Free Spin Control by Niki Burnham

Thing.
    Even worse, Gabrielle is looking at me with this dopey, mom-ish smile, and I just know she’s going to tell me how much she’s looking forward to spending this week getting to know me better. I’ve gotta give her props for hanging back and trying to give me and Mom a little space to hug and say hello, but when I give Gabrielle a polite smile—because it’s the nice thing to do and I know it’s what Dad would expect—I still feel like a total faker doing it. Especially when she gives me this I’m so excited you like me look.
    Blond freak. I mean, ICK.
    “I’m really happy to see you, Mom,” I finally say, focusing on her. And it’s no lie—I am glad to see her. Just not her haircut or her girlfriend, particularly. I mean, she’s still my mom and I still love her, even if I feel like I don’t understand her anymore.
    I try to act all happy and smiley as we pick up my suitcase from the carousel, and the two of them ask me about the flight and whether or not I’m hungry. But by the time we’re walking out to Mom’s green Toyota SUV, I’m only half-listening. My bullshit detector’s going off, and I can’t pinpoint why. Since it’s pretty finely tuned, even when I’m tired and grumpy, I figure I’m better off just keeping my mouth shut and watching the two of them.
    Or not watching. As Gabrielle puts my suitcase in the back of the SUV and we all climb in, I figure it out: The two of them haven’t stood within five feet of each other since I came through security.
    This has to be planned. I mean, given how inctense they were with each other in the weeks before I moved to Schwerinborg,they must have discussed ahead of time how to act around me. Decided not to hold hands or do anything mushy.
    While I know they’re doing it so I won’t freak out, it’s having the opposite effect. It’s making me wonder what they’re hiding. What they’re really like together on an everyday basis. And what they think of my being here.
    I’m an intruder in my own mother’s car.
    I grab an elastic out of my purse, yank my hair back into a ponytail, then turn and stare out the window. It feels bizarre to be back in the States, even though I’ve only been gone a few weeks. I’ve lived in Virginia all my life, but only now am I noticing how wide the roads are and how loud people are when speaking to one another compared to how they speak in Europe. And in Virginia, everything is spread out. We have to drive five miles to the mall, and three to a movie theater. School is nowhere near walking distance for 99 percent of the students.
    At the palace, on the other hand, I can walk to anything. School. Shops. Whatever. Even my boyfriend’s—assuming Ihave one. And lots of Europe seems to be that way. City-ish and walkable.
    As we slide from one lane into another and the trees and houses of suburbia flash by out my window, I try to adjust mentally to being home. The air even feels different when I crack my car window, and when Mom turns on the radio to my favorite station, the sound of American English and the obnoxious commercials make my new life with Dad feel very far away.
    And it makes Georg feel far away too.
    I know I shouldn’t be so hung up on him, especially when I’m fairly certain I’ve been dumped, but I can’t help it. All week long he’s all I could think about. I saw him sneaking looks at me in the halls at school and he didn’t seem openly hostile or anything. He even shot me a little smile once when no one was looking—just enough to make me keep my hopes up. On the other hand, he never once approached me—let alone e-mailed me—and I sure as hell wasn’t going to walk up to him.
    I just wish I knew whether his whole avoidance thing is part of the plan for spin control—I mean, is he avoiding me becausehis parents say he has to, and maybe it’s a temporary thing? ’Cause that would explain the looks and the smile. Or is it because he’s figured out for himself that it’s not worth it to