Author Niki Burnham

Valerie has it all. Great friends, decent grades, and the guy she's been crushing on since, oh, kindergarten, is finally noticing her.

Then her mother announces that (1) she's gay, and (2) she's leaving Valerie's father for a woman. Just as Valerie's trying to absorb the my-parents-are- divorcing-and-mom's-a-lesbian double bombshell, her father announces he's gotten a new job as protocol chief to the royal family of some obscure European country.

Does Valerie move in with her mom and mom's new girlfriend? Or go with her dad, leaving all her friends and a potential boyfriend for a country she can hardly pronounce?

Royally Jacked...a romantic comedy for every girl who thinks she's met her prince.

Royally Jacked
Simon Pulse
December 2003
ISBN: 0689866682

When Niki first moved to Germany at the age of six, she and her brothers immediately noticed the German word for "exit" on the autobahn—Ausfahrt. Needless to say, she and her brothers spent a lot of time giggling in the backseat of the car about that one. (And getting warning looks from their parents.) They also laughed at the German habit of eating french fries with mayo instead of with ketchup. So in Royally Jacked, Valerie comments on the word "ausfahrt" and on the mayo-with-fries phenomenon.

"funny, lively... fresh."
—Publishers Weekly

"The writing is snappy and Valerie is imperfect and lovable, especially when she's being so un-P.C. that she calls herself on it. Royally Jacked is light-hearted fun and a nice way to dream away the cold winter months."
—Romantic Times People

Royally Jacked is named a Teen People pick.

Royally Jacked was named a finalist in the prestigious National Readers' Choice Awards, which honor romance novels that readers have selected as their favorites for the year.

Royally Jacked has been chosen by the American Library Association as a Quick Pick for Reluctant Young Readers.

Every year, the New York Public Library publishes a list of books it recommends for teenagers, and Royally Jacked made the 2005 Books for the Teen Age list. The list is posted on the NYPL website, on a page that includes lots of other cool stuff for teens, including homework help, interviews with authors, and audio samples of books. Check it out at TeenLink.

Live in the U.K., New Zealand, or Australia? The British edition of Royally Jacked has a slightly different title, Royally Crushed. Same book, same story—but all the colors have become colours, Val's mom is now her mum...well, you get the picture.

Chapter One

Exactly two weeks, one day, and ten hours ago, my mother completely ruined my life. She announced over her usual dinner of Kraft macaroni and cheese (with tomatoes and broccoli bits mixed in-her attempt at being healthy), that she no longer wished to remain married to my dad.

She planned to move in with her new girlfriend, Gabrielle.

Yep. GIRLFRIEND.

She went on and on about how it had nothing to do with me, and nothing to do with Dad, so we shouldn't feel the least bit bad about it. She'd simply come to realize that she wasn't the same person on the inside she'd been showing everyone on the outside. Yeah, right.

Needless to say, I have not yet told my girlfriends, with whom I have a totally different relationship than my mother has with her girlfriend. Or partner. Whatever. I'm not exactly focused on how politically correct I am in describing my mom's bizarro crush. Especially since I can't describe Gabrielle to anyone yet.

My friends will freak.

Then they'll either treat me all nicey-nice, giving me those sad eyes that say, 'we're soooo sorry', when really they're thrilled to have something scandalous to gossip about while they're ignoring Mr. Davis's weekly lecture about how we're not keeping the lab area clean enough in Honors Chemistry.

Or they'll be so horrified by my mother's newly-found 'lifestyle' that they'll slowly start ignoring me. In tenth grade—at least in Vienna, Virginia—this is the kiss of death. Even worse than not being one of the cool crowd. Which is the type of person I currently am. Not quite cool, that is.

So tonight, I'm eating dinner at the table by myself, watching while my mom and dad stand in the kitchen and debate who's going to get the mahogany Henredon sleigh bed and who gets the twenty-year-old brass bed I refused to have in my room because it's going to need duct tape to hold it together if anyone decides to get a little action on it.

"Hey, Mom," I finally interrupt. "I know you want the Henredon, but when Gabrielle was here last week, she told me she thought the brass bed was wicked cool."

My mother shoots me the look of death. "Nice try, Valerie, but I don't believe Gabrielle's used the phrase 'wicked cool' in her life."

I deliberately roll my eyes. "She didn't say that exactly. Geez, Mom. I think she said it was..." I pretend to struggle for the right phrase, something that will convince her. Given Mom's behavior lately, I'm betting she'll do anything to make Gabrielle happy. "Shabby chic? Whatever that means. But it was obvious she really liked it."

I shrug, then look back down at the Thai stir fry my father made for me before my mom showed up at the door with her SUV full of empty boxes and a list of the furniture she wanted to take to her and Gabrielle's new place.

If I'd had to bet which of my parents had coming-out-of-the-closet potential, I'd have put my money—not that I have much—on Dad. Let me state up front that he's no wuss. He drinks beer and watches Vin Diesel and Keanu Reeves movies like a real guy. He goes to the gym every morning before work and has a smokin' set of biceps and pecs. And according to my friends, he's kind of hot. For a dad, at least.

It's just that for one, his name is Martin, which sounds pretty gay. There's a guy at school named Martin who's a total flamer. Not that there's anything wrong with that—I have no problem with people being gay. Really I don't. I'm a live-and-let-live type. But Martin's a friend, he's not my parent. That's where I have the problem.

Aside from the name thing pegging Dad as potential gay material, he's the chief of protocol at the White House, which means he reminds the President and his staff of things like, "Don't invite the Indian ambassador to a hamburger cookout." (The White House guys are always forgetting that one.) Dad can also describe the proper depth to bow to the Japanese Prime Minister and the trick to eating spaghetti or the oversized hunks of lettuce they always serve at state dinners without making a mess of yourself. He knows how to tie a bow tie without a mirror and can tell you what kind of jacket is appropriate for a morning wedding.

Believe it or not, these are marketable skills.

Oh, and my dad is an awesome cook. Unlike Mom. I'm guessing Gabrielle's going to be cooking for them.

Playing casual, I flick my gaze toward my mom. "I'm just saying that if Gabrielle really likes the brass bed, maybe you could surprise her with it. That's all."

Getting that crap bed would serve them right for what they did to my dad. And to me. Especially if it fell apart under them.

Ick. I do not even want to think about this.