by Laura Bowers
Seriously.
“Please, Mom, please don’t,” I begged. “And you’re not a widow.”
She kept singing, tapping the steering wheel with her Donald Trump nails that were painted hot pink with glittery green dollar signs. Trying to tune her out, I watched a group of cyclists wearing spandex pants, but it was impossible to ignore Mom as she caterwauled about a sexy widow who was criticized by the PTA members of her daughter’s school for wearing short skirts, drinking, and running wild with men. The widow gets them back, though, by barging into the PTA meeting and exposing everyone else’s dirty little secrets.
“Mom, enough! Tell me what’s going on!”
“Sugar, I’ve received some friendly legal advice that’s going to make our life a heck of a lot easier, trust me,” Mom said over the music, before singing, “That day my mama socked it to the Harper Valley PTA.”
When she swung into an elaborate brick professional center and parked beside a WYATT, HYATT & SMITH sign, my heart sank. Oh, fabulous. She had a meeting with Aaron Wyatt, her weasel-like lawyer who represented her through the divorce and always smells as though he just returned from a spa. Was Mom dragging Dad back in court for more alimony or for full custody? But then she repeated the last line of her ridiculous song, adding a little twist:
“That day my mama socked it to the Barton Family Campground.”
Dad wasn’t her target—Jane Barton was.
And now, while on the phone with Torrance, I try to stay calm because how everyone at school reacts to the lawsuit will depend on Torrance’s opinion, and if she thinks it’s lame I might as well kiss my senior year goodbye. “Oh, yeah, how did you find out?” I ask.
“From the article in today’s Herald, of course! Your mother is suing? Nothing this cool has ever happened in Riverside! Well, except for when Bridget’s mom sued her hairdresser for that disaster highlight job, remember?”
I should feel relieved that Torrance thinks it’s cool. But what article? Mom never said anything about a newspaper article.
“Hmph, that stylist got what she deserved,” Torrance continues in true diva form. “Those orange highlights surely were the reason her membership application at the Riverside Golf Club was denied.”
With my gloves on, I run to the front of the house, feeling the dry grass scratch my bare feet. The morning paper is still propped against the mailbox post. As Torrance rambles about highlights, I open it to see Mom on the third page, wearing a prim cardigan, with the headline “Mother Sues Local Campground” printed above her head.
“Sabrina, are you listening to me?” Torrance demands.
I mutter a quick uh-huh, and start to read. “Mona Owens, Riverside resident and owner of Mona’s Low-Key Karaoke, has filed suit against the Barton Family Campground on behalf of her minor daughter, Sabrina Owens, citing physical and emotional damage from negligence.”
Oh, no, she didn’t.
Emotional damage? Mom never said anything about emotional damage. She told me she was only suing for our medical expenses!
“Owens offered this statement through her lawyer, Aaron Wyatt: ‘I did not want to do this—Lord knows there are enough frivolous lawsuits swamping our legal system these days. But I put my own concerns aside and thought only of my traumatized daughter, who I had to comfort for hours after she was pushed down those rickety stairs. It was very hard on me.’”
Pushed? Dee never pushed me.
And traumatized? Comforting me for hours? All she did was cover up my bruise with her miracle cream. She didn’t even think about taking me to the hospital until the next day, when she barged into my room after surfing the Internet all morning. Aaron. Maybe she called Aaron and he told her to get X-rays taken, and to take a picture of the bruise on my face, even though it wasn’t from the fall.
“Sabrina—hello—give me the details! Like, did Dee really push you? Did it have something to do with Blaine? Tell me!”
I mumble something incoherent and read the last line. “Ms. Owens is seeking two million dollars for her daughter’s physical damages and emotional distress.”
Three words jump out at me like a brick to the forehead.
“Two million dollars, is she serious?” I yell.
“I know, isn’t it fantastic?” Torrance squeals. “Just think of all the shopping we’ll be able to do, and oh! You could go to San Diego State with me instead of that stupid Riverside Community College, so come on, tell me what’s going on, talk!”
No, it’s not fantastic. And yes, there is someone I want to talk to. A bleached blond forty-two-year-old Harlequin Romance addict who assured me nothing like this was going to happen.
“Torr, can I call you later?” I ask while rushing in the front door.
“Oh, no,” she demands. “Not until you tell me everything. I’m your best friend, remember? At least, I thought I was.”
Great. If Torrance gets annoyed with me now, I will be about two steps away from total social homicide. Inside the house, Mom is at the kitchen table, nursing an iced tea and applying a top coat to her Donald Trump nails. Perfect, she can help me get rid of Torrance again. I give her a knowing gesture and point at my cell. “Of course you’re my best friend, Torr,” I warmly say, while motioning at Mom. “And I’ll tell you everything.”
“Finally,” Torrance murmurs.
I pause.
My mother takes a long sip of tea.
“Mom!” I mouth.
“Oh. Right.” She waits a second and then hollers, “Sabrina! Can you get off the phone, honey, and help me?”
It’s about time. “Sorry, Torrance, gotta go, but I promise to call you later, okay?” I hang up without waiting for her reply. “Mom, I can’t believe you!”
“Fine! Get your own self off the phone next time, then.”
“No, not that.” I slam the paper down and jab a finger at the article. “Two million dollars, are you insane?”
Mom smiles, putting down her nail polish and clapping her hands excitedly. “Well, my stars, I thought they were running this tomorrow! Oh, joy, my picture turned out good, huh? But look at your dirty hands, Sabrina. How can I scrapbook this with mulch stains on it?”
Scrapbooking? She’s worried about scrapbooking? “Screw your scrapbook, Mother, would you mind explaining?”
“Watch your language, young lady. You know I hate being called Mother,” she says, taking a sip of her tea. “And, sweetie, the article was my lawyer’s idea. Who are we to question his judgment? And don’t get your panties in a pickle over the amount. We’re not really suing for two million. We’re just bartering.”
“Bartering?”
Mom heaves an impatient sigh. “You know, like in Mexico when a vendor says a necklace costs ten dollars but you barter back and forth until he agrees to sell it for three? Vendors are insulted if you don’t barter with them, honey, don’t you know that?”
Oh my gosh, does she actually think Jane Barton would be insulted if she doesn’t sue for so much money? Unbelievable. But there is an even bigger topic we need to discuss. “What about Dee pushing me? You know that’s not what—”
Mom cuts me off with a sharp look. “Hey, why did you run down those steps and fall? Because Dee was with your boyfriend, getting revenge like her blog said, so don’t get hung up on a technicality, sugar. Besides, this will all be over in a matter of weeks.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mom notices a smudge on a cuticle. She dips an orange stick in polish remover and dabs at it. “The case will never go to trial, that’s what, so it doesn’t matter whether or not Dee pushed you,” she says, waving the stick at me wandlike. “Trust me, her insurance company will be more than happy to settle for much less. And, just think, Sabrina. If your momma gets herself some money, then we can replace your car with one that isn’t breaking down every five minutes, and … your dad will pay less alimony.”
Her enticing words dangle in the air.
I never should have told her how Dad worked most of the time du
ring our last weekend together, just like I never should have told her about Dee’s blog. But at the time, I was too angry and Mom has always known how much I hate Dad’s schedule. Less alimony would mean less work for him and more time for me. So maybe her orange stick wand does have magic powers, because I find myself saying, “Fine. But I refuse to lie about anything. That’s just not right.”
Like any of this is.
“Of course not, sugar,” Mom purrs, just as the doorbell rings. She pats my face and then sashays to the foyer to answer it, coming back later with an enormous bouquet of her favorite tiger lilies. She buries her nose in the middle of one and breathes in deeply. “My, my, what a lovely surprise. I wonder who they’re from.”
Does it matter? Whichever fool sent them will only stop calling in a week, although I am impressed by the bouquet’s volume. She fluffs them with amazement and reads the card. “Oh, my … now this is a surprise.”
I wait for her to coyly make me guess who they are from. The short-order cook? The barber? The UPS delivery guy she flirted with at the mall? Or, gag, Chuck Lambert? But instead, she folds the card with a Cheshire cat grin and quietly goes back to her nails. Good, I don’t want to hear about her latest love interest, not when there are bigger things to worry about.
Like Blaine.
He answers my call this time on the fourth ring. Sounds of laughter and talking accompany his quick “Hello?”
“Hey, sweetie, how are you?” I ask while walking to my room.
“What?” he says loudly over the noise. “Who’s this?”
“Blaine, it’s Sabrina.”
“Oh, sorry. What’s up?”
What’s up? What’s up? That’s something a guy says to his buddies, not a girlfriend. But maybe he’s near his dad and wants to sound manly. So I twirl a lock of hair around my finger, hoping to sound carefree and lighthearted while saying, “Oh, nothing, sweetie, there’s just something we need to talk about.”
“What, about the lawsuit?” Blaine asks. “My father showed me the article in today’s paper.”
It suddenly feels as though someone has reached down my mouth and yanked out my lungs. He already knows. Is that why he didn’t call from New York, because he’s mad? Even though some of my ex-boyfriends were terrible, I would never wish a multimillion-dollar lawsuit on any of them. But then again … Blaine doesn’t sound mad. He sounds … completely indifferent. Dee Barton is a horrible person, but wow, doesn’t he have any feelings for her at all?
Wait—I don’t mean that.
If anything, I should be relieved because his blasé attitude toward her welfare proves once and for all he doesn’t still have feelings for her.
But how could he have read the article if he’s in New York?
“Um, Blaine, where are you?”
“Home, but not for long. Prescott and I are going to the driving range in about twenty minutes.”
Anger swells in my chest. He’s home? And going golfing with Prescott? Prescott is more important to him than me? No, don’t get upset. Be calm, be calm.
“Oh, really? And when were you planning on calling me, huh?”
Yeah, real calm, Sabrina.
Blaine gives me his here we go again sigh. “Sabbie, we got in this afternoon, and since you don’t like going to the range, I planned on calling you later.”
My pulse quickens from the possibility that he has blown me off—again. But I’m not going to bicker, not after we’ve already made up. No, we are going to have a wonderful summer together, so I force myself to say, “Well, welcome home, baby. Have fun tonight and call me when you’re done, okay? I want to hear all about your trip and—”
Larson’s booming voice cuts me off. “Blaine, time to get off the phone.”
“Fine, Dad. Sorry, Sabbie, I gotta go. But I’ll call you later, okay?”
He hangs up before I can say goodbye, leaving me to wonder if Blaine used his father to get me off the phone. Oh, no, he better not. I refuse to be played that way, even though, technically, I just did the same thing to Torrance.
“I’m going to Blaine’s,” I tell Mom while walking back into the kitchen and trying to ignore the fact that she has her bare feet propped on the table.
“Dressed like that?” She clucks her tongue as I open the side door. “You don’t want Blaine seeing you all grubby, do you, baby?”
Screw it. Blaine is leaving in twenty minutes, so there isn’t time to change. But after I get in the Honda and turn the key … there’s nothing. Only a grinding moan.
Son of a …
“Need a lift, Sabrina?” Mom asks from the open doorway, dangling the keys to her Trooper. “I feel like taking a spin.”
No, I’m not that desperate to see Blaine.
Oh, who am I kidding. Of course I am.
14 Sabrina
When we pull into Blaine’s driveway, it feels as though we have interrupted a Ralph Lauren photo shoot. Larson, Rex Reynolds, and a posh couple in their forties are lounging on the porch in designer clothes with a pitcher of sangria on the table between them.
Mom was right. I should’ve changed my clothes.
She certainly did. Even though she’s only dropping me off, I had to wait for her to throw on black capris, heeled sandals, and a tight Baltimore Ravens jersey. “Okay, Mom, thanks for the ride, I’ll see you—”
“Don’t be silly, Sabrina,” Mom says, opening her door and gazing upon the sangria social scene. “I can’t leave without saying hello, now, can I?”
Right, like politeness is her only motive.
Larson waves at us from where he is sitting on a wicker chair with his legs crossed. “Sabrina, Mona, what a lovely surprise! Come meet our new neighbors, Dr. Martin Swain and his charming wife, Victoria. They’re building the house next door.”
Blaine’s Mercedes is still in the garage, thank God, so I’d rather go find him, but Mom clutches my arm and pulls me toward the porch as though I’m her two-legged security blanket. I feel like complete scum in my gardening outfit compared to Dr. Swain’s gray trousers and Mrs. Swain’s silk tunic, but I fake a confident smile as Mrs. Swain makes polite small talk about seeing us the night we worked at Barton’s Campground. Larson then motions to Rex. “You both know Rex Reynolds, right?”
Sure, Mom’s ex-boss and Danny’s father. Rex greets us, his slightly crooked teeth, broad face, and stocky build making him look like an ex–football player who’s more comfortable drinking beer than sipping cocktails—which is odd, considering the swanky development he designed. “Hello, Sabrina. And, Mona, how are you doing?”
“Fine and dandy, couldn’t be better,” Mom answers, keeping her eyes on their drinks as though she is dying for an invitation to join them. She then tilts her head toward the lot next door. “And I don’t know much about construction, but I can tell that house is going to be just gorgeous, Rex!”
Larson uncrosses his legs and reaches for the pitcher, his tall runner’s body reminding me so much of Blaine. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing well, all things considered. I read today’s article—horrible situation, just horrible. Sangria, Mona?”
I can’t tell what Larson means. Horrible, as in she’s horrible? But at the word “lawsuit,” an odd look creeps over Rex’s face, one I can’t decipher.
Is it … intrigue?
Just as Mom drops her purse on the floor and starts to sit, Rex stands. “Would you like a tour of the Swains’ house, Mona? I’d be happy to show it to you.”
Mom obviously doesn’t want to go, not when she just scored an invite, but when Rex holds out his hand, she takes it. “Why, thank you, Rex, that’d be lovely.”
I’m about to hunt down Blaine after they leave, but something Dr. Swain says stops me in my tracks. “Well, regarding the lawsuit, I, for one, am not comfortable staying at Barton’s Campground any longer if the owner is negligent. So I spoke with Chuck Lambert. He’s offered us a discounted rate for the rest of the summer.”
Oh, man. I didn’t think about Dee’s mother losing busi
ness.
Mrs. Swain isn’t pleased either. She grips her necklace and says, “Martin, we can’t move! I’ve already bought decorations for this weekend’s Fourth of July best-decorated-site contest. Besides, Chuck’s campground is so distasteful. And I was hoping we’d, you know, start spending more time with Roxanne. They have so many lovely activities we don’t take partake in. Like hiking. Or maybe we could try karaoke. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Dr. Swain regards her as though she suggested they go streaking in a cactus forest. “Right, Victoria, like you’d ever do something so redneck as karaoke.”
What?
As he casually adjusts his gold Rolex watch, Mrs. Swain glances at me, her face ashen. Larson shakes his head, as though pleading with me not to react, but no, I don’t think so. It’s okay for me not to be a big fan of Mom’s business. But it’s definitely not okay for someone else to insult her.
“My mother owns a karaoke company, Dr. Swain. Do you think she’s a redneck?”
Dr. Swain stammers for something to say, but any lame apology from him is not worth listening to. Not when Blaine is leaving soon. I turn back to Larson. “If you will excuse me, I’m going to see Blaine now.”
Larson swirls his sangria, ice clinking against the crystal glass. “Uh, I’m sorry, Sabrina, but he isn’t here. Prescott picked him up and they went to the driving range a while ago.”
Great.
I missed him, so all of this was for nothing. Well, fine, I’ll just find Mom and we’ll take our redneck rears home. I mumble my goodbyes and step off the porch, but before I can make it past the fragrant roses lining Larson’s sidewalk, Mrs. Swain catches up with me. “Now, Sabrina, you know my husband didn’t mean any disrespect with his comment.”
Uh, yes, he did.
“And while you’re here, do you go to Riverside High?” she asks, guiding me almost forcefully past Mom’s Trooper and around the side of Larson’s house. She smiles when I nod and leads me toward the river where a girl is sitting on a pier with her feet dangling in the water and the warm sun beating on her face. “Then come meet my daughter, Roxanne. She’s about your age and I’m sure she’d love to meet you!”