Dear George Clooney Page 5

  Wedding. My mom and dad gazed up at me from the cover, twelve years younger, cheeks touching, grinning smugly like they were in on their own little secret. A cheesy heart framed the picture. The video had been a wedding gift from one of Dad’s friends, a cameraman who’d shot all kinds of footage of their happy day.

  I threw it like a Frisbee across the room, and it skidded to a halt near the opposite wall. Then I continued rearranging the videos. Jennifer Aniston, Alec Baldwin, Drew Barrymore.

  I loved my mom so much. And I hated my dad for turning her into a woman who’d let practically any guy kiss her because she was so desperate to find a replacement for him – someone who would love her the way he’d loved her, but for real this time.

  Jeff Bridges, Gabriel Byrne, George Clooney.

  She deserved a man far, far better than The Wiener, or The Cheater, or The Unibrow, or The Creep. We deserved better.

  I glanced down at the video I held in my hands. And that’s when it hit me. “I’ll be right back,” I said to Rosie.

  I dashed upstairs and called Phoebe, even though it was pretty late. She answered on the second ring. “George Clooney,” I said to her.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s the perfect man for my mom.”

  — 7 —

  The next morning the phone rang at nine, just like it did every Sunday. I was coming down the stairs, showered and dressed in my favorite jeans and a blue T-shirt that said NO LOGO on the front, and yes, I saw the irony. I’d tried spiking my hair up with some gel for an edgier look, but it was already starting to droop because Mom still hadn’t had a chance to trim it and it was getting too long. She and Rosie were in the kitchen, putting frozen waffles into the toaster oven.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I heard Rosie say from the kitchen.

  I’d managed to avoid talking to him since the Turd Incident, and I had no intention of caving in. Plus, I was dying to get Phoebe’s perspective on my idea, which, in the cold light of day, seemed kind of far-fetched and possibly even delusional. So as Rosie settled into a long monologue, telling him about her week in minute detail, I wandered through the kitchen, said hi to Mom, poured myself a glass of juice, drank it, and strolled to the front door. I was slipping on my rubber boots and my rain jacket when Rosie approached, carrying the phone.

  “It’s Daddy.” She held the phone out to me.

  “Tell him I’m not here.”

  Rosie hesitated, still holding out the phone. “But you are here.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are – you’re right in front of me. He knows you’re here. I told him you were here.” She added in a dramatic whisper, “He can probably hear you telling me you’re not here.”

  I just shrugged and raised my voice. “I’m not here.”

  Rosie’s brow furrowed. She lifted the phone to her ear. “She says she’s not here.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I love you too, Daddy. Bye.” Rosie hung up. “He sounded mad that you wouldn’t talk to him.”

  “Whatever.”

  Rosie sighed heavily. “You shouldn’t have fed poo to our sisters, Violet.”

  “They’re not our sisters,” I said. “They’re our half sisters. And Dad’s chosen to be with them instead of us because he loves them more. So do you think he really cares if we visit him or not?”

  Rosie’s face crumpled. Then the waterworks started – great big tears rolled down her cheeks. “He doesn’t love them more! You shut up!” She picked one of my Converse shoes off the floor and threw it at my head, missing me by inches. Then she ran upstairs. A moment later, our bedroom door slammed.

  “Violet, what’s going on?” Mom called from the kitchen. “You’d better be talking to your father!”

  “I’m going to Phoebe’s, bye!” I shouted, as I dashed out the front door.

  I knew I’d be in for it later. I knew Mom would probably ground me again for not apologizing to Dad and Jennica and the twins, and I knew she’d force me to apologize to Rosie and tell her I didn’t mean it.

  But I also knew that what I’d said to Rosie was the truth.

  And sometimes, the truth hurts.

  Cathy answered the door at Phoebe’s house. She was dressed head to toe in spandex, just back from a run.

  “Violet, hi. Günter’s made pancakes. Come join us.”

  I slipped off my shoes and followed her inside. Frozen waffles were okay, but Günter’s pancakes – homemade, thick, and fluffy – were superior in every way.

  Their house was the exact opposite of ours, well-maintained and immaculate. Decorated in beiges and browns, all the furniture matched and none was secondhand. The rooms – even the kitchen, where Günter had just made pancakes – were sparkly clean and clutter-free.

  After breakfast, Phoebe and I headed to her bedroom. Unlike the other rooms of the house, it looked like a bomb had exploded. All the clothes she’d worn for the past week littered the floor. Books were stacked in piles around the room. Three of her drawers were open, their contents spilling out. Her parents had given up trying to get her to keep her room tidy a long time ago, and now they just asked her to keep the door shut so they didn’t have to look at it.

  Two of her walls were covered with giant collages of skinny models from magazines. “Something to aspire to,” she would say, which was crazy. Phoebe is gorgeous. She has long, straight, shiny black hair, perfect skin, and dark brown almond-shaped eyes. I would kill to have her looks. But Phoebe just couldn’t see it, and it was all thanks to Thing One and Thing Two.

  What happened was this: Phoebe and I had been hanging around the swings at recess in sixth grade when we’d heard giggling nearby. Ashley and Lauren were sitting at a picnic table, checking us out. Claudia was with them. Ashley leaned into Lauren and Claudia and whispered something, and Lauren burst into a fit of giggles. Claudia just rolled her eyes.

  After school, we caught up to Claudia at her locker and asked her what Ashley had said about us.

  “She gave you nicknames,” Claudia told us as she blew an enormous bubble with her gum.

  “What nicknames?” Phoebe asked.

  “You really want to know?”

  We nodded, but our stomachs clenched.

  “Piggy and Pancake. Pancake, as in ‘flat as a.’ And Piggy, as in … well. You know.”

  Claudia hadn’t told us to be mean; she’d told us because we’d asked. But we felt like we’d been punched in the gut.

  Phoebe even cried a little on the way home that day. “It’s baby fat,” she said. “Cathy says it’ll disappear when I have a growth spurt.”

  “Your mom’s right. And anyway, you’re not fat. You’re super-pretty.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s true. And at least you didn’t get called Pancake,” I said, gazing down at my flat chest.

  “Piggy is worse,” she sniffed.

  That night we’d nicknamed Ashley and Lauren Thing One and Thing Two. It didn’t change anything, but it did make us both feel a little bit better.

  ——

  Now that we were alone in her room, Phoebe agreed that my idea was a long shot. “George probably gets all sorts of proposals every day. Some might even include photos. You know – ones that leave nothing to the imagination.”

  She grabbed her laptop from under a pile of clothes on her bed and turned it on. “But, on the other hand, as Cathy likes to say, nothing ventured, nothing gained. And you have an ace up your sleeve: Your mom’s already met him.”

  Phoebe punched George Clooney into the Google search engine. We got four million, four hundred thousand hits. This is what we learned.

  GEORGE CLOONEY FACTS

  Not only is George C. a great actor, he is also an environmentalist and an advocate for lots of good causes.

  He loves animals and had a Vietnamese pot bellied pig for years. He was heartbroken when the pig died.

  He’s been voted sexiest man alive by People magazine, twice.

  He is friends with that
other over-forty hottie, Brad Pitt.

  He is a practical joker.

  He likes to ride motorcycles.

  He has a second home on Lake Como, in Italy.

  He’s been married once, a long time ago.

  He’s dated lots of women since then, mostly models.

  He’s vowed he will never marry again.

  Number 10 was discouraging. “As Cathy also likes to say,” Phoebe said philosophically, “never say never.”

  “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.

  — 8 —

  We 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.”

  “T
hey 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.