Swoon at Your Own Risk

by Sydney Salter

  Jane looks at the kitchen clock. "I've gotta get going. Walk me to my car?"

  "Sure." I take a deep breath. "So, why didn't you tell me you were coming over?" I ask.

  "I needed some advice." Jane rolls her eyes. "In the romance department." Her cheeks blush the color of our neighbor's rosebushes. "Figured Miss Swoon would be the go-to person—and she's so great to talk with!" Jane grins. "I feel so much better now."

  I don't even want to approach the Jane and Rowdy romance topic.

  "She doesn't exactly follow her own advice, you know. She's got like as many ex-husbands as..." I try to think of an apt comparison.

  "As you have ex-boyfriends?"

  My cheeks heat. "She's just not what she appears to be, okay?"

  "Who is?"

  "It's just kind of hypocritical. That's all I'm saying. So you might want to, you know, think before taking her advice, or whatever. Her own life is a mess so..."

  "So? Mrs. Richman sits on her fat butt while she makes us run laps in PE. Doesn't mean that the laps aren't still good for us. Miss Swoon gives great advice."

  I'm just saying.

  "God, Polly, it's like you're jealous or something. You can't say anything nice about Rowdy. And now you're, like, upset because I'm talking to your grandma."

  "I am not." Grace could come up with a better response than mine.

  "Face it. I'm the one with a boyfriend for a change. And we actually like each other. I'm not just looking for attention like you always do. We have an actual relationship."

  That stings! "I've had relationships."

  "I don't know—you've always seemed to like the drama more than the guy."

  "That's not true."

  "Polly, you just raided a dessert menu because your dad—"

  "Yeah, well, men suck. All men, Jane. You just haven't figured it out yet."

  "Maybe you haven't figured out that all men aren't your dad."

  "Twenty minutes talking to my grandma doesn't make you a psychologist. Besides, you're the one having relationship issues, apparently."

  "I just wanted advice about taking things to the next level with Rowdy. And you know my mother—sometimes I think her tummy tuck had less to do with swimsuits than masking the fact that I was conceived sexually." She gets into the car with a secret smile flickering across her face. She laughs at my expression. "Don't look so freaked out. I've decided I'm not quite ready."

  But it's not that. I hear a skateboard rumbling at the top of the hill. Xander! I run toward the house at top speed.

  Jane looks up the hill and hollers out at me, "Who's the hypocrite? Huh, Polly? You're totally into Xander Cooper!"

  "I am not!"

  I slam the door and lean against it, barricading myself, while my heart beats rapidly, my breath comes in gasps. I peek out the peephole. One of Grace's classmates skates past. All that for nothing!

  I've got to get a grip.

  Dear Miss Swoon:

  I think my friend just comes over to my house to talk to my grandma. That makes me feel extra lame. And my grandma doesn't even know how to take her own advice. And maybe my friend should be listening to me because she's wasting her precious youth dating a dork. How do I tell dear OLD Grandma to butt out and make friends her own OLD age?!?!?

  —Can't Compete With A Sex(!)agenarian

  Dear Can't Compete:

  Some of us have it when it comes to giving advice. Some of us don't. I'd love to give you some advice about that. But first, you promised to empty the dishwasher.

  —Miss Swoon

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I stand in the middle of Splash Pasture ignoring the screaming kid who fell off one of the rubbery cow statues in a valiant attempt to, you know, violate the no-cracking-your-head-open-and-spilling-your-brains-into-the-pool rule. I look over to the maple tree where Xander usually sits. But he hasn't been here all week. Not since I told him that we had to slow things down, that I wasn't interested, et cetera, et cetera.

  I don't really want to think about that conversation again. Not that I've been thinking about it too much—just at one o'clock in the morning, three o'clock in the morning, seven o'clock in the morning (that's skateboard induced), ten o'clock in the morning (when he doesn't show up again), four o'clock in the afternoon (after he still hasn't shown up). Maybe he shouldn't have talked about how I changed in fourth grade after my dad moved out. Why was that desk-licker even paying attention?

  "Spending time with Grace keeps reminding me of you in fourth grade," Xander had said.

  "We don't look that much alike," I'd joked. "Besides the hair, the sparkling blue eyes..."

  "No, come on. It's that deep loneliness."

  "Lonely? She's practically a Siamese twin! You've even met Amy."

  "Amy is her distraction. Just like you've got—"

  I'd moved in for a kiss to stop him from naming a single ex-boyfriend, but Xander had gently pushed me back. "Come on. Let's talk about this."

  "There's nothing to talk about. Except that I think things are probably moving too quickly between us. As you were about to say, I've had way too many relationships this year. And, really, I'm not interested in starting yet another ill-fated attempt at ... whatever."

  So he left sort of angry. I was only trying to be honest. But I didn't mean he couldn't come swimming. Poor Dex and Kyra are probably stuck inside playing video games or something. It's not healthy.

  Sonnet's working with—or should I say on—Sexy Lifeguard. She's convinced because of something she read in a magazine horoscope that this is the week she will hook up with him. She even wrote a detailed fantasy date on her blog, as if that wouldn't frighten everyone. Except for the three guys who asked her out in their blog comments, but whatever.

  A few boys get too rough on the rope swing, but I don't have the energy to scold them. A kid running from his sister bumps into my legs, making me stumble. I toot my whistle, but he ignores me. I decide to blow the whistle until someone turns around and notices me. I blow it six times before a few moms shout that the pool is contaminated and make their kids get out. I go through a charade of seeing a leaky, not-approved-for-swimming diaper and needing to chlorine boost the water.

  "Watch for those diapers, Pollywog," Sawyer says. "Try to catch those problems before they become problematic. Who was it?" He scans the despondent kids standing on the side of the pool.

  "I don't see them now." Out of the corner of my eye I do see Xander come through the main entrance with Dex and Kyra dancing around him. My heart beats fast as Sawyer yells at me again. It's just a coincidence that Xander Cooper decided to come to Wild Waves for the first time in six days at that exact moment.

  "You've got to tackle them before they make it to home plate, Pollywog. You can't let them off the hook."

  Xander walks through the concessions area shaking his head as Dex and Kyra probably beg for snacks.

  "I didn't let him get away. I told him to leave."

  "It was a boy?"

  "It's always a boy." I pout. Xander hasn't even looked around for me. He's too busy chatting with the O.K. Corral moms. "Except when it's a girl." I think of Jane. "Or girls." Kipper Carlyle and that girl hanging all over Jack.

  "You're not even listening to me," Sawyer says.

  I glance into his green eyes. "Hmm?"

  "Just take a break, okay? You're lacking focus."

  I pretend to adjust my swimsuit strap so I can look over my shoulder at Xander again. "No, I'm good." I angle my body so I can see Xander flicking his beach blanket onto the grass.

  "I'm standing over here," Sawyer says, touching my shoulder.

  "Doing a fine job of it, too." I flash a fake grin. "Now, why don't you run along and save lives over in the Lazy River. Kipper looks like she's focusing on her suntan again." I have no idea what Kipper's doing, but I know that Xander has just finished blowing up Kyra's favorite floaty.

  "I'll talk to her," Sawyer says. As he walks off, he mutters something about striking out, but I'm too busy adj
usting my swimsuit so I can peek at Xander again. I have such a bad habit of noticing boys. Like Sexy Lifeguard laughing with Sonnet. And Sawyer scolding Kipper. Until she gives him her pouty-wouty, I'm so saw-ry face; now he's rubbing her shoulder.

  I blow my whistle, signaling that it's safe to return to the pool. I should wait another five minutes, but I can't take any more of this sightseeing. I sneak one more peek at Xander; now he's writing in his notebook while watching a kid climb a tree. I march into the water, trying to convince myself that its tepid temperature causes the goose bumps on my arms.

  That cheesy Western music starts up as kids race back to all the waterspouts and start acting extra crazed, as if they've been spending the time on the sides thinking of the worst things they can do. I chastise three kids for going down the slide backwards. I stop another from climbing on the back of a cow statue and jumping off. I'm focused. I'm blowing my whistle. I'm in control. I'm not watching Xander take off his shirt. I challenge myself not to look at Xander Cooper for the next sixty minutes.

  And I don't. I'm focused. I'm blowing my whistle. I'm in control.

  I avoid, through meticulous care and almost mathematical planning, looking toward the O.K. Corral for nearly the rest of my shift.

  "Hey, one at a time!" I yell as another group tries to bunch together down the slide.

  I hear the little brats complain about my bossiness. Apparently I'm no fun.

  "Yeah, well, why don't you go swim in the pools meant for kids your size?" I yell.

  "We're allowed to go wherever we want," one particularly mouthy kid says.

  "Well, pardner, around here I'm the deputy and I'm kicking you out of this here cow town. Now!" I make my voice sound scary.

  I recognize him from Grace's class photo—I will have to warn her against him. He has dimples. Dimples = dangerous.

  "Don't have a cow.'" He and his little gang of future ex-ex-ex-boyfriend material leave the pool laughing at his "good one," but I focus on the grateful smiles of the moms walking chubby toddlers through the shallow water.

  I am not watching Xander Cooper saunter toward me. Shirtless. Smiling. Now if someone would just send the message to my autonomic nervous system. My heart revs like a three-year-old who has just devoured his weight in cotton candy and missed his afternoon nap. I quickly glance around for Kyra or Dex. But Xander looks straight at me. Maybe. I hate that he's wearing sunglasses.

  Trying to act casual, I bend to pick a leaf out of the water. The pool empties of preschoolers as the let's-get-home-before-daddy crowd heads toward the exits.

  Xander wades out and stands next to me. "Hey."

  "Hey yourself." I keep it light and flirty, not serious. "Where've you been, stranger?" It comes out sounding way too sexy by the look of the slow grin spreading on Xander's face.

  Xander chuckles. "Are you trying to say you missed me?"

  "No. I just happened to notice your absence. The way I noticed when the scabs from my road rash fell off. I mean—Will you take those sunglasses off? They're making me nervous, so I'm talking about scabs and stuff." I splash my foot through the water. We're alone in the pool now. I could be safe in the employee locker room watching Sawyer and Kipper grope. Or better yet, attempting to expire from heat exhaustion in my car. "I didn't miss you, if that's what you think."

  I look up. He has pushed his sunglasses on top of his head. "You didn't miss me even just a little bit?"

  I shake my head yes, then no. And I'm not even sure which way I'm supposed to be turning my head. I'm all distracted by Xander's eyes, and my face radiates more heat than the sun dipping toward the mountains in the West.

  "I didn't, you know, miss you."

  Xander leans toward me, his hair brushing my shoulder, lips brushing my ear. "I think you're lying," he whispers. And then he walks away just like that.

  I watch him meet up with Dex and Kyra, who wait patiently by the exit, probably bribed with ice cream or something. When he's safely out of sight, I let out a huge scream of frustration.

  I'm such an idiot, a babbling idiot. I talked about scabs! I told him his sunglasses made me nervous!

  I completely lost focus. No control. Where was someone to blow the whistle at me? Right at that moment, like in a terrible sitcom script, Sawyer walks past. "Why are you still here, Pollywog? You're not going to get any overtime, you know."

  "I'm just really committed to my job, Saw-me-in-half, so I'm going to stay until I pluck every used Elmo Band-Aid out of this here pool."

  He shakes his head and walks over to meet Kipper, who's somehow now wearing even less fabric than that generously supplied by our Wild Waves uniform. Now there's no way I'm even going near the locker room. Not until I see Sawyer leave.

  I stand in the pool watching a few guys from school finish up a miniature golf game nearby. "Hey, Martin!" one of them yells. Another guy makes a remark I can't hear, and all of them start laughing. I fake a big smile and wave and then I run toward the locker room. Sawyer or not. One of the guys whistles at me. Another one says, "Oh yeah!" I'm about 100 percent certain they're not talking about putt-putt golf. Dumb Wild Waves uniform. I should sue the place for sexual harassment or something, making me wear this skimpy outfit, subjecting me to, you know, male eyes.

  And I'd better check out Sonnet's latest blog. She told me earlier that she was doing a series called "Undercover Fantasies." I figured that meant her way too detailed ideas for pleasing Sexy Lifeguard. But now I'm wondering if she's just making stuff up—possibly about me. She's obsessed with my non-relationship with Xander.

  I tentatively open the door to the employee locker room. Sure enough, Sawyer's manhandling Kipper's end zone. She looks at me before diving back in. I struggle with my locker combination. Could they stop that for like forty-five seconds? I need to get my stuff. I'm so over him, but still, I don't need a show-and-tell display about how he's so over me. I hit my locker in frustration, and it bounces open, thank God. I grab my duffel and go, slamming my locker shut. I hear Kipper say, "Buh-bye." Sawyer laughs.

  I wipe away a few tears as I walk across the parking lot. I'd love to blame them on sunscreen but it's Sawyer. I was willing to do all that—stuff. I just didn't want to burden him with my problems, talk about my emotions. I mean, who really wants to deal with that? Guys usually complain about moody girls, PMS, and that sharing feelings crap.

  I reach my car. Hayden's Waxman Way bumper sticker clings like a scab. Omigod, why did I mention my scabs to Xander? And why do I care? I'm trying so hard not to like him. I reach down and rip off most of the sticker, leaving sticky white streaks behind. I click to unlock my door, glancing around the parking lot. I'm alone. I'm supposed to like it this way, right? This is what I've been wanting. I pull the door open, and tiny paper cranes spill onto my feet. There must be a thousand of them!

  I'm laughing and crying as I pick up the cranes that have fallen all over the pavement. Each one is as carefully folded as the next. Hours and hours of work!

  For me.

  I carefully move each crane from the driver's seat into the back seat, not wanting to crush any of them. I marvel at the different colors, the various delicate patterns on the thin origami paper.

  And I'm sobbing.

  I'm crying for the little girl whose mother divorced her father, the girl who wanted to fall in love for the first time but wasn't ready for sex, the girl who dated a boy just because he wasn't the first one, the girl who fell hard for the guy with the easy smile and green eyes, the girl who needed to prove she could hook up on a class trip, the girl who ran for student council just to impress a guy, the girl who lost her best friend, the girl whose father doesn't care anymore, the girl who doesn't have the money for college, the girl who just wants her grandma to fix everything, the girl who can't talk to her mother about anything, the girl who doesn't talk to anyone about anything, the girl who just can't fall in love again—even if a sweet guy folds a thousand paper cranes. Just for her.

  I barely remember driving home, and I'm relieve
d I didn't get pulled over. With snot dripping from my nose, tears zigzagging down my cheeks, a rainbow of paper cranes rattling in the breeze coming through my windows still opened a crack, I would have been committed for sure. I pull in to the driveway, expecting— okay, hoping—to see Xander sitting on my front steps. But he isn't there. Not that I'm disappointed. I'm not. Not really.

  No one is home. I go back to my car and gather the cranes in a bunch of Hamburger Heaven To Go bags. I take them to my room and spill them across my bed. I pick up a light yellow crane. And that's when I notice writing. I unfold the crane: wit. I pick up another one: kindness. Another: great legs. A blue one: scared but brave. A hot pink one: great kisser. A green one: scientific mind. A maroon one: scabs.

  I start sobbing all over again. What's wrong with me?

  I decide to call Jane.

  Dear Miss Swoon:

  We need to talk. ASAP.

  —Torn And Confused

  Dear T & C:

  I'm always here to give you some TLC.

  Love, Grandma

  Not Shakespeare's Sonnet

  Okay, so as you know, I've given up on blonds. (See Brain Deadage here.) Oh yeah, and making out in bathrooms. (No linkage: parentals demanded a delete.) Thanks for your input on Random Picnic Fantasies. Come on Sexy Lifeguard: sunsets and subs. (Read more here, but not you, Dad. Joking!) And sorry, guys, but I'm holding out for quality—no bragging about your six-foot sub sandwiches, okay? (Hi Mom! Hi Dad!)

  New feature: Undercover Fantasies!

  I'm inspired by my cute, funny, smart, sexy, just-can't-be-a-bad-girl-if-she-tries coworker. P.M., you know you've got some secret lust for a certain tall, dark, wheelie-poppin' guy. GO FOR IT!!! Okay, unrequited lovers. What are your top-secret Undercover Fantasies? Movie passes to the winner!

  I remember when my biggest challenge was simply climbing a tree. Branch by branch, sitting triumphantly among shifting green leaves, blue sky above, bird song. Not so simple anymore.

  —X.C.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  So Jane and I have once again achieved best friend status. All it took was approximately three hours of embarrassing soul baring, a bit of sobbing, revealing way too many of my innermost secrets, a three-hour shopping trip for the ultimate bikini, and, um, agreeing to go on a camping trip with members of the yearbook staff—at least there won't be any movie marathons or shopping carts involved.