“Maybe he just hasn’t met the right woman.”
Phoebe nodded. “Günter’s told me lots of times, he never planned on getting roped into the institution of matrimony until Cathy swept him off his feet.”
She opened up a blank Word document. “Worst-case scenario, you never hear from him. Best-case scenario, you do. Bottom line, you’ve got nothing to lose.” She passed me her laptop. “I’ll go play on the Wii with Günter. Call me when you’re done.”
This is what I wrote.
Dear Mr. Clooney,
Hello. How are you? I am fine. You don’t know me, so please allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Violet Gustafson (first name because my mom loves flowers, last name because my mom has Swedish parents and after my folks divorced, she had her last name legally changed back to her maiden name and so did I). I am twelve years old. I live in Vancouver, Canada.
But enough about me. I’m really writing to tell you about my mom. Her name is Ingrid Gustafson, and if that name is ringing a bell, it’s because you’ve met her. A long time ago, she did your hair on a movie set. You gave her an autographed picture that said
To Ingrid – May Our Paths Cross Again.
Well, George (is it okay if I call you George?), this is your lucky day!
My mom is awesome. She is thirty-seven years old and very pretty. Everyone says so. She has long brown hair and green eyes and only one slightly crooked tooth. She is average height, five feet five inches, and she has a pretty good body for someone who’s given birth to two children. I won’t lie to you, George, she could probably stand to lose a bit of the spare tire around her middle, but I ask you, how is she supposed to find the time to go to the gym when she is a working single parent raising two kids?
Like you, Ingrid has been married once before, to my dad, whose name is Ian Popischil. If his name is also ringing a bell, it’s because he lives in Los Angeles too, so perhaps you’ve met. He’s a TV director. Ian is remarried to an actress named Jennica Valentine. I suppose you may have met her too, but trust me, you never want to cast her in any of your movies because, to be blunt, she is not very talented. She was in a show once called
Paranormal Pam
that got canceled after just three episodes, and since then she has just had
little parts, like The Party Girl Who Gets Stabbed to Death in the First Two Minutes of
CSI Miami
, and one of Charlie’s bimbos on
Two and a Half Men.
My dad and Jennica have twins, so the truth is, he doesn’t have much time for us, but that’s okay because I don’t have much time for him either.
Which brings me to the reason I’m writing. My parents split just over two years ago. At first, my mom didn’t date at all. She just cried a lot and drank too much wine. But after a while, thanks to the lousy influence of her so-called friend Karen, she started dating again.
A lot.
The problem, George, is that her taste in men sucks. So I’m taking it upon myself to try to find someone more suitable for her. And I have a very good feeling about you. I am positive that you and my mom would really hit it off. You already did once, ha-ha.
I know you have had many girlfriends (my friend Phoebe says you are a “serial monogamist”) and even one wife a long time ago and that nothing’s really worked out for you. Well, have you ever stopped to consider that maybe you just haven’t met the right woman? I hope you won’t be insulted when I say that perhaps some of those glamorous model types you’ve dated were just using you for your fame and fortune. I wouldn’t put it past them. They can be very calculating.
Just watch
America’s Next Top Model
and you will see what I’m talking about.
My mom, on the other hand, would never use you. She is a talented hairstylist who would not expect you to be her sugar daddy (although I’m sure she wouldn’t say no to the occasional trip to your place in Italy). My mom has always believed in making her own way in life, and no matter where you chose to live, she would get a job (but if I could also recommend, maybe she could work part-time, which would give her a chance to get to the gym and firm up that waistline and allow her to be at home when my sister and I get back from school).
Which brings me to my final point. I understand that you think you’ll never have kids. Well, George, I can offer you the best of both worlds. You would have none of the muss and fuss of babies because you would be adopting two older daughters. As I mentioned, I am twelve and my sister, Rosie, is five. I believe we would make excellent stepchildren, and we would call you whatever you like, whether it’s George or even Dad.
I am enclosing a photo of my mom so you can see that I’m not lying about her looks. I would appreciate a speedy response.
Sincerely,
Violet Gustafson
I called Phoebe into the room when the letter was done. She read it through, and together we made a few adjustments. “This is really good, Violet,” she said, and I could tell she meant it. “He’d be nuts not to want to meet her after he reads this.”
We printed the letter in Cathy’s home office. Then we realized we needed George’s address, so we Googled him again. His home address didn’t seem to be listed, so we had to settle for his management company instead. I addressed the envelope to Mr. Clooney, care of his manager. We put about six stamps on the envelope, just to be safe.
Last but not least, I pulled out a photo from my jacket pocket. I’d taken it from the front of the
Wedding
video at home. Sure, it was a little dated, but I wanted a picture that would make a good first impression. Phoebe handed me a pair of scissors. I sliced Dad out of the photo, crumpled him up, and threw him in the garbage. Then I slipped Mom carefully into the envelope.
Phoebe and I put on our jackets and walked to the mailbox on the corner. For once, it wasn’t raining. And as I dropped the envelope into the box, the sun broke through the clouds.
W
e had gym with Ms. Baldelli for first period on Monday mornings, so I took Rosie to her kindergarten class while Phoebe headed to the change room. Rosie was wearing her fairy wings again. I’d managed to fix the tear with a piece of duct tape. At first, Rosie hadn’t been convinced.
“It doesn’t look very nice,” she’d said.
“What if I put a matching piece of tape on the other wing?” I’d suggested. “That way it will look like a matching silver marking.” That had done the trick.
As I put her backpack into her cubby, she whispered to me, “That’s Isabelle, the girl who tore my wings.” I glanced over. Isabelle was a few cubbies down. A couple of girls were gathered around her, and she was showing them her shoes. They were pink,
and when she walked, little lights lit up around the heels.
Then she spotted Rosie. “What’s that on your wings?” she asked.
“Silver marking,” Rosie replied.
“No, it’s not. It’s tape!” Isabelle retorted. “It looks dumb.” Then she turned her back on Rosie and bounced up and down on her shoes.
Rosie took her wings off and handed them to me. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to wear them today.” She stuck her thumb in her mouth and headed into class.
I wanted to throttle Isabelle. Or at least pinch her, hard. Instead, I smiled as I walked past her and her little posse.
“Great shoes,” I said. “If you’re three.”
Yeah. I know. Putting down a five-year-old is cheap, but it still felt good. I left the room with a spring in my step, slinging Rosie’s wings over my shoulder, and smacked right into Jean-Paul.
“Hey,
Pamplemousse.
You plan on flying away?” he asked, glancing at the wings.
Pamplemousse?
“They’re my sister’s.”
“They go with your shoes,” he continued, indicating my pink and white polka-dot high tops. “You love Converse, huh?”
I nodded. “I have six pairs.” We started walking down the stairs together toward the change rooms, and I tried to remind myself that this was an entirely normal
and non-meaningful thing to do and that my body could stop feeling all tingly.
“Where do you get them?”
“My dad sends them to me from L.A. They’re cheaper there.”
“Your folks are divorced?”
I nodded.
“Mine, too. My dad’s still in Winnipeg.” We arrived outside the change rooms. “Well. See you in gym,” he said, then he made a face. “I hear we’re doing line dancing.”
I pushed open the door to the girls’ change room. Phoebe was already in her gym shorts. I must’ve looked like I was in shock or something because she said to me, “What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. Then, as nonchalantly as I could: “Jean-Paul just talked to me. He called me
Pamplemousse.
”
“He called you Grapefruit! That is adorable!”
“Please,” I said. “He was just being nice.”
Phoebe simply smiled, an annoying smug little grin.
“Hey, Violet.” Ashley and Lauren appeared from around the corner, where the mirrors were. I could tell from their faces that they’d been slathering on makeup. For gym.
“Guess who I saw this morning?” Ashley continued, smirking.
“How would I know?”
“Your mom. Outside Bean Around the World.”
“So?”
“So, she was making out with some dorky-looking guy with red hair.”
Oh.
I pulled my gym shirt over my head, hoping to hide what I knew was a bright red face.
“Your mom gets around, doesn’t she?” Ashley said. “Remember last year, when she dated our sub?”
Groan.
As if I could forget.
What happened was this: In sixth grade, we’d had a sub for a few weeks. His name was Paulo Cassini, and he filled in for our teacher while she dealt with a family emergency. Mom met him at parent-teacher night, and he started making eyes at her. Right in front of me. Right in front of a few of the other parents. It was barf-inducing.
They only went out a handful of times because he was a Dungeons and Dragons fanatic, and it was all he ever talked about. Their short dating history might have remained yet another yucky-but-brief Gustafson Family Secret if Ashley and some of her friends hadn’t seen them together at the Park Theater one night, standing in the popcorn line, holding hands.
Honestly, parent-teacher dating should be outlawed.
“If I were you,” Ashley said now as she applied one more layer of lip gloss, “I’d want my mom to nip the PDA’s in the butt.”
“Bud,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nip the PDA’s in the
bud
. You said
butt
.”
Ashley gave a dismissive laugh. “Come on, Lauren,” she said, and Thing Two obediently followed Thing One out of the room.
Claudia was sitting next to Phoebe, wrapping her big wad of gum in a piece of paper so she could reuse it later. “You’re lucky,” she said to me. “I wish my mom was still playing the field. She hooked up with my stepdad two months after my dad left. He’s a total jerk-face. Soon as I’m sixteen, I am out of there.”
The door to the gym swung open, and Ms. Baldelli blew her whistle. “Girls, get a move on!”
We were spared doing line dancing because Ms. Baldelli forgot her CD player. She made us play dodge-ball instead. Every ball I threw was aimed at Ashley’s head, but no matter how hard I tried, I never hit her.
But she got me in the nether regions. Twice.
“So, Violet. What do you think of this new guy your mom’s seeing?” Karen asked me, without glancing up
from her laptop. She was sitting in one of the salon chairs, her feet crossed under her. Phoebe and I sat beside her at my mom’s workstation, flipping through copies of
US
magazine and
Entertainment Weekly.
Rosie sat in her favorite chair farther down, spinning in circles. Once in a while, I would glance up at George Clooney’s grinning face and try to send him positive vibes.
I looked straight at Karen and pretended to stick a finger down my throat.
“You don’t like any of your mom’s boyfriends,” Karen replied.
“That’s because they’re all losers.”
“Hey. I set her up with some of those so-called losers.”
“Yeah, and they were the worst ones of all.”
Karen gave me the hairy eyeball, but she didn’t contradict me because she knew I spoke the truth. She’d set my mom up with Carl, the first guy Mom had dated post-Dad. He seemed like a sweet funny guy at first. But Mom quickly found out that he went all Jekyll and Hyde when he drank. After she told him she didn’t want to see him anymore, he showed up at our house one night, drunk as a skunk. Mom wasn’t home. When I refused to let him in (
duh
), he picked up a rock and hurled it through our front window.
The Brights saw it happen. They were the ones who called the cops. We never saw Carl again.
Karen was also the one who set my mom up with Jonathan. In some ways, Jonathan had been the worst of all.
“She seems to like him,” Karen said now. “What’s his last name again? Frankfurter?”
“Wiener,” I said. “Dudley Wiener.”
Karen cackled. “That’s a truly unfortunate name.”
“Shouldn’t you be working or something?” I said. My mom was helping Mohamed give a woman a perm a few chairs down.
“I’m here if the students need me,” she replied. “I’m just checking my Facebook page. Speaking of which, how come you haven’t friended me yet?”
Phoebe and I peered at each other over our magazines. We were both on Facebook; all the kids at school were. Personally, the thrill of Facebook had worn off pretty quickly for me, possibly because I had just nine friends and one was Phoebe and one was my mom. I only checked my page about once a week. So when I’d logged on last week and seen
1 friend request
, I won’t lie, I was kind of excited. Until I found out the request was from Karen. The urge to hit IGNORE was overwhelming. But instead I hadn’t hit CONFIRM or IGNORE. I just logged out instead.
“Oh,” I lied, “did you try to friend me? I haven’t been on in such a long time.”
“Well, friend me back. I’m about to break the three hundred mark.”
Honestly, it was hard to believe Karen was in her late thirties sometimes.