone telling me they’re
so sorry
. No wonder Princess Di was paranoid. I can’t even imagine how many times during her life she must’ve had bad things happen, then everybody calling and apologizing to her after the fact.

And her prince didn’t even love her like mine does.

“So what’s going on?” I ask again, trying
to push the Princess Di images out of my head, since I’m clearly not anything like Princess Di was (rich, pretty, famous, etc.). “My dad just showed me the paper. Is that why you left school yesterday?”

“Yeah. Someone on the newspaper staff leaked the headline to our press office. The source wasn’t certain it was going to run, but the P.R. guys wanted to talk to both me and my dad so they could formulate a response in case the story did go to press. That’s why they sent the car to pick me up.”

“Oh.” So they’ll work to defend him from nasty newspaper articles, but clearly not me. I suppose that’s the way the world works, but having it flung in my face, even though I know he doesn’t mean to, sucks major rocks.

I hear him messing with something, like he’s flipping through the paper. “I’m really sorry, Valerie. I wanted to call you, but after the meeting, they drove me back to school for practice, and they were waiting to drive me home to talk to the P.R. guys again as soon as soccer let out. I didn’t get a free minute the rest of the
night. I didn’t even get my homework done.”

Whoa. He’s neurotic about getting his homework done—almost as bad as I am. Though in his case, it’s mostly ‘cause he’s afraid if he doesn’t, it’ll end up in the paper.

How’s that for irony?

“Wow.” I try to sound sympathetic, because I mostly am. “That totally blows.” “I got in around ten, then woke up at four a.m. so I could try to get my Trig homework finished, but I couldn’t focus. All I wanted to do was call you because I was so worried the story would be in the paper. I was hoping it wouldn’t be, since you and I both know there’s nothing worth reporting. But one of the press office guys woke up my father just before five a.m. to let him know the story ran, and that it was worse than they’d thought. On the front page.” He takes one of those deep Dad-like breaths. “I assume your father told you what the headline says?”

“Yeah. Apparently your dad translated for mine.” And I’m guessing the conversation that followed wasn’t particularly comfortable.

“Well, after I saw it, I really couldn’t concentrate on Trig. I’ve been dying to call you ever since, but I wanted to wait until I knew for certain you were awake.”

He sounds so sweet, and so Georg-ish, that I feel a major case of guilt. Its not his fault all this happened or that he couldn’t call last night. I mean, it couldn’t have been fun spending hours and hours holed up with a bunch of public relations geeks.

“Well, I’m really glad you called me,” I tell him. “Even if it is with lousy news. I’ve been dying to hear your voice.” His accent makes me melt, even if the rest of the world rots.

“I know. I wanted to hear your voice, too. I just don’t want you to worry too much. The meetings went forever, but they all seem convinced it’s going to blow over.” He pauses for a sec, then adds, “That’s the right way to use it, isn’t it? Blow over? To mean something will go away soon?”