Swoon at Your Own Risk (14 page)

"Um, thanks." I hold up the shake, and I'm about to make a joke about owing him fries or something, but I stop because his big brown eyes look at me so earnestly.

"I don't just write about you; I write about lots of things. If that's what's bothering you."

I tip my shake, spilling melted pink ice cream on my shorts. "Clumsy, me! Hey, no worries." My voice falters, so I turn away. "Yeah, so thanks again, for the, um, shake and stuff." I point to my leg. "Guess I've got some laundry to do."

"Hey, Polly. Take care," he says, except it doesn't sound like a throwaway line. It sounds like he means it.

And that scares me.

I run to my front door, so incredibly grateful that Grandma forgot to lock it again. Once inside, I slam the door shut, lean
against it as if barricading myself from—what? I'm shaking. Just because I'm cold—because I'm wet, ate a milkshake, the air conditioning is on...

It's so quiet that I can hear the sound of Xander's wheels pulling on to the wet pavement. I focus on that sound until it disappears. Then I switch to thinking about the slight hum of the air conditioner. The weird grinding sound coming from the dishwasher. Anything but the thoughts wanting to push themselves into my head.

Dear Miss Swoon:
My boyfriend is perfect in every way. The only thing we ever argue about is music. I can't stand his music and he can't stand mine. How can we create a little more harmony?
—Messed-Up Melody

Dear Melody:
If you're making beautiful music together as a couple, it doesn't matter what's playing on the radio. Learn to love each other's differences.
—Miss Swoon

Not Shakespeare's Sonnet
Blond count: 6 (slow week!)

Welcome to my new series: Attention Grabbers! A shout-out to Polly Martin for the inspiration. Picture strawberry shake on ample cleavage and the letchy look on a certain Sexy Lifeguard's face. (See
Random Locker Room Fantasies
here.) You're a naughty girl, P.M.!

So, yeah, ladies: put your boobs front and center. Invest in a good bra. That goes for everyone: big, small, saggy (hey there, Mom!). Think color, lace, and SUPPORT. I know what you pay for your makeup, but trust me, no one is going to notice a blemish if your girls are perky!

Oh, and to make things interesting: a mall gift card to the best boob-related comment—but keep it PG-13. (Parents demanded my new password. Hey there, Mom! This goes for you, too, don't you agree, Dad?)

A smile turns upside down as a finger traces foggy glass. Dark clouds hover. Rain falls. Outside. Inside. Summer strawberries taste too sweet:
—
X.C.

I'm so late for work. I slept in because Grace unplugged my clock again and I didn't hear Xander's skateboard zip past my window. Grace also failed to rise for her usual dawn cartoon marathon. Too many late nights with Amy.

I run into the kitchen, grab the only box of cereal left in the cupboard. All that's left are dusty bits of ground flakes on the bottom because no one has bothered to enter a grocery store for several days. Does Mom honestly expect us to eat leftover burgers for breakfast, too? Whatever. I need to eat
something.
The sink overflows with crusty dishes. I can't find a single bowl in the cupboard, so I grab a handful of chalky-tasting cereal and cram it into my mouth. While I'm searching for some sort of vessel to hold milk—never mind, it expired three days ago—Grandma wanders into the kitchen wearing her fluffy blue robe.

"What time is the dishwasher man coming?" she asks.

I stick my head under the faucet and wash down the stale cereal with lukewarm water. Yummy. "Um, I'm not a calendar."

"No need to get snarky."

Buster wanders into the kitchen and stands by his bowl whining. Instead of searching for dog food, I pour the rest of the cereal into his bowl. Even he won't eat it. Buster looks at me with watery eyes. "What?"

"Oh, that reminds me," Grandma says. "Buster's young man, Jack? Called last night. I wrote it down." Grandma sifts through a pile of newspapers, magazines, bills, and, you know, hamburger wrappers, looking for the message. "He wanted to arrange to pick up Buster. I said that he could meet you at Wild Waves this morning."

"What? That can't happen."

"Well, you'd better take it up with Jack. Is that his name?"

"Yes, it's Jack. But I can't take a dog to work. That's like one of the most basic pool rules. No animals. Not that the kids don't completely resemble wild animals, but whatever. Grandma, I can't take him. You'll have to find that message, call Jack, and tell him to pick Buster up
here
."

"I thought that it would be convenient. Plus, I have a lunch date."

"But Grandma, I cannot take that dog with me."

The doorbell rings, sending Buster into a barking frenzy. Grandma runs back to her bedroom to "put on her face and something decent." I glance at the clock on the microwave. It's blinking. No one has bothered to reset it since the power flashed off during that thunderstorm
eight
days ago! I follow Buster to the front door.

The dishwasher repairman stands on the porch. "Can you please put the dog outside?" he asks. "I have a no-dog policy. Bad experience." He shows me an ugly scar on his ankle.

Buster growls deep in his throat.

"Yeah, so do I. But it isn't working."

The guy wrinkles his forehead at me. "You have a broken dishwasher?"

"Yeah, that isn't working, either. Not much
is
working."

The repairman finally enters the house after I convince him that Buster only bites stuffed animals. Grandma sweeps into the room in a cloud of perfume; her hair still sticks out all over the place, but she's put on a silky blouse and some black pants. The effect is far more mental-patient than glamour-girl, but whatever. I'm
really
late for work. I search through my purse for my keys while Grandma shows the repairman into the kitchen.

"We're just a house full of women," she says. "We can't fix a thang." I swear she's thrown a bit of Southern twang into her speech. "That's a mighty big toolbox you've got there."

"Omigod, Grandma! Where did you put my keys?" She borrowed my car last night—fresh out of the repair shop—for her so-called book club meeting last night, even though I'm fairly certain the only reading she did involved some septuagenarian's online profile. "Grandma! I'm late."

Grandma rolls her eyes at the dishwasher guy. "Teenagers."

Buster follows me to the kitchen, still hiding behind my legs, growling low in his throat. But he's just a big chicken. "I really need my keys."

Grandma searches through her purse, dumping out receipts, used tissues, a tin of mints, a hairbrush, and several movie ticket stubs on the counter. How many movies has she seen this summer? She hands me the keys to my car and Buster's leash. "Don't forget this."

"I can't believe this. This is ridiculous. And I'm completely fired. I hope you realize that. Cancel your lunch date, please?"

"Don't be too dramatic, sweetheart. Think of your affirmations." She turns to the dishwasher guy leaning against the counter. "Do you use affirmations?"

I can't believe it!
I hook Buster's leash to his collar. "By the way, Grandma, there are
no
affirmations for taking your ex-boyfriend's dog to work."

"Forgiving regrets past brings future happiness."

"That barely makes sense!" I fling my purse over my shoulder and drag Buster, who has suddenly become interested in the repairman's shoes, toward the front door.

"That's profound, ma'am," the repairman says.

"Oh, don't you dare 'ma'am' me," Grandma says. "I'm almost younger than you are."

The repairman laughs.

I scream, sending Buster shooting between my legs to hide.

The repairman's van blocks my car in the driveway. I storm back into the house, Buster protesting because he wants to pee on the bushes out front. "You need to move the van! I mean could you please move your van, sir?"

I arrive at work thirty-two minutes late. With a bulldog. Sawyer's all over me like I'm doing cannonballs, naked, off the Lazy River's bridge.

"Polly! You're in the penalty box for sure. Strike two." He shakes his blond hair at me. "And what's—" He looks down at Buster. "Rule number five, Polly? That's a pretty big violation."

"Yeah, well. I'm feeling pretty violated myself, Sawyer."

His face softens, all concerned. He lowers his voice. "So you feel like you need a guard dog?"

"No!" I yank Buster away from a kid's bag of crackers. "That's not what I meant. I used the wrong word."

Sawyer's eyes widen. "Really?" A smug smile flickers at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't look so pleased. Look, there was a total misunderstanding, and so I'm stuck with this beast until his owner gets here. I know it's a rule violation, but I thought I could just keep him, you know, tied up away from the water, and—"

Sawyer shakes his head. "I could lose my managerial statute."

"Stature." I can't help it; it's a habit. Like, what's the big deal?

Sawyer's mouth hardens into a frown. "No dogs allowed."

I've blown it. Quick, I move into a flirtatious stance, letting my swimsuit slip down a little. Tossing my hair—which honestly would be far more effective had I, you know, bathed—I step close enough to smell his piña-colada-scented sunscreen. "Can't we work something out, hmm?"

Sawyer steps back. "I don't know."

"Come on. You're totally good at thinking of solutions to
problems," I say. "I'm stuck here. Can't you help me out? Just this once."

Sawyer glances across the O.K. Corral to the lifeguard chair by the Splash Pasture. On the other side of the shallow pool filled with life-size cows and a jungle gym shaped like a barn, Kipper Carlyle's examining her nails, not paying much attention to the kids crawling all over the place, splashing, fighting, nearly drowning.

"You're aware of Kipper, right?"

"Um, yeah. I've worked here for nearly four weeks. I think I'm aware of Kipper."

"You're, like, a girl, right?"

"Yes, thank you. I do possess a uterus."

Kipper leans back in the lifeguard chair, face catching the sun, holding her arms out like she's tanning. And
I'm
the one getting in trouble at work.

"Okay, Sawyer, so we've established my femininity. Do we need to establish your masculinity?"

He smoothes back his hair. "Very funny, ha, ha, ha."

"Hey, I was just trying to, you know, lighten the mood."

"Maybe I'm not in the mood for your moods, huh, Polly? Be serious for once."

"Okay, but only this once."

He just looks at me. "Never mind. Just take the dog home. You can pick up your final check on Friday."

I reach out and grab his wrist. "I'll do it. Whatever you want. Just give me one more chance." I'm completely compromising myself for the cash. Paying for car repairs wasn't exactly in my summer savings plan, but I'm too nervous to approach Dad with a financial request. Even Mom suggested I pay for the repairs myself, so that means she must be fighting with Dad about money again.

Sawyer bites his lip, thinking. And I swear you can watch the wheels in his brain turn like the big old fake water wheel churning next to the Lazy River. "You promise? No jokes?"

"No jokes." Buster flops on the pavement, all his limbs stretched out. He resembles Kipper Carlyle; well, she's not quite that wrinkly, but after a few more decades of tanning ... Whatever. "What do you want with Kipper? You want me to teach her to read?"

"You—"

I hold up my hands. "Sorry!"

"Well, I kinda"—Sawyer looks away, turning the color of a third-degree sunburn—"want to ask her out."

I fling my hand out like a game show hostess. "Go for it. You guys will make a real cute couple, all blond and everything."

"You think so?" He's serious. "It's just that I, well, I was kind of hoping you could talk to her first. You know, see if she likes me."

"You've got to be kidding me. You want me to be your dating service?" Even Buster raises his head as if he expects more from me. But then Sawyer stares down at my animal violation, so I relent. "Yeah, sure. No problem. I'll talk to her."

Sawyer returns to a normal color. "Thanks so much. You're a great pal, Pollywog. Hey, get it? Now you're my Pallywog."

I
don't
get it. I don't get
me
. The last thing I want to do is set up my ex-boyfriend with a totally inferior specimen like her.

"I really don't want you to call me Pallywog."

Sawyer ignores me and reaches down and scratches behind Buster's ears. "The dog can hang out in the break room, okay?"

I nod, tugging on Buster's leash, but he looks completely disgusted with me. He shakes his head as if he's trying to erase all memory of this stupid deal I've made with Sawyer. I'd like to do the same. Except I've got a date—ha-ha—to chat up Kipper Carlyle.

Sawyer makes me a "roving deputy" so I'll have plenty of time for my little talk with Kipper. I decide to get it over with
quick—ripping my dignity away with one quick stroke, like removing a Band-Aid.

Kipper's texting when I walk up to the lifeguard chair. Never mind that she's violating a major rule, one that's probably more dangerous than bringing dogs to work. Dogs like to save people. They bark as a warning. Text messages simply distract.

"Hey there, Kipper," I say. "You on break?"

"No. What does it look like? I'm working."

It looks like she's on break, but whatever.

"But I would totally love a break, deputy," she says. "Wanna swap spots?"

"I'm kind of assigned to rove."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm
so
sick of certain people playing favorites. You get all the easy jobs. I'd love to rove myself over to the snack bar, maybe the break room, maybe someplace where I get decent cell reception." She checks her phone. "I'm expecting an important call."

"Boyfriend?"

"No! My sister's having her baby. Any minute now."

"Oh? Does Sawyer know? I'm sure he'd be totally cool with you taking, you know, an extra break or something to check calls. He might even let you leave early." I remember the purpose of this interaction. "Sawyer's a real sweetheart about things like that." Bringing the ex-boyfriend's dog to work, not so much.