Do-Over (12 page)

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
RE: What’s up?!

Hi Valerie,

If I’m interrupting your schnitzel, I apologize. I’m sure it’s a critical component of your survival in Schwerinborg. (I hate to ask, but what IS schnitzel, anyway? Is it some kind of sausage?)

I hope you don’t mind that I talked to Natalie at the
Giant a few days ago. She was standing there reading some health magazine, looking very bored. Since I wanted to give you an update, I figured it would be okay to give her my e-mail address. (Though I wasn’t sure she’d actually pass it along.)

Here’s the thing—I think I’m out a roommate when I head to NYU in the fall. My brother wants his new boyfriend to move in with him. Or—to be perfectly clear about the situation—he wants his new boyfriend to move in with
us
.

He insists the apartment is big enough for three—he and his boyfriend would have one bedroom and I’d have the other—but I don’t want to do it. I haven’t told him no, since I’m afraid he’ll think it’s because I’m a homophobe or something. But I wouldn’t want to live there even if it was a girlfriend, you know? I have no desire to be that close to someone else’s relationship.

And no matter how big he says this apartment is, it’s in
Manhattan
. Brad doesn’t have a ton of dough, so how big could the place really be?

I guess I’m just having trouble with the whole situation and knew you’d understand better than some of the adults at the PFLAG meetings might. They’d just tell me to find a nice dorm room or something.

So . . . if you can think of a good way for me to tell Brad I don’t want to live with him next year (at least not if
he has a significant other in the apartment), I’m open to suggestions.

Of course, then I have to find another roommate, which is a whole new problem.

Hope you’re having fun over there, eating what sounds like interesting food,

John

PS—I wasn’t going to ask this, but what the hell. Is your friend Natalie with anyone? After seeing her the other day at the Giant, I’m noticing her all the time in the hallways at school now. She seems like she’d be a lot of fun.

PPS—
If
she’s not with anyone, and
if
she’d even think about going out with me . . . have you told her about your mom? How’d she handle it? What would she think about Brad? I wouldn’t want to say anything to her and find out she either doesn’t know about your mother and Gabrielle or is super-conservative about that kind of thing.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: RE: What’s up?!

Hi John,

Wow—bummer on your brother. It’s great he’s
found someone, but I wouldn’t want to live with them, either. (Hey, I ended up in Schwerinborg because I wasn’t mentally up to living with Mom and Gabby, so I completely understand where you’re coming from. And I bet that Brad’s apartment in NYC is way smaller than the place my mother and Gabby have in Virginia.)

I wish I could tell you what to say, but I’ve learned the hard way that I suck in these situations.

Maybe honesty is the best policy here? Just tell Brad you want to give him and his boyfriend some space and that you don’t want to intrude. If he starts acting all pissed, you could tell him what you told me—that you’d feel this way whether his significant other was male or female.

And about Nat—she knows about Mom and Gabby and she’s cool with it. She’s actually been really supportive. And Natalie is completely and totally single, so if you want to ask her out, go for it. (Though I’ll warn you, she might not be able to do much for a while. She keeps getting into trouble—nothing major, but enough that her parents are keeping her on a tight leash lately.)

I’m at school, so I’ll have to write more later. But good luck,

Val

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Another thought . . .

Hi again, John,

I’m supposed to be working on an essay on
Pride and Prejudice
, but I just had another thought. Your situation’s not totally the same as mine was when I was trying to figure out if I wanted to live with Mom.

I had two equal choices—Mom or Dad.

Of course, I had to move to Schwerinborg with Dad, which was a big consideration, but I would have had to move if I’d chosen to live with Mom, too (and living with Mom would have meant transferring from Vienna West to Lake Braddock, if you can imagine). I think both of my parents wanted me to live with them, but both of them would have been cool if I’d gone the other way, you know?

You don’t really have the same choice. Mine was “who do I live with?” Yours is more, “do I live with Brad or not?” So maybe you need to ask yourself how important it is to him. Just tell him what you’re thinking and
see
how he reacts, then go with your gut.

I know this probably doesn’t help you at all—it might even make things more confusing—but
I know you’ll be fine no matter what you decide to do.

Keep me posted.

Val

PS—Schnitzel is not sausage. It’s more like a giant chicken nugget if you get the plain, breaded kind of schnitzel (apparently there are lots of other kinds). It is not made from chicken, though. Any more info than that would probably gross you out.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Mmmmmm, good!

Good morning, Val Pal!

Okay, so it’s probably the afternoon where you are. But I’m e-mailing you instead of messing around with my curling iron and getting pretty for school (’cause does it really matter?) because I wanted to let you know that I’m eating a Ho Ho.

Yep, right now. As I type.

It’s chocolatey and delicious and the filling just melts in your mouth . . . I bet you want one. Don’t you?

It’s really, really, REALLY delicious. . . .

My point: What the hell are you doing giving up fast food?!?!?! Please. You’re totally skinny, but even more important, quitting is so not going to affect the size of your ass or your skiing ability. Seriously.

Last time I checked, you lived with a gourmet chef type. (You do remember your father, right? Nice guy, great cook?) I guess what he makes is fairly healthy, but I know if I had him prepping my dinners every night, I’d double my weight in a year because I’d eat so much. And I happen to know that you eat like a horse when he cooks for you, too.

Plus, don’t even THINK you’re gonna get out of buying me that Frosty and Biggie Fry. (Not unless you talk to Georg about David. Like, within 24 hours.) I’m not taking it out of my employee allowance when I have you to treat me.

Off to school with bad hair and Ho Ho breath (yet blissfully happy!),

Jules

“Wow. Think Ulrike’s overdoing it a bit?”

Georg is staring at the large sheet of paper I have unfolded across my bed. Literally
across
my bed. Ulrike must have stolen it from one of those flip charts in the corner of the art room. The whole thing is covered with her scribbles, though I’m too tired to analyze all the detail she’s put into it. More than half the paper is a hand-drawn map of the hotel ballroom, complete with little circles and rectangles showing where I need to put chairs and tables outside the main doors, and diagrams of where the refreshment tables will be and the area we need to cordon off for the DJ and his equipment. She’s even marked in where the speakers will be located.

The rest of the page is one honking big to-do list. Actually, it’s three to-do lists: one for her, one for me, and one for the two guys she roped in to do the heavy lifting.

“I know.” I can’t get over it myself. I mean, did she make extra copies of this thing for herself and for the guys? “I told her when I volunteered that she’d have to be specific with me, but I didn’t mean this. I think she needs to get a life.”

“This
is
her life.”

“Well, now it’s my life too.” I fold up the piece of paper—which feels like folding a
bedsheet given its insane size—since I don’t want to think about item number one on my to-do list, which is to call the DJ and ask him a long list of questions about things like his music selection, his preferred speaker volume, and when he expects to take his breaks.

I mean, what if he doesn’t speak English?
Good
English?

To distract myself, I ask Georg how soccer practice went. He was wearing his sweats from soccer when he got here, but since our apartment is now broiling (the heat is never right—it’s either like living in Antarctica or the Sahara on any given day, and Dad and I can’t predict which we’ll get), he’s pulled them off and is only in his practice shorts and a T-shirt. I point to a row of evenly spaced scrapes on the side of his calf and ask what happened.

Tragic to mar that gorgeous bod, I tell you.

He shrugs like it’s nothing, though. “Got knocked into the wall trying to steal the ball. I missed and tried to change direction to catch the guy, but I was off balance and fell down.” He adds, “I, like, wiped out totally.”

I laugh so hard I snort. A genuine, sitcom-type snort. “You’ve been listening to me talk too much.”

He has the good sense to blush—just a little bit. “It’s good for me, though, isn’t it? I want to sound more natural when I speak in English. So whenever I go to the States, I don’t stand out.”

I am so not going to tell him that his attempts to sound natural have the complete opposite effect.

“You’re going to have a lot to do at the dance, from the looks of it.” He takes a seat on my bed, leans back against the pillows (man, how I wish I could whip out my sketch pad and capture him just like that!), then says, “How late are you going to be there?”

“Probably until the end.” Which sucks rocks. “But you’ve got that party to go to, don’t you? So it’s not like you’d be home anyway. Unless it’s here at the palace.”

He shrugs but doesn’t say anything, which naturally makes me think he’s trying to keep the details of this party hush-hush. Since I just can’t leave it alone, I decide to go fishing. “It must be before the awards
actually air, since we’re so many hours ahead of California, right?”

“I guess. I haven’t paid attention to what time the telecast starts.” Even though he pauses on the word “telecast,” he’s being casual, not giving me a hint of info. Dammit.

Did I do something wrong? Why is this such a big fat hairy secret?

“Anyway,” he adds, “I was curious about when you thought you’d get home. You’ll probably get back about the time the—what do you call it when all the nominees are shown entering the theater? The preshow?—when that starts.”

When I tell him that’s my plan, he says, “That’s good. So you’ll be able to watch at least part of the show. I couldn’t believe when the Golden Globes were on last month that you stayed up almost all night to keep checking the winners on the Internet.”

“I know. I think Dad wanted to kill me, since it was a school night. But I felt like I was hanging out long-distance with Christie, Jules, and Natalie, since I was e-mailing them my comments. I think Dad kind of felt sorry for me, and who was I to tell him not to? The
A-listers and I always watch together, and there was no way I was going to miss out.”

“Yeah, you mentioned how you guys do the awards shows.” As he talks, he flexes and then points his toes, like his calves are sore from soccer. Judging from how beaten up he is, it’s no wonder. If he didn’t have to be a prince, I know he’d want to make a go at playing pro soccer when he gets older. He likes it that much.

“You planning to do that this weekend, too?” he asks.

“I guess. We haven’t really talked about it. I s’pose it depends on when I get back from the dance.” And on what Georg is doing then.

“Maybe going to the dance will distract you from the fact you can’t watch with your friends this time. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

Geez, but this is an awkward conversation, at least for me. He really, really shouldn’t be reminding me of how much I miss home. Or about the fact that I’m going to be stuck at this wacky Schwerinborg-type dance without him, so I won’t even have him to console me as the girls watch
the awards without me. Again.

I take Ulrike’s attack plan and stick it under the stack of books and binders piled on my desk. I don’t want to look at it.

Because really, it’s more than the fact that I’m missing the Oscar party with the girls in Virginia, or even the fact that Dad will probably take advantage of my absence and disappear for the night with Fraulein Predator that’s got me feeling so mopey and blab.

It’s the fact that Georg will be celebrating with who-knows-who—dancing and chatting and being oblivious to the fact that all the cute Steffi types are desperately trying to hook up with him—when if he’d
really
wanted to, he could be spending the evening with me.

For some reason, he doesn’t. And he doesn’t even want to tell me why.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: RE: Mmmmmm, good!

Jules, Jules, Jules,

I am simply trying to be healthy. That’s all.
If I won the Frosty/Biggie Fries bet (which, you may notice, I’ve never officially agreed to), then you’d be off the hook. So what’s the big deal?

Besides—if I so much as tried to take a single Ho Ho from your precious stash, you’d steal your combat boots back from Christie and use them on my head. No amount of chocolate—no matter how delicious—is worth that.

Your clean-living friend,

Val Pal

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
RE: Mmmmmm, good!

Val,

Clean living? Oh, PLEASE. Take a look at the clock.