Swoon at Your Own Risk (20 page)

I push the thoughts away like the paper plates I'm shoving into my garbage sack, but they keep floating to the surface like the plastic cups bobbing in the Lazy River. At this point I'm feeling pretty certain that the Waxman Way does not include strong environmental policies. Maybe I'd make a great political wife, delivering funny one-liners and looking cute in my
little outfits. Is that why Hayden found me attractive? Does he like women like that? But she looks so ... empty.

The way I've been feeling lately.

I spot one more massive dumping spot with paper plates piled on another picnic table. It's right near a trash can, but whatever. As I'm clearing the table, I think about how Mom's probably doing the same exact thing at Hamburger Heaven. I'm sure she's joking with the customers, making her teenage coworkers laugh. Don't they see that it's all an act? No one works so they can see their favorite students. They work because their ex-husband is going to stop sending child support in six months and there's a stack of unpaid bills taking over the kitchen counter like a fungus.

Grandma's the same way. She's full of wisdom when she does interviews and stuff. She always says something quick and snappy in her columns, but at home she's pretending to write a book while she's really trolling for men online. Plus, she's had a few of those mystery callers that I've come to recognize as people wanting their money. Could Grandma be having money trouble, too? Is that why she's not paying Mom? But she's so famous!

I look over at the moon shining on the wide Watering Hole pool, a mirror image of the sky. You can't see the hidden depths. And the moon and the water look so beautiful, so perfect. Why would anyone want to see what's underneath? It's all old Band-Aids, chewed-up gum, dead bugs.

Dear Sassy Sage:
My boyfriend reads a lot of men's magazines and wants me to wear sexy lingerie almost every time we're together. I'm worried that he has expectations that I won't be able to meet.
—Needs Another Bustier

Dear Needs:
Maybe you need to be reading the same magazines. You can learn a lot! And all of it will help in the satisfaction department. Go for it, girl!
—Sassy, and don't forget Sage!

Not Shakespeare's Sonnet
Blond count: 8 (Or is it 9?)
EX-change of Information:
Polly Martin—where to start? Sawyer Holms can barely keep his hands off you, even when his new fling is around. Kipper, girl, are you worried? I
overheard Sawyer waxing on about having his way with sexy little Poll. Wouldn't be her first ex hookup this summer. (See
Ex-change of Saliva
here.)
Brandon'S.—No news is good news, right? Maybe she is thinking about you!
Winner!!!!! (drumroll) The best love poem goes to Razorblade09. You've got a twisted mind & I like it. Are you blond?

My alarm goes off way too soon. I'm not even close to getting those medically advised eight hours of sleep or the respite I need from Wild Waves. I wander into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal, only to find Grace and Grandma hunched over the newspaper. Grandma is explaining various lingerie items to Grace, and I'm thinking that things with Hank the Wonder Repairman have gone way too far.

"Grandma, isn't Grace a little too—"

Grandma looks at me, raising her eyes to the ceiling. "Sassy Sage," she says in a too-cheerful voice. "I wonder if they realize what hip and edgy are doing to breakfast table conversation?"

"So, why do people want to wear those again?" asks Grace.

"Honey," Grandma says, smoothing Grace's bed head. "I don't know, because they pinch like the devil."

"Yuck! They should fire that Sage person, Grandma. You're much better."

Grandma kisses the top of Grace's head. "You're a sweetheart, but I'm just an old dinosaur. It's all about sex, sex, sex nowadays."

Grace looks at Grandma with wide eyes. Grandma smiles, looking sad. "That's another conversation, sweetie." Grandma pushes away her empty cereal bowl. "I'll need a more substantial meal to take on that one."

"Tonight, at dinner! Promise?" Grace runs off to phone Amy, because they haven't talked in a whole twelve hours.

"You know, that candidate who was at the political fund-raiser I worked last night talked a lot about that kind of thing: improving our community morals."

"We could do that by banning politicians."

"Yeah, well, I'd like to ban political fundraisers. Those guys acted like pigs, leaving their trash all over the place." I pour cereal flakes into my bowl. Again I'm stuck with the dusty dregs—and I bought this box!

"Most politicians are pigs, that's for sure."

"Hayden thinks this guy's okay."

"You've got to think for yourself," she says, again sounding too much like a Miss Swoon column. "Don't let a man make your decisions."

"Grandma, have you even been listening to me this summer? I'm completely through with guys."

She stands and scoots her chair back under the table with too much force. "No need for the attitude! I was just offering friendly advice."

I call out to her retreating back. "I
like
your advice!" I let my spoon sink into my cereal bowl. "It's just that sometimes I want to have an actual back-and-forth thing. What do you call them? Conversations!"

Grace slides through the room. "Talking to yourself means you're crazy, you know."

"Then I guess you should be worried. You never know what I might do to your stuffed animals while you sleep!"

Grace runs out of the room. "Mom! Polly is going to hurt my stuffed animals! Mom!"

I glance at my clock. I've got fifteen minutes to get to work. I grab my keys and holler goodbye, but no one answers.

At work Sawyer assigns himself to Kipper's station. Sonnet gets Sexy Lifeguard. I'm stuck on garbage duty; apparently Sawyer thinks I could have been more committed to my task last night. The job is far more disgusting this morning. Ketchup has congealed with mustard, birds have strewn dew-soaked
buns across the O.K. Corral, and napkins dot the grass like poppies. The early moms have plenty to say about Wild Waves hygiene as they step around the trash. Surveying the windblown garbage, I realize I could really use a rake.

And speaking of rakes, Xander arrives with Kyra and Dex. The kids run over and ask if I'll go out for ice cream after swimming. Uncle X promised them a treat if they didn't fight once, and they're not going to fight because they have a plan to not swim near each other all day. I can't help but smile. They're so cute!

"Good luck, guys! I'm sure you'll earn that ice cream." I pick up a plate with a smooshed piece of cake and shove it into my garbage bag.

Xander wanders over to me with a pair of soda cans in his hands. "You can come for ice cream if you want. As long as you don't fight with anyone today." He smiles.

"I'm not sure I can manage that. Some of these ladies look like they're itching for a rumble." I make fists and jab at the air. A smile plays in his eyes. I feel completely silly, and my cheeks warm, despite the morning breeze. I reach for the cans that Xander holds out to me. "Thanks for helping out my cause and everything." When my fingers brush against his, I fumble and drop the cans. So I bend down in a curtsey like I've been doing since I first took ballet in preschool.

Oh! The words written inside the crane.

Holding the dripping soda cans, I stand up to see Xander's amused expression. "That
was
about me," I whisper.

He raises his eyebrows in response. And I'm equally speechless. We stand looking at each other in a quiet way, and I don't move a muscle until warm soda drips from the cans onto my toes.

I break his gaze and tuck the soda cans into the recycling bag. "Okay, well, I'd, um, better get back to, you know, work." I turn around and head toward a paper plate stuck against a forsythia bush. I hate the way he makes me feel so awkward. The way I can't think of anything to say. The way his fingers feel so warm. The way he looks at me like he can see inside my thoughts.
Is
he writing about me in that little notebook?

"Don't forget about the ice cream," Xander says. "My treat."

Finally something I can joke about. "Maybe—I'm not sure I can stay out of trouble." I nod toward a lady kicking at a balled-up paper napkin with the toe of her sandal.

"I'll keep an eye on you."

Again I get all flustered. "Um, yeah, well. See you. I mean, yeah, I'll just be over here."

He laughs. When I look back a few minutes later, he's writing something in his little black notebook.

***

By lunchtime I'm more than ready to escape from the heat and eat my meager rations. Seriously, if a neighbor hadn't brought over some tomatoes, cucumbers, and lettuce from her garden, I'd be stuck with the crackers left over from Mom's end-of-school potluck and a few slices of American cheese that Grace threw into the cart during a rare visit to the grocery store.

I push open the door to the staff room to find Kipper locking her legs, arms, and lips around Sawyer in a way that looks way too much like an implausible movie scene. An icky jealousy creeps into my stomach. My throat tightens.
I'm over him. I'm over him. I'm avoiding all males.
But why her? She's not smart. She can't be that deep—except for her tongue reaching down his throat! Yuck! I take a step back, hoping to escape unnoticed, but Kipper breaks from him long enough to glare at me. "Excuse me," she says.

"Sorry, didn't know we were casting for
Days of Our Lives
here at Wild Waves."

Sawyer's body straightens at the sound of my voice. He wipes his mouth with his hand. "Oh yes, so Kipper, we need to, uh, discuss—"

"Looks like you're discussing things just fine—in French, no less."

Sonnet pushes her way past me. "Oh. My. God. A little decency, maybe?" Sonnet gives me a dramatic pout of sympathy. "I know you're trying to do it with the whole student body, Sawyer, but do we all have to watch?"

"We didn't do it," I say. "Your blog kind of misrepresented that."

"Who else
have
you dated?" Kipper asks him. "I knew about Pollywog." She says my nickname as if it tastes slimy in her mouth. "But who else?"

Sawyer looks like he's searching through his entire head for a single brain cell that can help him out of this situation. I've seen enough. Forget lunch. My stomach suddenly feels so twisted that I might never want to consume food again. I turn around, biting my lip to prevent the lump in my throat from coming out as an ugly froglike croak followed by swampy tears. Sonnet starts listing Sawyer's various post-Polly hookups. Really I'm surprised the Hollywood tabloids haven't hired her. But I've heard enough. Had enough.

I head straight for the exit. I'm just going to drive home. Who cares if I get fired? No one should have to suffer this much for minimum wage and prematurely aged skin. Sawyer asked me to hook him up with Kipper, but I didn't expect him to flaunt it like this. Does he think I'm a robot? Jack did it, too, showing up with his girlfriend—the one who
didn't
have
to spend two weeks with his bulldog—like I wouldn't have any feelings. I reach my car, parked in the blistering sun on the far side of the lot. I'm looking forward to the burning hot seat against my legs, the rush of heated air smothering my lungs. Anything to stop feeling...
this
. I yank on the door handle. Crap! I left my keys in my locker. But I'm not going back there.

I want to hurt him! Make him hurt like he hurt me. But he doesn't care. That's why I hooked up with Gareth during the spring break hiking trip. To hurt Sawyer. And yeah, he found out all about it (thanks, Sonnet), but he didn't care. Because he'd moved on. From me. With apparently three other girls. Whatever. He actually stopped me in the halls one day to say, "You make a real cute couple." Gareth and I had already broken up. Not that we'd ever technically been official or anything, but he hadn't called me since I'd been too busy to pick up trash along the wetlands trail. Now that's all I do: pick up trash.

And feel like trash. Disposable. I keep trying to recycle myself, but it's just getting desperate, and my reputation looks as mottled as that really cheap paper Mom started buying for Grandma's printer. I cringe thinking about the stuff Hayden said that night about political wives. Apparently I'm not even appropriate material for a student council member's girlfriend.

I garner a few strange looks from the ladies arriving for the afternoon Wild Waves rush. I do kind of look like I'm trying to break into my car. I pound my car on the hood—and scream out. My fist really hurts. Not as much as my heart. The sweat on my forehead drips sunscreen into my eyes—that's why I'm crying—as I walk back toward the water park. I put my hand over my mouth to stop my lips from quivering, but now my shoulders shake. Keep it together!

I can't let anyone see me like this, so I sit under a tree by the entrance. One by one I pluck blades of grass out of the ground. I try out an affirmation just out of habit, not to mention, you know, desperation.
I deserve loving and supportive friends
. I'm thinking of Sonnet. A supportive friend would follow you out to your car. Offer to help you drown your feelings in ice cream or something. That's what happens in those idiotic romantic comedy movies, anyway.

Maybe I should call Jane. But then I'd just be doing the same old thing: calling her when I have a problem. She's been so in love with Rowdy lately that she's barely called me. And I haven't called her because listening to her gush about Rowdy reminds me how much I suck at relationships.

I'm a terrible friend.

Sawyer's whistle rings through the air, and I realize that I've
probably taken too long for my non-lunch break. I brush the grass off my knees, stand up, straighten my shoulders, plaster a fake smile on my face, and stride back to the O.K. Corral to pick up the lunch mess. I'm almost looking forward to stabbing things with my little garbage poker stick. Stab. Stab. Stab.

A few times I catch Xander's eye, but I look away quick. He returns to writing something in his notebook. I don't deserve his kindness, which is completely misplaced and confounding. I should send him a link to Sonnet's blog so he can read all about me and move on before he wastes any more of those smiles, eyebrow flashes, soulful gazes, and ice cream offers.