by Laura Bowers
“And,” Tanner adds, “we want the money first.”
Good. In exactly five days, it will be time to really break the restraining order.
23 Sabrina
“Hey, hey, hey, is everybody having fun?”
Chuck Lambert stands at the mike on Friday night, ruddy cheeks glistening and husky voice booming over the speakers. His hair is brushed back pompadour-style off his forehead and is anchored with enough hairspray to survive a tornado.
“Yeah!” a few kids yell from the pool.
“Of course you are. Everyone has fun here,” Chuck bellows. He leans back and laughs, his lifted shirt exposing a flabby white stomach. So gross. But I should be grateful. Mom could have ended up with him. Larson is bad enough.
“But, folks, before we get on with the karaoke, I have some bad news.” Chuck hangs his head with remorse, like a bad actor in a car dealership commercial. He walks over to loop a beefy arm around Mom’s shoulders. “Unless I can talk her out of it, this will be Mona’s last appearance, now that she’s chosen to retire.”
A few polite groans of protest come from the crowd.
“So, let’s make her last night a good one,” Chuck says, handing Mom the mike. She thanks him and steps to the front of the stage, wearing subdued shorts and a crisp blouse. Even her nails, her trademark, are cut to a more modest length, and she doesn’t bother to name them anymore even though she’s always named her nails. No more Billy Joels or Jungle Fevers or Girl’s Best Friends—the ones with little faux diamonds glued on.
I never in my life thought I’d say this but …
I want the old Mona back.
“Well, I sure am going to miss this,” Mom says without her usual showgirl bravado. “But it’s onward and upward, right? So let’s get this gentleman up here who’s gonna sing a Willie Nelson song, ain’t that right, honey?”
The camper nods, his crooked teeth clenched as the starting beats of “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” play. I still can’t believe she’s quitting. She loves karaoke more than her miniskirts, but even they are in bags waiting to go to Goodwill.
“You okay?” I ask as she sits down beside me.
Mom nods, her smile fake as she hands a pink songbook to a young mother with a toddler on her hip. “Of course, couldn’t be better. And you?”
“Fine, just fine,” I lie in return, even though Torrance and Bridget haven’t texted or called since Larson’s party, meaning that come next school year I’ll be lucky to make it into Spanish club, let alone the homecoming court. The only person who has tried to contact me is my father, but I just can’t deal with anything he has to say right now. Not yet.
Junk food.
Tonight I need junk food and something tells me Mom does, too. “Hey, want anything from Chuck’s coffee café? I can get you a mocha frappe, remember, with tons of whipped cream and cocoa sprinkles, yum-yum!”
For a second, she seems tempted. “Well, no, maybe just a hot tea. And when you get back, sweetie, can you help me come up with ideas for the wedding?”
Ugh. Hearing her say “wedding” makes my stomach turn.
And tea? Since when does she drink boring tea instead of the yummy mocha frappes that follow her life’s too short for light policy? What, does being “classier” for Larson also apply to beverages? Oh, no, I’m getting her a mocha frappe. But as I start walking toward the café on a paved pathway, two skinny twin boys run up to me with tears streaming down their faces.
“Lady, oh, lady! We need your help,” one of them says.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you hurt?”
The one kid shakes his head and churns out a huge wail, his shoulders heaving up and down with each sob as though he’s having a seizure. “We l-l-lost our puppy, she’s gone, goooone, I tell you, gone!”
The other one sniffs hard enough to siphon gas from an automobile and then wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah, she’s in those woods back there with all those coyotes and wolves.”
“Seriously, guys? Coyotes and wolves?”
“R-right,” they both repeat, now looking kind of familiar.
Oh, whatever, guess I should help them. “Fine,” I say, leading them toward the office. “Let’s get your parents and they can help ward off all those nasty beasts, okay?”
The boys both rear back. “No!” one of them yells, “we’re, um, not staying at this campground. We’re staying at the other one.”
Huh? The other campground? “You mean Barton’s, that’s, like, two miles away? What in the world are you doing way out here?”
The two kids glance at each other, and I suddenly remember seeing them at Barton’s playing kickball. “We were chasing our puppy,” one says. “Remember? He’s still by himself in the woods, so you’ve just got to help us, lady, you’ve got to!”
“Yeah, don’t let him die, lady, don’t let him die!” The other boy starts to cry again, large, round teardrops falling down his face as he grabs my arm and pulls me to where a small path crosses over a bridge and into the woods.
Wait a minute. “Hey! Before you said the puppy was a she.”
They stop, the dirtier one shuffling his feet. “Uh, yeah, at first, but then she turned into a he. Darnest thing we ever saw! Animal Planet is thinking ’bout doing a special on it.”
The lying monster.
“That’s it.” I pull out my cell while holding on to one kid. “Give me your parents’ number.”
He struggles out of my grasp and the other twin snatches my phone and they both sprint over the bridge. “Hey, come back here!” I yell, taking off after them and wishing I wasn’t wearing sandals. They run up the path into a large open clearing with benches made of cut logs and shadows from the towering oak trees covering the mossy ground. I skid to a stop when I see who is waiting there. Dee Barton.
It was nothing but a hoax, just a big fat joke.
And I am not amused.
“Do you realize I could have you arrested for being near me?” I ask.
Dee shrugs, her posture steadfast and weary, as though she is both exhausted and determined at the same time. “Go ahead, I don’t care, but you won’t get far without any proof or witnesses.”
“Oh, yeah?” I motion toward the twins who are now sitting on a log. But one of them snaps his fingers in the air and says, “We ain’t seen nothing, puppy hater.”
Dee walks closer. “Sabrina, I’m sorry to trick you—I know you work at Chuck’s on Friday nights, so this was the only way I could think of to get near you. But it’s important that we talk about something.”
What, talk to her, the person who ruined everything for me? Since that night at her campground, I’ve lost my boyfriend, my friends, and my mother. And so what, maybe parts of my life did suck before, but there were times when it was incredible to be Blaine’s girlfriend and everybody knows that popularity is a lot better than the alternative.
As a cloud passes in the darkened sky, rage floods my body, making me shake. “Yeah, you’re good at tricks. Just like when you wrote Blaine that letter last September, hoping he’d dump me as a result. Well, congratulations, you got your wish because we’re no longer together. So hand over my phone, Dee.”
The boys pull M&M’s packs from their pockets and tear them open as though they are enjoying the show. Dee shoots them a reprimanding look before saying, “Give me four minutes, okay? That’s the least you can do considering how you completely destroyed me at school. And what else? Oh, yeah, you’re trying to completely destroy my home as well.”
She’s right about both things, but it still doesn’t keep me from holding out my palm. “The phone, Dee. Now.”
Her hand trembles as she places it in my outstretched hand, our fingers briefly touching. I turn and stride away, hearing leaves crunch underneath my feet as she says, “Yeah, I did write that letter because I wanted him back. Why, I have no idea, but check your facts, Sabrina. It was dated September 21, three days after he broke up with me and one week before you
two started going out on the twenty-eighth, my birthday—happy freaking birthday to me.”
My stride slows.
Blaine asked me out on September 12. Meaning, he was still seeing Dee when we first started dating. She wasn’t the other woman.
I was.
“And yes,” Dee continues, “maybe I did briefly flirt with Blaine in the store because I was mad at him for coming to my campground with you. But he followed me after I told him to leave me alone. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t believe that.”
I want so badly to turn around and say without a shred of doubt that no, Blaine would never do that to me. But I can’t.
The buzz of cicadas surrounds us. Pungent smoke from a nearby campfire blows our way, bringing with it the faint sound of Mom announcing another singer. From behind me, Dee takes a long, hard breath. “But I didn’t come here to talk about Blaine. I came to talk about Larson. When did he start dating your mother, before or after she filed the lawsuit?”
My body stiffens.
“What? Why are you asking me this?”
Dee presses on. “You know why, Sabrina.”
I whip around and hiss, “Leave my mother out of this. What are you trying to say, that he’s only after her money, that she’s not good enough for him? My mother is happy. For the first time since her divorce, she’s happy, and you better not do anything to stop it.”
Dee hesitates, then reaches into her back pocket. “Larson is the one who will be happy, Sabrina, if your mother wins the lawsuit. Here, I printed a copy of the picture we took last Sunday of Larson with another woman, named Kathleen Myers.”
I snatch the paper from her.
The cicadas’ echoing chirp turns into a dull roar as I study the image of Larson staring adoringly at the other woman, his hands linked in hers, just like he’s done with my mother. My mind swirls.
What is going on?
Dee takes advantage of my silence. “She’s a widow, Sabrina. A wealthy widow. And Larson is broke. We don’t have any concrete proof other than a phone conversation we overheard, but doesn’t this make you suspicious?”
Yes.
Yes, it does make me suspicious, but this isn’t possible. Sure, Larson was always seeing someone new when Blaine and I dated. And, fine—Larson did ask Mom out after the lawsuit was served, but using women for money? No, I refuse to believe this. “You’re lying, Dee. This could be an old picture.”
She shakes her head slowly, her voice soft when she says, “Check the time stamp. And I’m not a liar. But I think Larson is lying to your mother … just like Blaine lied to you about Torrance.”
Torrance and Blaine?
No, Torrance might be a terrible friend, but even she wouldn’t stoop that low. But the lipstick-stained cup at the coffee shop was so similar to her favorite shade …
Oh my God.
I want to punch Torrance. I want to punch Dee, but instead, I throw the paper down and thrust a finger in her face. “You’re sick, do you know that? Sick. So enjoy getting arrested tomorrow once the sheriff hears about this.”
I turn to leave, my pulse pounding as Dee says, “Go ahead, call him. Do what you gotta do to make my life hell. You always have, haven’t you?”
Keep walking, keep walking.
“Are you afraid I’m right?” Dee yells. “Then prove me wrong, Sabrina. Show your mother the picture. Or go ahead, win two million dollars at my family’s expense. But what happens if Larson cons it away from your mother? Just how happy will you both be then?”
I stop. Turn around.
Retrace my steps and snatch the picture from the ground.
* * *
Whenever one of those tales of women’s betrayal shows comes on TV—the ones where a disgruntled wife cries about how she had no clue about her husband’s two other wives or that her spouse was an enemy spy—I shake my head and think, “What a stupid moron.” But now, I can understand how women can be so naïvely trusting, how they can turn a blind eye to what’s right in front of them. Because they, like all of us, need to be loved and to believe that the person who loves them is good and decent. If not, it would only mean that they aren’t worthy of good and decent.
That’s how Mom feels with Larson. That’s how I felt with Blaine. And I suspect that’s how Dee felt with Blaine as well.
In the morning, sounds of crashing pans come from the kitchen. I run in to find Mom by the stove, wearing an apron that’s trimmed with red strawberry prints. She greets me with a warm smile, traces of flour on her cheek. “Hey there, sweetie, I’m making cookies! Poor Larson has been so busy, what with his emergency business trip this weekend. So I’m planning a nice family dinner for when he gets home Sunday night. Try this recipe and tell me what you think. Be honest!”
The last time Mom made cookies they burned while she watched her soaps, but I say, “Yeah, sure,” and grab one before sitting on a bar stool. They have way too much vanilla in them, but I nod and tell her, “They’re good, Mom.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You know,” Mom says, “I had such a lovely time at the party last weekend. It was nice, being with you and Larson, like we were family, you know? I miss that.”
Show her the photograph.
Mom hesitates, staring at the black-and-white-checked tile before brushing the crumbs on the counter into a neat pile. “And who knows, maybe it’s my fault your father cheated on me. Maybe it was me who drove him away and then I only made it worse by dragging him through court. I just wanted…”
“You were angry. You wanted him to hurt as much as you did, and he did hurt you, Mom, he hurt you very badly.”
“Yeah,” Mom whispers. “He did.”
A revelation hits me. “Mom, did you sue Jane because you were angry?”
She busies herself by sprinkling Comet into the porcelain sink and cleaning it with a damp sponge. “Heavens no, Sabrina! What could possibly make you think that?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
Mom attacks a black mark on the porcelain, her body shaking as she scrubs it again and again until she finally confesses, “Fine. Maybe I was furious over her judging me, the way I dress, the way I act, just like all women judge me. And I was mad at how she refused to give me a second chance, just like your dad refused to give our marriage a second chance. I would have toned it down. I know I can get a little carried away every now and then.”
A little?
“Okay, a lot.” Mom stops scrubbing and traces a nail along the countertop. “But she fired me.”
“You sued her because she fired you?”
“Yes, Sabrina!” Mom yells, throwing the sponge in the sink and wiping her hands on her apron, getting Comet powder on the strawberry prints. “You don’t understand. It’s one thing to be fired by a man … but by a woman, especially a single mother like me? No. It’s just that … you would think a woman would never do that to another woman.”
She’s wrong. I do understand.
But I still have one more question. “Did Larson convince you not to settle?”
She doesn’t answer. The expression on her face says it all.
I reach into my pocket for the picture. “Mom, we have to talk. Now.”
24 Dee
“Did you shave, Dee?” Natalie asks.
A young boy with a magician’s cape tied around his neck runs screaming in front of the lodge window and leaps from the top step, his cape billowing out like Superman’s. “Yep, everywhere that requires shaving.”
Natalie leans back against the counter, punching numbers into the cash register so the drawer opens and then slamming it shut. At the pavilion, the town’s fire chief, Tyson Ruff, is teaching some kids a card trick while two sisters try to make each other disappear with fake wands. That’s what I want. To just disappear.
“And we’re sure about this outfit?” Natalie pokes her own twisted tissue wand at the plaid shorts, yellow T-shirt, and matching cardigan I’m wearing. “After all, it’s an important dec
ision. Remember all those horrible, ratty celebrity mug shots we saw online?”
Mug shot.
If Sabrina goes through with her threat, I’ll go from Superflirt to criminal. What was I thinking last night, did I expect her to say, golly, thanks for the info, you’re a life saver? And what would Ivy say if she knew I broke the restraining order? She’d freak out, which is why I didn’t tell her. Instead, I made sure to wash my hair early this morning and put on extra deodorant in case I get interrogated or have to share a cell with a woman named Hildegard Hairpuller or Bertha Buttkicker. Good thing we have a magic class instead of our usual Saturday craft hour. I can hide out in the store with Natalie and watch for the sheriff, who I hope will be compassionate enough not to put me in handcuffs.
Oh my poor mother.
Now I understand why people drink to settle their nerves. As a camper who is dressed up as Dumbledore rolls by on a skateboard, I reach for a Snickers bar, my drug of choice for the day. “Isn’t that your second one?” Natalie asks, watching me rip it open and take a huge bite. “The last thing we need is for you to throw up in the squad car and be covered in vomit when they’re taking your fingerprints.”
“Relax, Dee,” Roxanne says as she opens the screen door and two junior wizards push past her. She notices my empty wrappers and then glares at the little girl who is trying to confiscate her Snapple using a Harry Potter Accio summoning spell. “No one’s getting arrested, except for annoying brats who try to take my green tea!”
The girl shrieks and runs out of the store.
“How do you know, Roxanne?” I ask, spewing a bit of chocolate on my shorts. Great. Now I’ll have barf and pooplike stains on my clothes. “Sabrina probably told Mona all about how demon-girl Dee tracked her down.”
Roxanne sits beside us on an empty stool, making me stop thinking about myself long enough to realize that she’s wearing a tank top—a tight, figure-showing tank top—along with her cargo shorts. She looks good. Sexy tomboy good. “Dee, it’s ten-thirty,” Roxanne says. “If Sabrina did tattle, the sheriff would have been here by now, so ease up on the chocolate, there, Piggly-Wiggly.”