roof, the dark wood beams, the romantic balcony and view of the Alps—would distract me enough so I’d mentally start composing an e-mail to Christie to tell her all about it. Or that I’d mellow out given that I can actually hear cathedral bells tolling nearby.
But . . . no. None of it’s working to get me out of my funk.
And apparently my gloom-and-doom mood shows on my face, because the instant Georg and The Fraulein get settled into their rooms and Dad and I close the door to ours, leaving us alone for the first time since we were on the ski lift this morning, Dad lets loose. “Care to explain your attitude, Valerie?”
I frown and look at him like I have no clue what he means. “Come again? What attitude?”
“You’ve been wearing a permanent pout all day. I thought you wanted to ski.”
“I do!” I pull the liners out of my boots like the guy at the ski shop taught me, then prop them near the fireplace so they dry out. “Georg and I had a lot of fun. I even kept up with him on our last run instead of havingto go back to the green trails at the end of the day.”
“Then why so crabby?”
As if he doesn’t know. And frankly, I thought I was being pretty noncrabby , considering the bomb he dropped on me this morning. But the Valerie Shrug doesn’t get me anywhere with him this time. In fact, I think it pisses him off worse.
“Don’t give me that. And don’t give it to Anna again, either.” He makes a little sucking sound with his mouth, like he’s trying to pull back words.
I ignore him and yank off my stinky socks, then riffle through my suitcase, trying to figure out what I want to wear to dinner. I think I can get away with sweats, since this is a ski town and everything, but I’m not sure.
“You’re angry because I’m seeing Anna.” He says it as a statement, not a question.
Whatever.
I assume we’re not going anywhere fancy or crowded, what with trying to look inconspicuous and everything while we’re here. Maybe I should call Georg’s room and see what he’s going to do.
“Valerie, look at me. I’m waiting for an answer.”
I grab a pair of sweats, zip my suitcase closed, then turn to face Dad. He’s standing near the door to the room, his boot bag still slung over his shoulder.
I spread my hands in a sign of surrender. “Look, Dad, what you do is your business. My opinion doesn’t count for anything.”
“It does count.” He sets his boot bag down without opening it. I’m tempted to tell him he’d better air those dogs out. If my boots get gross from a day on the slopes, his have gotta get downright nasty. But before I can think of a polite way to phrase the suggestion—and hopefully change the conversation to a different topic—he continues on, “I’m not going to end things with Anna just because you don’t like the idea of me seeing someone. That’s not fair to me and it’s not fair to her.”
How rude does he think I am? “Geez, I didn’t tell you to quit seeing her, Dad. I wouldn’t do that.” I don’t think.
“Good.” He glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand between our two beds. “We have an hour until we meet Anna and Georgfor dinner. The guesthouse owner recommended a restaurant across the street that serves traditional Austrian food. It sounds like a great place. If you want to take a shower first, why don’t you go ahead?”
I figure that’s a pretty strong hint, so I blow by him and take a super-short shower. When I’m done, I pull on my sweatpants and a warm sweater, then yank my wet hair back into a loose ponytail. I just can’t work up the energy to blow it dry and make it look good when all we’re doing is eating dinner at one of the laid-back places here in town, then coming back up and going to sleep.
As Dad takes his shaving kit into the bathroom (probably to make sure he looks nice for The Predator), I flop on the bed and start channel surfing. Since I can’t find anything in English, I pound on the bathroom door
But . . . no. None of it’s working to get me out of my funk.
And apparently my gloom-and-doom mood shows on my face, because the instant Georg and The Fraulein get settled into their rooms and Dad and I close the door to ours, leaving us alone for the first time since we were on the ski lift this morning, Dad lets loose. “Care to explain your attitude, Valerie?”
I frown and look at him like I have no clue what he means. “Come again? What attitude?”
“You’ve been wearing a permanent pout all day. I thought you wanted to ski.”
“I do!” I pull the liners out of my boots like the guy at the ski shop taught me, then prop them near the fireplace so they dry out. “Georg and I had a lot of fun. I even kept up with him on our last run instead of havingto go back to the green trails at the end of the day.”
“Then why so crabby?”
As if he doesn’t know. And frankly, I thought I was being pretty noncrabby , considering the bomb he dropped on me this morning. But the Valerie Shrug doesn’t get me anywhere with him this time. In fact, I think it pisses him off worse.
“Don’t give me that. And don’t give it to Anna again, either.” He makes a little sucking sound with his mouth, like he’s trying to pull back words.
I ignore him and yank off my stinky socks, then riffle through my suitcase, trying to figure out what I want to wear to dinner. I think I can get away with sweats, since this is a ski town and everything, but I’m not sure.
“You’re angry because I’m seeing Anna.” He says it as a statement, not a question.
Whatever.
I assume we’re not going anywhere fancy or crowded, what with trying to look inconspicuous and everything while we’re here. Maybe I should call Georg’s room and see what he’s going to do.
“Valerie, look at me. I’m waiting for an answer.”
I grab a pair of sweats, zip my suitcase closed, then turn to face Dad. He’s standing near the door to the room, his boot bag still slung over his shoulder.
I spread my hands in a sign of surrender. “Look, Dad, what you do is your business. My opinion doesn’t count for anything.”
“It does count.” He sets his boot bag down without opening it. I’m tempted to tell him he’d better air those dogs out. If my boots get gross from a day on the slopes, his have gotta get downright nasty. But before I can think of a polite way to phrase the suggestion—and hopefully change the conversation to a different topic—he continues on, “I’m not going to end things with Anna just because you don’t like the idea of me seeing someone. That’s not fair to me and it’s not fair to her.”
How rude does he think I am? “Geez, I didn’t tell you to quit seeing her, Dad. I wouldn’t do that.” I don’t think.
“Good.” He glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand between our two beds. “We have an hour until we meet Anna and Georgfor dinner. The guesthouse owner recommended a restaurant across the street that serves traditional Austrian food. It sounds like a great place. If you want to take a shower first, why don’t you go ahead?”
I figure that’s a pretty strong hint, so I blow by him and take a super-short shower. When I’m done, I pull on my sweatpants and a warm sweater, then yank my wet hair back into a loose ponytail. I just can’t work up the energy to blow it dry and make it look good when all we’re doing is eating dinner at one of the laid-back places here in town, then coming back up and going to sleep.
As Dad takes his shaving kit into the bathroom (probably to make sure he looks nice for The Predator), I flop on the bed and start channel surfing. Since I can’t find anything in English, I pound on the bathroom door
Similar Books
