Dear George Clooney: Please Marry My Mom (18 page)

But allow me to backtrack for a moment. A lot has happened in the three months since we’ve been back from L.A.

A lot. And it all started on the night we got home.

My mom picked us up at the airport, but she and I didn’t really have a chance to talk until later that night because Rosie had talked a mile a minute from the moment we’d stepped into Mom’s car till the moment she’d gone to bed.

It wasn’t until we’d pulled up outside our house that I realized the muffler wasn’t making any noise.
And, as we climbed the steps, I noticed that the love seat that had sat rotting on our front porch for a year and a half was gone. And the handrail didn’t wobble anymore.

After Rosie was asleep, Mom made us hot chocolate. We sat at either end of the red couch in the living room, facing each other, feet touching.

“So,” my mom said. “George Clooney.” She started to snort with laughter. I didn’t think it was
that
funny, but I wasn’t going to argue because I was relieved I wasn’t in serious trouble. “I can’t believe you tried to set me up with
George Clooney
.” She had to wipe tears from her eyes, she was laughing so hard. “I suppose I ought to be flattered. But I’m also furious, of course. You stole a golf cart. You drove under age. We’ll have to think of a suitable punishment.”

So much for not being in serious trouble.

“Aside from trying to set me up with George Clooney,” she continued, “how was the rest of your visit?”

“Not bad,” I said, and I meant it. I told Mom that after the golf cart incident, Dad and Jennica had taken me, Rosie, Lola, and Lucy to Disneyland for a day, and even though I’d had to hobble around on my crutch, and we’d had to stick to the kiddy rides, it was still really fun. I told her that later in the week, Jennica took us down to the Santa Monica Pier and to Venice Beach, where I was almost positive I saw one of the Olsen
twins, but she was on Rollerblades and mostly a blur so it was hard to know for sure.

I told her that we spent a lot of time by Dad’s pool and that I went into the water every day in my new bathing suit.

I even told her about my breakfast with Dad.

What happened was this: The day before we left, I’d walked into the kitchen to grab some cereal. Dad was at the counter drinking coffee. “Violet, why don’t you and I go out for breakfast?”

“Aren’t you shooting today?”

“Call time isn’t till noon.”

“What about Rosie?”

“She can stay here with the twins.”

So Dad took me to a cool little diner down on Venice Beach, where we ate
huevos rancheros
and drank enormous fruit smoothies. Then we walked along the boardwalk, and he bought me a T-shirt and a ball cap and some flip-flops to bring home to Mom.

We were walking back to the house when he said, “I know I haven’t been a great father to you lately, Violet.”

I didn’t know what to say. I focused on the row of palm trees that lined the sidewalk.

“And I know … when I left your mom … I left you too, in a way. And your sister. I didn’t mean to. But I did.”

I kept staring at those palm trees.

“I thought I could still be a good father to you. But I guess I haven’t done a very good job, after all.”

I couldn’t be sure, but I think he was waiting for me to say that wasn’t true. I didn’t.

“Anyway. I guess I just want you to know … I’ll try harder from now on.”

I nodded. I knew he meant it, but I also knew in my heart that I probably shouldn’t expect things to change too much.

He cleared his throat. “And maybe you can try a little harder, too. You know, don’t steal any more golf carts. Talk to me without the Magic 8 Ball when I call. Do you think you can do that?”

I was quiet for a moment. Then I said,
“Signs point to yes.”

It took him a moment to get it. Then he laughed.

Mom laughed too, when I was done telling her. “Well. Good. I’m glad you two had a chance to talk. And I’m delighted that you had a good time. You ready for your ointment?”

I nodded. She gently pulled off my sweatpants, which were all I could wear since the accident because I couldn’t have any fabric rubbing up against my skin. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly happy to be home.

But, of course, I had one burning question. “Did you give Dudley an answer?”

My mom nodded. I held my breath.

“I told him no.”

I exhaled, relieved.

“I don’t feel ready to go down that path again, at least, not anytime soon.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“But, Violet …” She stopped rubbing the ointment into my leg for a moment and took my hand. “I really like him. I know I made some terrible choices early on, but Dudley is different. All I ask is that you give him a chance. Because I think, if you do that, you’ll see that he’s quite a wonderful human being. He may not be the cutest, or the richest –”

“Or the funniest –”

“But he makes me happy.” Then she added, “Happier in some ways than your dad ever did.”

Even though I was sorely tempted, I didn’t slap my hands over my ears and sing
“La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la”
this time.

“I love you and Rosie with all my heart. But I need a different kind of love, too. Just like you’ll need a different kind of love when you get older, something Rosie and I won’t be able to provide.”

“I’m never falling in love,” I said, thinking of Jean-Paul. “It’s too much trouble.”

Mom smiled. “Well, I hope you change your mind someday. A certain amount of pain is part of life. You can’t stop opening yourself up to people and taking chances just because you’re scared of getting hurt.”

When she’d finished rubbing the ointment into my leg, she said, “Oh, I almost forgot. A boy called here for you, the day after you left.”

My heart did a flip. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He wouldn’t leave a message.”

On Sunday – our last day of freedom before school started again after March Break – Phoebe and I spent the whole day together. I filled her in on all that had happened, and when I was done, she shared her theory with me, which went like this: I’d chosen George Clooney as the perfect guy for my mom because I knew, deep in my heart, that I was pursuing an impossible goal. “And that was the point,” she said matter-of-factly. “Because you didn’t want
anyone
, not even George Clooney, to replace your dad.” I had to take her word for it because Phoebe is very smart about these things.

On Monday morning, as we walked (and I hobbled) to school with Rosie, Phoebe still couldn’t stop talking about my so-called encounter with George. I was wearing one of my new L.A. shirts, but my pants were
the same old sweats I’d been wearing since I got home, thanks to my scabs.

“I think you really saw him,” Phoebe said firmly.

“I do, too,” I replied.

“Then again,” she continued, “your dad could be right. You could have been hallucinating.”

“Yeah, it’s possible,” I said.

“Tell me again what he said. Don’t leave anything out.”

So I told her everything George Clooney had said, or hadn’t said, for the hundredth time.

We dropped Rosie off at kindergarten, then Phoebe and I climbed the stairs to the second floor. I won’t lie; I felt like barfing. There were a lot of people I wasn’t looking forward to facing on my first day back at school.

First up: Thing One. She was at her locker, between us and the classroom, and there was no avoiding her. She had tape across her nose.

Phoebe squeezed my shoulder. “Good luck,” she said. I took a deep breath and approached her.

“Ashley –” I started.

“Keep away from me,” she snapped.

“I just wanted to say I’m really sorry. What you did was really horrible. But I never should have hit you.”

She just slammed her locker shut. “Don’t come near me ever again, Pancake.”

Lauren marched up beside her, arms crossed over her chest. “You heard her, Psycho.”

I thought about pleading my case, but I knew there was no point. So I walked away. I could feel a lot of eyes on me in the hall. Phoebe joined me. “You did what you could,” she said.

I nodded, but the truth was, I felt pretty shaken. “I’ll see you in class,” I told her. “I have to drop off some overdue books.”

As I entered the library, I almost walked right into Jean-Paul.

“Hey,
Pamplemousse.
”

“Hi, Jean-Paul.” I looked at my feet, feeling generally, all-around mortified.

“What happened to you?” he asked, indicating the scabs on my arm.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d like to hear it sometime. Did you have a good March Break?”

“Yeah, I did. How about you?”

“It was good. I spent it in Winnipeg with my dad.”

I kept looking at my feet. It was all very awkward.

“I didn’t go to the dance,” he said. “I told Ashley to forget it. I didn’t want to go with her after what she did to you. I tried to call you, but you’d already left.”

I just could not make myself look up from my shoes.

“I was wondering,” he continued, “if maybe this weekend we could do something, like see a movie, or … something. We could ask Phoebe and Andrew to come, too.”

I finally tore my gaze away from my feet, even though I knew he’d see my full-on blush. “I’d like that,” I replied.

We went to a movie that weekend, the four of us. And the next weekend, Jean-Paul and I went to the aquarium, just the two of us. We’ve been sort-of, kind-of dating ever since. Last weekend he came over to our house for the official Gustafson Girls’ Night, which I think we’re going to have to rename because it’s never just girls anymore, and we all watched
Ocean’s 13,
starring you-know-who. Dudley was there too, and he and my mom kept giggling whenever George was on-screen.

“If George ever did come calling,” Dudley asked my mom, “what would you do?”

“What do you think?” my mom replied. “I’d let him in!”

Jean-Paul held my hand during the whole movie, right in front of everyone. Rosie took turns leaning against him and leaning against Dudley. She didn’t put her thumb in her mouth once.

Jean-Paul is spending the summer in Winnipeg. We’ve promised we’ll e-mail each other every day.
Do I worry that he’ll meet someone else?
Yes.
Do I worry that my heart will wind up getting crushed?
Totally.

But I’m also starting to come around to what Mom said. You have to be open to new experiences. You have to take the bad with the good.

That’s life, after all.

The music started. Cosmo stood at the front, looking drop-dead gorgeous in a tuxedo. His best man, if you could call him a man, stood beside him. I’d met him at the rehearsal dinner the night before. His name was Ambrose, and he couldn’t have been much older than me.

“Violet,” he’d said when we were introduced. “
Olive, evil, live, volt, veil, veto, vole, love.
” Seriously, he said that. “They’re anagrams,” he explained. “Using some of the letters from your name.”

What can I say? Weird with a capital
W.

The crowd rose to their feet. Rosie and I started down the aisle, tossing petals as we went. Phoebe caught my eye and winked at me. And Dudley – who, I must admit, looked almost handsome in his suit – gave us both two thumbs-up.

We stood at the front and watched as my mom came down the aisle, followed by Karen and another
friend of Amanda’s. Mom wore the same dress as Karen, and she looked fantastic. I swear I saw Dudley’s chest puff out with pride as she passed him. I won’t lie, I still thought he was a dork. But as Phoebe likes to point out, there are worse qualities than dorkiness.

And, thanks to him, I’d managed to get a
B
on my last math test. I’d finally relented and let him help me study one night. If I’m honest, he was a pretty good teacher, way better than Mr. Patil. It was like I’d been struggling to learn a new language, and somehow Dudley helped me crack the code, and the math started to make sense. He’d been in the middle of explaining something to me when I’d interrupted him. “If you hurt my mom, I’ll have to kill you,” I said, not glancing up from my math book.

“Coming from any other kid, I would take this as an idle threat. But from you …,” he said. “Seriously, Violet. I’m not going to hurt your mom.”

“But how do I know?”

He shrugged. “You don’t, I guess. You just have to trust me.”

Trust. That’s something I’ve been trying to work on. And looking at Cosmo as he waited anxiously to see his bride, I had to trust that he and Amanda would do just fine. Maybe with some bumps along the way, but still.

The music swelled, and Amanda appeared on her dad’s arm. Her dress was long, off-white, simple but
elegant. Her hair was swept up into a bun on top of her head. She looked gorgeous.

When the bride and groom said “I do,” the entire church erupted into cheers. And I cheered, too.

Oh, I almost forgot.

Something else happened, about two weeks after I got home. A brown envelope arrived in the mail, addressed to me, from the office of George Clooney. This is what it said.

After I’d read the form letter, I slid the photograph out of the envelope. It was the same one his office had sent the first time, a head shot of George, looking right at me, smiling that amazing smile.

Only this time, something was written in the bottom right-hand corner.