Do-Over (7 page)

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
You, Idiot

Hallo, Val Pal,

Notice the subject line? I couldn’t decide whether to make it “You, Idiot” or “You Idiot.”

Note the difference in meaning without the comma.

Note that I opted for the more polite meaning, which is rare for me. But I still want you to take this seriously.

Yes, I think you’re being an idiot. Christie and I went to the movies last night (new Orlando Bloom flick) and Christie mentioned that you haven’t told Prince Georg about David yet. Are you beyond STUPID? Did
something happen to your brain’s oxygen levels from all that time in airplanes?

What’s he going to think when he finds out??

And you know he’s going to find out.

Take my advice: Come dean, Make it dear that you are NOT interested in David, but that you felt it would be dishonest not to say something. And don’t get all “I’m so sorry” about it, either. Be sorry that you hurt Georg’s feelings (if it turns out that his feelings really are hurt), but don’t tell him you’re sorry for going out with David, like you committed a crime or something, because you didn’t. Act like the thing with David wasn’t a big thing at all, and simply say you wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t think you guys were cooling it or whatever it was you were doing. Does that make sense?

Remember: I still know where you live. And my combat boots still work just fine for kicking your ass if you need a good kicking in order to fess up.

I say all this in love, you know. And because you are one of my dearest friends
and I don’t want you to get yourself in trouble. Again.

Don’t screw this up.

Jules

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: RE: You, Idiot

Jules,

1—I asked Christie to steal your boots when I was home for vacation, so forget about kicking my butt. Besides, violence is never the answer to the world’s ills.

2—I’m thinking of the right way to tell Georg. I realize you have my best interests at heart (most of the time), but I’ve only been home a week, okay?

3—Why was Christie out with you on a Friday night? She said Jeremy’s been busy training for a marathon (so don’t call me the idiot . . . I think Jeremy’s the idiot), but they
always
go out on Friday nights. What gives?

4—My dad has informed me that he has a girlfriend. Or a “something.” He says it’s casual but I’m so not buying it. And get this: Her last name is Putzkammer. Go ahead. Start the wisecracks now. I
simply think of her as The Fraulein. I’m afraid if I even think the name “Putzkammer” while I’m talking to her I’ll start laughing out loud.

5—I’m in Austria skiing this weekend—with Georg, Dad, and her—but will be home tomorrow night.

Trying not to flip out over any of items 1-5, as listed above,

Val Pal

To:
[email protected]

Cc:
[email protected]
;

[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Who the hell is JOHN?

Hey Val,

I’m still grounded for getting my tongue pierced—I swear, it sucks sometimes having a dad who’s a dentist and is obsessed with oral health—but I did get my computer privileges back today (whoo-hoo!) so write to me, okay?

Anyway—I had the most bizarre thing happen this afternoon, which is why I’m cc’ing Jules and Christie on this one.

So I’m at the grocery store with Mom, hanging out in the book and magazine area while she goes to inspect the produce or whatever. I’m flipping
through the latest copy of
Self
(which has a great article on how to do self-tanners right . . . check it out if you can get a copy in Smorgasbord or wherever the hell you are) and this guy I’ve never seen before comes up to me. He asks if I’m a friend of Valerie Winslow’s.

Strange, huh?

I was like, “Um, yeah. Why?” and he says he was wondering if he could have your e-mail address. He says he knows you through your mom but wouldn’t say from where. And he said he really wanted to talk to you.

It was just weird, even though he was totally and completely polite. He was actually kind of hot, in a slightly older sort of way—I’d guess he’s a senior or maybe even a college freshman. He had brown hair that was longish and I’d say he’s six feet tall, maybe even a little more. Anyway, he says his name is John and that “Val will know who I am.” Then he said if I didn’t feel comfortable giving him your e-mail addy, would I give you his? I didn’t have any paper in my purse, but he scribbled it on the magazine, since I figured I was going to buy it at that point anyway.

Val, do you have any clue who this guy is? Because he looks a little too scruffy to be your type (though he’s very much my type . . . assuming
he’s not a lunatic of some sort and stalking you).

Christie? Jules? You guys know anything?

I swear, Valerie—fifteen years and you couldn’t get the guy you wanted to save your life. Now in a mere eight weeks, you not only got him interested (and dissed him), but you’re going out with a prince (which I’m still shocked about) and you have this hot older guy named John after you?

Tell me again—what kind of drugs have you been taking to make you irresistible to guys? Where can I get my hands on some?!

Color me jealous,

Natalie

PS—He was wearing an NYU sweatshirt, if that helps. And his e-mail address is
[email protected]
.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
WHAT THE HELL?

I was about to answer your e-mail. But than I got the one from Natalie.

Um. . . JOHN?

Care to explain that one? Yeah, I’m thinking
you’re in it over your carrot-topped head. Again. And apparently Natalie will catch on at some point that he must go to our high school (given that his e-mail addy is from Vienna West). I bet that tongue stud is causing magnetic disturbances with her brain waves.

I am so gonna kick your ass.

Jules

PS—On a side note to the ass-kicking, I am very sorry about your Dad’s casual “something.” And even more sorry he’s doing that casual something with someone bearing the world’s most hideous last name. That’s even worse than my brother’s name—I still say no one with the last name Jackson should ever name their son Michael. I don’t care how common a name it must be.

PPS—When you’re back home and can e-mail me again, give me all the dirt on this Putzkammer chick, okay? (But realize the Putzkammer Issue does NOT give you a free pass on the David Issue. You’ve still gotta tell Georg.)

To:
[email protected]

Cc:
[email protected]
;

[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: RE: Who the hell is JOHN?

Hiya Nat (and Jules—again—and Christie),

I don’t have much time, ‘cause I’m on a ski trip with Dad and Georg AND this chick from the palace public relations office named Anna Putzkammer. (No, I’m not kidding about her name, and no, I’m not happy about having her along. Christie and Nat, have Jules fill you in since I just e-mailed her with the early report.) I have to meet them in exactly one minute for dinner.

But long story short: JOHN IS A FRIEND.

More later, I promise . . . I’d write more but you know how Dad is about punctuality.

Advising you ALL to relax,

Val

Four

PFLAG John. The John whose last name I didn’t even know (though now I’m guessing it’s Morant. And his middle name must start with the letter P.)

The guy I met over winter break when Mom and Gabrielle pretended like we were driving to church on a random Wednesday night, but ended up dumping me in the church basement—without access to transportation—in the middle of a meeting of Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (
so
not where I wanted to be) with no polite way to escape. Because they thought it would help me with my
issues
with their relationship.

Okay, so the meeting ended up being more normal (and actually more helpful) than I thought it would be when Mom abandoned me there with nothing more than a wave goodbye. But only because John—a normal human being my age—was there. He’s dealing with a situation similar to mine, since his brother, Brad—who’s supposed to be his roommate next year at NYU—came out to their family last year.

What can I say? We bonded. But I never in a million years would have predicted he’d approach Natalie Monschroeder in a grocery store to get my contact info. I haven’t talked much with him about my friends, which means he was probably asking around to see who I hang with when I’m home. What could be so important that he needs to talk to
me
when he has a whole freaking support group right there in Virginia?

Plus, John and I have this whole unspoken thing where we don’t acknowledge that we know each other outside of the PFLAG meetings (well, the one meeting I actually attended) because we don’t know whom each other has told about the whole I-have-a-gay-family-member thing. I wouldn’t
want to say something like, “Hey, how are Brad and his boyfriend?” to John in front of some guy from the rugby team only to find out John hasn’t told his teammates yet. Or that he never wanted them to know.

The fact that he walked right up to Natalie in a grocery store and introduced himself is just . . . well, as Nat said, weird.

“Valerie?” Georg’s accented voice cuts into my thoughts. “You tired? Or is dinner not what you thought it’d be?”

I blink, realizing that the waitress brought out our meals and set them down while I was trying to mentally run through the possible reasons John might have for talking to Natalie. All I could come up with was that he thought Nat was cute and mentioning me was the only way he thought he could meet her, since Nat usually gives off a “leave me alone” vibe, especially if she hasn’t done her hair or anything. “Sorry. Just daydreaming, I s’pose.”

I pick up my fork and poke it into a french fry. While I munch on it—and wow, do the Austrians make their fries warm and salty—I eyeball the hunk of breaded mystery meat on my plate. My dad says it’s
schnitzel and Georg tells me I’ll like it, but I dunno.

It looks like a monster-sized chicken nugget, though apparently schnitzel is veal and is a very popular food here in Austria. (In all German-speaking countries, actually, though somehow I haven’t encountered it in Schwerinborg yet. Go figure.) But Gabrielle would have a fit if she saw me right now. She’d probably talk about the method by which veal is processed and how awful the conditions are for the animals.

In other words, she’d make me feel heartless for eating it.

I cut a tiny square, mentally ask Gabrielle and the cows to forgive me, then take a bite. And . . . Georg was right. It’s awesome. Pretty much like a zestier, heartier version of a chicken nugget—and the exact thing to hit the spot after skiing all day.

“What do you think?” Dad asks.

“Pretty good.” Way,
way
better than the bratwurst or the carrot crap I had at lunch.

The Fraulein smiles at me—one of those overcompensating type of smiles that you know is intended to make you feel at ease but actually has the opposite effect—and
starts telling me how marvelous it is that I get to have the experience of living abroad and how lucky I am as an American teenager to see other cultures. Yak, yak, yak.

I resist the urge to give her the Valerie Shrug and smile right back—probably looking just as stupid as she does—and tell her that I do feel very fortunate. I manage to work some serious gratitude into my voice, too. Dad looks down at his plate, probably because he knows I’m full of it, but I can see that he’s happy I’m trying to be polite.

I want to retch.

When we get back to the guesthouse, Dad says he’s going to stop by the front desk to ask about other area restaurants so we can try a new place for dinner before driving home tomorrow night. Anna offers to go with him, so after I grab the key from Dad, Georg and I head back toward the rooms without them.

“You handled that pretty well,” Georg says as soon as we’re out of hearing range.

“Don’t get me started,” I tell him. I glance back over my shoulder to make sure they aren’t behind us before we head up the stairs, then add, “And what was all that
trash she started spewing about how lucky I am to live here? Do you think she’s working to convince Dad and me that it’s all fabbity-fab-fab here for her own reasons? Because if Dad decides to stay in Europe instead of going back to his job at the White House after the election, then she’ll have a shot at marriage and kids and all her little dreams—”

“Don’t you think you’re getting carried away, Valerie?” Georg sounds odd, like he’s ticked off at me for talking about Anna as if she has ulterior motives for being nice to me, but now that the thought has entered my mind that she might want
kids
with my Dad—because the fact is, she doesn’t have any that I know of and her biological clock’s gotta be ticking fast—it makes total sense.

Oh, shit. Dad and Anna with
babies
. . .

I stop in the hallway near the door to my room and lean my head against the wall. The image of Dad changing a poopy diaper. . . or playing with a toddler who looks up at him and calls him Daddy . . . I just can’t handle it.

“Georg, I know you’re trying to be supportive of me, but telling me I’m getting
carried away isn’t the way to do that. I don’t think you get how it feels to see my Dad with another woman. How awful this is for me.”

I hate the way I sound. I hate the direction my thoughts are going. But careful to keep my voice down, since we’re in a semipublic place, I spew out what’s on my mind anyway, committing what I know is going to be a horrible act of Emotional Vomit.