by Laura Bowers
Before I can tell her no, we’ve already met, Mrs. Swain calls out to Roxanne. She is dressed in knee-length camouflage cutoffs and a huge black T-shirt. Wow, if Dr. Swain thinks karaoke is redneck, he must be horrified with her.
“Roxanne,” Mrs. Swain purrs, linking her arm in mine. “This is Sabrina. She goes to Riverside High, just like you will, although I’m sure she’s not taking those horrible auto mechanics classes. But why don’t you two get to know each other and then you’ll have someone to eat lunch with, how’s that?”
You’ve got to be joking.
Why is it that grown women—who have already been through the miseries of high school and should vividly remember how mortifying it can be—still manage to embarrass their own daughters? This sounds like the perfect topic to be discussed on The Superflirt Chronicles … if I were even remotely interested in that stupid blog.
Which I’m not.
“Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” Mrs. Swain says, before taking away a half-empty bag of Doritos that Roxanne must have been eating. She then steps back cautiously, like someone who has just finished building a house of cards and is afraid it will come crashing down with one false move.
Roxanne glares at her mother’s retreating back and then turns all of that angry and—quite frankly—boring teenage angst onto me. “Well, I’m sure you’re quite pleased with yourself,” she says, as though she’s been counting the days for the chance to say that.
Pardon me?
“What are you talking about, your mother? Hey, I never asked to be dragged out here like some—”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Roxanne says, kicking her legs back and standing. She jams her wet feet into her Converse sneakers, which are old and beaten with the back heels flattened like clogs. “Your mother. The lawsuit. That’s what I’m talking about.”
That’s right.
I had completely forgotten. Roxanne was there that night. She was the one who saw me looking for Blaine after he told me he was only going to the store for another soda. She was the one who called out to me from the porch swing, and who pointed up the stairs.
Did she also see me fall?
Does she know the truth, that Dee didn’t push me?
Oh, my stupid mother. Of all the stupid things she’s done, this is the absolute stupidest by far. It’s too late now, though, so the only thing I can do is get me and Mom through the legal proceedings as unscathed as possible, although once again, Mom has left me to deal with the weeds. Only now, that weed is Roxanne Swain.
“What do you care about the Bartons?” I ask, planning my words carefully so I can find out exactly what she knows. “You were the one who called Dee Barton a super slut, so you know from her blog about the games she plays. You were the one who made me paranoid with all that watch your man stuff. And you were by the steps, so I’m sure you know what happened!”
Or what didn’t happen.
“So,” I continue, “you might as well tell me everything you saw before my mother’s lawyers grill you.” Or Jane Barton’s do.
Roxanne shifts her weight, grasping an elbow with her opposite hand as she looks down the riverbank to where two girls are fishing. Her concrete shell seems to weaken and crack when the two friends burst out laughing, as though she longs to be with them—the same way Mom wanted to be with Larson’s crowd earlier. “I know what you’re up to,” she says. “You want to know if I saw Dee push you. Well, no, I didn’t. I couldn’t see from where I was sitting, does that make you feel better?”
She’s telling the truth.
But no, I don’t feel better. Especially when the rest of Roxanne’s rigid façade melts just enough for her to say, “And … I only told you where they were because I was mad at Dee for dancing with Jake. He’s a nice guy who didn’t deserve to be used like that just to make her ex jealous. And yeah, I did see her flirting with Blaine in the store, but when Dee ran upstairs, she seemed … she seemed upset, like she wanted to be left alone, not like she sounds on her blog.”
So does this mean Roxanne feels guilty over what happened? And Dee—upset? Why would she be upset if she was getting exactly what she wanted?
“But.” Roxanne faces me with her shoulders squared. “I may not like Dee, but I don’t believe for one second that she’d push anyone. Steal someone’s boyfriend? Sure, I wouldn’t put it past her. Flirt with her teacher for a better grade? Why not. But push someone? No. No way.”
A piece of driftwood floats toward us. So Roxanne is suspicious of me, after all. Okay, that’s fine, I’ll just have to persuade her to keep those suspicions to herself. “Look,” I say as gently as the water lapping against the pier’s green-stained posts. “My mom has no intention of going to trial for the full two million. She just wants a fair settlement, so all of this will be over by the time school starts. And speaking of school—”
“What are you going to do, Sabrina, put in a good word for me? Tell the A-Listers not to torture the weird new chick? What makes you think I need your help?”
Girl, you should NOT have asked that question.
“Well, let’s see,” I begin, motioning to her new house under construction. “I’m guessing you were forced to move away from your old home and you lost your friends as a result, judging from the way you keep watching those girls fish and the way your mother is dead set and determined to play matchmaker.”
Roxanne says nothing, but from the way she watches that helpless driftwood until it’s pulled around the bend, I know I’m right.
“And about your parents. Your mother snatched away your Doritos, and your father is a judgmental snob, so I’d say they don’t exactly approve of your weight, your clothes, and those ‘horrible auto mechanics’ classes, right?”
Roxanne bites the inside of her cheek.
Check, check, and check.
“So no, I’m not going to invite you to my lunch table, Roxanne. But I can certainly make life a lot easier for you when school starts if you’re interested in helping me make the settlement happen as quietly as possible.”
On the other side of the river, a circling buzzard is spiraling over some poor dead animal. Roxanne watches as it flies lower, and lower, and lower, until it disappears from sight.
She turns back to me. “Okay. I’m interested.”
At first, I feel victorious as I leave without saying goodbye and go back to the front of the house where Larson is showing Mom his roses. But through his open garage doors, I see something resting against a workbench that makes my blood run cold.
Blaine’s golf clubs.
15 Dee
After an article accompanied by a photo of Mona Owens posing Queen of Sheba–style came out, news about the lawsuit spread quicker than a marshmallow catches fire.
“Did you hear someone filed a lawsuit against this campground?”
“No, really? Why?”
“Because the owner’s daughter—that girl who checked us in—hit another girl. Smacked her right in the nose!”
“How awful!”
The two women who were gossiping in the arcade while their children played skee ball last Wednesday jumped when I came in to refill the claw machine with stuffed animals, but I was grateful we still had guests. Chuck has been taking advantage of our situation by advertising how his campground is “safe,” and he’s even offered discounted rates to some of our permanent summer guests, which upset Mom almost as much as Madeline’s decision to postpone her return home—again. The only time I’ve seen Mom truly happy this week was when a florist delivered a bouquet of her favorite gerber daisies on Thursday evening with a card that read, “Hang in there,” and no name.
Were they from her not exactly?
Maybe I don’t want to know. And even if I did, there’s no time to ask. Despite the lawsuit, we’re sold out for the weekend and packed to the gills by Friday afternoon. Most guests made their reservations months in advance and the competition for the most patriotic site is downright brutal, turning the campground into a temporary sea of red, w
hite, and blue. Of course, Madeline thinks this tradition was not something anticipated by our founding fathers, but even her persnickety frown lifted when an elderly veteran saluted the flag.
And then there’s Uncle Sam.
“Wow. You’re so old.”
Jake turns from the mirror mounted on his garage wall, wearing red-and-white-striped pants, a royal blue tuxedo jacket, and a white stovepipe hat with blue stars. “Look,” he says, the attached Uncle Sam beard jiggling with his every word, “I better get paid extra for this. And I am not judging next year, I’m telling you that right now.”
He stares at the many containers full of cookies, brownies, and cupcakes that are scattered among the tools and unassembled parts on his worktables. Poor Jake. Word somehow leaked out that he is this year’s judge for the best decorated site so he’s been sucked up to more times than a casting director on audition day.
I grab a cupcake and sit on a bar stool, breathing in the pungent smell of motor oil and dirt and feeling the dampness of the concrete blocks chill my arms. I never really thought about it before, but Jake’s garage is kind of cool, with racing schedules posted on a bulletin board, classic rock playing on the radio, and battered tool chests covered in bumper stickers lining the wall. What I like the most, however, is that Roxanne isn’t in here, although the reason why she’s absent does make me nervous.
Earlier today, she was lingering by Ivy’s leased BMW parked in front of the store, her head sticking through the open window and her chest expanding as though she was inhaling the new car scent. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Ivy asked.
Roxanne jumped, crashing her head against the car frame as Ivy walked down the porch steps with me, carrying files for her meeting with Mona’s lawyers.
“I wasn’t stealing anything!” Roxanne said. “I just—I just was coming to the store to ask you something.”
Ivy opened the BMW’s back door and tossed her briefcase inside. “Of course you weren’t, Roxanne. Surely you’d be smart enough not to take anything in plain sight, so what is it that you want?”
As I put Ivy’s files on the backseat, Roxanne shuffled from side to side, ignoring my gaze as she said in a surprisingly polite voice, “Yeah, uh, I wanted to know if you needed any help with the case. It would, ah, look good on my college applications.”
What? Jake told me how Roxanne wants to go to Lincoln Tech to study auto mechanics—a plan her parents aren’t exactly thrilled about—so assisting Ivy wouldn’t matter one bit on her college applications. Ivy seemed suspicious as well, but she only twisted her lips to the side and checked her watch. “Well, I have a three o’clock appointment with Aaron Wyatt. Do you have your driver’s license, Roxanne?”
Roxanne stepped back. “Uh, no, just a learner’s permit. Why?”
“Because you’re driving, that’s why,” Ivy said.
Driving? Her BMW, are you kidding me? But even though I was completely annoyed, I couldn’t help but notice the jubilation that spread on Roxanne’s face. It reminded me of the day when Dad announced he was teaching me how to drive. Of course, I was six and it involved the John Deere tractor instead of a BMW, but the feeling was the same.
So when Jake takes off the Uncle Sam jacket and says, “Hey, think you can fix this before tomorrow?” while showing me a small rip on the left cuff, tears gather in my eyes. This was Dad’s costume. He always had so much fun wearing it, pointing at guests and saying, “We want you.” And my gosh, Dad always made the best Santa for our Christmas in July weekend. He was so magical, perched on the wagon as Mom pulled it with the tractor, bellowing out a ho ho ho that could rival any Santa at Macy’s. He had a way of making every child feel special. Especially me.
But what would he think of me now?
What would he think about his daughter flirting with guy after guy every weekend and how his campground is now at risk because of it? What would he think of the way I dress, all skimpy and showy, enough to make girls like Roxanne hate me from the start?
I know what Dad would say—he’d say that life is full of messy mistakes that help us grow into better people—but what would he think?
“Dee, you okay?” Jake asks.
I wipe my damp cheeks. “Yeah, sure. I’ll mend this tonight.”
Jake pulls off the stovepipe hat. “No, you’re not okay. Is it about the lawsuit?”
Duh. Everything for the past week has been about the lawsuit. Pain burns at my temples from trying not to cry as Jake pulls up a stool beside me. “Hey, come on, now, it’s not that bad. Ivy has everything under control.”
That’s exactly what Ivy told me before leaving for the meeting—and also that Mona’s lawyers don’t have enough evidence to back up her ridiculous claim. But it still doesn’t change who started all of this to begin with. Me. “So what, Jake? I’m a horrible person for letting this happen.”
Jake swats at a persistent honeybee that’s circling his soda. “Dee, you’re not a horrible person and you know it.”
“No, it’s true. I am a horrible person who does stupid pool tricks, and who drapes herself over guys, just like you said, remember?”
He winces and holds up his hands. “Okay, that was a low blow on my part, but come on, Dee. You’d take a bullet for your mom. And I bet if I quizzed you, you could tell me the name of every camper staying here this weekend. Why? Because you genuinely care about people.”
I mentally run through the names of guests who have checked in so far. The Ogles, who own a convenience store. The Tacketts, who are celebrating their twentieth anniversary, and the Sibles, who once rode their Harleys cross-country, but so what? And yeah, I’d do anything to protect my mom, but what daughter wouldn’t?
Jake nudges my knee. “In fact, the only major complaint I have is about when you told that loser you were a Red Sox fan. That’s like saying you—”
“Technically,” I interrupt with a smile of my own, “I never said I was a Boston fan. I do have my limits, Jake.”
“See? So things aren’t all that bad,” he says.
I suddenly notice the closeness of our knees and how he must have gotten a haircut, judging from the tan line along his forehead. For some weird reason, I have an urge to trace it with my finger and—
Honestly. Where did that come from?
Maybe I’m going through flirt withdrawal.
Or maybe it’s because when he’s nice like this, it’s so … nice. And, my, my, the way he danced that night. Afterward, he did ask me if I had any plans for the next day. Was Jake asking me out? No. No way. Besides, he’s never—
Jake’s cell buzzes. I watch the corners of his mouth turn up into a slow, sexy grin as he reads his text. Who is it from, Roxanne? He hops off the stool and grabs a gym bag off the counter. “Hey, I’m off to take a shower, unless you want to talk some more.”
Oh, man, I’m such an idiot.
Jake has a date, so of course he’s not interested in me. Sure, he’s being nice, but deep down he’s still the guy who thinks I’m nothing but a silly tease. Just as I am about to tell him no, so go on your stupid date, Ivy’s urgent voice comes over the loudspeakers. “Dee Barton, please report to the main lodge. Now.”
Ivy is back from the meeting.
And it does not sound as though it went well.
* * *
When I get to the lodge, I see Ivy inside pacing up and down the hardwood floors, Mom bingeing on Taco Bell—not a good sign—and Roxanne standing awkwardly by the counter. A wave of trepidation sweeps through me, making it hard to walk in the store. As soon as I do, Ivy whips around. “Dee, didn’t I ask you to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
My heart pounds. Of course I told her everything. Twice. Three times, even. “Well, yeah, I did, Ivy—”
She cuts me off. “And didn’t I say that anything pertinent to the case better be disclosed to me before I met with those two-faced lawyers? But no, you chose not to tell me about your Superflirt blog, the one that outlined your plan
to flirt with Sabrina’s boyfriend in order to get revenge and all but claimed responsibility for her fall.”
What? “Ivy, I—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Dee! This supports Blaine’s statement that you were the one who asked him upstairs. And they’re going to try to enter some letter you wrote him as evidence of your instability!”
No, this is not happening.
The case was supposed to turn our way and Blaine was supposed to tell the truth—that he followed me upstairs. And there was something else—
“Ivy, what blog? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
* * *
Spike. Check Mate. Bull’s Eye.
Every single guy I’ve ever flirted with. McMuscles, a martial arts champion. Cannonball, a guy who kept jumping in the pool until he crashed into the ladder. John Deere, an FFA member who made farming sound hot.
Beater Boy. Sox.
Mercedes.
They are all there in black and white for my mother, Ivy, and Roxanne—Roxanne Swain, of all people—to read about. And I know exactly who put it there.
“Natalie wrote this, Ivy, not me.”
I can’t believe it. Why would Natalie do this, why would she write a blog pretending to be me? No, this has to be nothing but a big fat joke because Natalie wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t do this.
“Natalie?” Roxanne blurts. “You’re telling me that Natalie wrote this and you had absolutely no idea it existed?”
My blood instantly boils at Roxanne’s nerve, her audacity to stand over my shoulder, reading the blog, instead of doing what any decent person would do and leave. It’s bad enough she got to watch the lawsuit being served. Now she gets to witness my mother discovering exactly what kind of miserable person her daughter is?
“Why are you here, Roxanne, to enjoy the show? Is that why you conned your way into Ivy’s car earlier today?” I snap, whirling around to face her. I expect to see gloating pleasure or smug happiness because, after all, this blog proves her right. Instead, she looks … surprised. Completely surprised.