Swoon at Your Own Risk (11 page)

Oh, crap. Obviously Sonnet isn't the only one with gossip-inducing escapades.
I deserve a life free from male contamination. I deserve...
The damn affirmation is too long.
No boys. I'm a no-boy zone. I do not attract guys.

"Okay, enough. I'll work with Pollywog. You guys tackle the Lazy River." Sawyer scribbles on his clipboard. "Hit it out of the park, team."

The guys walk off grumbling. I overhear one of them saying, "He did too date her. I read about it in Sonnet's archived entries." The sad thing: I have no idea to whom he is referring. I take a deep breath, reaffirming,
I do
not
attract guys.

"Having a good weekend?" Sawyer asks as we head over to the Switchback.

"Like you don't know."

"Whoa!" Sawyer puts his hand up. "Time out, cowgirl. I'm just asking as a friend."

"Yeah, right." But then I catch sight of the inky messages on my forearm. Happiness. Friends. "Sawyer, I'm having a dandy weekend, thank you. How about you?"

"I've been helping my parents with our garden, thinking about how nurturing nature is so
nurturing
, you know?"

"Must be why they call her Mom."

"You are so right, Pollywog. I hadn't thought about that." Sawyer stares off in thought. "Thanks for sharing your insightfulness." He says it so earnestly.

I'm almost relieved when kids zoom through the tunnels, smashing their inner tubes into my legs before demanding that I help push them out of the waterfall eddy. Whoever designed this slide must have failed their college engineering classes. Every
single
tube gets stuck. It's the most popular ride at Wild Waves, so I'm keeping busy. Sawyer's working the entrance, so pretty much everyone obeys the rules: only one person per tube, no trains more than three tubes long, no coming down with a sexy smile on your face, dark skin glistening in the sunlight ... Xander Cooper violates yet another rule.

His tube spins backwards, and I'm not sure he's even seen me, but before I know it, he's smashed into my legs, and my feet fly out from under me. So I, um, end up in his lap. Our combined weight zips us
through
the waterfall—I scream as the water drenches me—and the tube slips down the next section, ricocheting off the walls. But I'm not thinking about physics—well, not for more than a second or two—because Xander's laughter reverberates through me, making my whole body ticklish, and soon I'm laughing. Our guffaws echo off the walls of the tunnel we're passing through. Right before the big drop at
the end Xander wraps his arms around me, still laughing. I can't stop laughing and screaming, either. I can barely breathe. The tube tips over the edge of the steep slide, and we fly down it, catching air—floating for a moment—before crashing into the deep water at the bottom. Xander doesn't let go of me, and my whole body feels like it's smiling. What a rush!

After we break the surface, Xander whispers in my ear, "Feels good to let go, doesn't it?"

But he hasn't let go.

I nod, not even turning to look at him. He's still standing behind me, his fingers playing with mine. He traces the words written on my arm. I should feel totally embarrassed, but I'm not—must be all the endorphins rushing my system, from riding really fast and everything. Kids should be splashing into the pool behind us, but we're still standing there alone. I am aware of every single cell in my body.

A whistle starts blowing. Sawyer runs down the steps, talking on his walkie-talkie. "What are you doing? The whole system is jammed! Tubes are stuck in the eddy. You left your post! What the—?"

I should explain that the whole thing happened accidentally. I know this is the time to get serious, but I just start laughing, letting all those good, vibrating feelings escape.

"Polly, you must seriously be serious!" Sawyer blows his whistle again. He looks ridiculous, standing in his little cowboy swim trunks with a red bandana around his neck, freaking out about a poorly designed waterslide. I can't stop chortling. I'm not trying to be mean; I just can't help it.

"Relax, dude." Xander takes a deep breath, and I realize that we are standing
very
close. "This is a water park. A beautiful Sunday in June. No one is drowning."

"You!" Sawyer blows his whistle. "Out! You've violated the one-person-on-a-tube rule."

"This is nothing!" I say. "Nothing."

Sawyer points to me. "You better get back to work or you're fired."

I'm still glaring at Sawyer as Xander walks out of the pool without turning back. Kids finally start splashing down into the deep pool, and a moment later I'm questioning my sanity, wondering if any of that actually happened. Or maybe I'm just coming down with heat stroke.

Sawyer continues lecturing me, but I'm not paying attention. I watch Xander walk up the stairs as if
nothing
happened. I follow, feeling more confused than ever. Sawyer says something about strikes or penalties, but I think he's mostly pissed because I don't seem to care.

Finally I turn to him and say, "It was an accident, Sawyer. Get over it. Won't happen again."

But I hope that isn't true.

Dear Miss Swoon:
How many guys do you have to be with before you are considered a slut?
—More Than Three Boys

Dear More Than Three:
You can't win an Olympic medal for sex. Slow down.
—Miss Swoon

Our bodies hummed with laughter. I held her, our fingers knit together, felt her breathe and relax. And then NOTHING. NO thing. NOT hing. NOTH ing. Meaningless?
—
X.C.

The sun peeks over the mountains, adding a soft pink glow to the clouds gathering across the valley. Buster stops to sniff yet another invisible something. I figured since I was up anyway, I might as well walk the dog.

I've had trouble sleeping for the last few nights; I keep thinking about affirmations, advice, and the way Xander said it feels good to let go, with his arms, um, wrapped around me. I've analyzed those few words with more scrutiny than I gave the Emily Dickinson poem I dissected for my AP English final. I got an A on the English essay—not doing so well with the Xander Cooper thing.

Buster snuffles forward a few paces, lifting his leg on an ornamental shrub. The two of us are practically outcasts. In three days Buster has managed to alienate the entire family by
chewing up stuffed animals, barking during Grandma's precious writing hours, and regurgitating Hamburger Heaven leftovers on Mom's shoes. Frankly I felt
that
statement deserved more study.

The affirmations written on my arm are getting plenty of analysis. Damn permanent ink! Sonnet told me that Sawyer tried to get me fired for violating the rule about excessive body art. She's come up with all means of revenge. The girl may not do great in school, but she's got one helluva creative mind. I'm still considering the soap bubbles thing.

Anyway, these affirmations may be making Grandma happy as she types away on her book, but they've done nothing for me.

Buster noses a stinky glob of muck in the gutter. "Dude, have
some
standards."

And that's the moment I hear the skateboard. It's too early! I'm wearing my pajamas and the Shrek slippers Jane gave me as a joke. I yank Buster's leash, prepared to race home, but Buster isn't a jogging kind of dog. He plants his wrinkly butt on the sidewalk and makes a low rumble in his throat. So I'm leaning down, pleading with a scrunch-faced bulldog—promising treats, belly rubs, offering up any of Grace's stuffed animals as chew toys—when Xander skids to a stop.

"So, you're the one who got stuck with Buster."

This is not the cryptic message I'm expecting. "What?"

Buster stretches on the sidewalk with all four legs splayed out like a girl trying to get a tan.

Xander tips his skateboard into his hand. "Jack asked everyone at that party to take care of Buster. Maybe if he'd offered to stick his tongue down my throat."

I turn away. Buster looks up at me with his watery eyes as if waiting for me to come up with a clever response. "That was nothing."

Xander nods. "You seem to have a lot of nothing going on."

"That's not what I said. I mean, it is what I said, but it's not what I
mean
."

"That seems to happen a lot, too." He's not smiling.

My heart beats faster, like I
have
been jogging. "Now, that's just
mean,
if you know what I mean."
God, I sound like Sawyer.

"Don't try to be clever." Xander frowns, shaking his head. "Doesn't do much for me."

"Who says I'm trying to do anything for you?" I nudge Buster with my foot, hoping to make him stand up. "And what's wrong with dog-sitting for a friend?"

"It's just that Jack played you better than Guitar Hero."

I cringe. "Donkey Kong."

"Don't let guys do that to you. You're too smart for that."

"Oh, gee, thanks, Miss Swoon." I yank hard on Buster's leash. Nothing. Ha-ha.

Xander sets his skateboard back down but holds it steady with his foot. "No need for sarcasm. I know you can do better than that."

"What? Because we were in the same fourth-grade class? You don't even know me anymore!"

"Does anyone?" Xander steps onto his board and slips down the street, curving gracefully.

"No one knows you, either!" I scream. "You're the one who completely changed!" I sit down on the curb, resting my face in my hands.
Do not let a guy like that bother you!
You deserve harmonious relationships. You deserve happiness. Your friends are loving and supportive. Affirmations are a load of dog crap.

Buster finally inches his way up from the sidewalk, nuzzles me, slobbers on my arm, and when we get back to my lawn, promptly releases a pile of feces. I decide not to pick it up. Sure, I may step in it later, but that would only serve as a reminder of what my life has become.

I open the front door to the cacophony of Mom and Grandma arguing in the kitchen. Buster marches inside, tugging the leash; all that lounging around mocking me has apparently made him hungry. "No, wait." I listen for a minute at the doorway, waiting for Mom to crack a joke or something.

Buster whines.

"You said you would be contributing to household expenses!" Mom clangs the silverware door shut. "I'm barely hanging on. With Polly turning eighteen next year, I will be down an entire child support payment each month. I've got to save money this summer—one hamburger order at a time."

"Let's try and stay positive here."

"Where's the positive in having the electricity cut off during the hottest month of the summer?"

"We could start our own Bikram yoga studio?"

"That's just not funny, Mother."

"Well, why don't you and I find us a couple of millionaires to marry? And then I'll become a best-selling author, and we'll move to our own private island."

Mom blows out an exasperated sigh. "What about your book deal?"

"Well, it's not really anything formal. Since my old editor up and retired on me, and market conditions changed, and
that edgy young Sassy thing is taking over. You should read about
her
book deal! Well, so my book—it's really something I'm doing for myself at this point. I have so much to say."

I peek around the corner. Mom leans against the counter for support. "So, there isn't any book money?" When Mom tips her head, I can see
her
gray roots. Can no one around here afford hair care anymore?

"Not yet, but with these affirmations ... Look how well they're working for Polly; she's practically tattooed herself with them. Maybe I can include rub-on tattoos with the book? In the teen edition. Oh, I'd better go write that down, right away, before I forget. We can finish our chat a wee bit later."

As Grandma sweeps out of the kitchen, wearing her bathrobe, I make a show of returning from my walk, clearing my throat, and kicking my slippers off. Buster's so hungry that he eagerly gets in on the act, yanking me into the kitchen.

Mom smiles when she sees me. "I bet you're looking for cold cheese fries for breakfast," she says. "Too bad Grandma just ate them all."

"Very funny. Not."

Mom laughs. "Don't try to steal my material. I don't have much, but I've got that." She starts singing that old show tune about "plenty of nothing." But it has never seemed less funny.
Not after what Xander just said to me. Not after what Grandma just revealed. Not the way Mom struggles to pay the bills. I take my time getting a bowl of cereal for myself.

"You look like you need some cheering up," Mom says. "I've got just the thing."

"Chocolate? Bath oils? My own room back?"

"No, a joke, silly. One of my students came into the restaurant last night and told me this one—I think he expected extra credit or something. I gave him extra fries. Okay, ready?"

"I'm sure that I'm not."

"What do you get when you cross a french fry with a frog?"

"Mom, I really don't want to know."

"A potatoad. Get it? Isn't that cute? I told it to several customers last night and I think I got better tips. I'm going to work on a whole routine of hamburger and fry jokes. Break out of this town, go on the road, maybe score big bucks in my own Vegas show. What do you think?"

"I think I saw another stack of bills sitting on the coffee table."

"Just decorating, dah-ling." Mom swats my butt. "You'd better run along and get ready for a luxurious day in the sun."

"Hardly."

"You're becoming a bronze sun goddess."

I smirk. "Right."

"Okay, you're more of a porcelain shade goddess, but you're still my beautiful Polly Marie Martin."

"Whatever, Mom."

On the way to the shower I peek in on Grandma busily typing on her computer. Maybe Mom should give her break; she's obviously working hard on this book. I'm sure it
will
sell millions of copies. At least Grandma thinks big and takes chances that can create big results. Mom's schlepping burgers like a teenager. Before she met Dad, she wanted to be an international journalist, but she gave up that dream to teach fifth grade and take golf vacations. I don't think she's used her passport since college.