Just Flirt

by Laura Bowers

  Okay, maybe so.

  But does she really think she’s intimidating me? Not hardly. She’s a minnow compared to the sharks I’m used to swimming with. Before I can tell her that yes, my mother was nice enough to want to include her—stupid, right?—a blur of blond catches my attention. It’s Dee, walking past us to join an older woman by the main lodge. She looks different than she does at school. She looks like … like summer, in her pink shorts and white shirt that shows off her golden tan.

  Roxanne’s face darkens.

  Well, well, perhaps I’m not the only one who doesn’t have much love for Dee Barton. Part of me wants to get far, far away from this toxic tomboy, but a bigger part of me wants to find out as much information about Dee as possible.

  Know thy enemy.

  “So, I take it you know her?” I ask.

  Stupid question. Dee lives here, so of course Roxanne knows her. But she doesn’t call me on it. Instead, she sneers at Dee and says, “Yeah, I know the Super Slut. I know all about her, now.”

  What? Super Slut, are we talking about the same person? Dee might have been a total stalker but I didn’t think she slept around, or has even dated anyone since Blaine. Unless this girl knows something I don’t.

  Obviously, she does. The corners of her mouth turn up. “Oh, man. Let me guess. You’re Mercedes’s evil girlfriend.”

  Mercedes’s evil girlfriend?

  “Who are you talking about, Blaine, my Blaine?” I demand, anger swelling like hot lava in my stomach. “That’s his name, not Mercedes, and how dare you call me evil? Or, wait … did Dee call me that?”

  Roxanne catches the ball when a boy kicks it out of bounds and holds it against her chest instead of throwing it back. “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t, but hey, I do have some free advice for you if you want it.”

  One of the twins yells for the ball.

  Roxanne ignores him.

  Oh my gosh.

  The last thing I want to do is humor this horrible person any more, but before I can stop myself, the words “Yeah? And what’s that?” come tumbling out.

  Roxanne tosses the ball in the air a few times before drop-kicking it over the twin’s head. She nods toward the pavilion where Blaine is sitting beside my mother, nursing a soda with—what?—his eyes focused on Dee.

  “My advice,” she says while walking away, “is to watch your man.”

  7 Dee

  I’ve had bad dreams before, especially right after Dad died. The worst one was when I dreamed I was a steak—yes, a steak, a T-bone to be exact—sitting on a white plate with a bunch of campers hunched over me with knives and forks. Natalie said it came from feeling vulnerable without my dad, but as horrible as that dream was, it can’t compare with the nightmare of having Sabrina, Blaine, and Madeline here at the same time.

  “Well, there’s what’s-his-name, Brent? Blake? Booger?” Ivy says, even though she knows perfectly well what his name is.

  “Blaine. Can you believe he had the nerve to show up?”

  We both glance at him sitting at a picnic table beside Mona Owens, oblivious to the fact that he no longer belongs here. Ivy hollers at a kid for riding his bike on the sidewalk and then says, “Well, unfortunately, toots, there’s no law keeping him from coming here. But I never did like that turd of a boy.”

  I almost choke on my own spit. “Ivy! You can’t say that.”

  “Why, is there a rule that old people are supposed to like all kids?” Ivy asks, her purple tunic billowing in the breeze. She pushes a lock of gray hair behind her ears. “I do believe the Bible says Thou shalt love thy neighbor, but nothing about liking him.”

  I can’t blame Ivy for feeling this way. While Blaine wasn’t exactly rude to her, he wasn’t polite either.

  “And although I don’t condone the way you’re always chatting with different fellows,” Ivy says, pausing long enough to take in my outfit and makeup, “it’s better than being with him. He’s not good enough for you, kid, so it wasn’t necessary to get all gussied up.”

  “What? I’m not gussied.”

  Ivy raises her eyebrow. Okay, so I am a little gussied.

  After we got back from dinner thirty minutes ago and I saw Blaine waiting for Sabrina by his Mercedes, my first reaction was to stay in my bedroom—all night long. Natalie, however, disagreed. When she saw me in bed with my face shoved in a pillow, she struck a determined pose that would have made Beyoncé proud and said, “Oh, no, we are not having this.”

  “I’m not going out there and you can’t make me.”

  Natalie ignored me and opened my closet, pulling out my favorite yellow capri pants. She tossed them aside and said, “Nope, these won’t do.” Natalie then yanked out red shorts, only to throw them on the floor. “Too long.” She pulled out a short, pleated skirt next. “No, too trying-too-hard.” When she found my pink shorts with a cute pink and green belt—my favorite colors—she nodded. “Yes, perfect. And please tell me your new white shirt is clean, the one that makes your arms look super muscular?”

  “Natalie, what part of I’m not going don’t you understand?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You mean the I’m going to be a total wuss and hide part? Is that it?”

  “I’m not a wuss.”

  “Oh, yes you are, Dee.” In one fluid motion, Natalie with her low tolerance for whiners leaped onto the bed and put her feet on both sides of my waist, jumping up and down until my head flopped against the pillow like a landed trout. “Wussy, wussy, wussy,” she sang.

  “Cut it out, Nat!”

  Natalie jumped even faster. “Aw, am I annoying you? Well, I can annoy you all night long, my friend, because this is not proper behavior for the mighty Superflirt.”

  Superflirt? I didn’t feel super or flirty and definitely not mighty, but Natalie refused to let up. She kept jumping until my crab cake threatened to make a reappearance and the pile of papers I was hiding fell to the floor. “Dee, what are those?”

  “Nothing.”

  Natalie hopped off the bed and snatched up the college brochures and a copy of Blaine’s letter. “Really, Dee? Have you been agonizing over this letter again? And what’s with the brochures? I thought you said you’re going to Riverside Community just like I am until I transfer to Penn State.”

  Right, Natalie is transferring to Penn for her journalism degree, but dumb people like me? “Yeah, well, evidently that’s all I’m capable of, according to Madeline.”

  Natalie shook her head. “You know what? I’m real sorry, but—” She tore the letter into small pieces, letting them fall to the floor.

  “Natalie!”

  She ignored me and tore up each brochure. “Girl, I love you, but you spend too much time worrying about what people who don’t love you think. Like Madeline. Roxanne. Blaine. Sabrina. And you’re up here hiding, which I don’t understand, considering you see the last two at school all the time.”

  That was a good point. But I had an even better reply. “At school, I always felt horrible, like I couldn’t be myself. I don’t want to feel like that here, in the one place where I can truly be me.”

  Natalie dropped the brochure pieces and sat beside me. “Look. I want to be compassionate, Dee, I really do. But if you stay in this room, Sabrina will think you’re nothing but a coward and a—”

  “Wuss,” I finished for her. Natalie was right. Why should I hide? No, I was going to show Sabrina that she didn’t break me. I was going to make that jerk Blaine see that I’m just fine without him.

  And now, from the way he’s checking me out from the pavilion, I can tell I have accomplished that goal. Thank you, Natalie, thank you, pink shorts.

  * * *

  “Testing, testing, one—two—three, can y’all hear me?” Mona Owens taps the microphone with her ridiculously long nails.

  “What do you know about her?” Ivy asks, eyeing Mona’s outfit that is way too tight, but does match our theme. Have to give her credit for that.

  “Not much, other than that she works a
t Chuck’s on Friday nights.” Oh, and her daughter hates me. Can’t forget that part, especially with Sabrina glaring at me. What is her problem? Blaine dumped me and then gave me that oh so sweet birthday present by starting to date her. She won, although he’s hardly a prize, so if anything, I have the right to be angry.

  Ivy scratches her forehead. “Chuck Lambert? Hmm, working for that walking hormone isn’t a credible reference. Want to split some Skittles? I have the feeling we’re going to need some comfort junk food.”

  Ivy leaves before waiting for my answer because—duh—of course I want Skittles. Victoria Swain passes her on the lodge porch wearing a prim black sheath dress instead of the standard campground uniform of shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops. Okay, why, exactly, is Mrs. Swain camping here if she has no intentions of, well, camping? I’ve never seen her enjoy the pool or any activities, and Dr. Swain’s only form of socializing is stopping by the lodge for the Wi-Fi code Mom changes twice a week.

  Mrs. Swain sees me and waves, tiptoeing gingerly toward me so her heels won’t sink in the grass. “Hello, Dee! My, you look very attractive tonight. Special occasion?”

  Oh, man, maybe I am too gussied.

  Mrs. Swain fingers the sleeve of my shirt with a wistful sigh. “I wish Roxanne would dress like this instead of wearing those horrible clothes she gets at Goodwill—Lord knows who’s worn them before her. I keep asking her to go to the mall with me so we can begin collecting her summer wardrobe, but she always says no.”

  Yeah, shocker. Can’t say I blame her, though.

  Mrs. Swain looks at her diamond-trimmed watch. “Drat, I’m late for our hospital charity event. But thank you, Dee, for showing Roxanne the ropes today.”

  “Sure, no problem. And hey … can I get you an activities schedule? We have tons of fun things to do here that you might enjoy. Like karaoke, maybe?”

  This is a shot in the dark, seeing as how Mrs. Swain doesn’t seem to be the karaoke type. But to my surprise, she sadly gazes at the pavilion where Mona is fussing with speaker wires. “Well, no, Martin doesn’t sing. Besides, he’s at the hospital every day, so I’m stuck with all the work for our new house, and Roxanne isn’t very interested in spending time with—” She falters as though she’s said too much, and then digs out car keys from her beaded handbag. “But thank you, Dee. It does look like fun.”

  Okay, another shocker.

  Mrs. Swain walks away before I can reply and is halfway to her Lexus by the time Ivy returns with the Skittles. Ivy nods her head toward the pavilion, where Mona is standing center stage again. “Well, looks like it’s showtime.”

  Mona takes the mike off the stand.

  Good Lord, are her shirt’s top two buttons now undone? Yes, they are. She struts to the front of the crowd, her arms spread wide as she shouts, “Can y’all hear me?”

  Oh my gosh. Did Ivy mean showtime … or showgirl?

  A feeling of dread washes over me. Men gawk. Two little boys stop arguing over a cherry Coke long enough to stare at her mile-long cleavage. The Cutson brothers’ father, Frank, holds up a Budweiser and hollers out, “We hear ya!”

  “All right then, handsome!” Mona gives Frank a wink, despite the fact that his very tough—like, motorcycle-tough—wife, Tamara, is sitting beside him. Mona poses like Marilyn Monroe welcoming the troops and says, “Welcome to Mona’s Low-Key Karaoke! I’m Mona and this lovely girl is my daughter, Sabrina, who’s going to help me get the show rolling by playing some Shania. Hit it, Sabrina!”

  Sabrina flashes her mother a look of embarrassment. Huh. I didn’t think it was possible for the Ice Queen to feel embarrassed, but there’s no time to analyze, not when the opening chords of Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine” begin and Mona starts shaking her hips to the beat. She sashays over to Frank, making him spill beer on his boots when she lifts his chin with her finger and sings, “Any man of mine better be proud of me.”

  Oh. My. Gosh.

  Mona turns to another male camper and sexily gestures to her profile. “Even when I’m ugly, he’s still gotta love me.”

  Frank yells out, “I’ll still love you,” causing Tamara, with sparks coming out of her eyes, to swat the back of his head. She isn’t the only one annoyed. One mother hauls her young son away before Mona reaches the chorus, and another woman scolds her husband when he starts to clap along.

  “Jane is not going to be happy,” Ivy says.

  Not going to be happy is a severe understatement. But a more terrifying thought hits me. “Where’s Madeline? She cannot see this!”

  “Too late.” Ivy points to the tennis court. Madeline is glaring at Mona with sheer disgust. Ivy shakes her head. “Go get your mom, Dee. Tamara is about to blow and we do not want that woman angry.”

  One look at Tamara’s muscular crossed arms has me running to the store. But only Natalie is there, sitting behind the counter painting her toenails. I flick her big toe and say, “Nat, emergency, Mona Owens is about to strip. Where’s Mom?”

  Natalie jerks her feet down. “Stripping? I need to see this for myself. Watch the register, okay?” She hops off the stool, walking with her toes lifted to keep from smudging her pedicure. “Oh, and your mom is out back, talking on the phone to some guy.”

  All thoughts, concerns, and worries about Mona instantly disappear.

  “A guy? What guy?”

  Natalie opens the door and says, “I don’t know. He didn’t give his name.”

  She hobbles out before I can press for details. Maybe it was a business call. Mom did say she was going to check in with Drake to see how he’s doing. But when I peer out the back window and see her seated on the rear porch steps, throwing her head back with a silky laugh and combing her fingers through her hair, I know: Mom is flirting.

  Mom’s flirting.

  But with who?

  I lean against the wall before she can see me, a painful throb swelling in my chest. Mom, dating? No, I can’t imagine it, even though I know perfectly well how my father would respond. He’d want her to be happy. He’d want her to move on. That’s how I should feel instead of hiding like a spoiled brat, but I just can’t handle another curveball thrown at what is left of our family. And what if she gets hurt, like Blaine hurt me?

  What if she can’t recover this time?

  * * *

  For the next hour, Natalie texts me what’s going on outside. After Mona finishes her song and Ivy calms Tamara, all of the karaoke calamities are over until a little girl starts to belt out an Eminem song that’s more Playboy than PG. The store is slow, so I’m considering closing early when the bell above the door jingles.

  “Hey, what’s up, Dee-Dee?”

  Blaine. I hate that stupid nickname he gave me.

  And I hate the way he casually strolls in, just like last summer when he’d stop by with sun-kissed cheeks and tousled hair after a day of golf. And I especially hate the way he inspects the store and says, “Huh, nothing’s changed in here, has it?”

  His nonchalant comment makes the blood pound at my temples. It’s one thing to break up with me—fine, whatever, I got over it—just don’t patronize me by being cordial. But when Blaine motions to the freezer and asks, “You still got ice cream sandwiches hidden in there?” I only shake my head and say, “No, Skinny Cow Fudge Bars. They’re low-fat.”

  Okay, why, exactly, did I feel the need to say that?

  Blaine gives me an appraising look, one that goes from the tips of my ears to my toes and back. “Well, the low-fat is working, Dee-Dee.”

  Of course he would say this. Heaven forbid I should have any extra pounds on me. I think of all the times he’d order Big Macs for himself and salads for me. And why is Blaine trying to have a conversation, anyway? I say nothing as he taps the counter a few times and then strolls to the cooler for a Coke and a Diet Coke. Is the diet for Sabrina? Does he always buy it for her whether she wants it or not, like he always bought it for me?

  Hold on. Why do I care?

  Thankfully, the door opens again and Jak
e walks in, fresh from the bathhouse with his sandy blond hair hanging in damp curls. His pace slows when he sees who is with me, but he still politely says, “Hey, how’s it going, Blaine?”

  Blaine doesn’t respond. He only gives Jake an amused smirk and pulls his wallet from his pocket. I pound the price of the sodas into the register, remembering how Blaine would blow off guys at school who came from blue-collar families, like Jake. How dare he? Jake might be a jerk sometimes, but he’s the campground’s jerk. My jerk.

  An idea comes to my mind. A Superflirt idea.

  I wink at Jake before dropping Blaine’s change in his hand. Most of it falls to the counter, but I pretend not to notice and give Jake my very best hair toss instead. “Hey, sweetheart, I was missing you!”

  Please catch on, Jake, please catch on!

  He catches on. Oh, boy, does he catch on. A grin sweeps across his face. He rests an elbow on the counter and uses his other hand to graze my forearm. “Well, hello there, Babykins. I was missing you, too.”

  Babykins? Okay, roll with it. “No, I missed you, Pumpkin Breath.”

  “No! I missed you, Fuzzy Peach Bottoms.”

  Blaine’s face darkens as we banter back and forth, our terms of endearment becoming more and more ridiculous. He angrily pockets his change and grabs the sodas. “Well, guess I’ll see you later.”

  Jake turns as though distracted. “Huh? You say something, dude?”

  I rip my adoring gaze away long enough to say, “What? Oh. Later, Blaine!”

  After he stalks out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the deer antlers on the wall, we burst out laughing. “Fuzzy Peach Bottoms, are you serious, Jake?”

  “Pumpkin Breath? Oh, yeah, that’s a surefire way to win over the fellows,” Jake says before grabbing a Snickers from the candy display. He throws a dollar on the counter. “Man, he’s such a loser. What did you ever see in him, anyway, Dee?”

  I’m not sure.

  No, that isn’t true. I know exactly what I saw in Blaine, and for some reason, I want Jake to know as well. “At first, he reminded me of my father because he was so charming and charismatic,” I say, turning to the photograph of Dad on the file cabinet. “You would have loved my father, Jake. Everyone did. If your engine blew up the day before a race, he’d be in the garage with you all night long until it was fixed, you know? So when Blaine asked me out after he died, I guess I … You know. And now—”