Swoon at Your Own Risk (10 page)

"Wanna start a new game?" Jack puts an arm around me and presses the start button. The little ape jumps up and down. Argh!

"You know, I'm here with a friend. I really should—"

"Afraid I'll beat your score?"

"As if you
could
." I turn and smirk at Jack. We're standing way too close, but Jack doesn't move a muscle. "I completely dominate that little simian."

Jack's eyebrows knit in confusion.

I dumb it down. "That little monkey totally loves me."

Xander Cooper ambles down the stairs, with a girl following him—a tall Asian girl who rests her hand comfortably on his shoulder. Wasn't she the prom queen, like, my freshman year? And wasn't he the kid who didn't receive a single valentine from a girl in fourth grade? Prom Queen giggles, crushing her hand through Xander's kinky-curly hair. "I challenge you to the next round of Guitar Hero," she says.

Xander sees me and stops walking. I look away as half the
blood in my circulatory system rushes to my cheeks. Why does he look all shocked to see me here? He's the one who's been flying under the social radar—until like now. I
know
people here, like French class guy, and, um, Jack.

"Aw, come on, P.M." Jack puts his hand on my cheek, in a way too familiar way. "You know I can beat your score."

"Okay, let's do it." I immediately regret my word choice, but Jack's not exactly one to catch on to innuendo. He pushes the restart button, standing behind me, again in an overly familiar way, but whatever. Bad girls let guys stand too close. I glance over my shoulder, briefly catching Xander's eye. Mature Prom Queen pulls his arm to make him join her on a squishy beanbag chair. He's still looking at me, so I lean back against Jack. Just for show.

Jack whispers, "What are you going to do for me if I win?"

"What makes you think that's even possible?" I take the beer out of his hand and take a swig. Fizzy. Bitter. Yuck. I drink a little more.

And I win.

I push his shoulder playfully. "Told you."

"Give me a kiss to change my luck?" He leans toward me, softly touching his lips to mine. It's more like a peck, really. Nothing hot and heavy. He loses again, but this time I think
it's on purpose. Still, I kiss him again. Longer. No big deal. He's a good kisser.

"I demand a rematch," Jack says, snatching another kiss. "Lemme go grab us another beer first."

I stand at the machine, watching the little ape jump up and down screaming at me. "Yeah, so maybe I'm making some not-so-great choices, but what do you know? You're a passé video game character, a mediocre graphic," I say aloud.

Part of me wonders if I should go find Sonnet—it's almost midnight, not that the party is slowing down. More and more people crowd into the basement. Xander plays Guitar Hero, and he's good.
Not
that I'm noticing. Another girl comes down a few minutes later. (Where
is
Jack?) Some guy says something about Xander scoring big—and, yeah, he might be talking about the video game, or whatever, but he might not be, so that's what I'm going to focus on. Xander = bad boy. Polly = bad girl. Bad boy + bad girl ^ love, according to Miss Swoon.

Jack finally comes back down, high-fiving a group of guys about seeing Sonnet skinny-dipping in the pool with a bunch of guys. She's obviously not overly concerned about her midnight curfew. Jack hands me a beer, but I shake my head.

"Do you think you maybe could give me a ride home instead?"

Jack tilts his head. "Yeah, okay." He hands the unopened beers to a guy watching Xander's girl make a lame attempt with Guitar Hero. She may be tall and gorgeous and a former prom queen and all, but she lacks hand-eye coordination. Xander jumps up to help her. A bunch of guys make crude comments as they stand
way
close.

"Come on." Jack puts an arm around me. As we walk upstairs, I look back to see if Xander's watching, but he's too busy playing with his prom queen.

The house has emptied out upstairs, except for plastic cups and other debris. I can't find Sonnet anywhere, so Jack drives me home. He laughs and makes video game sound effects as we curve down the hill, and that makes me laugh, too. I like the way he doesn't take things too seriously.

My house is completely dark as Jack pulls into the driveway. I sit there for a moment, not sure what to say. I feel bad about leaving Sonnet, or did she leave me? And Xander? What's with the complete metamorphosis? And why do I care? I've
never
liked him, not since he called me a Polly bear during our Arctic mammals unit in second grade—and got a better grade on his diorama.

Jack turns off the ignition. "So, Polly, I've been thinking about you lately."

Oh no.

"Just because I still rule at Donkey Kong."

"No, before tonight."

Double oh no
.

"Yeah, right." I playfully bump his shoulder. "You say that to all the girls."

Jack reaches over and plays with one of my curls, wrapping his finger around it. "You see, I'm going to this graphic-design camp thing in a couple of weeks, and my parents are going on a cruise, and they want to board Buster, and I don't know—"

"Ah, poor little Buster." I can't help it; it's a reflex. I discovered early in our relationship that Jack only dated girls who showed adoration for his squishy-faced, wrinkly, tough-looking, snuffly bulldog.

"I knew you'd understand." Jack lets his finger wander from my hair to my lips, and I stop listening because I think he's going to kiss me again, and this time no one's around, and it's really dark, and ... I close my eyes.

"So you think you could maybe watch him while I'm gone?"

"What?" I snap my eyes open. "Oh. Yeah. Um, sure."

Jack takes my hands in his. "Thank you so much. Buster always did like you."

The dog liked me. Not the boy. The dog. The squishy-faced, wrinkly, bad-boy, snuffly dog. At least it's dark and Jack can't see my face turn as red as a dog's rabies tag. How embarrassing to be all foaming at the mouth for another kiss. The guy broke up with
me
—eons ago!

"Yeah, sure." I open the car door. "Look, Jack. I'd better get going." I slam the door hard, wanting to smack myself upside the head to knock loose the brain blockage I'm obviously suffering. The window zooms down.

Jack calls out to me, "I'll bring Buster by on Wednesday. Thanks, Polly! And by the way I let you win those last couple of games."

"You're a total dog!" I say.

I'm absolutely serious, but he laughs. "Good one. Thanks again, P.M."

Dear Miss Swoon:
When I broke up with my ex, we decided to share custody of our dog. Now my ex is moving out of state and wants to take the dog with him. I can't live without this dog!
—Not Without Him

Dear Without:
Let the dog move on! Go to your local animal shelter and fall in love all over again.
—Miss Swoon

Not Shakespeare's Sonnet
Blond count: 5.5 (Now we're talking.) So, yeah, the rumors are true. (Read
Where's The @ction's blog
here.) I'd show you proof, but I promised the parentals that I'd never post naked pictures of myself on the Internet. Whatever! I'll just say that my girl Polly and I had a really good time at R.J.'s party. And thanks to you blond boys, too! Now back to bed. Not feeling so hot. More later unless something better happens first.

Her body leans into his, but her eyes watch mine. Like the stray kitten Kyra found outside the Iceberg. Wide eyes watching, hiding under the dank Dumpster, tail puffed up. So afraid.
—
X.C.

I wake early on Sunday morning to the sound of Grandma's keyboard clacking away. I wade through the stuffed animals strewn over the floor. Grace, of course, is having another sleepover with Amy. I give a stuffed dog a swift kick across the room.

Last night after Jack left all happy about finding a dog-sitter and practicing his, um, kissing skills, I sort of threw a—how do you say it?—tantrum. Grandma tapped on the door to suggest we meet in the morning over coffee to have a wee chat. It's not like I was
that
out of control, screaming
that
loud, and the neighbor turned on his lights only to let his cat out, probably. At least Mom hadn't been home; she now works the closing shift at Hamburger Heaven. Big promotion, apparently. Better tips.

I knock on Grandma's door, feeling a little weird about asking permission to enter my own room. "Hey, Grandma?"

Grandma flings the door open. "Come on in. I've been up for hours! I woke in the middle of the night and had a complete breakthrough on my book. Thanks to you!"

I'm not sure if I should be flattered or frightened.

"Good." I sit down on my bed, feeling a bit wistful about my previously more private, less stuffed-animal-inundated existence. "Glad to be of service."

"Your little shenanigans reminded me of the power of positivity. I'm going to do a whole chapter on affirmations!" Grandma clicks away on her laptop, wrapped in her puffy blue bathrobe, mumbling something about the universe blessing her with love. Her hair sticks out in all directions, exposing the gray roots. Grandma keeps typing, and I realize that she's probably forgotten all about our scheduled chat.

"Well, I guess I'd better, you know, get ready for another urine-soaked, skin-cancerous, ex-boyfriend-filled day."

Grandma spins around in her chair. "Now, that's not very positive!"

I pick at a loose string on my pajamas. "But it's true."

"Honey, do you want to talk about last night?"

"Naw, that's okay. You're having a breakthrough, and I've got to get ready for work."

"Come on. Who better to advise the lovelorn than Miss Swoon?"

"I'm not lovelorn, Grandma. I'm an overly hormonal idiot." Tired of keeping the entire situation to myself—except when I'm screaming about it to the, um, whole neighborhood or taking it out on Grace's stuffed animals—I decide to talk. "I ended up at the wrong party, kissed the wrong ex-boyfriend, and now I'm baby-sitting the wrong bulldog."

"Well, it doesn't sound like you've done irreparable damage. We've all kissed an ex, and you like dogs, right?"

I flop back against the bed. "Grandma, I don't know what I like."

"What about that Nature Club you joined? You sent me a postcard listing all the flowers you saw in that National Park—"

"Gareth. I joined the Nature Club because of a cute guy."

"Well, that's why I signed up for my new book club, but, hey, the books look almost as good as the fella, so why not? You like doing outdoorsy stuff, right?"

"Not really. I don't know. I think I just liked Gareth, and if that meant memorizing Great Basin wildflowers, so what?"

"What about your involvement in student government?"

"Hayden."

"Well, honey. What do you like? Maybe start there."

"Nothing. Now that I've given up on the male half of the species."

Grandma purses her lips. She watches me with her wide-set eyes until I grow uncomfortable. Suddenly Grandma spins around and scrolls through the text on her computer screen. "Sounds like you could use some affirmations! Friends. Love. Relationships."
Click. Click. Click.

She acts as if solving problems is as easy as ordering office supplies online like she did last week. Boxes and boxes of things have been arriving. Grandma is on a first-name basis with the express delivery guy and has a coffee date scheduled with him. But whatever. At least she's not baby-sitting the dude's bulldog.

I crush a pillow over my face; it smells like Grandma's perfume. "Maybe you could convince Mom to maroon me on a deserted island or somewhere where I can evolve into a smarter human being, without the temptations of—"

I sit up, distracted by the sound of Xander's skateboard curving down the street outside the window.
Don't look.
I cross my feet together to lock my body into a sitting position. Grandma jumps up and peeks through the curtains. "You've got to see this dreamboat, honey. The other day he was skateboarding, talking on the phone,
and
drinking coffee. Today he's dressed up. For church, maybe. Oh, if I were your age! Hubba-hubba."

"Oh, Grandma!"

Betrayed by my autonomic nervous system, I race to the window. Sure enough, Xander's wearing a powder blue button-down shirt—and, yeah, snug khaki pants. Without turning to look, he waves over the top of his head. "Oh. My. God," I whisper. "Just lock me up and throw away the key."

"No, no, no. Positivity. Affirmations. Write these down. Let's start with a basic."

I decide to forgo a piece of paper and instead write the affirmations on my arm with a Sharpie. Body ink = edgy. I'm too afraid of infection to get a real tattoo. Probably a good thing: at this point my arm would've looked like an old grocery list with a bunch of guys' names crossed off. Using three different colors, I pen the affirmations onto my skin.

1. I deserve harmonious relationships with myself and others.

2. I deserve happiness.

3. I deserve loving and supportive friends.

Grandma returns to her laptop. "Now, just repeat these affirmations ten to twenty times a day and you will transform your life like magic." She snaps her fingers.

"I hope so," I say. "Thanks, Grandma Swoon." I kiss the top of her head to get harmonious relationship vibes going. On the way out of the room I scrawl one more affirmation on my arm.
Number four: I deserve a life free from male contamination.
My ink-covered arm looks as if I donated it to a preschool art project, but whatever.

Before heading to work, I e-mail Jane a long, self-deprecating apology full of
Matrix
references, along with an invitation to go get our nails done at the mall after I finish my Wild Waves shift. I also rearrange Grace's stuffed animals into chatting groups of appropriately distributed species.

I can do this!

I silently repeat affirmation number four, the one about boys, as Sawyer mediates an argument between Acne Model and another guy. They both want to work the Switchback slide. Not because dealing with kids zooming through tunnels, knocking each other off inner tubes, and getting stuck in various eddies is fun—but because it's my assignment. Sonnet apparently blogged about the party, divulging plenty of details about her evening, mentioning that I'd joined her escapades—
not
mentioning that I didn't join the most titillating ones. What do these doofus boys think? That I'm going to whip my clothes
off in the middle of my shift? Really! But then Acne Kid says, "You know, I kick ass at Donkey Kong."