Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase by Jen Lancaster

“Four doors down to the right.”
    “Sweet! Hey . . . know what I just thought? Maybe if Tom gets some liquid courage tonight, he’ll make a move on me!”
    Curtis snorts and lies back on the bed. “Yeah, good luck with that, darlin’.”
    “What do you mean?” I ask. I paw through my luggage to find my hottest outfit.
    He gives me a knowing look. “You’ll see.”
    I make Curtis stand in the hallway while I put on my least modest blouse, buttoned almost low enough to see cleavage. I paint my jeans back on and slide into the pair of Nine West pumps that I swiped from my mom and then I saunter down to Tom and Brian’s room. I bang on their door and it takes them a few minutes to answer. “Hey, you guys! We’re going out for beers! Come with us!”
    Brian answers the door in his pajamas. I don’t see Tom in the tiny room, so he must be in the washroom down the hall. We girls got so lucky to score an en suite bath! “I can’t,” says Brian. “My mom wouldn’t sign the permission slip.”
    “Um, dude ? Your mom is in Fort Wayne and your chaperones are in another hotel. Pretty sure you can have a brew if you want one,” I tell him.
    “No, thanks.” He seems resolute. Or, like, jet-lagged or something.
    “Oh-kaaay. Tomorrow then, totally,” I say with no sincerity. Like I care if he joins us, anyway. “What about Tom?”
    “What about me?” Tom materializes right behind Brian. What, was he hiding behind the door?
    “We’re going out for beer. Come with us!”
    Tom shakes his head. “I can’t.”
    “Oh, don’t give me that permission slip bullcrap, too. No one’s here! No one will know! What happens in Europe stays in Europe!” 62
    “It’s not that—it’s . . .” He hesitates. I try to look at him all understanding-like. It’s okay, handsome! You can tell me! “It’s . . . it’s just that I promised my grandmother that I’d send her post-cards every night. Also, I’m supposed to practice my clarinet.”
    “Ha! That’s hilarious!” I reply, giving him a quick shove. “Get dressed and let’s go.”
    Tom shifts uncomfortably against the door and glances back at Brian. “Sorry, I’ve got plans here.”
    “Seriously, come on.” I tug his hand and he stands stock-still. “Wait, you’re not kidding? What are you saying?” Um, did I suddenly lose all my cute the minute we crossed the pond? How can that be? I followed every rule on my list . . . except wearing plaid. Damn.
    “I can’t.” No. No . How are we going to share our first German kiss if your stupid lips are wrapped around a clarinet?
    I decide to change tactics. Perhaps goading him will work. “Are you saying you’d rather send a postcard to your grandma than go out for drinks?”
    No go on the goad. Tom shrugs sadly, says good night, and gently closes the door behind me.
    I stomp down the hall in my pinchy shoes. My God, how can he not want to go out with a bunch of girls (and Curtis) whose inhibitions have been greatly lowered by first-time consumption of alcohol?
    Who’d say no to that invitation?
    What kind of huge, huge nerd doesn’t like tipsy chicks, especially on a whole ’nother continent?
    Weird.

    “Here’s one! Here’s one!” We’ve been dashing up and down the cobblestone hills for twenty minutes now and we’re all a bit bitchy. Who knew it would be so hard to find someplace that serves beer in Germany? That’s like not finding pineapples in Hawaii. Or oaks in Oklahoma! We had to go through a darkened passage to get to this place, and even then we only found it by accident when one of Sandy’s bracelets fell off and bounced down the alley.
    We appoint Sandy as our leader because her accessories brought us here, so she’s the one in charge of throwing open the front door. She confidently takes four steps into the bar, and we follow, hoping to make our big entrance just in case there are any European princes there. (I’m not the only one who wants to be more popular in school.) But then Sandy