by Laura Bowers
If she hadn’t, none of this would have happened.
“I thought it was agreed that you were going to work tonight, Sabrina. But who had to pack up everything by herself ? Me. And who ended up dropping a very expensive speaker on the ground? Me, so a little help would have been nice.”
Yeah, well, you’re the least of my problems tonight.
I rub my sore wrist and bury myself deeper into the sofa cushions. Starting an argument would be a bad idea, so I mumble, “Sorry, I was having a bad night.”
“You think you were having a bad night?” Mom fumes. “The nerve of that Jane Barton, telling me she wants someone more neutral to work at her campground, the nerve! Well, if she wants ‘neutral,’ she should take a peek in the mirror. I’ve never seen a woman with a more dire need of highlights in my entire life!”
She flops her head back and whimpers, glancing at me from the corner of her eye as though she’s waiting for me to ask what happened. I pretend to watch a home design show until her next whimper tapers off with a few sniffs. Fine. Might as well get it over with. “Gee, Mother, what happened? Do tell me all about it, please!”
And don’t you worry about me, okay?
“About time that you asked.” She kicks her feet down and leans forward with her elbows on her knees. “Well, after my last song, I went to Jane and said—all polite-like—how it was a pleasure to work for her. And then she’s like, ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ and gives me a check without a ‘thank you, you did great,’ nothing!”
Why am I not surprised?
Mom pats her messy hair. “So then I told her I was available while DJ Drake recovers, bless his heart. Of course there would be a small price increase—a girl can’t work for nothing, you know—but guess what she told me?”
I’m in no mood for guessing games. All I can think about is Blaine telling me on the car ride home how it was Dee who lured him upstairs because she wanted to talk. How he shouldn’t have been so stupid, but he felt he owed it to her to hear what she had to say. At the time, I was too furious to listen. But now …
Maybe I should have believed him. Maybe I shouldn’t have slammed his car door and told him that I never wanted to see him again.
What if he was telling the truth?
“Are you listening?” Mom pouts, hitting her palm on the coffee table and causing a pile of Harlequin romances to fall to the floor. “How dare that Jane woman fire me! You were there, Sabrina, her campers loved my show!”
Right. The male ones did, but certainly not the women, although I suspect it was a combination of her nerves and caffeine that turned her usual flamboyance up about twenty notches.
“But no, she told me I made some campers uncomfortable, can you believe it? That woman fired me because a few cows were jealous.” Mom leans back again, as though her outburst exhausted her. “Well, you just wait, honey. Your momma is going to be the most popular karaoke queen in all of Riverside and then I’ll get my revenge. She’ll beg me to work for her and I’ll be the one who turns her down.”
Mom sniffs, waiting for me to respond. When I don’t, she asks, “What’s wrong with you, anyway? Why are you so grumpy?”
I give her an annoyed look. “My wrist hurts, okay?”
“What happened?” She leans forward to study my face. “And how did you get that bruise?”
I know better than to tell her the whole story about Dee and Blaine together. She’d only confirm my fears by saying I overreacted. Again. So I just tell her about falling down the Bartons’ steps and leave out the part about stumbling at Blaine’s car and hitting my forehead. Mom clucks her tongue and nods. For a second, I think she’s going to comfort me, but she only says, “Well, it’s a small bruise, but you don’t want that handsome Blaine to see you like that. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, though, your momma’s here.”
She disappears down the hallway and then returns shaking a concealer bottle. “This here is my miracle cream, baby, it covers everything you want to hide.” She dabs some on my forehead and blends it with a makeup sponge before holding a small mirror to my face. “Perfect! You can’t see a thing.”
She’s right, the bruise is gone, but I can feel it, just like I can feel the ache in my heart from seeing Blaine with his hands on Dee’s shoulders. And what else would they have done if Roxanne hadn’t told me where they were?
* * *
Late the next morning, my wrist feels like someone slammed a door on it. I roll over in bed and stare at the photos on my dresser. One is from prom, with Blaine and me posing with our newly won crowns. Another is of Dad and me before the divorce, standing by the Christmas tree. I touch the diamond stud earrings he gave me that year, wondering what he’s doing right now. Is he watching CNN and eating bagels, his usual Sunday morning routine? Is Angela sitting beside him on the sofa, reading magazines like I used to when he lived with us? Those are the moments I miss the most—those random, casual moments we used to have without Belinda or Angela around, making me feel like an outsider in their home. Those times were when he truly felt like my father.
My cell phone buzzes. I hope it’s Blaine, texting to apologize, to say it was a huge misunderstanding and please, forgive him. But it’s only Mom, asking if I’m awake. I ignore it and throw the covers over my head.
I must have fallen back asleep, because the sun is shining full force when Mom walks in later with her face covered with a blue purifying mask. “Sabrina, are you finally up? I brought you some breakfast, sugar.”
Mom, bringing me breakfast? There has to be some ulterior motive.
“What do you want now, Mother?”
“Oh, hush, baby,” she says in a comforting tone. She sets a tray on my nightstand and pulls a baby wipe from her robe pocket, using it to clean away the heavy concealer I didn’t bother to wash off before going to bed. “There, that’s better. Let’s show off that bruise. And how’s your wrist, sweetie, does it still hurt?”
Wow, this is a switch from last night when she couldn’t have cared less. I shrug as she hands me a mug of coffee. “Yeah, a little.”
Mom pats my thigh. “Good, we’ll take a little trip to the hospital, then. But first,” she says with her lips freakishly frozen now that her mask is drying, “where’s your camera?”
“It’s in my purse, why?”
“Just trust your momma, okay? Have I ever steered you wrong?” she asks, yanking my covers back. When she sees my face, Mom lets out an exasperated breath. “Well, maybe a few times. Just get it, okay?”
Fine. I trudge to our kitchen, which is decorated like a ’50s diner with black-and-white-checked tiles and bloodred walls. My purse is on a table by the window, where Mom’s old computer is moaning. She must have been performing her usual Sunday morning routine of drinking coffee while reading blogs and forums full of angry, jilted women, since she doesn’t have many friends or family members to talk to.
Something about the word “blog” strikes a nerve.
A big, fat, tender nerve.
Bridget. Bridget was reading a blog yesterday. What was it called? The Superflirt Chronicles, where the writer talked about an unwanted visitor at … at a campground. And Roxanne. She called Dee “Super Slut” before warning me to watch my man.
I grab the mouse, cursing Mom’s ancient RAM as the computer slowly comes to life. My anxious fingers keep making clumsy typos while I try to Google the site, until finally, the Pepto-Bismol pink blog fills the screen. I sit, slamming my knee into a table leg, but the pain is soon forgotten.
An icy chill goes down my spine as I read the latest entry.
It’s about getting revenge on a Mercedes.
My Mercedes.
This is Dee’s blog. She’s writing about Blaine. About me—I am Mercedes’s evil girlfriend, just like Roxanne called me, so she must know about the blog, too, and—oh God, last night was nothing but a cruel joke planned out by Dee. Blaine was telling me the truth, Dee was the one who lured him upstairs, and I didn’t believe him.
I can’t thi
nk. Can’t speak. But I do know one thing:
Dee Barton is a dead girl.
The Superflirt Chronicles
… blogs from a teenage flirtologist
Sunday, June 20
OH, WHAT A GLORIOUS MORNING!
MOOD: Validated
MUSIC: “So What,” Pink
You know what they say: LIVING WELL IS THE BEST REVENGE!
THE DUDE: Mercedes
THE GRADE: A+
THE BREAKDOWN: Surely you don’t think the A+ is for Mercedes, do you? No, darlings, it’s for me, for proving to my ex that I am, indeed, living well without him, thanks to the efforts of a certain race car driver who came in handy on the dance floor. And the best part of the evening? Getting Mercedes away from his evil girlfriend and hearing him admit how much he misses me.
Well, guess what, Mercedes?
I don’t miss you.
As for the evil girlfriend, I do feel partly responsible for an unfortunate mishap on her behalf. But, dear readers, would you feel horrified if I confessed to feeling a tingle of delight over her finally getting what she deserves?
10 Dee
Church is different at a campground.
There’s no singing, no pulpit, no pews, just Pastor Mike speaking gently from where he sits on the top of a picnic table, dressed in plaid shorts, Nike sandals, and a JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY T-shirt. Campers face him in their folding chairs, eating doughnuts and sipping coffee, a few still in pajamas. An intoxicating breeze causes Ivy to nod off beside me. I’m halfway there myself, after hardly sleeping last night, until Pastor Mike quotes from Romans: “Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God’s wrath … if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.”
I sit up. Did Pastor Mike look at me when he said that? Did he really mean, “If your enemy shows up with his girlfriend, do not take revenge by dancing in front of him with another guy”? But no, he’s preaching about the dangers of road rage because of a major accident in town yesterday. The more I think about what happened, though, the worse I feel, regardless of how horrible Sabrina may be. What if she was badly hurt? And if I had never danced with Jake, then Blaine wouldn’t have followed me upstairs and she wouldn’t have fallen.
That’s the bottom line.
Mom rolls her eyes at Madeline, who is listening with utmost attention with a Bible she’s probably never read past Genesis open on her lap. Earlier this morning, when I brought coffee to the porch, instead of Mom I found Madeline perched on Dad’s chair, already dressed and coiffed for the day.
“Why, thank you, Dee,” she had said, reaching for Mom’s mug like I brought it for her. “But could you get me more cream?”
Uh, okay, demand much? I fetched the cream and then sat beside her, peering down to where the Cutson brothers were sleepily padding out of their camper with their hair in matted Mohawks. Madeline took a sip, wrinkling her nose at the taste before saying, “So, tell me about Jake. Your mother said he’s your boyfriend?”
A squirrel that was climbing down a tree stopped mid-scamper and turned its head to me as if to say, Don’t do it, girl, don’t do it! Maybe it would have been best to lie, but something about Madeline’s steely gaze drew the truth out of me. “Um, no.”
She nodded, shifting in her seat. “As I guessed. And what about the gentleman I saw you leaving the upstairs room with, who is he?”
Seriously, how did she know about that? What is she, a stinking fly on the wall—or better yet, a buzzard on a branch? But even though it was absolutely none of her business, those steely pupils continued to hold me hostage. “Uh, my ex-boyfriend? I was up there taking a break and he walked in.”
Madeline’s lips pursed. “And the young lady? She was in quite a rush to leave, judging by her fall.”
Oh my gosh! The buzzard saw that, too?
“Who fell?” Mom asked as she stepped out onto the porch, the screen door clipping her ankle when she saw my grandmother sitting in her chair. Since Mom was both annoyed with Madeline and in pain, I knew full disclosure was my best course of action. So I told her it was Mona’s daughter, Sabrina, who tripped—by accident. “Wonderful,” she said, her face contorted like she’d bit into moldy bread. “That’ll give Mona Owens another reason to hate me.”
“Why’s that?” Madeline asked.
Mom sank down onto a different rocking chair. “Because I sort of fired her.”
At first, Madeline seemed impressed by Mom’s gumption. But then she stood and dumped her coffee over the railing dangerously close to that poor squirrel. “Well, then. Let’s just hope nothing bad comes out of this, shall we?”
But something bad did come out of it. Sabrina fell. And when Pastor Mike ducks his head in prayer, I keep mine up long enough to see Jake park his truck by the garage.
When I wave, he doesn’t wave back.
* * *
I need to find Jake after church, to explain what happened … No, make that what didn’t happen with Blaine, but I first have to work in the store. I try his cell, but all my calls go unanswered—as does my page over the intercom asking him to report to the lodge. So as soon as my shift ends, I run to the garage. He isn’t there. Neither is his truck. Instead, I see Ivy stretched out on a hammock, reading a John Grisham legal thriller, her favorite kind of novel. Ivy turns a page when I ask if she’s seen Jake. “Hmm, he just left for Bender’s,” she says.
Huh. Bender’s Auto Store is only two miles away.
I do have the afternoon off.
No, forget it. Madeline has already taken Mom’s truck to the grocery store for “real” food, so I’d have to take my bike. I’m not that desperate to see Jake. But then I remember the look on his face after he saw me with Blaine, and the horrible assumption he must have made.
Well, a little exercise won’t hurt.
Ivy is happy to oblige when I ask if she’d help Mom if she needs it. So I grab my bike and head toward town, not slowing until Rex’s development comes into sight. Like always, the pretentious brick entrance makes my chest ache, both from the fact that I was stupid enough to date a guy who lives here and from the memory of how beautiful this land used to be before my grandparents sold it to Rex. Rex also bought land from Chuck Lambert, who used the money to transform his campground into the ridiculous carnival that it is now. Word is, Chuck wants to sell another parcel to finance the water slides he’s putting in, but the zoning board won’t allow it.
Good.
And Rex certainly isn’t about to get any more of ours.
By the time I hit the city limits, my shirt is plastered to my sweaty back and Lord knows what my hair looks like, so I’m thankful that Jake’s truck is the only vehicle in Bender’s parking lot. A blast of air-conditioning makes my breasts ache when I open the door and step into the dank smell of motor oil. Mr. Bender, an elderly man with a stubble beard and grease-stained work shirt, nods at me before shuffling to the stockroom. On the walls, vintage Goodrich and Valvoline posters hang among the cobwebs, and a dirty table fan rotates on the counter. Jake yanks two bottles of Coke from an old-fashioned soda machine. He pops the caps off with the rusted metal opener and hands one to a person sitting on a cracked bar stool held together with duct tape. Roxanne.
Jake’s with Roxanne.
His eyes widen when he sees me. “Dee? What are you doing here?”
Are they on a date? That’s not possible—Jake usually doesn’t hang out with guests. But Roxanne is into racing. Maybe he’s attracted to that and— No, it doesn’t matter if they’re dating. I just need to think of an intelligent reason that explains why I tracked him down like a crazed stalker, which is hard to do with Roxanne looking as though she wants to slam me upside the head with a tire iron.
“Oh, I was on my way to meet Natalie at the movies and I saw your truck. Can I, uh, talk to you? Alone?”
Roxanne turns away, mumbling something underneath her breath—something I’m sure isn’t good. Jake doesn’t seem pleased either, but he still excuses himself a
nd leads me to the other side of the store where tires are stacked nearly to the ceiling. He faces me with his chin raised and says, “Okay, so, what do you want, Dee?”
Oh. I wasn’t prepared for this.
Jake has been abrupt with me before, but this is different. Before, there was always a teasing undercurrent. Now there’s something else, something I can’t identify.
“Jake, about last night. I wanted to explain—”
His cell buzzes. The corners of his mouth turn up as he reads his text and walks back to Roxanne. “Hey, Danny just texted from the racetrack. He came in second, but the guy who won got eliminated because of his piston.”
I don’t want to stand by myself like an idiot, so I follow him. Mr. Bender hobbles to the counter, spitting his chewing tobacco into a trash can. “Fool boy.” He swipes a finger behind his lower lip to get all the remaining black bits before saying to Roxanne and me, “The piston is an engine part, girlies.”
“Riiight,” Roxanne says as slowly as the condensation rolling down her Coke. “You mean the same part that the top three finishers always have inspected by race officials in case the compression ratio is too high, which is probably why that fool boy got eliminated?”
Mr. Bender grunts, a fleck of tobacco still clinging to his lip. He studies her and then says, “Yeah, well, sodas are fifty cents. I ain’t running a free-for-all.”
After he goes back to the stockroom, Jake nudges her arm. “He must like you, Roxanne. He normally charges a dollar.”
Had the situation been different, I would have been impressed by the way she handled Mr. Bender’s “girlie” comment. But it’s clear from Jake and Roxanne’s interaction that something is going on between them. I should go. Now. But after Jake slides his phone in his pocket, he leads me back to the other side of the shop. “Okay. What about last night, what could you possibly have to explain?”
A lot. There’s a lot I have to explain.