Just Flirt
Page 11
He doesn’t speak while I tell him about Blaine coming back into the store, about him following me upstairs after I told him not to, about Sabrina walking in … and her falling down the steps. The only thing I leave out are those brief moments of flirting with Blaine because, well, I’m not exactly proud of that. “So, I just wanted you to know there was nothing going on, okay? Nothing at all.”
Jake acts as though none of this was necessary. “Okay, whatever.”
I grab his arm before he can walk away. “No. Not whatever. Stop it, Jake, I need you to believe me, okay? I’m serious. I don’t want you mad at me. Not this time.”
His eyes soften. He shifts to block Roxanne’s view and says, “Dee, it’s cool, of course I believe you. And I’m not mad. I was just a little peeved because—”
“Jake!” Mr. Bender hollers from the back. “Come help me before fifty bolts fall down on my stinkin’ head!”
Jake stares at me for a moment then runs to help Mr. Bender. Shoot. What was he going to say? Roxanne drains the last of her Coke and stands, walking to the wall filled with dusty framed photos of local drivers. She ignores me and concentrates on a picture of Danny standing by his racing kart. Starting a conversation is not a good idea, but as I head for the door, I can’t stop myself from blurting out, “Um, tell Jake I’ll talk to him soon.”
This time, I have no problem hearing what she says.
“Yeah, I’m sure you will.”
Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?
Roxanne clenches her jaw and tosses her empty soda bottle in a wooden crate. “I’m sure you’ll summon Jake again,” she says bitterly, “when you need someone to clean the campground or dangle in front of your ex-boyfriend.”
My stomach drops. How does she know about Jake’s plan to make Blaine jealous? Did he tell her? He must have, but why would he share something private that was just between us? And better yet, why should Roxanne care about Jake helping me out if it was his idea to begin with? But then again, the girl has hated me from day one.
And it’s about time I find out why.
“What is your problem with me, Roxanne?” I demand, trying to keep my gaze steady even though my legs feel like jelly.
Her voice reeks of sarcasm as she walks back to the counter with her hands raised in the air. “Me, have a problem with you? Oh, no, don’t be silly, you’re perfect. Just perfect.” She slams two quarters for her soda by the cash register. “So, please, just go on with your perfect little life and leave me alone.”
I waver between fear and anger. No one has ever talked to me like that, not even Sabrina Owens. “My life’s not perfect, Roxanne. You don’t know a thing about me or what I’ve been through.”
“Oh, yeah, you got it real tough. And God, what is it with you pretty girls? You smile and act all sweet and kind—like you’re trying to make the world a better place—but what you really do is hurt people. And, yes, I do know all about you, Superflirt.”
What?
How does she know about Superflirt? I never told Jake about that—did she overhear Natalie and me talking? I stand rooted to the spot, too stunned to respond. Hurt people? Who have I hurt? But Roxanne only turns away, dismissing me by saying, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway because things will never change.”
* * *
By the time I make it back to the campground, I’m a sweaty, stinky, exhausted mess. Natalie is scheduled to watch the store this afternoon, so she’s perched on a porch swing with her Disney World planner, a stack of Florida guidebooks, and a bottle of Yoo-Hoo. She chews on her pen as I park my bike and crawl up the steps with my helmet dangling from my fingertips. I toss it on the floor then flop down beside her.
“Rough day?” Natalie asks. “You need a Skinny Cow?”
I shake my head. Not even a Skinny Cow can help me now. It’s all too much. Madeline arriving. Blaine. Sabrina falling. Jake. Roxanne all but telling me I am a horrible skank of a person and looking at me the same way Tamara looked at Mona Owens last night.
Oh my gosh, does this mean—
“Do you think I’m like Mona?” I ask.
Is that what I am, some horrible show-off who steals other people’s thunder and leaves them stuck with the rain?
Natalie’s mouth drops. She swats me with her copy of the Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World and says, “Honestly, where did that come from? Please tell me you’re not still worried about last night. First off, Mona has cellulite, which you’ll never have if you’re like your mother. Have you ever noticed how fabulous her thighs are? And second, Mona flirts with married and/or taken men, which is something you never do. You have principles.”
“Uh, hello, aren’t you forgetting something?” Natalie knows the truth—I told her everything last night, right down to the Gotcha moment with Blaine. Idiot. What was I thinking? No wonder he followed me upstairs. No wonder Sabrina was furious. No wonder I was too ashamed to tell Jake about the flirting part.
“Okay, you need to stop, Dee.” Natalie shakes her head and shifts to face me. “So you flirted with Blaine for, like, one minute. Big deal. Did you ask him to follow you upstairs? Did you push Sabrina down the steps?”
“No,” I slowly reply.
“And didn’t she humiliate you and countless other girls like me, hello, Nose-Pick Natalie? So, yeah, flirting with Blaine wasn’t the best thing in the world to do, but you had your reasons. And I’m sorry Sabrina fell, but she didn’t die, and after all the pain she’s caused, maybe she deserved a little pain herself.”
Natalie does have a point. It’d take an hour to list all Sabrina’s victims. Natalie hands me her Yoo-Hoo and nudges my arm. “So come on, give me a teeny-weeny smile.”
I manage a small one.
“That’s my girl,” she says, flipping her book back open to a section about Epcot and then motioning to the pool where two guys are throwing a football back and forth in the shallow end. “And as your reward, I’ll tell you about the two brothers who checked in an hour ago and I’ll let you call dibs on the cuter one.”
I watch the taller boy’s biceps flex as he jumps to catch the ball. Okay, he’s hot. Very hot, and worthy of a pool trick or two. I could even try to convince flirtaphobic Natalie to go first. But instead of plotting, I lean my head back and close my eyes. Maybe she’s right—maybe last night wasn’t entirely my fault. But after this weekend, one thing is for sure.
My Superflirt days? They are super over.
The Superflirt Chronicles
… blogs from a teenage flirtologist
Thursday, June 24
RAIN, RAIN, SUCKY RAIN
MOOD: Soggy
MUSIC: “Steal My Sunshine,” Len
Why did I choose this song? Because it’s got the cutest beat ever, and maybe I need a little sunshine after a long week of rain, rain, rain.
Rain + Campground = Dismal, dismal, dismal.
It doesn’t help that the unwanted guest I blogged about last Saturday has yet to hop on her broom and fly home. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there have been no flirt-worthy guys here all week. Well … except for some cute brothers, but Miss N and I threw those little fish back in the water. So, my lovely readers, I’ve decided to take a flirt break. Clear my head for a while. Take a breather. Chill. But don’t you dare assume that things are going to get boring here at the Chronicles. Allow me to announce something new: The Superflirt Book Club. Here is my first selection:
How to Win Friends & Influence People by Dale Carnegie.
What, were you expecting some kind of bodice-ripping romance? Oh, please.
And, okay, the book is from the 1930s. But guess what Dale Carnegie says is a simple way to make a good first impression? To smile. Hello—Flirt Rule #1! And he believes that the secret of dealing with people is to give honest and sincere appreciation. Uh, Flirt Rule #3 anyone? So get yourself a copy—book discussions start in two weeks! Until then, here’s an update from our friend Meghan:
Hey, Superflirt, I just don’t think I’m cut out fo
r all this flirting stuff. This one guy, Joe, did ask me out, but on the night of our date, both of my girls became horribly ill. It’s just as well—my place is at home with them. I do thank you though for trying. —Meghan9800.
Darling Meghan, your daughters were not ill. They were faking so you’d cancel your date and it worked. Bravo for them, they deserve an Oscar. But I don’t think you would have gone, regardless of their performance. Why? Because dating Joe might have made you happy and you don’t think you deserve to be happy. Well, guess what, Meghan. You do. So maybe it’s time for you to start living for yourself for a change.
As for everyone else, I feel that I should address the petty comments that have been posted recently, like these:
Seriously, the thought of someone as old as Meghan flirting is so gross! She’s like, what, forty? She should just die now and get it over with. —BridgetRocks.
Better watch what you say, sweetheart, because there will come a day when you turn forty and karma kicks your rocking butt for making such a cruel comment! —LovinMy40s.
Ladies, ladies, love and sisterhood means for all women, both young and old, remember? Come on, shouldn’t we support each other?
11 Dee
“What in the world?” Mom demands early Friday morning. We dodge a massive mud puddle and run up the lodge steps to where my grandmother is standing by the bulletin board. “Madeline, adult swim? Spelling bee? Bridge tournament, are you serious?”
“There you two are!” Madeline aims her dry-erase marker at the new schedule she wrote as though it’s the Sistine Chapel ceiling and she is Michelangelo. “Isn’t this wonderful? And I think it’s high time that bridge is re-introduced into society.”
“No, no it’s not!” Mom shakes her head, the thin streak of gray hair at her part seeming to grow wider by the second. “It’s our Kids’ Holiday Weekend, one of our most popular, and despite the weather, we’re nearly booked solid!”
The rain finally stopped last night, but everything is still a wet, dismal mess. The campground has been gloomy all week, making my flirt ban easy to follow with an empty pool, abandoned playground, and our permanent summer guests sequestered in their RVs. It got even worse when Madeline decided to extend her stay because we are apparently in desperate need of help. She straightens the bulletin board and steps back to survey her perfect penmanship. “Yes, Jane, but if you’re going to have a kids’ weekend, what’s more important for today’s youth than education?”
“Today’s youth will hate this,” I say. “And adult swims are stupid. Pools are always empty during them except for that one guy who’ll leisurely paddle around in his inner tube, watching the kids with a ha ha, losers look on his face.”
Madeline replies with a snippy hmph and heads for the store with us following behind. “The concept of adult swim is to force the kids to take a break and not exhaust themselves in the water. And the concept of studying over the summer might be of benefit to you, considering your last report card.”
Well, bite my butt.
I might get the occasional B, but it’s hardly anything to be criticized for. Besides, when did she see my report card? I find out after Madeline points at Mom’s once overflowing in-bin, which is now empty. “I made myself useful and did some filing, since the task has been ignored for quite some time. That’s where I found your report card, young lady. And, Jane, perhaps you need help with the bookkeeping? I noticed you paid your last insurance bill rather late.”
Wow. In one fell swoop, Madeline managed to tap into Mom’s fear of being a bad businesswoman—and a bad mother. Mom doesn’t reply, but when Madeline asks if we’d like to take flowers to my father’s grave, Mom looks out the window and whispers, “No, we mourn in our own way.”
I used to visit my dad every week to pull any weeds and to fill the vase with wildflowers picked from the mountains. But it didn’t feel right—the grave was too quiet and dismal, everything he wasn’t. Mom, however, didn’t stop going until about one month ago, and—
Wait.
Does it have something to do with her not exactly?
* * *
The next few days pass in a blur of chaos and commotion. Mom takes the marker from Madeline and returns the schedule to our Kids’ Holiday theme, with DJ Drake back on board, although his announcement that he’s soon moving to Denver to be near his grandchildren throws us for a loop. The sun comes out in full force by the afternoon, bringing with it a steady stream of campers, pop-up trailers, and trucks loaded with tents, bikes, and—of course—kids. A lot of kids. It reminds me of the scene in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang where all the children escape from Baron Bomburst’s prison and swarm the banquet hall. Madeline reminds me of the prissy Baroness Bomburst, but to her credit, she does help, although she grumbles about the candy Natalie hides for the flashlight treasure hunt, and she doesn’t give awards to the relay race winners until they correctly spell “victory.” Roxanne helps as well, just not with any kid-related activity after she yells at a child for throwing a water balloon at her. She takes care of the store mostly, but when I go in for hula hoops, I could swear I see her reading Natalie’s copy of How to Win Friends & Influence People before she hides it behind the counter.
Once Sunday night rolls around, everyone is exhausted. Jake vows to never give another hayride again, and after being bombarded by cannonballing kids while trying to take a quick dip, I decide that maybe adult swim isn’t a bad idea after all. By Monday, though, most of the weekend guests have left.
So now, my Tuesday afternoon plans include a bikini, a copy of Glamour magazine—love their Dos and Don’ts—and a lounge chair, seeing as how Natalie is spending the day with her grandmother to finalize their Disney plans. As I head to the pool, though, I consider stopping by Jake’s garage. Just to hang out or something … as long as Roxanne isn’t there. But while passing the playground, I see her on a swing, digging her bare feet in the sand and reading a graphic novel as the Cutsons run by with Dorito-stained lips and fingers. Lyle stops long enough to squat near a toddler who is sticking his sandy fingers in his mouth and yell, “Hey, don’t eat that, you stupid ding-dong! It causes cancer!”
“Sand doesn’t cause cancer, Lyle,” Ivy tells him as she falls in step beside me with a container of Tide and a full laundry bag.
I motion to the dirty sock poking out of the top. “Got a hot date with Mr. Maytag?”
“Mr. Grisham, actually,” Ivy says, motioning to another legal thriller tucked under her arm. “I took it from my therapist’s office today.”
“You stole a book from your shrink?”
Ivy grins and turns onto the sidewalk leading to the laundry room. “Borrowed, Dee, borrowed, although considering the hideous amount he charges for services that haven’t done me any good, he owes me more than a few—”
She stops.
A patrol car is creeping up the drive.
That’s odd. The sheriff often stops by at night to make sure no campers are out of line, but never at this time of day. Mom walks out of the store and watches him approach from the porch. The sheriff parks and steps out, wearing a wide-brim hat low on his forehead and dark sunglasses. He strides up to Mom with his gun bouncing on his hip. “Ma’am, you are Jane Barton, correct?”
“Of course, Wesley, you know I am.”
“I know, Jane, I’m just following procedure,” he says, handing her a large envelope before tapping his hat brim and walking back to the patrol car. She opens it and reads the first page as he drives away.
The blood drains from her face.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
She takes a shaky step back, and another, until she reaches the porch swing. She sits, tears gathering and her breath quickening as she continues to read. “Jane?” Ivy asks as we run to join her. “What is it, what are those papers about?”
When Mom composes herself enough to speak, her words come out in a whisper. “Dee, did you—did you—shove Sabrina Owens down the steps?”
“What? Why, what’s going on?”
“Dee, Mona Owens is suing the campground for two million dollars.”
12 Dee
Ivy drops her laundry and takes the papers from Mom’s shaky hands. Her gray hair falls in her face as she reads them. “This is a summons and claim citing physical and emotional damage caused by,” Ivy pauses, long enough to give me a worried glance, “by Dee Barton and campground negligence.”
Physical and emotional damage. Caused by me.
Ivy shakes the papers in the air. “And it’s from the law firm of Wyatt, Hyatt and Smith, of all places. Those bastards!”
I sit, gripping the swing’s armrest so hard my knuckles turn white. This is not happening. No, this has to be a joke, a cruel, twisted joke. Mom stifles a sob with the same stunned expression she wore the day my father died. She doesn’t blink until Madeline strides around the corner and says, “What’s going on? I saw the sheriff ’s car.”
Ivy reluctantly hands her the papers. Madeline skims the first page with her lips pinched. “I knew it. I knew the moment that woman walked on this property she’d be nothing but trouble. You should never have hired her to begin with, Jane.”
“Do you really think I need to hear this right now, Madeline?”
She ignores Mom and turns her rage to me. “And according to this, the plaintiff’s boyfriend was lured to an upstairs room by you, Dee, and you became physically violent when confronted.”
“What? No! Ask Blaine, he’ll tell you what happened! He came into the store. We talked and I got mad, so I ran to the rec room. Blaine followed me, even though I told him not to, and when Sabrina came in later … she got upset and left, and she tripped when she ran down the stairs.”
Madeline frowns, as though I’m nothing but a frivolous, lying twit. She turns back to Mom. “Jane, you need to contact your lawyer right away. You do have a lawyer, don’t you?”