Do-Over (10 page)

“Maybe when you get home from helping Ulrike we can do something completely laid-back. Rent a movie or play Scrabble. Share some popcorn. We can make it a date night, just not at the hotel with everyone else.”

We’re going to
get
burned out on watching movies in our apartments every night, and even I can only eat so much popcorn, but it’s not like I can really object to one more in-the-palace date night, can I?

“Come on,” he says once we’re at the summit and have gotten our goggles adjusted and looped the pole straps around our wrists. “Let’s go halfway down on this red”—he points out a trail on the map using his pole—“and we can cut over to that black run we did before lunch. Just do the bottom half of it and see how you’re doing.”

Right. I’m tempted to say,
hey, if I make it down without a major wipeout, will you reconsider the dance?
But since I know that’s so not gonna happen, I keep my mouth shut and follow him.

If Georg wasn’t being Mr. Ultra Nice and letting me sleep on his shoulder now that we’re finally off the ski slope and heading back to Schwerinborg, I swear I’d smack him. Hard.

Well, assuming I could find the energy to lift my hand to do it.

He’s been asleep for at least an hour. It’s dark on the road, so all I can see are the vague outlines of trees and mountains. Occasionally there are the far-off lights of some tiny Austrian village. You’d think I’d sleep, too, seeing as I’m actually getting the opportunity to do so with Georg’s arm slung around me in the backseat of the black Mercedes the palace let my Dad borrow. It’s totally cozy, and I can feel Georg’s heart doing its muffled
thrum-thrum-thrum
against my ear, but every time I start to drift off, Dad changes lanes or hits the slightest bump or turn and I jerk awake in pain. My quad muscles are so tight from
doing that insane black run three times that I’m pretty sure I won’t be doing any dancing for weeks. Even if Ulrike pays me to do it. Even if Georg shows up at the Hotel Whatsits and begs me to get my groove thang going. As it is, I can barely sit still in the car.

This is all Georg’s fault. Georg and his insistence that I could do that black run again. And
again
.

I desperately need to get out and stretch.

This is just wrong. I finally, finally have the chance to get all snuggly-buggly with Georg (who somehow manages to ring my chimes even when he’s asleep), and it’s so physically tortuous I can’t enjoy it at all.

Not to mention the fact that my ass hurts. I think I bruised it hitting that ice patch this morning.

I’m about to say something to Dad—point out that we just passed a sign saying there’s an Esso station two kilometers ahead—but he whispers first. “It’s gorgeous out, isn’t it?”

“
Sehr romantisch,
” The Fraulein whispers back before I can respond.

I have zero grasp of German, but
that
I
understand. Gag. She is truly The Predator. I wonder if that’s what
Putzkammer
means. Wouldn’t be surprised.

Dad glances in the rearview mirror, sees Georg’s sleeping face, but I can tell he’s having trouble seeing me, so I close my eyes, fast.

A half minute later I crack open a lid to check out what’s going on in the front seat. Dad is gazing straight ahead, eyes on the road rather than checking me in the rearview mirror. But as my gaze drifts down, I see the unthinkable—or maybe not-so-unthinkable—and literally bite my own tongue in shock.

Dad’s hand is no longer on the gearshift. It’s resting comfortably on The Fraulein’s knee.

Eeewwwwwwwww!

This is so not happening. No, no, no. I close my eyes again, certain my retinas have suffered irreparable damage.

This is almost as bad as when I saw Mom and Gabby kissing in the kitchen while I was home for winter break. (I say “almost” since I have to give Dad props for checking to make sure I was asleep before putting the
moves on his new chick. Mom and Gabby didn’t bother with that kind of thing, and I was sitting right in the next room with my A-lister girlfriends—Christie, Jules, and Natalie—when they kissed. But
still
.)

Now I have a serious dilemma. Not only do I not want to be in the car behind
that
, faking sleep so I don’t have to watch, but I have to do something about my aching legs. And I want to look at my tongue in a mirror, ‘cause now I think it’s bleeding.

Geez, I’m an idiot.

Georg’s stomach rumbles, giving me an idea.

Ten minutes. Ten minutes and I’ll fake being carsick.

That should do it.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: I’ve grown a conscience . . .

Hi Jules,

I know, I know. It’s not the kind of thing you’d recommend, but maybe Christie will appreciate that I actually did the grown-up thing for once.

On the way home tonight, in the car, I saw my
Dad put his hand on Fraulein Putzkammer’s knee. In his semi-defense, he did think I was asleep.

But can you IMAGINE?!?!

Anyway, I was going to do something you’d totally endorse: wait a decent amount of time, then fake like I was carsick and needed to hurl. I figured that’d not only get them to stop the car so I could move my legs (they’re wrecked from skiing) but it’d also get them to cut the PDA.

Instead, at the last second, I actually grew a conscience. To the detriment of my quadriceps muscles, I faked sleep for the last hour and a half of the drive home because I decided that if Georg had seen everything, he’d have told me to be nice to my dear ol’ dad.

Plus, faking nausea struck me as being somewhat juvenile.

Of course, now I can’t sleep (despite the fact I have school tomorrow and it’s two in the morning) because the image of Dad with his hand on this bottle-blond chick’s leg is making me nauseous for real.

I know, I know. The whole situation’s whacked. (And please don’t lecture me about how I’m obviously discriminating against women with dyed hair. I have no such prejudice—as you know since I did your highlights last year—but I have the emotional need to pick on SOMETHING about her, and I
wouldn’t have picked her hair if she’d kept up with her roots.)

But I had to share and knew you’d be appropriately ticked off on my behalf.

Val

To:
[email protected]

Cc:
[email protected]
;

[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: RE: Who the hell is JOHN?

My dear, imaginative friend Natalie (and Christie and Jules, too),

Sorry I didn’t have more time to e-mail when I was in Austria last night, but I’m home now. So I’ll let you in on a fat, juicy secret: John was telling you the truth. He is someone I met through my mom. If you look around next time you’re walking through senior hall at VWHS, you just might see him. (Did you or did you not look at his e-mail address, Nat? Duh!)

And another fat, juicy secret: There is nothing whatsoever going on with him. He probably just wanted to talk or something. Seriously. For one, no senior would be interested in me, let alone from so far away. As you guys are constantly pointing out to
me, I look even younger than I am (which is just
so wrong)
. For two, there’s this guy named Georg . . . I believe I’ve mentioned him? And for three, while John may be cute, I think you’re right, Nat—he’s definitely more your type.

I got back from skiing a few hours ago and it’s just after two a.m. here, so I’m about to go to bed. But I wanted to remind you that Georg came along with me on the ski trip and things are just
wunderbar
with him.

In fact, THE L WORD WAS SAID!

So you can quit imagining anything happening with John.

Your thoroughly tired pal,

Val

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: What’s up?!

Hey John,

My friend Natalie said she saw you at the grocery store and you gave her your e-mail addy to pass along to me. How’s life in Virginia? Schwerinborg—as you might guess—is cold, snowy, and mountainous with an abundance of schnitzel.

Let me know what’s up with you,

Val

The e-mail to John was the hardest. Way harder than phrasing my L-word explanation to the girls (because no way am I going to tell them I said it first).

But even after I wrote and rewrote the e-mail to John six times, I still wasn’t sure what tone I should take. Casual? Friendly? Worried? I ended up attempting casual-yet-concerned, which I then tempered with a pathetic attempt at a joke before hitting send.

Now that it’s gone, though, it occurs to me that it’ll probably end up getting deleted as spam with the generic subject line I used. I am beyond lame.

I stand up and reach around the computer to shut it down so I can take another crack at going to sleep, when my instant message box pops up.

CHRISTIET:
Hey, you there? Is this working?

I blink at the screen in disbelief. Of course I immediately sit down and start typing like the wind.

VAL:
Christie!!!!!!

CHRISTIET:
Yay! You’re awake! Just got your
e-mail. I’m so psyched about Georg and the L word! That rocks!

CHRISTIET:
I installed a new IM program I was hoping would work with your system but I wasn’t sure it would . . . cool!

VAL:
thx!!!

CHRISTIET:
So anyway, I know things are crazy for you right now with your dad and all, but I’m having a meltdown and had to talk to you.

VAL:
?????

CHRISTIET:
Jeremy passed on our Friday date night for the second week in a row. I’d already stopped by the theater and bought the movie tickets because I thought the show would sell out, but it didn’t matter. He said he was just too tired from running and he knew he’d fall asleep during the movie. I ended up driving back to the multiplex to get a refund.

CHRISTIET:
I dunno . . . I know he’s telling the truth about being wiped out, but it’s like he’s not even interested anymore. Could he possibly be THAT tired?

VAL:
no way! what r u gonna do?

CHRISTIET:
I don’t know. I can’t flirt with anyone else. I just can’t.

CHRISTIET:
I don’t expect advice or anything—I just needed to talk to someone. You like
Jeremy. You can be neutral. Jules and Natalie like him, but it’s not the same. If I whine about this to them, they’ll want to corner him and ask him what’s up. Right to his face. Probably in the middle of sophomore hall.

VAL:
so not your style . . .

CHRISTIET:
I KNOW!!

VAL:
I think it’s a phase . . . just be patient, ok? u know u rock

CHRISTIET:
Thanks. Hey, I gotta finish a paper tonight, so I’m going to have to sign off. Talk to Georg about David, okay? Because I bet you haven’t yet.

CHRISTIET:
He loves you, and he sounds like such a fabulous guy, so I know he’ll understand. Just be honest with him. I want things to work out with you two.

VAL:
ditto for you . . .

CHRISTIET:
I hope so. I’ll try to talk to Jeremy soon. Before the marathon, if I can.

VAL:
HUGS!

CHRISTIET:
Hugs to you, too. I miss you tons. I’ll keep you posted.

VAL:
miss u 2 . . . TTYL.

Christie is the strangest person on IM. She has no concept of abbreviations, which
means her messages pop up veerrrrry slowly, since she’s not exactly the world’s fastest typist. At the same time I’m reading her IMs, two new e-mail messages appear in my in-box.

Jules and Natalie, of course.

I glance at the clock. Two in the morning here is eight in the evening there. I should’ve known they’d all be online. Five bucks says Jules and Natalie got on the phone with each other the minute my John e-mail hit their in-boxes. Sheesh.

I know I should go to sleep, but I can’t help it. I click open the message from Nat, decide to answer tomorrow (well, technically later today), then open the one from Jules, only to realize that she put an auto-confirm on her e-mail so she’d know the second I opened it.

Meaning—if I don’t answer Jules immediately, she’s going to fire off another message meant to send me on a guilt trip. And then she’ll tell Nat that I replied and Nat will wonder why I didn’t answer her, too. So I’m stuck answering both.

I swear, Jules has no conscience whatsoever.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Private re: JOHN

Val,

I’m only writing this to you this time.

First—are you serious? Prince Georg said the L word to you?! (Not to rain on your parade, ‘cause I don’t know the guy at all, but is this a common thing with him? I mean, he is a prince. But don’t read into my question that I’m unsupportive, because I’m very supportive! I just want to make sure you’re not going to get hurt.)