Royally Jacked (Romantic Comedies, The) (2 page)

He makes a reservation for Winslow, then grins at me as he hangs up the phone. The kind of odd grin that gives a girl a real scary feeling, like things are going to get even worse.

“This will work out well,” Dad says as he helps himself to a plate of stir-fry. “A few things have come up I haven’t told you about, and we have a few decisions to
make. Dinner out is as good a time to discuss them as any.”

At the uncomfortable smile on his face, I’m wondering, what could possibly come up besides my dinner?

“They’re going to make you choose,” Jules tells me, in a been-there, done-that tone of voice. She s got her hands under her pits to keep warm, since we’re huddled behind the Dumpster at Wendy’s, where Jules works part-time. It’s the only place we can safely sneak a cigarette without getting caught. Not that I’m a real smoker—it’s an emergency-situation-only thing. I can’t stand for my clothes and hair to reek. But I decided that telling my two closest friends, Julia Jackson, aka Jules, and Christie Toleski, that my parents have announced plans to divorce constitutes an emergency.

Of course, I left out the Gabrielle part. I’ll figure out a way to explain her later. And just so they wouldn’t think I was totally pathetic, I slipped in the fact Dad is taking me to the Caucus Room. It took me around two seconds to realize telling them about the dinner was a mistake, or at least,
mentioning the part about Dad telling me we had some decisions to make.

Christie takes a long drag on her cigarette, which is only, like, the second or third she’s ever smoked in her life. She’s five-foot-nine and blond with decent-size boobs, plus she’s totally smart and athletic, so she doesn’t have many emergency situations. She’d be completely popular if she didn’t hang out with me, Jules, and the rest of our gang. I’m sure she realizes it, since the snob kids invite her to their parties every so often, but we’ve been buds since before kindergarten, and I think she worries about being backstabbed by the cool crowd. We’d never do that to her.

“I don’t know, Jules,” Christie frowns. “Wouldn’t both her parents sit her down to discuss it? You know, do the family meeting thing?”

Jules shakes her head. Her parents got divorced when we were in third grade, her mom remarried the next year, and then divorced the guy the summer before we started sixth grade. Her parents then remarried—each other, of all people—when we were in eighth grade. So Jules is
kind of an expert on the marriage/divorce thing. “Not to be rude about it, Val, but what other decisions could your dad possibly mean? My guess is that he wants you to live with him, so he’s going to take you out, tell you that you have a choice, then give you that look that says he really wants you to choose him.”

As the last word leaves her mouth, though, her eyes suddenly bug out, and she starts to bounce, which makes me nervous. I hate when Jules gets bouncy. “Oooh, unless he’s seeing someone! Do you think he’s seeing someone? Maybe he’s trying to hide it by saying you can live where you want, but he’ll kinda pressure you to stay with your mom. Just so he can have time alone with his new girlfriend.”

I roll my eyes at her. “There’s no new girlfriend, Jules.” Not in Dad’s case at least. But Jules sounds excited about this possibility, and it pisses me off.

She’d better not tell anyone about the divorce. I consider this A-list-only information right now, and Jules and Christie are the only friends on my A list besides Natalie Monschroeder. Natalie got grounded yesterday
for dropping out of Girl Scouts without telling her parents, which is why she couldn’t make it to Wendy’s. But since we all quit Scouts after fifth grade, and her parents wouldn’t let her, I figure she’s dealing with her own problems right now and doesn’t need to hear about my cruddy life.

Jules blows out a puff of smoke and gives me this poor-ignorant-you scowl. “There’s almost always a girlfriend involved, Valerie. Otherwise why would they get divorced out of the blue like that?”

I try not to look right at her. If only she knew!

As a car engine revs nearby, Jules glances around the Dumpster to see if anyone is watching us as she talks. You can never be too careful, and none of us wants to get busted with cigarettes again. Our parents would assume we were secret chain smokers and would ground us for the rest of sophomore year.

“I can’t see your mom having an affair,” Christie says, which makes me cringe inside. “She’s the total soccer mom. But you have to admit, your dad’s always going to those upscale parties, and he gets to
meet tons of famous people at the White House. Maybe one of them hit on him, and your mom thought—”

“Lets just say there’s no girlfriend. Okay?”

“Fine,” Jules says, but it’s obvious she doesn’t believe me. And I don’t want to clarify by pointing out that my mom is the one asking for the divorce, not my dad.

“So who are you going to choose?” Christie asks. “If that’s what dinner is really about.”

“I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought about choosing. I know that sounds stupid beyond belief, given that my parents are now going to be living in two different houses, but it just didn’t occur to me. I guess, in my gut, I kind of believed my mom would get over it and move back home. Pull an Anne Heche and decide she’s not gay after all.

I’m getting way depressed now. Maybe I should have told just Christie, and not Jules. Or kept my stupid mouth shut entirely.

“Your mom’s going to get the house,
right?” Jules asks. “The wife always gets the house. It’s kind of a rule.”

“Um, actually, she’s getting an apartment and my dad’s going to stay in the house.” I really don’t want to get into the details with Jules, so I grind what’s left of my cigarette against the side of the Dumpster and I lie. “I think she wants to feel independent or something.”

“Damn.” Jules looks at her watch. “Gotta go. If I’m late coming off break, I’m gonna get fired.”

She got in trouble Monday for not cleaning the Frosty machine the right way, so she promised the manager she’d redo it today. She’s dying to get moved up to cash register so she doesn’t smell like french fry grease at the end of every day.

“Listen, Val,” she sniffs, “I’d normally tell you to stay with your mom, but if you’re going to lose your bedroom and have to move into some tiny apartment—”

“But how could you not live with your mom?” Christie says in shock. Christie’s been coming over to my house since preschool, so she knows my mom pretty well. At least, the way my mom used to be.

“I don’t know,” I admit. And it’s true. I can’t imagine not living with Mom. But I feel the same way about Dad. I don’t want to not live with either of them.

Jules drops the butt of her cigarette into the snow, then pops two cinnamon Altoids into her mouth and passes the box to me before Christie steals one. “I gotta go. Call me tonight and tell me what happens. ’Kay, Val?”

“It’s probably going to be late.”

“First thing tomorrow then,” she says, tucking the Altoids box back into the pocket of her black polyester Wendy’s pants. “But call by nine. It’s Saturday, so I’m on the lunch shift.”

Once she’s crossed the parking lot and ducked into the back door, Christie lets out a painful-sounding sigh. “Don’t listen to her, Val. You know how she is.”

“Yeah.” I give her my “whatever” shrug.

“It’ll be okay. And you know I’m here for you if you need me. Anytime, day or night. Just call me,” she says, adjusting her hood so her hair is tucked inside.

It kills me how pretty Christie is without even trying. She had one zit—
one
—a
couple months ago, and it was very nearly a cigarette-smoking emergency situation, she was so certain her boyfriend would dump her. As if. Over a
zit
? I wanted to smack her back to reality. First, over her lack of zittiness (is that a word?), and second over her boyfriend insecurity. He’s totally into her. Still, she could do a lot better than Jeremy Astin, if you ask me. But Christie’s way nice, and pretty much my best friend, so I don’t want to hurt her feelings by telling her this. She loves Jeremy, even if he is a little too much into cross-country and runs in public wearing those icky nylon shorts, even when it’s icecold outside.

I’m just about to say good-bye and walk back to school to get my junk out of my locker when I see a familiar green Toyota SUV in the drive-thru. It’s my mom and, to my horror, Gabrielle is with her. Why I have no clue, since Gabrielle is a crusader-type vegetarian.

Before I can say something to Christie to keep her from seeing them, she grabs the sleeve of my coat. “I almost forgot to tell you, with Jules here and you telling us
about the divorce and all, but Jeremy said that he and David were talking in the library yesterday, and your name came up.”

Since I have had a crush on David Anderson since, like, kindergarten, I actually look away from my mom and Gabrielle and pull Christie another step behind the Dumpster.

“Are you serious?” I ask, trying not to sound too excited, even though Christie knows I would just die to go out with him. “Who brought me up, David or Jeremy?”

“David did. He asked Jeremy if you were with anybody.”

My heart does an instant flip-flop in my chest. You have got to see David to know why. He’s a total, one hundred percent hottie. Surfer-blond, with these fantabulous green eyes I can’t even look into, they’re so freakin’ gorgeous. He could bump Paul Walker or James Van Der Beek right off the cover of
Teen People
and females everywhere would rejoice, I kid you not. Even those who are still whining about
Dawson’s Creek
going off the air. And even though he’s never asked me out, I think we’d totally gel. I mean, we share a group of
friends, we both have parents in politics, and we’re hyper about our grades. “What did Jeremy say?”

“He played it cool. Said he didn’t think so, but he knew a couple of other guys liked you.”

“Wow. Good one.” Jeremy just scored major points with this, as long as David didn’t catch on to the bluff. Maybe Jeremy does deserve Christie after all. “Then what happened?”

“That was it. But Jeremy definitely got the impression he’s interested. Like maybe we could all four go out sometime.”

I think I am going to collapse. Right behind the Wendy’s Dumpster, snow and old french fry muck and all.

Christie is grinning now, and I know she’s excited she distracted me from the whacked situation with my parents. “Jeremy told me about it before saying anything to David because he wasn’t sure how you felt. If you want, I bet he could hook you up. Seriously. Would that not be the
best
?”

“Well, yeah!” I force myself to chill, though. “But don’t make me sound desperate or anything. And don’t tell Jeremy that
I’m
too
into David, if you haven’t already. That’d kill it right off.”

“Okay. I didn’t say anything to Jeremy, I swear. I wanted to tell you first.”

This is why Christie is number one on my A-list, even if she is Miss Perfect. I guess I’m lucky she’s going out with Jeremy, or David would be all over her. They could be Mr. and Miss Perfect.

Oh, damn. What if David’s only interested in me because I’m Christie’s friend? It wouldn’t be the first time a guy asked me out because he thought it’d get Christie to notice him.

Of course, at exactly the moment this occurs to me, a familiar car horn blasts not twenty feet away, practically rendering me deaf.

“Val-er-ieee! Oh, Val-er-ieee!” My mother is pulling into the parking spot nearest to the Dumpster and has her window down. I see Gabrielle in the passenger seat popping the top off a salad and picking out the croutons. Guess they’re not whole wheat or something.

I brace myself for Christie to ask who’s in the car. Why, why, why me? I hate lying
to my friends, and Christie, of all people, would be most likely to understand.

But I am not ready to deal with this. Not yet, not even with Christie. Maybe I can say Gabrielle’s a neighbor. No, wait, Christie knows all my neighbors. Maybe someone from the Boosters? Or Mom’s book club?

Geez, I despise lying. I don’t think I can do it.

My mom sticks her head out the window and asks if we want a ride. Thank goodness, Christie says no, we’re heading back to school. My mom waves and takes off, but I can tell she’s curious. And so’s Christie. Her mouth is hanging open, and she’s watching the back of the SUV as it rolls out of the lot.

Book club. I’m going to say Gabrielle’s from book club.

Ohmigod.” Christie looks like she’s just swallowed her Altoids the wrong way. “What did your mom do to her hair?”

“Dad,” I whisper, “what’s a timbale?”

I should never have asked him to bring me here. For one, I can’t read half the menu. For two, he still hasn’t said what decisions we need to make.

And for three, I’m still thinking about David Anderson. And the fact that it’s Friday night, which means Jeremy probably won’t see him again until Monday at school, since cross-country season is now over and Christmas break is only a week away. No more Saturday meets or practices where they can get together to discuss
moi
.

“It means that it was baked in a mold,” Dad explains, and I can tell he’s thrilled by
his own knowledge of this useless information. I guess it
is
his job. “In most cases, the dish is cream based.”

In other words, seafood timbale is probably going to be disgusting. “Oh,” I say. “I’m not a fan of creamy.”

Or molds. Only Jell-O should go in molds, and even that’s iffy. But I don’t want to upset Dad, since I did ask to come here and he’s shelling out the big bucks.

“Me, either,” he says. “But you might like the crab cakes.”

I’m not a big seafood person either, but since the rest of the menu’s steak (I definitely don’t like big hunks of meat), I decide to go with Dad and order the crab cakes to start and the poached snapper. It comes with mushrooms, which I do like.

Honestly, though, I could care less about the food. I want to know what this dinner is all about. It’s not just a reward for saving the Mottahedeh from Mom, and we both know it. As soon as the waiter’s gone, I look at Dad. I’m just too scared to ask. Thankfully, he brings it up first.