Swoon at Your Own Risk (19 page)

That's my new summer plan.

And I totally do not hear Xander's skateboard zipping down the pavement. I
don't!
Where's he going way past midnight? Who has a curfew this late? Guitar-Hero-playing, past prom queens, that's who.

See? He's totally not interested.

Dear Miss Swoon:
I live at home with my parents. We get along great, but they never let my boyfriend stay the night. I'm plenty old
enough to make those decisions for myself. Besides, we both work a lot and we like to spend a few nights a week together. How can I convince my parents that they are the ones being unreasonable?
—Old Enough For Sleepovers Dear Old Enough:

Buy your own home, pay your own rent. As long as you live at home, you play by your parents' rules.
—Miss Swoon

Two cats: one jogs over to greet me, rolls on the sidewalk, exposing its underbelly for a rub. The other runs, hides under a parked car, watching with round eyes. Girls are so like cats!
—
X.C.

Wild Waves is closing early for a campaign fundraiser for a stodgy school board candidate. Since I've missed a few days of work due to my, um, accident, I've signed up for overtime. Padding the old bank account with some college funds. Sawyer assigned me to be the liaison, since I can't be on water duty, what with my stitched-up leg wound and excessively scabby arm. More than one bratty kid has asked me what happened. I've been varying my answer between "I got in a fight with the Tooth Fairy" to "I disobeyed my mother." Either makes a kid scurry over to Mommy.

I start telling one little girl the truth. "Never get into a grocery cart with a boy."

"Not even my brother?" The girl furrows her forehead in utter confusion.

"Nope."

I glance over at Sonnet, hand cocked on her hip, frowning. Okay, bring back the bad-girl. I shake my head, almost disgusted with myself. "All right, I'll tell you what really happened."

"What? What?"

"I got caught sneaking into Santa's workshop, and let me tell you, those elves are mean! Do not ask for a doll this Christmas. That's all I'm saying."

Sonnet giggles as the girl turns and runs. "I still like the Tooth Fairy's arsenal best," she says.

I shrug. But then I see the little girl's mother marching over to Sawyer. He nods, making notes on his clipboard. That's the problem with channeling my inner bad girl: I hate getting into trouble. Next thing I know, Sawyer's sticking to me like chewing gum on hot pavement.

"Pollywog, we have an honor code to honor here at Wild Waves."

I put up my hand. "No need to give me patented lecture fifty-three, Sawdust. I was just having a little fun. Maybe our patrons need to have a sense of humor."

"Yeah, Sawyer." Sonnet thrusts her chest forward. "The kid overreacted. Like, really the world does not need another pintsized interrogator. It was practically self-defense for our poor little Pollywog."

Kipper bounces over. "Oh, are you guys talking about the extra hours? I could, like, really—"

"Use a night off? That's so sweet of you because I could really use the hours." Sonnet steps in, and it's almost like battle of the cleavage or something, but Sonnet scores the hours. Sawyer doesn't like to play favorites. But then he falls all over himself, promising to take Kipper somewhere special, when she goes into a dramatic "we need to talk about my feelings" routine.

I've just never done that. I have to remember that for my study. Refusal to discuss feelings definitely helps in the avoiding guys department.

An hour later Sonnet and I are setting little cellophane-wrapped party favors next to paper plates in the Buffalo Bill Pavilion.

"Alternate red, white, and blue." The bossy woman wears a hideous red T-shirt that says "Do It the Waxman Way" across her boobs. "I see two red ones next to each other on table four."

"Quel horror!" Sonnet whispers.

"I'd better get that fixed before the earth stops rotating around its axis." I walk over and make a dramatic show of fixing the favors. "So, you must have hit the post Fourth of July sales," I say to Bossy Lady. "All the red, white, and blue, huh?"

"I've had these prepared since the second week of June," she says. "The key to any winning campaign is preparation."

"Preparation H," I whisper to Sonnet, making her laugh. When Bossy Lady turns her back, Sonnet switches several blue ones with red ones, creating a crazy pattern. Then she decides to sneak all the white ones onto Table Six.

Bossy Lady rushes off to supervise the guys starting up the barbecue.

"I don't want to get in trouble. I need the, you know—" I stop myself from saying the M word: money. It's turned into a swearword at home.

"Aggravation?"

I run with it. "Yeah, I totally need aggravation because I'm not, you know, dating anyone right now. So I've got to find my daily dose of drama at work and stuff." I laugh. "My family is trying, but you know." I tilt my head and roll my eyes.

"Polly Martin not dating anyone? That's a good one. I heard Xander Cooper carried you out of Hamburger Heaven after you got stuck in the meat grinder or something." She gestures toward my scabby arm. "I thought it was an exaggeration, but now—"

"That's not how it happened. I mean, really, if you believe everything you read, I've got a space alien for you to date." One of Mom's stupid Uranus jokes pops to my head, but I have the sense not to repeat it.

"But you were with Xander Cooper?"

"Technically."

Sonnet pops a party favor into her pocket. "Ooh, that sounds kinky."

I feel my face reddening like the barbecue flames shooting into the air near Bossy Lady. "It's really nothing."

"Oh, really? The guy's been stalking you all summer, writing love odes and all, and then he rescues you from being mangled by a meat grinder, and you call that nothing? I'm lucky if I can get a guy to hold my hair back while I vomit."

"That's a pleasant image."

Sonnet laughs. "Yeah, right. Well, that bonfire party got a little crazy the other night. Hey, where were you? I watched for you, for a while, anyway. Until Travis showed up. But that's a long story."

"Do tell. I love long stories, especially when I'm stuck working for a pattern-obsessed political volunteer." I make a big show of putting two red party favors next to each other. Sonnet starts gabbing about the party, and I'm more than
happy to avoid the whole Xander Cooper topic. So what if people have started rumors? I've lived through that plenty of times before—five times, to be exact.

Just as the fundraiser is about to start, Bossy Lady walks over and hands us each a "Do It the Waxman Way" T-shirt. "I'd like each of you to wear one of these for the party. If you want to keep them, I'll need a minimum twenty-five-dollar donation."

Sonnet scrunches her mouth into a look of disgust. "They're so baggy!"

"Um, yeah," I say. "We kind of have our Wild Waves uniform code and all."

The woman looks me up and down like one of the lecherous old dads Sonnet recently blogged about. "I think something with a bit more coverage might be more becoming to this austere occasion."

"I don't think we're allowed." Sonnet stands up tall so that her suit dips even lower. "Oyster occasion or not."

Bossy Lady huffs. "The word is austere."

I roll my eyes, like, really does she not think we know our SAT vocabulary? Sonnet takes AP English, too.

"I'm sorry," I say, "but due to company policy Waxman will not be able to have his way with me."

That sends Sonnet into a fit of un-austere giggles. And I realize that I've made the whole thing sound dirty.

"Must be the latent bad girl in me," I say with a smirk as Bossy Lady strides over to switch party favors around.

"Latent?" Sonnet whispers. "I'd say it's manifesting. I heard you and Xander made out in the ER."

I roll my eyes. "I bled so much that I passed out."

"In Xander's muscular arms."

"Not exactly."

"But sort of?"

"Just don't blog about it, okay? I'm starting to look like a slut."

Sonnet shrugs. "Just makes you interesting."

Bossy Lady aims her red, white, and blue fingernail at table six. "Fix that—I see several conspicuous errors! I'm going to supervise the caterer."

"We'll fix the conspiring errors for this oyster occasion," I say, grinning at Sonnet.

The woman shakes her head, seeming to realize that we've been making fun of her. But then she narrows her eyes, gives us a quick nod, and stomps off, holding the bright red "Waxman Way" T-shirts.

A few minutes later Sawyer lopes up to us carrying those hideous red T-shirts.

"Hey, guys. I really appreciate that you're following the rules and everything. But since this is a private party you can privately wear the party T-shirt."

"What if we don't want to?" Sonnet pops her hip out. "It's, like, way baggy, not to mention the ugliest shade of red ever invented."

"We're trying to keep the customer happy here, so..." Sawyer shakes his hair out of his eyes.

"So we can sell out our ideals for—what?" I put my hand on my hip. "I mean, do we even know what this Waxman person stands for? What if he wants to curb our civil liberties, take away our freedoms?"

Sawyer looks at me. "You're the one who wanted the overtime."

"You're the one who respects big ideas and depth of character."

He glances at Sonnet, who looks like she's already composing her next blog post in her mind: ex-lovers have a poolside spat. If he dares put his hand on my arm, she'll probably write that we had sex in the tube slide.

"This isn't the timeliest time for this, Pollywog."

"Right. Now's the time to be the happy little pool girl." I tilt my head and speak in a sultry voice. "Coffee, tea, or me, Mr. Waxman? We're a full-service facility here at Wild Waves."

Sonnet guffaws. "Oh God. Polly. You're too much!"

"Please. Just cooperate, okay?" Sawyer puts his hand on my shoulder. "We can discuss this later."

I cross my arms across my chest, bumping his arm off but giving my bust a boost. "I'm not into talking, remember?"

Sawyer blushes, not quite the otherworldly color of the T-shirts but it looks like 83 percent of his blood has rushed to his face, giving him an instant sunburned look. Sonnet's eyes bug out, and I can tell I'm back in her blog again. Already. "Just wear the shirt," he says quietly and leaves.

Sonnet and I decide that we'll wear the shirts, all right, in the form of halter-tops. With the knot in the middle I fold my T-shirt to read
DO WAN WAY
. I start laughing. "It's like we're being paid to be personal billboards by some nerd's mother to help him lose his virginity so he'll move out of the house or something."

Sonnet doubles over, cackling like a cartoon hyena. "I wish I had my camera. This is too funny! And so bloggable!"

"Sonnet, I'm beginning to think you have a problem. Maybe you should check into Bloggers Anonymous or something."

"I know, right? I'm still blogging about you and the Sawdust, though. Can't hurt to make Xander a little jealous, right?"

"Sonnet." I sigh.

***

Finally the political fundraiser is in full swing. Sonnet and I run around fetching beverages and a variety of barbecued meats. Some people in the crowd wear swimwear while others wear business suits, making the party look like a setup for a bad joke. Waxman talks loudly about his plans for "our blessed community" while waving a bottle of water around and occasionally mopping his forehead with a blue paper napkin that's leaving grayish smudges on his sweaty forehead. Mrs. Waxman stands at his side smiling. Her face doesn't change even when Waxman starts talking about poverty. And sure, she looks pretty and her dress probably costs more than I've spent on clothes over the last three years, but she seems so vacant. I'm tempted to ask her a real question—maybe whether she'd prefer a burger or a hot dog. Just to see if her mind functions on its own.

I'm about to conduct my mini-experiment when someone rests a hand on my shoulder. "Polly, I didn't know you were involved in the Waxman campaign!"

I spin around. Hayden smiles at me, wearing the same hideous red T-shirt with a pair of khaki pants. "Hey, is it okay if I put a bumper sticker on your car?"

"I'm, um—" Not expecting to see him.

"Great." He flaps a stack of bumper stickers. "Knew you'd come around. He's going to make a big difference. Bring back the moral authority in the schools, clean things up morally, reverse the moral decay."

Hayden sounds like he's memorized the guy's apparently redundant campaign brochure. I stop listening. I'm too focused on the wife: the way she just stands there not talking to anyone, not seeming to listen, not engaged in her life at all. What would she rather be doing? Does her husband even know? Does he even care? He treats her like a prop, touching her arm to make a point about "preserving families" or slinging an arm around her waist as he goes on about motherhood being "the most important profession." Her smile never changes.

"His wife," I say, not bothering to answer whatever question Hayden just posed.

"Oh, she's terrific. Two-time Mother of the Year."

"She looks so..."

"Elegant? I know. She's like the perfect example of a political wife. Looks great, supports the right causes—"

"But isn't all that stuff just on the surface? Like, what is she
thinking
right now?"

His forehead crinkles. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

He starts in on something about libraries, but I excuse myself as Sonnet holds up her tray, looking a little sweaty and frazzled. "I'd better get back to work."

"That's all it takes, a little hard work," Hayden says, again sounding like a campaign slogan. He still doesn't seem to realize that I'm actually working at the party. Stupid T-shirt! I spend the rest of the evening refreshing drinks, clearing plates, and serving slices of cake frosted with that same unnatural shade of red. The whole time I keep an eye on Mrs. Waxman.

Only after everyone has left and I'm searching for garbage in the dark does it occur to me that sometimes I act as superficial as Mrs. Waxman: smiling when I don't feel like it, not speaking up when I disagree, letting others take charge. Did I say yes to a bumper sticker?