by Laura Bowers
I choke on a peanut. Did she call me Piggly-Wiggly? The peanut starts to feel more like a coconut in my throat, making me cough. As Natalie pounds on my back, I laugh and choke at the same time, all of the mounting stress from the lawsuit and a Snickers sugar rush turning me into a delirious, suffocating mess. “Piggly-Wiggly. Oh my gosh, that cracks me up!”
Natalie turns to Roxanne. “Oh, man, she’s lost it.”
Roxanne starts to smile, but something outside the window catches her eye. She blinks, pointing at what could only be a state trooper coming to arrest me. “Ah, Dee?”
It’s a Trooper, all right.
A bright yellow one with Mardi Gras beads hanging on the rearview mirror.
At first I think it’s Mona, but it’s Sabrina who parks and then heads toward us in the store. The screen door creaks extra loud when she enters with her chin tilted up in defiance. “Okay, here’s the thing,” Sabrina says when she sees us. “Just because I came here does not mean we’re friends or anything.”
My sugar rush turns to panic.
Is this a trap? Her way of getting back at me? I’m about to make a break for it when Sabrina says, “And, Dee, I didn’t call the sheriff.”
Natalie’s face hardens. “Then why are you here, huh? Need more evidence for your case? Or—hey, want to take another picture of me, maybe while I’m scratching my butt cheek this time, something to give all your friends a good chuckle.”
I can’t believe it when an embarrassed flush darkens Sabrina’s face. “Look, I don’t blame any of you for hating my guts. So if you want me to leave, just say the word and I’ll take care of Larson myself.”
Here’s my big chance.
I can throw her out and let her know how it feels to be an outsider, but something she said stops me. I’ll take care of Larson myself.
She believes us.
“You showed your mother the picture, didn’t you?” I ask.
Sabrina nods, her lower lip giving the slightest twitch.
“And I take it that it didn’t go well?” Roxanne asks.
Sabrina nods again, more briskly this time, with tears glistening. Wow. Seeing the ice queen breaking down should be satisfying … but it’s not. So when she notices the Snickers bar still in my hand, I can’t help but take one from the display and slide it toward her. “Tell us. How bad is it?”
Sabrina sits with perfect posture as she rips off the wrapper. But then she slouches, her composure crushed as she says, “Bad, real bad! Mom was furious and said the woman in the photo could be his cousin or something. And then she called Larson and asked if he would sign a prenup—just to prove me wrong—and he said that true love like theirs will last forever, so there’s no need for a prenup.”
“Oh, gag,” Natalie says. “And she fell for it?”
“Hook, line, and scumbag. She refused to even talk about it, and—huh? Is that guy out there by the pool dressed like Dumbledore?”
Yeah, that’s Mr. Clark from Dundalk, but I’m not about to casually discuss his obsession with Hogwarts. She’s not getting off that easy. “Look, Sabrina, let’s stop the tap-dancing, okay? You know perfectly well I never pushed you and that Blaine lied about what happened, so why don’t you just tell the truth and have the lawsuit dropped? Then maybe my nightmare of a summer would go back to normal and Larson would leave.”
Everything would be over.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” Sabrina says softly. “Mom refuses to believe he’s conning her, even though he’s the one who convinced her to go to trial.” She pauses, taking a huge bite of her candy bar like she hasn’t had chocolate in months. “And she said that if I change my statement, she’d tell the judge I’m lying because she’s marrying Larson and that…”
She stops. “And what?” Natalie asks.
Sabrina takes a deep breath and looks at me. “And that she’ll have you arrested.”
It takes a second for the words to sink in.
Sabrina is protecting me? Why?
“Larson also convinced her to go to Vegas next weekend to get married.” She crumples the candy wrapper and banks it into the trash with impressive accuracy. “And we all know that I can’t stop him without your help, and you can’t stop him without me. If we want this to end, then we need to work together and find more proof that Larson is a gold digger—even if it means breaking a few rules. So my question, ladies, is this: Are you in?”
Duh.
Did she seriously have to ask?
* * *
Two hours later, Natalie, Roxanne, and I are ringing Sabrina’s doorbell. She opens the door and lets us in. “Good timing, Mom just left for the grocery store.”
It’s amazing how much her house screams of Mona, with its cool ’50s vibe, antique jukebox, and a glass cake stand holding a plate of cookies beside a vintage television. Roxanne leans over to read the titles of about fifty Harlequin novels stacked on the kitchen counter while Natalie helps herself to a cookie. “Ew,” she says. “Too much vanilla.”
“Tell me about it.” Sabrina takes one anyway and then leads us down the hallway to her bedroom while saying, “Okay, step one, we need to sneak into Larson’s house without tripping the alarm.”
Earlier, at the campground, we agreed that the best place to find any kind of evidence would be Larson’s home office, seeing as how there are too many employees roaming around the inn. And now, being in Sabrina’s bedroom—what I would have called the Devil’s Lair only yesterday—is both disconcerting and oddly exhilarating. Especially when I see the photo of Blaine on her dresser, smiling with all his charm.
Ha. He doesn’t know yet that he’s part of our plan.
“Wait, don’t tell me,” I say. “Blaine made you turn around when he entered the alarm code, too, right?”
“Every time,” Sabrina says, flicking his photo with her finger hard enough to knock it backward. She then grabs her cell and dials. “So watch and learn, ladies, watch and learn.”
We watch.
And we learn as she brushes her dark hair back and holds the phone against her ear, giving us a wicked grin before saying, “Torrance, heeey, it’s been, like, a whole week since we’ve talked!” Nod, nod, nod. “What I said? Honey, I was just kidding about buying my clothes off eBay. Oh, you knew all along? Right, of course you did!”
Sabrina breathes out a gloomy moan. “How am I doing? Well, it’s been rough. I’m so depressed over Blaine. What’s that … Yes, being dumped really does hurt—thanks for the reminder, Torrance.”
She covers the phone long enough to whisper to us, “Hello, I dumped him,” before saying, “I just don’t know what happened, Torr. I wish I could beg him for an answer, but I don’t know where he’s going to be today.” She nods and interjects a few uh-huhs. “He has a lesson at the driving range at three? And you know this specifically because … Right, because Prescott told you, sure. And, um, what are you doing today? Oh, yay, that sounds just fabulous. Well, thanks, Torr, you’ve been a great friend. Love ya!”
Sabrina clicks the phone shut. “Game on.”
“Aren’t you afraid Torrance will show up?” Roxanne asks her.
“Nope. She told me she’s having a spa day with her mother. Not even the chance to see me beg would keep her from a mani-pedi.” Sabrina turns to where Natalie is snooping through her cosmetics bag and looks at her like a cobra stalking a field mouse. “And now for step two.”
Natalie drops the puffy brush she was dabbing her cheeks with, her body tense and nose twitching like this mouse is about to bolt. “Uh, maybe this isn’t the best idea. What if Blaine recognizes me? And what if Larson shows up?”
I push down on her shoulders before she can escape. “Blaine won’t. You and I didn’t become close until after we broke up and besides—he probably wouldn’t recognize the woman who cleans his house twice a week, so you’ll be fine.”
“And my mother said Larson is out of town for the weekend,” Sabrina says, flipping through the clothes in her closet. “And trust me, once I’m don
e with you, your own momma won’t recognize you. And if Blaine does, well, it won’t matter as long as you show enough leg.”
Natalie leans her head against the back of the chair and swallows hard. I kneel down beside her and say, “Nat, come on, you’re the real Superflirt. You’re the one who’s been writing the blog everyone loves. You’re the brave one, Natalie, not me.”
She twirls a finger with a sarcastic frown. “Yeah, it takes a lot of courage to write an anonymous blog, big whoop.”
“It is a big whoop,” Sabrina says, taking a black miniskirt and then dismissing it by throwing it on her bed. “Your writing is fantastic.”
The worry lines on Natalie’s face soften. Roxanne drapes a towel around Natalie’s neck and leans down to say, “She’s right—your blog rocks. So shut up. This should be a piece of cake for you.”
“I hate cake,” Natalie whines, her eyes widening when Sabrina pulls out an adorable pink minidress. “Oh, no. I’m not wearing that.”
“Natalie, stop! You’d look fabulous in this—” I take the dress from Sabrina and check the label. “Hollister, are you kidding me? You got a Hollister dress off of eBay?”
Sabrina picks up her scissors and taps them against her palm as though uncertain how to answer. Finally, she says, “Yeah. I did.”
“Cool. You totally have to show me how.”
25 Sabrina
Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to comprehend the fact that I’m sitting in a parking lot beside Dee Barton and Roxanne Swain with a pair of binoculars that we will use to spy on Natalie Green as she tries to flirt with my ex-boyfriend.
Seriously?
It’s been the weirdest summer.
We couldn’t drive the Trooper to the driving range—it’s not exactly subtle—and my car is still in the shop, but my neighbor, Mrs. Mason, was more than willing to loan us her Subaru, since I sold her panel curtain sets on craigslist for thirty-five dollars each. Dee straightens the humongous sunglasses I loaned her and asks, “So, what’s Natalie doing now?”
I adjust the binoculars and focus on Natalie, which is hard to do considering we’re parked on the far side of the packed lot. “Okay, she’s in the pro shop waiting in line. And, girls, it looks like she’s talking to herself again.”
Poor Natalie. She’s probably repeating the same I am Superflirt, hear me roar mantra that she nervously muttered during the drive here. But even if Natalie is a wreck on the inside, she’s fabulous on the outside. After convincing her to trust me—after all, I have been cutting my mother’s hair since age seven—I chopped off four inches, giving her a sweet, pixyish bob that’s proportionate to her petite frame. I also did her makeup and put her in a pair of sleek white shorts and a drapy pink top that is both hot and athletic at the same time.
Okay, not to brag or anything, but yeah, I’m good.
And it was fun! So, maybe I should … I don’t know, take some cosmetology classes at the vocational school that’s right behind Riverside High. I’ve never thought about it before. Well, no, I have thought of it, but the people in my crowd make fun of Vo-Tech students. Especially Torrance, who thinks girls in cosmetology only cut hair because they’re too stupid for anything else, even though she’s the one who spends a hundred fifty dollars on highlights every six weeks. And after today, there’s a good chance I’ll never be welcome with my crowd again.
Do I even want to be?
“What about Blaine, can you see him?” Roxanne asks, scooting up in the backseat so she can get a glimpse of herself in the rearview window and fluff her freshly cut hair. After much persuasion, I gave her a makeover, too, by covering that awful red with a semi-permanent brunette wash and making her skin glow with bronzer, light mascara, and gloss.
So yeah, I’m calling my guidance counselor on Monday.
But today is all about Operation Blaine. “He’s still with his instructor,” I say, watching him through the binoculars. “Who is wearing the most hideous yellow striped pants ever. Yuck, does playing golf require a lack of good taste?”
“I hate golf,” Dee says.
Got that right. I sweep the binoculars back to the pro shop, where a father and two little boys are walking out. “Okay, Natalie is at the front of the line now. Hey, the guy behind the counter is kind of cute in a shaggy way. He’s getting her a bucket of balls.”
“Let me see,” Dee says, taking the binoculars. “Oh, he is cute! With that hair, he kind of looks like Orlando Bloom in Pirates of the Caribbean. There is something so deliciously sexy about movie stars with long, dirty hair, but I’m more into the high-and-tight look, like Channing Tatum. Did you see him in—”
Dee stops when she notices Roxanne staring at her.
“What?”
“Hmm, Jake looks like Channing Tatum,” Roxanne teases while reaching for the binoculars. She holds them to her eyes. “And Natalie’s leaving the shop. She’s walking to the driving range now. Has she ever swung a club, Dee?”
“Only the putt-putt kind,” she says. “And Jake does not look like Channing Tatum.”
If they are talking about the Jake Bollinger who danced with Dee at the campground, then she must be in serious denial mode because yes, he does. But instead of calling her on it, I take a sip of my cherry Slurpee—I am so not in the mood for diet soda—and squint at where Natalie is setting up four stalls down from Blaine. “What’s happening now, does he see her?”
Roxanne nods, the binoculars bobbing up and down as she says, “Oh, yeah, he notices her. So does his instructor, the perv. Wait … Orlando Bloom just walked out of the pro shop—he’s taking something to Natalie … She must have forgotten her change … And now he’s talking to her. Oh, man, is this going to screw up our plan?”
I shake my head. “No, it will help. Blaine will be more intrigued if there’s competition involved.”
Sure enough, once Orlando leaves and Blaine’s lesson is done, Roxanne reports how he pulls off his gloves and then hauls his expensive golf bag to the stall next to Natalie’s. He leans against the dividing partition, watching as she drives a ball one hundred fifty yards. Huh. Not too shabby.
“Okay, he’s giving her some pointers,” Roxanne says. “You should be proud of her, Dee, she just did a kick-butt imaginary lint pick! But oops—she flipped her hair and got it stuck to her lipstick … and she dropped her club … and she knocked over her golf balls.”
Come on, Natalie, keep it together!
Roxanne shifts in her seat. “Okay, it’s all good. They’re laughing. But man, why didn’t we think to get the Cutsons’ spy gear? We could be listening in.”
Dee turns to face us, curling her legs underneath her as she says, “Oh, that’s easy. He’ll probably talk about his stellar golfing accomplishments before moving on to the stimulating subject of his favorite movies, including, but not limited to, anything starring Chuck Norris, Jason Statham, and—of course—Clint Eastwood.”
Now it’s my turn to shift toward her. “Ugh, do you know how many times he’s forced me to watch Heartbreak Ridge?”
“Oh my gosh, I know!” Dee slaps her knee. “I mean, it’s a good movie and all, but I hate the scene where the soldiers go to that college campus where all the students are being held hostage in a classroom by terrorists except for—”
“Except for that one busty blonde,” I continue. “Who is for some reason taking a shower only to—oopsie—drop her towel when a soldier bursts in the bathroom giving the quintessential boob shot. Really? Showering during a terrorist attack? But Blaine never saw the fallacy of that scene.”
“Duh, of course he didn’t,” Dee says, wagging her finger. “Not him.”
Roxanne lowers the binoculars and pulls at the strap with a worried look on her face. “Okay, I hate to ask, but why did you both date him if he’s so horrible?”
Dee’s amusement fades to grief. She turns to the window, running her finger along the Subaru’s door handle before saying, “Well, I was pretty messed up after my father died, I guess, and for a while … Blaine filled th
at empty void, you know?”
Yes, I do know.
I have that very same void. But Dee’s father died? I didn’t know that—or maybe I did hear about it but didn’t care enough to pay attention. It makes me think of all my father’s recent phone calls that I’ve been ignoring, and the letter he sent me. Maybe I should read it. Give him a chance to apologize. And, for the first time, I’m realizing something else.
Just how much Dee and I have in common.
“Wait! Blaine’s leaving,” Roxanne says, leaning so far forward that she is nearly in my seat. “That can’t be good news, can it?”
But it is good news. Because while Blaine is loading his golf clubs in his Mercedes, Natalie calls Dee’s cell and reports that he didn’t recognize her when she introduced herself as Priscilla, of all names, and that she did, indeed, secure an invitation to his house to watch—wait for it, wait for it—Heartbreak Ridge.
Oh, and Orlando slipped her his number.
26 Dee
I can’t avoid it any longer, even though just thinking about Rex Reynolds makes my chest ache.
Mom’s in the kitchen when I get back, fixing an early dinner of cheater chili—canned kidney, black, and pinto beans, and diced tomatoes sautéed in onions and topped with sour cream. On the table, fresh wildflowers are arranged in the ceramic vase, the one I now know Rex sent her. The other girls and I are supposed to be leaving for Blaine’s soon, but if tonight is the night for resolutions, then maybe I should start with her.
“Hey, Mom, you got a second?”
She stirs the chili and says, “Sure, something on your mind?”
Oh, boy, you have no idea.
“Yeah … I know it was Rex who sent you those flowers.”
This announcement causes Mom to flinch, dropping the spatula and sending bits of onion and beans all over the floor. She grabs a tea towel and starts to clean up the mess with quick, spastic movements. “How did you—Oh, Dee, I’m sorry, let me explain—”