Just Flirt

by Laura Bowers

  Oh, my.

  Remind me to never bring up Jell-O around her again.

  Thankfully, a trio of girls burst into the store to pay for a round of putt-putt before Ivy can crack a tooth on a shell. As they fight over the pink golf ball, Ivy sulks by the window until they leave—with three pink balls. She softens, though, when she sees something outside. “Well, well, well, and here comes another Miss Almond Pudding now.”

  Huh? The only person I see is Roxanne Swain meandering down the stone-lined path, kicking stray rocks and going about as slow as a blood-filled tick. “Who, Roxanne? Yeah, right, how is she a Miss Almond Pudding?”

  Ivy studies Roxanne with laserlike intensity before glancing at the clock hanging above a display of handmade pottery. Eleven-twenty. Roxanne is late. “Hmm,” Ivy says. “Maybe because she’s being forced to do something she does not want to do.”

  What, work? Oh, boo-hoo, I work every day. And it’s hard to muster sympathy for someone who—no matter how nice I am to her—only speaks to me when necessary, like during our brief Hey, I need to buy a bag of ice and Okay, they’re two dollars each conversation.

  However, her mother, Victoria Swain—a woman whose idea of dressing down is wearing Liz Claiborne casual wear—loves to talk. While spending a fortune yesterday on wind flags, awning lights, and tiki torches to liven up their sterile site, she told me all about Dr. Martin Swain’s position at Johns Hopkins Hospital. And how it was her idea to rent a motor home for the summer after their house in Baltimore sold faster than expected, leaving them homeless until Rex is finished building their new house. I forced myself to nod politely after learning that—fabulous—Roxanne is going to live on what used to be our beautiful land, but when Mrs. Swain said how nice it would be if Roxanne and I became friends?

  Yeah. I don’t exactly see that happening.

  The bell above the door jingles as Roxanne steps in, letting the screen slam shut behind her. She shoots me a bored look that makes me feel both awkward and stupid at the same time and then cringes when she hears the cowboy Celtic. “Uh, are you serious? I have to work and listen to that?”

  Ivy ignores Roxanne’s rebel angst routine—maybe because of her Miss Almond Pudding theory. “Welcome! I’m Ivy Neville, but you can call me Miss Ivy. Now, why don’t you come here and Dee and I will show you how to use the register?”

  Roxanne cracks her gum. “Fine, Ivy, but I’m going to the bathroom first.”

  Big mistake, girl, big mistake.

  Pudding or no pudding, Ivy doesn’t negotiate with attitude. She frowns, straightening her spine to her full height—all five feet, eleven inches. “By all means, go ahead,” she says, her voice like candy-coated barbed wire. “In fact, why don’t I grab the cleaning supplies and show you how to freshen the ladies’ room while you’re there, how would that be?”

  Give it up, Roxanne, you will NOT win this battle!

  She must not realize this by the patronizing way she says, “Fine, Miss Ivy.”

  Oh, boy, I can tell it’s going to be a long, long day. Especially when a yellow Isuzu Trooper with Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror pulls up moments after Ivy and Roxanne leave. A woman in a pink minidress with poufy blond hair steps out and checks her reflection before prancing up the stairs in matching stilettos. She’s probably a salesperson or an artist wanting to sell her merchandise in the store. The woman enters, bringing in a cloud of perfume that smells like musky cinnamon. She smiles when she sees me. “My stars, you must be Dee! Aren’t you just the prettiest thing?”

  She researched my name? Sharp, very sharp. But as much as I love huggers, it’s odd the way she strides past the brochure stand to hug me, her large breasts making my small ones feel claustrophobic and her silver bangles clanging as she pats my back.

  “Now, sugar. Is your momma here? I’d love to chat with her.”

  Oh, she must be a friend of my mother’s, although—wow—I can’t remember the last time Mom had a friend stop by, or even call for that matter. I check out the window to see if she’s still helping the man park, but instead, Mom is clinging to her cell as she runs toward the lodge. She bursts through the door, wiping sweaty bangs from her forehead as she says, “Dee, drop everything. I just got off the phone with—”

  “Well, hello, Jane! Good golly, it’s clear where Dee gets her looks.”

  Never mind. She’s definitely a salesperson.

  Mom blinks in confusion as the woman shakes her hand with vigor and then takes a lime green business card from her purse. “My name is Mona Owens, proud owner of Mona’s Low-Key Karaoke,” she says in a voice that’s part beauty queen, part Dolly Parton. “I provide karaoke entertainment for your good neighbor Chuck Lambert on Friday nights, and I thought I’d stop by in case you were interested in hiring me as well!”

  Mona curls her lips into a confident grin as Mom shifts anxiously and glances at her watch. “I, uh, appreciate you stopping by, but DJ Drake does karaoke for us on Saturday nights, so—”

  “But,” Mona says, tapping the counter with a long fingernail that has tiny musical notes painted on it. “I’d bet my old Charlie Pride records that I can provide more entertainment than DJ Drake. And, Dee, you know my daughter, Sabrina, right? She’s my assistant, so the two of you could hang out if I worked here. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  What?

  Sabrina as in Sabrina Owens? Mona is her mother? No way. I imagined her mom as a vain socialite or someone like Victoria Swain. And Sabrina, here? Over my dead body. I hope Mom will make the connection, but she only stammers, “Um, yeah, sure, if we ever need someone to fill in, maybe we’ll call.”

  Maybe we’ll call? I can barely focus on anything else they say. Once Mona finally leaves in a pink, poufy, musky-cinnamon haze, I explode. “Mom, how could you take her card? Don’t you realize who she is?”

  Mom knows what Sabrina did to me. I told her everything, otherwise she would have worried herself to death trying to figure out why I was so upset last September. But before I can say anything else, Mom grasps my forearms. “Dee, I’m sorry, but right now we have bigger problems to worry about.”

  Oh, no. Her agitated look reminds me of the time when this idiot mother let her kids play barefoot at the septic dump station and then threatened to sue us because of their chances of getting hepatitis C. “Why, what’s wrong, Mom?”

  “Madeline called from the airport in Florida. She’s going to be here in three hours.”

  The Superflirt Chronicles

  … blogs from a teenage flirtologist

  Saturday, June 19

  MY FLIRTLESS NIGHTMARE OF A WEEKEND

  MOOD: Anxious, overwhelmed, and highly perturbed

  MUSIC: “Blue Suitcase,” Erin McCarley

  Why the horrible mood?

  Because I’m awaiting the arrival of an unwanted guest here at the campground. The identity of this guest is best left undisclosed so pardon my secrecy, but let me say that the mere thought of seeing this person makes my stomach ache like I’ve held my pee too long. You know the feeling, don’t you? Of course you do.

  And why am I flirtless?

  Because the only cute guy here this weekend is younger than me and Miss N and I do not flirt with younger boys. Yes, perhaps this is hypocritical. After all, it is acceptable for a seventeen-year-old guy to date a fifteen-year-old girl, but an older girl dating a younger guy? No, sorry, maybe some gals can rock the whole cougar thing, but it’s just not for me. Besides, the young dude has another strike against him:

  He spits.

  I mean, really, why do guys spit? They do it nonstop—out car windows, in trash cans, on sidewalks, leaving gross piles for the rest of us to step in. Even pro baseball players spit, becoming role models for a whole new generation of spitters. Why? Is there some physical difference between men and women—besides the obvious—that causes this behavior? Do they have extra phlegm glands or overly large mucus producers?

  And please—do not give me that lame it’s a guy thing excuse. Some
actions just can’t be excused. Like what’s going on with our girl Meghan:

  Hey, it’s Meghan again. I went to the salon and mall yesterday, like you said, but the stylist gave me awful red highlights and a salesclerk convinced me to buy these horrible trendy jeans. When I got home, my daughters called me Raggedy Ann and then accused me of trying to be like a teenager. They were joking, of course, but while I was having dinner with my friend, even she told me that my hair looked bad during the first course. So now what do I do? —Meghan9800

  Okay, Meghan, love, I’m sorry, but if your daughters are such experts on hair and fashion, then they should help instead of criticize. And a true friend would never dis your hair in public, so I’m leery of her motives. But chin up, sweetie, all hope is not lost. You just need a better stylist—try getting a reference from someone who has great hair. Then you need to find a store that does NOT employ commission-seeking sales hogs but instead has lovely salesclerks who will dress you in clothes that make you feel beautiful. After that, I want you to go back out to dinner … only with a better friend this time.

  And as for me, it’s time to go back to waiting for our unwanted guest.

  Which gives me a sudden urge to spit.

  4 Dee

  Do I hug Madeline or shake her hand?

  Hug or handshake?

  I check the store clock. Almost four-twenty. Madeline’s flight was supposed to arrive at two-fifteen and we’re only an hour away from the airport so they should be here by now. Was there a flight delay or hold-up at baggage claim? No, her visits never last more than a few days, so she should only have carry-on. At least I pray she only has carry-on.

  I coil my hair into a bun and then let it down. No, maybe I should keep it up. And maybe I shouldn’t have worn these shorts. Maybe they’re too … short.

  “Why are you so uptight, Dee? It’s not like your grandmother still owns the place,” Jake asks, while cleaning the grass stains off his legs with baby wipes. He grins and throws a soiled one at Natalie, who is sitting at the computer.

  She picks it up with pinched fingers. “Oh my gosh, really, Jake?”

  He ignores her scorn and walks behind the counter, elbowing her in the ribs so she’ll share the bar stool. “What’s on the Internet menu today, more wedgies?”

  Natalie shifts to give him more room. “No, I’m checking my ADRs.”

  “What’s that, your Attention Deficit Registry?” Jake jokes, scratching his elbow and getting grass on the counter that Natalie already polished. She swipes away his mess with an annoyed groan and then explains all about the Advanced Dining Reservations she made a hundred and eighty days in advance—seriously?—for her Disney World vacation. As Natalie launches into detailed descriptions of the restaurants, I think about what Jake said.

  Why am I so uptight?

  Why did we spend the entire afternoon cleaning like the queen herself was visiting? I mean, it’s not as though the campground was a total pigsty or Madeline’s opinion matters. But no, every time she visits, Mom and I turn into spineless minions desperate to win her approval, like when she showed up unexpectedly last October and criticized the “tacky” haunted hayrides and trick-or-treating that would never be allowed when she owned the campground.

  Whatever. We like tacky.

  Even so, I can’t help but say, “Okay, Natalie—you tidied the store and porch, I took care of the pool, pavilions, and cabins, Ivy cleaned the bathrooms with Roxanne, but what about the laundry room? And did anyone check the arcade?”

  Natalie swivels to face me. “Dee. Everything looks fabulous. Chill.”

  Right. Chill.

  Chill, chill, chill.

  And everything does look fabulous, thanks to us—especially Jake, who cleaned, mowed, and weed-whacked like a maniac, even though it’s his day off. He can be a creep, but when push comes to shove, he’s the first to help. And he stopped a near riot at the horseshoe tournament I had foolishly put Roxanne in charge of, by offering the players free ice cream after she read a magazine during the championship round instead of keeping score.

  I watch out the window as Roxanne lugs the horseshoes toward the shed, stopping every ten steps to rest and then yelling at a little boy who almost nipped her heels with his Big Wheel. She comes into the store several minutes later looking as happy as a drenched cat with her red hair plastered to her scalp. “I’m taking my break,” she proclaims. “You do realize it’s against the law not to give employees breaks, don’t you?”

  Breaks? We don’t take breaks here. We bust our butts when it’s busy and goof off when it’s slow and everything works out even in the end. But before I can tell her to go ahead, take that break, Mom pulls in.

  Oh, man.

  An icy chill goes up my spine at the sight of Madeline’s stiff silhouette in the truck’s passenger seat. Once Mom parks, my grandmother steps out wearing crisp linen slacks that don’t dare wrinkle and a sleeveless mock turtleneck that emphasizes her leathery Florida tan. Natalie and Jake join me in time to see Madeline survey the campground with her upper lip curled as though she just sniffed an uncovered septic hole.

  “Yikes,” Natalie says. “My butt cheeks just clenched.”

  Jake nods. “Yeah, I’d rather suck on a spark plug than be around that woman, so if you attention deficits will excuse me, I’m going to go work on my kart for tomorrow’s race.”

  “You have a laydown enduro kart, right?”

  Whoa. Who said that, Roxanne?

  The three of us turn in unison and stare at her in disbelief. A pink flush quickly spreads across her face, so even she must not believe she said it either.

  “Yeah, it’s an enduro.” Jake gives her that rock-star grin of his as though he’s impressed. “Wow, you know about kart racing?”

  Roxanne shrugs, and then grips the hem of her baggy shirt. “Um … not a lot,” she says, giving me a quick glance. “Just that their two-stroke engines have top speeds of a hundred miles per hour, and zero suspension, and how a lot of famous drivers like Chase Elliott and Michael Schumacher started their careers with karts.”

  Okay, she must have looked this up on the Internet just to impress Jake. But then I notice the rolled-up magazine peeking out from the lower pocket of her cargo shorts. Auto Trends? So Roxanne is a—

  “Hey, a fellow gearhead!” Jake steps forward to give Roxanne a very enthusiastic knuckle tap. Gearhead, is that some kind of insider term? Jake then hooks a thumb in my direction. “I’m used to some girls calling my kart a ‘thingy.’”

  What? No, I do not.

  Oh, wait … yes, I do.

  Jake grabs a Gatorade from the fridge and tosses two dollars on the counter. “So, Roxanne, feel like getting your hands dirty? My friend Danny was supposed to come over, but he went to a party instead.”

  Ugh, Danny as in Danny Reynolds, Rex’s son, and one of Blaine’s buddies. If that wasn’t gag-worthy enough, Danny is also dating Torrance Jones, Sabrina’s best friend. I do not understand why Jake would want to hang out with someone like him, especially since they race against each other. And Jake is inviting Roxanne to his garage, the girl who’s been a total jerk to me from day one? I hope she blows him off, but her stony indifference melts like ice thrown into a campfire when she says, “Sure, that’d be cool!”

  Oh, yeah, she’ll be nice to him but not to me. Well, fine. There’s bigger problems on my plate, anyway, such as a big fat serving of Madeline Barton.

  “I love, love, LOVE your grandmother’s suitcases, Dee,” Natalie says, pressing her hand to the window. “Are they Louis Vuitton? I bet they smell divine.”

  They must be Louis Vuitton, seeing as how Madeline isn’t the knockoff type. Wow, her luggage costs a fortune and yet she had the nerve to insinuate on the phone to Mom that she wants to stay in our best cabin for free? She knows money has been tight since Dad died. He did have some life insurance, but it wasn’t enough to cover funeral costs and the hideous amount of taxes Mom had to pay and …

  Suitcases? As in long, long visit
suitcases?

  My heart sinks as Mom sets Madeline’s one, two, three suitcases on a patch of grass. Mom then stands, rubbing her back and looking around as though she’s searching for me. Well, I guess it’s not fair to leave her on her own. “I’m going out there.”

  “God be with you,” Natalie says, patting my back.

  I force myself out the door. Madeline hesitates when she sees me, maybe because of my strong resemblance to my dad. Right then and there, I decide to go with a formal handshake, but for some insane reason, instinct takes over and I hug her instead, only to get an awkward pat on the back in return. Shoot. I should’ve gone with the handshake.

  “Yes, hello, Dee, you’ve grown since October,” Madeline says, her lopsided brows and angular jaw giving her a daunting appearance. Her hair is cut in a severe bob with thin, clumped bangs clinging to her forehead like a brown vulture claw. It sways when she scrutinizes my outfit. “And you’ve almost outgrown your clothing.”

  Should’ve gone with the handshake, should’ve worn longer shorts.

  Mom gives me a warm, lingering hug that seems as though it’s more for her benefit than mine. She smells of Taco Bell and peppermint, meaning she comforted herself with burritos on the drive to the airport and then tried to cover them up with Altoids. “Hi, sweetie. Anything happen while I was gone?”

  “Nope, everything was smooth sailing, as usual,” I say, emphasizing the as usual to my grandmother. “We’ve been so busy, and our customers? They love it here.”

  Madeline’s beady eyes scan the packed swimming pool, the shuffleboard court, and the stream of kids waiting by the wagon for Ivy to fire up the John Deere for tonight’s hayride. Everyone is having fun, but instead of focusing on the positive, Madeline only notices a guest who stubs his toe on a horseshoe Roxanne must have dropped on the way to the shed. “Well, I see you’ve been too busy to worry about customer safety.”