Do-Over (15 page)

I shake my head. “Nope. DJ.”

“Well, I’ll go find her and tell her it’s all marvelous. You get out and dance, okay? I know Prince Georg couldn’t make it, but . . . ” She looks around, like she’s expecting Steffi to pop up. “Well, if he’d come, I bet he’d have danced with you. I think he kind of likes you, even if he acts like he doesn’t.”

I try not to give myself away by smiling too big. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Just don’t tell Steffi I said so. You haven’t seen her, have you?”

When I shake my head, Maya says,
“Wonder where she is tonight? Guess we’ll hear on Monday if she doesn’t show up.”

She flips her empty punch cup into the trash bin, then waves a good-bye as she sways back out onto the dance floor. It’s a mass of people out there, but she fits right in.

I wish I could. Maybe I could forget about Georg for a while. And about Steffi’s mysterious absence. Not that I want her here, but it’s odd. It’s making me wonder if she figured out where Georg would be and finagled an invite somehow.

I grab a cup of punch and sling it back.

I’ve gotta stop my imagination from taking over my good sense.

“I think we’re going to manage without any major glitches,” Ulrike says, walking up behind me. “Do you think?”

She still sounds nervous. Unbelievable. “Ulrike, you
think?
Look around you. Everyone’s having a blast!” Well, everyone except me. I’m just counting off the minutes.

“I know, I know. I get a little uptight about having things turn out okay. But if I didn’t, who would?” She puts an arm around my shoulders—easy for her to do, since she’s
so much taller than I am—and gives me a quickie hug. “Thanks for tolerating me the last couple days. I know I can be a pain, but I couldn’t have pulled this off without you. Helmut’s really good, isn’t he?”

I agree that Helmut’s keeping the place on fire. I look over to where he’s set up near the front of the ballroom. I expected someone named Helmut to be hairy and very hippie-ish, I guess. But he’s actually pretty young—maybe college-age or a little older—and decent-looking, too.

I take a step to the side so I can get a better look at him, and I realize he’s talking to none other than Fraulein Predator.

Geez. She’s probably telling him his music has inappropriate lyrics or something.

“You know Fraulein Putzkammer, right?” Ulrike says, following my gaze over to the DJ and Anna. “She’s the chaperone your dad suggested.”

“Yeah, I do,” I say, trying to keep from spitting as I talk. Thinking about The Fraulein makes me want to do that, though I know it shouldn’t.

“She was so excited when she found out Helmut was going to be the DJ,” Ulrike
says. “Can you believe they already knew each other? How’s that for a coincidence?”

“Wild,” I say, totally not caring. Besides, doesn’t it figure that someone named Putzkammer would hang out with a guy named Helmut?

“By the way,” I ask her, “you know how last names have meanings? Like someone told me last week that Schmidt in German is the same as Smith in English.”

“Sure.”

“What in the world does
Putzkammer
mean?”

One side of her mouth hooks up in a grin.
“Putz
has a lot of meanings, but in this case, I would guess it’s closest to the English word ‘clean’ or ‘fine.’
Kammer
is, literally, ‘chamber.’”

“Like ‘house cleaner’?” Not predator? Or ho?

“Not really.” She frowns for a sec, then says,
“Putzkammer
is a lot more formal than ‘house cleaner.’ More like, um . . . what’s the English word? Oh . . . ‘chamberlain’! That’s it. Same idea, though.”

Leave it to The Fraulein to actually have a name that’s hoity-toity in German. “Thanks.”

She smiles. “You’ll start getting better at
German. It’s cool you’re working so hard at it.”

I mumble something nonsensical, ‘cause I’m gonna let her go right on thinking that.

After a few minutes, I urge Ulrike to take a break and go dance, assuring her that I can handle giving out cups of punch by myself and that I won’t allow anyone to sneak over with a bottle of liquor and pour it in the bowl. But despite my promise, I have a hard time keeping my undivided attention on the punch bowl. I can’t stop sneaking peeks at Anna and the DJ. How they’re talking over the music is beyond me, but they seem to be laughing it up, like hanging out together at a high school dance is the coolest thing in the world.

Guess it’ll keep her from doing something to embarrass me. Like asking Dad to dance.

I force myself to grab a stool from the wall so I can sit facing away from them. I stare out at the mass of bodies on the dance floor, watching everyone shake their hips and wave their hands in the air as they sing along with a classic Beck tune.

I know I look pathetic. It’s like I’m the
ultimate wallflower, hanging out dateless at a girls-ask-guys dance, handing out cups of Schwerinborg’s knock-off version of Kool-Aid. And what’s worse, even though everyone’s required to speak English when we’re at school (that’s the whole point of English immersion, I suppose), there’s no such restriction here. So most of the conversations are in German, the one language God never intended for me to speak.

I can’t help but feel distinctly apart from it all.

If my life were a movie, this would be the point when the whole dance floor would go silent and everyone would turn toward the doors. The crowd would part and I’d see Georg standing there in the open doorway, scanning the crowd for someone. Everyone would wonder who, but then his gaze would fall on me.

And he’d smile. A real cheesy, movie-moment type of smile.

Everyone would ooh and aah as he strode through the room (and he really would stride, what with his soccer muscles and all), and he’d sweep me onto the dance floor and the whole world would know that he loves me.

But no. Instead, I get Dad. Sneaking up behind me.

“Are you having fun, honey?”

“I dunno.” I gesture toward the DJ’s setup. “She gonna request Bowie?”

He must’ve been expecting a cynical comment out of me, ‘cause he grabs an empty stool, pulls it up beside mine, and says, “Oh, don’t be that way.”

“What way?”

“Fifteen and female and pouty.”

“Well, I am fifteen and I am female, and there’s nothing wrong with that. And I won’t even address the pouting.”

I’m
so
not pouting. I
I feel
like pouting, but I think I’m actually doing a good job of appearing to be a perky little volunteer here, handing out punch and selling the occasional bottle of water.

“Look, it’s not so bad having me here as a chaperone, is it?”

I slide a sideways look at him. I can’t help but crack up, because he looks so stiff and formal compared to everyone here, even if he is cooler than most other adults. “No, Dad, you’re fine. Just don’t try to dance, okay?”

“Not to worry. Not my kind of music.”

So long as The Fraulein doesn’t finagle a special request. Although—as both of us glance over at Anna—I find myself wondering if Dad and Anna have ever danced together. If he has visions of himself sweeping her off her feet and onto the dance floor, kind of the way I was fantasizing about Georg.

Though it’s possible he’s simply thinking about sweeping her away from Helmut.

“She seems like she’s having a good time, doesn’t she?” Dad says, sounding pleased.

“Um, yeah.”

“The DJ’s her cousin’s boyfriend. They’ve known each other for years. I think she’s getting caught up on family gossip.”

So much for sweeping her away from a rival.

“I guess things are going pretty well with you two, if she agreed to come to the dance as a chaperone,” I venture. I have to admit, ever since Ulrike told me about Dad volunteering to come—and to bring The Fraulein—I’ve wondered how fast things are going between them.

“They’re still casual,” he says, knowing where my thoughts must be going. “We’re
not even exclusive. But if it gets more serious, I’ll let you know.”

We’re not even exclusive?
I turn to face him. “You know I don’t mean to be a butthead about it. If you want to go out with her—exclusive or not—I’ll try to be happy for you. I’ll even call her Anna if she really wants me to.”

As long as I don’t have to think about Dad and Anna having kids together, I think I can push the pause button on my Opposition to The Fraulein mentality.

Dad fakes like he’s going to knock me off the stool. “I didn’t raise you to use words like ‘butthead.’”

I’m about to say,
Like you could stop me
, but he continues, “You haven’t been a butthead, though. You’ve had a lot happen to you this year. I could easily see how hearing that I’m dating someone could be the last straw for you.”

“Really?”

“Really. But you have to realize that it’s been a hard year for me, too.”

We drop the conversation as a group of freshmen come up and grab cups of punch. A few of them produce euros for bottled
water, which I pull out of a cooler stashed under the table—a little extra fund-raiser to help the student council coffers.

When they’re gone, I climb back onto my stool. The music switches to a slow song, but the dance floor stays packed. Even the people who came alone seem to pair up.

“If you want to dance with Anna, Dad, go ahead.” It’s not like I can be any more humiliated than I am right now. Dateless. Sitting with my own father during a slow song.

If Steffi were here, she’d be thinking of all kinds of things to say to me.

“No, I think she’s busy catching up with Helmut. She’s been so swamped at work lately—and spending her free time with me—that I think she feels out of touch with her family. Family’s important.”

I can tell he’s working up to a mushy father-daughter moment, and sure enough, that’s what comes next. “You know, Valerie, I meant it when I told you in Scheffau that you’re the most important person in the world to me.”

“I know.”

“And the fact that I’m seeing Anna won’t
change that. It’s been good for me to go out with her.” His voice gets lower, so quiet I can barely hear him over the music. “It’s good for me to know that I can be appreciated for who I am. To know that just because your mother walked out on me, my romantic life isn’t over. And I’ll admit,” he lets out a chuckle, “it’s also good for my ego.”

“I bet. Isn’t she, like, way younger than you?”

“I haven’t exactly asked to see her driver’s license. It wouldn’t be proper, you know. . . . ” He shifts on the stool, then shakes his head. “But I’d guess I have at least five years on her. Probably more.”

“Sorry, Dad. I couldn’t resist.”

He smiles at me, and I know we’re cool.

“I’m sure it’s a nice ego boost, having Georg in your life.”

I don’t say anything. It’s not like he’s in my life at this particular moment. I mean, sitting here without him is, like, the opposite of an ego boost, whatever that is. Ego dive? Ego plummet? Ego crash? I think it’s gotta be ego crash.

“It’s a challenge, I know. He has to be very careful about appearances. I happen to
know he asked his father if he could come tonight—if there was some way he could be out in public with you.”

No way! “How do you know?”

“Because Prince Manfred and I discussed it.”

My love life? Dad discussed my love life with my boyfriend’s father, who also happens to be
the ruler of this country?

Whoa.

Eight

I have to stand up to hand out another cup of punch, but I get back to Dad as fast as possible. “You discussed it?”

“We know how hard it is for you and Georg. But after the tabloid story . . . well, it’s just too soon. Georg’s going to be the leader of this country someday, and that means that—despite the fact that three quarters of the world’s population can’t find Schwerinborg on a map—he’s under intense scrutiny. He’s not just going to be a ceremonial head of state. He’ll be
the
head of state. But Prince Manfred and I don’t want that scrutiny to ruin your relationship.”

Manny has a point. It almost did tank our relationship when that article came out.

“I know you hate when I use the word ‘sucks,’ Dad, but I have to say, as much as I know that Prince Manfred’s right, it sucks. Majorly.”

He bites his lip, like he wants to tell me I’m not funny, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. Especially after my earlier “butthead” comment.

“I know it does, Val. But that doesn’t mean the two of you have to hide forever.”

“No problem. We can always do the Oscar thing another night. Maybe even next weekend?”

I swear as I look at Dad that he’s trying to hide a smile at my sarcasm. “Well,” he says, “Prince Manfred and I agreed that we want the two of you to be able to see each other—either in the palace or on vacations, where you’ll be away from the press—as often as is feasible, so long as you two behave yourselves and keep your grades up.”

I roll my eyes. “Sure. Like I’m going to let my grades take a nosedive.” I’m a total straight-A geek. I don’t need my parents to nag me about my grades and Dad knows it.
I’m the kind of wacky person who flips out over a B the way Ulrike flips out over dance details.

As the slow song winds down and Helmut manages to weave in the first beats of a hip hop tune, a few people start to leave the dance floor and wander toward the refreshment table.

“You’re on,” Dad says. He glances toward Anna. I follow his gaze across to the DJ’s area, and I see her look over at us and smile.

“I think I’ll go do the chaperone thing. Make sure no one’s getting into trouble.”

“Yeah, you do that,” I tease. It’s like I can feel the sap in the air, between his giddy-lovey mood for Anna and his sense that he’s sufficiently parented me for the night.

Gag.

I intentionally don’t look in Dad and Anna’s direction. But as I wave to Maya, who’s still groovin’ on the floor (man, can that girl move), I realize that Steffi is still nowhere to be seen.

Not. Good.

I can’t imagine her missing out if she thought this was the cool place to be tonight, which—contrary to early indications on ticket
sales—it obviously is. But as I hand out bottles of water and try to calculate change, I tell myself that I need to believe in Georg. To forget all about Steffi. Even if she’s at the same party where he is—probably by sneaking her way in—it’s not like anything’s going to happen.