Dear George Clooney Read online

  Mom tore down the stairs. “What happened?” She grabbed Rosie, who was sobbing by now, and hugged her tight, not caring for one moment that she, too, was getting covered in batter.

  “He hit her,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “She got chocolate all over my suit!” Guy shouted. “This is Hugo Boss!”

  Mom flipped. She told him that he was never, ever to lay a hand on her child. He told her he’d be sending her the dry-cleaning bill. She told him that he could take his dry-cleaning bill and shove it up his bum, except she didn’t use the word bum.

  Needless to say, we never saw Guy again. Case #1 closed.

  CASE #2: JONATHAN FRYE

  Of all the guys my mom dated post-Dad, he was the one who came closest to sweeping her off her feet. And she wasn’t the only one who fell for him – we all did. He was handsome; he was a successful lawyer; and he liked Rosie and me. He’d always show up with flowers for my mom and little toys for us.

  Karen introduced Mom to Jonathan at a party, and they hit it off right away. I could tell that Mom was really falling for him because our house hadn’t been that clean since before Dad left. Jonathan was a neat and tidy kind of guy, so even though she’d be pooped after work, Mom would get out the vacuum cleaner or the duster and clean for a while. I even saw her wash the floors once or twice.

  Jonathan would take her out at least twice a week, and he would have supper with us at least once a week, and he would call her every night before she went to sleep.

  I even started telling my dad about Jonathan on our Sunday-morning phone calls. “He’s a great guy. Super-handsome. He makes tons of money. And he treats Mom really, really well.”

  “Huh. Well, that’s great,” he’d say, and I could tell that only part of him meant it.

  “We spend a lot of time with him, actually. Way more time than we do with you.”

  I laid it on pretty thick.

  I even started fantasizing about what it would be like if Jonathan became our stepdad. I’d lie in bed at night thinking about it, and it would help me fall asleep. We’ll probably move to a much nicer house, I’d think. Maybe he’ll teach me how to play basketball. My dad had promised to do this with me, then he’d left. Maybe he’ll kiss us on our foreheads at bedtime, along with my mom, and leave the hall light on for Rosie until she falls asleep. Maybe he’ll let me ride on his shoulders once in a while, even though I’m getting too big.

  But after they’d been dating for about four months, things cooled off. There were nights when he didn’t phone. Sometimes my mom would call him, but there would be no answer. Then he started canceling some of their plans, saying he had to work late.

  That’s when Phoebe and I decided to walk in the footsteps of Harriet the Spy.

  The next time Jonathan canceled a date with my mom, Phoebe told her parents she was going to my house to study. I told my mom I was going to Phoebe’s house to study. Armed with binoculars and plenty of snacks, we took a bus to Jonathan’s condo in the West End. It was a really nice place, right across the street from English Bay, with a tree growing on the roof. We stood on the beach side of the street, and from our position we could see right into his second-floor apartment. The blinds were open, but he wasn’t home.

  We hung out for over an hour. Because it was spring, it was still light out, even though by this time it was eight o’clock. The hot-dog vendor nearby kept giving us funny looks. We were just about to pack it in when we saw Jonathan. He was walking down the street arm in arm with a woman in a short black skirt and high heels. He took out his keys, and they disappeared into his building together.

  “Maybe it’s his sister,” Phoebe said.

  A few minutes later, we saw them in his apartment. We both lifted our binoculars to get a better look.

  Jonathan and the woman started to make out, right in front of the window. After a few minutes, Jonathan closed the blinds.

  “Probably not his sister,” Phoebe said.

  We lowered our binoculars. For some reason, I had an overwhelming urge to cry. That wasn’t just my mom’s boyfriend up there with another woman. It was my fantasy stepfather.

  So I did cry. The hot-dog vendor stared at us. Phoebe bought two dogs from him, and he handed me a stack of extra napkins so I could blow my nose. The two of us headed back to the bus stop, eating our hot dogs and wondering how we were going to break the news to my mom.

  ——

  What happened was this: The next time Jonathan came for dinner, I invited Phoebe over for moral support. When we were halfway through the meal, I just came right out and asked, “So, Jonathan, who was that woman you were with last week?”

  Jonathan looked at me, perplexed. “What woman?”

  “You know, the one you were kissing in your apartment.”

  Jonathan almost choked on his pasta. “You have quite the active imagination, Violet.” He tried smiling, but he just looked constipated.

  “Violet, what are you talking about?” my mom said in a quiet voice. Rosie had gone really quiet, too.

  I didn’t answer. I just looked at Jonathan, my heart racing. I was hoping there might actually be a logical explanation.

  But all he said was “I don’t want to discuss this in front of the kids.”

  So Mom made the three of us go upstairs.

  We could hear the yelling from our bedroom. Poor Rosie was in tears. “Why would he kiss another lady when he could kiss Mommy any time he wants?” she asked.

  Phoebe and I tried to take her mind off things by playing Operation with her, but Rosie just threw the wrenched ankle and the broken heart down an air vent. Then she had a tantrum and locked herself in the bathroom, and Phoebe and I couldn’t get her out.

  Jonathan left about fifteen minutes later, and Mom came upstairs with a screwdriver and took off the whole doorknob in order to get Rosie out. After she’d rocked Rosie to sleep, she told Phoebe and me to come downstairs. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I figured at the very least we’d get a thank-you.

  Nope. Mom was furious with us – for lying to her and to Phoebe’s parents and for spying on Jonathan. But she never saw him again.

  Mom wasn’t herself for quite a while after that. She called in sick to work for a full week and barely left her bed. I took over making breakfast and packing lunches for Rosie and me and getting us out the door for school, and, come to think of it, I’ve been doing all of those things ever since. When we’d come home, Mom would still be in her robe, her hair unwashed. After the third day, she started to smell a little. Karen and Amanda took turns coming over in the evenings. Amanda would bring different herbal teas; Karen would bring booze.

  It was like the whole thing with my dad all over again, but in some ways, this was even worse.

  “It’s the cumulative effect,” Amanda tried to explain to me one night. “I think she’s wondering if all the men she decides to trust will disappoint her in the end.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have told her,” I said.

  Amanda sighed. “You were trying to do the right thing. Your mom knows that.”

  After a week, Mom went back to work, but I’d still catch her crying at the weirdest moments, like when we’d all be watching reruns of Friends. I wasn’t doing too great, either. One day, I locked myself in the bathroom and cut off all my hair. I don’t know why I did it, I just had this urge. A few days later, I vowed to myself that I would never, ever have a boyfriend.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Phoebe said when I told her.

  I shrugged. “A lot of single women lead rich and fulfilling lives.”

  “How are things going with your mom and Jonathan?” my dad asked the next time we spoke. My mom was in the room, reading a magazine.

  “Actually,” I said, “they broke up.” My mom glanced up from her magazine.

  There was silence on the other end for a moment. “What happened?”

  “Jonathan was putting pressure on her,” I told him, looking my mom in the eye. “He wanted to settl
e down and get married. Mom wasn’t ready to get that serious. She loves being single.”

  “Oh,” Dad replied. “Oh.”

  For the first time in weeks, my mom smiled.

  — 11 —

  “Subject is female, approximately forty years of age, mildly attractive if you ignore her pear shape. Over,” Phoebe said through the walkie-talkie. She was walking outside Dudley’s store, which was at Eleventh and Main. The store was called, I kid you not, Skip to My Loo.

  Since I was the recognizable one, I was on the other side of the street, crouched behind a newspaper box. I peered at the store through my binoculars. I could just make out Dudley, talking to the pear-shaped woman.

  “They don’t seem to know each other,” Phoebe said through the walkie. “I think she’s looking for towels. Over.”

  Sure enough, five minutes later the woman left the store with a great big shopping bag.

  I lowered the binoculars and sighed. We’d been on our stakeout for over an hour, and, in spite of the clear skies and my extra fleece, I was bored and cold. Contrary to what TV shows make you believe, detective work can be a snore.

  “Hi, Pamplemousse.”

  I almost jumped out of my skin. Jean-Paul stood over me. He was wearing his bomber jacket and jeans, with a gray-and-blue scarf around his neck and a matching toque on his head.

  He looked spectacular. From a strictly objective perspective, of course.

  “Jean-Paul!” I squeaked. “What are you doing here?”

  “My guitar teacher lives a few blocks away. I booked an extra lesson since we had the day off school.” I finally registered the guitar case he was carrying. And I called myself a detective.

  “Who are you spying on?”

  “What makes you think I’m spying on anyone?”

  “You’re crouched behind a newspaper box with binoculars around your neck and a walkie-talkie in your hand.”

  “I’m not –”

  The walkie crackled to life. “Is that Jean-Paul?” said Phoebe’s disembodied voice. “Did you tell him we’re in the middle of a stakeout? Over.”

  I sighed. “No, but I will now. Over.”

  Phoebe crossed the street to join us, and the three of us ducked into a coffee shop. Jean-Paul ordered a hot chocolate, and Phoebe and I split a tea since we only had a toonie. At first, I just told him the basics: that Dudley was my mom’s new boyfriend and we wanted to make sure he was legit. But Jean-Paul asked a lot of questions, and next thing I knew, I’d poured out the whole story – about my dad leaving us for Jennica; about Guy; about Jonathan.

  When I was finished, he was really quiet.

  “I guess it sounds crazy,” I said, and I suddenly felt a huge knot in my stomach. What if Jean-Paul wasn’t as nice as he seemed? What if he chose to blab everything I’d just told him to the other kids at school? Phoebe and I were already far enough down the food chain. We didn’t need something like this to send us tumbling even farther.

  “Before we left Winnipeg,” he said, “my mom was dating this guy for a while. Jack. I couldn’t stand him. He tried to boss me around all the time. I was almost relieved when she got the job out here – even though it took me away from my dad – because it took us far away from Jack.”

  He looked me right in the eye. “So, no, I don’t think you’re crazy. You’re just trying to protect your family, right?”

  “Right!”

  Phoebe squeezed my thigh under the table, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: Jean-Paul was one hundred percent awesomeness. From a strictly objective perspective, of course.

  When we’d finished our drinks, Phoebe said, “I’m going to go into the store now.”

  “I can go in too,” Jean-Paul said. “When Phoebe gets back.”

  Phoebe and I looked at him, surprised. “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “I want to. It would be fun, going undercover.”

  So we agreed: Phoebe would go in first to see what she could find out, and Jean-Paul would go in after her. And while Phoebe was in the shop, Jean-Paul and I would crouch down behind the newspaper box across the street. Just the two of us. Alone, together.

  I could hardly wait. From a strictly objective perspective, of course.

  Phoebe, aka Nancy, had been gone for about ten minutes. Jean-Paul and I sat on the cold pavement across the street, our knees so close they were almost touching. I wracked my brain to think of something to say. “Do you like Vancouver?”

  Yup. That was the best I could come up with.

  “It’s okay. Believe it or not, I miss Winnipeg winters. I know it’s a lot warmer here, but the rain … I always feel damp and cold. And the days are so short and dark … I mean, the cold freezes your nose hairs in Winnipeg, but at least you see the sun once in a while.”

  “Do you miss your dad?”

  “All the time. How about you?”

  I shrugged. “He’s been gone for over two years.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “I hate him.”

  “Still doesn’t answer the question.”

  I looked down at my mittens. “Yes,” I said. “I miss him.”

  “What do you miss about him?”

  I thought about that for a moment. “He used to watch Saturday morning cartoons with me and Rosie. He’d bring us big bowls of cereal to eat in front of the TV, and he’d sing along with all the theme songs from Arthur, The Magic School Bus, Caillou….”

  “I loved Caillou.”

  “And he taught me how to ride my bike. He’d take me for long bike rides sometimes, just the two of us. He gave great back rubs and was really good at fixing things. And he made up these stories, just for me, at bedtime….”

  My voice caught in my throat. I’d tried not to think about those stories for a long time. They were adventure tales, and Dad had made them up out of thin air. They’d always star me and my imaginary friend, Pete. The stories always started the same: Pete and I would go out to play in the backyard, and very quickly we’d get into some kind of mischief. Like we’d explore a hollow tree and fall down a hole that would take us to a magical kingdom. Or we’d jump in a puddle that suddenly turned into an ocean, and we’d find ourselves aboard a pirate ship. They were thrilling, always just a little bit scary, but of course everything always turned out okay, and each story would end with Pete and me walking through the back door just in time for milk and cookies.

  By the time Dad left, he hardly ever told a Pete and Violet story – I was almost ten, after all. But every once in a while, when I’d had a particularly crappy day, he’d perch on the edge of my bed and just start talking. Sometimes I would groan and tell him I was too old for storytelling, but he’d just smile and continue, and I’d shut up and listen to his voice and feel safe.

  I got over myself and turned to Jean-Paul. “What about you? What do you miss about your dad?”

  “My dad’s a great cook. I miss his tourtière and his roasts. I miss playing hockey with him on the ice rink near our house. I even miss hearing him sing Céline Dion songs at the top of his lungs in the shower.”

  “Ugh,” I said, laughing. “Why did they get divorced?”

  “They fought all the time. I don’t think they liked each other very much.”

  “My parents never fought. They were like best friends. They were always hugging and kissing in front of us … then, boom, Dad tells us he’s in love with another woman. It makes you start thinking. Was everything a lie? Like, did he actually hate Caillou?”

  “Nobody could hate Caillou.”

  And suddenly Jean-Paul grabbed my hand and squeezed it, just for a fraction of a second, before he let go. It happened so fast, I wasn’t completely sure it had happened.

  “Hey. I’m back.” It was Phoebe. She crouched down beside us.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Zip. Sorry, Violet.”

  I turned to Jean-Paul. “You don’t have to go in.”

  Jean-Paul shrugged. “I want to.�
� He jumped up and made his way to the corner. When the light changed, he walked across the street and disappeared into Skip to My Loo.

  “So? How did things go?” Phoebe asked as she pulled a cheese sandwich out of my backpack.

  “Fine,” I said, trying to sound cool.

  “Fine?”

  “Fine.”

  “Then why are you as red as a beet?”

  I sighed. I couldn’t hide anything from Phoebe. “I think he momentarily held my hand,” I told her.

  “Oh. My. God!!” Then she shrieked so loud, I had to cover my ears. “I knew it! I knew he liked you, and I know you like him.”

  I couldn’t deny it. Phoebe was right. I did like him. From a strictly objective perspective, of course.

  When Jean-Paul came back, he was carrying a bar of lavender soap in a small bag.

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Aside from the fact that Dudley thinks this soap will have my mom in a lather? Nothing. Sorry.”

  Our mission completed, the three of us walked slowly up Main Street together. We reached Jean-Paul’s street first.

  “That was fun,” he said. “If you do any more stakeouts, let me know.”

  He’d just started walking away when I saw them, standing on the other side of the street.

  Ashley and Lauren. Thing One and Thing Two. They were staring at us in disbelief.

  It was a perfect ending to a perfect day.

  — 12 —

  That night, after I’d made fish sticks and frozen peas and toast for Rosie and me because Mom was out with Dudley, and after I’d forced Rosie to eat all her peas because she needed her vegetables, and after I’d washed the dishes and read to Rosie until she’d fallen into a deep sleep, I decided to check my Facebook account before Glamour Girl started at nine.

  I logged in with my password, badattitude1.

  I could hardly believe it. I had 3 friend requests.

  The first was Karen’s old request. I sighed heavily. Then I pressed CONFIRM.

  The second request was from Claudia. I pressed CONFIRM.

  The third request was from Ashley Anderson.