Swoon at Your Own Risk (22 page)

I don't think about myself—that place inside me feels too
tender. The sky is growing dark. I slip outside to sit on the front steps where I can hear laughter from Xander and Grace.

"Okay, try this move. Behind the back." Xander curves the ball around his slender body.

Grace giggles. "How do you do that?"

He notices me. "Let's save that one for next time, okay?"

"Like tomorrow? You can come over anytime, you know."

"Tomorrow sounds great."

I start to say something, but Grace runs past me to "call Amy and tell her how you can play catch as good as
her
dad."

I expect that word—a loaded word in my household—to freak Xander out, but he says, "Don't start a fight, Gracie. Dad pride is serious business."

"Okay, but you totally are better!"

Xander laughs as he sits next to me, leaning into me a little. "She's such a cutie. Like her sister." He slips his hand around my back.

I'm glad it's dark, because I don't want to see his expression—let those eyes get to me. I've got to put a stop to this before things go too far—not that they haven't gone far enough already, but whatever. I'm not going to end up making mistake after mistake after mistake like Mom or Grandma. I'm not going to get hurt again.

"Thanks for inviting me to dinner," Xander says.

"My mom invited you."

"But you didn't freak out. Verbally, anyway." He bumps his knee against mine. "But it worked out okay, didn't it?"

I don't answer.

This is not going how I expected. I scoot away from the warmth of his body; it
is
still hot out. But he wraps me close to him in a side hug, quick, before releasing me. "How about I say good night?"

He stands up, pulling me to my feet. I nearly stumble, but he catches me. "You take that speech you're working on in your head and go write it down, okay?"

"I'm not—" Then I realize that my chance to fix this situation is escaping like the embarrassingly loud heartbeats in my chest. "It's just that, I think you've gotten the wrong impression, and we're better off—And I'm not going to start writing stuff down just because that's what
you
do, okay? And I've vowed never to learn how to skateboard."

The corners of his mouth curve into a smile, and before I can stop myself, I'm jumping up a step so that my face is level with his. I lean in to kiss him, not in a quick good-night way, either. I break from him. "Now that—"

He quickly steps down from the porch. "Good night, Polly."

I stomp my foot in frustration. "You can't keep kissing me like that!"

He pops his skateboard into his hand, and I watch him walk away in the moonlight. I swear from the way his shoulders are shaking that he's laughing. "You kissed
me,
" he calls over his shoulder.

Oh yeah, right. I did.

Dear Sassy Sage:
How do you know if you're a slut? Is it two guys in one night? Three?
—Unrestrained

Dear Unrestrained:
It's not about the numbers; it's about the way you feel about yourself. If you're okay with it, then that's okay.
—Sassy

Melting chocolate ice cream slips across her tongue. Our lips touch. Her breath catches. Our sticky fingers intertwine.
—
X.C.

Grace and I are sitting in a little café near Dad's office, waiting for him to meet us for lunch. I took a personal day at Wild Waves, once again humiliating myself in front of Sawyer, who needed to know why. He's so nosy. People complain about Sonnet's blog, but at least she's open about wanting to know everyone's business, even if she is prone to exaggeration. Sawyer pretends like he has to know every detail of my life so he can record it in the Wild Waves personnel files or something.

"Look, I'm kind of sick of the lack of privacy in my life. I'm just not going to be here tomorrow, okay?"

Sawyer had tapped his clipboard. "You know Wild Waves frowns upon this kind of thing."

"Well, you go ahead and put your—" I try to think of a scientific name for facial muscles, but those terms escaped
my brain mere seconds after the final exam. "Just deal with it, okay?"

I've read the menu several times, and Dad's more than a half hour late. The server brings Grace another strawberry lemonade. "Maybe we got the wrong restaurant. And he's waiting for us?" she says. "And we'll waste the whole time—"

"He's just late."

She puckers her mouth, but it might be the lemonade.

Fifteen minutes later Dad walks in talking on his cell phone. He squeezes Grace's shoulder and ruffles my hair as if I'm seven, not seventeen. He finishes up his phone call, saying, "Give me an hour to make some calls and I'll check back with you." He slips the phone into his pocket. "So, how are my favorite girls?"

Neglected because you're dating a bicycling, blond bank teller
. "Fine," I mumble.

Grace gushes about how she and Amy have planned a big picnic for their stuffed animals. "We even get to make brownies."

"You still working?" Dad asks, as if the financial aspect of my life interests him most. I'm sure Banking Barbie's financial life interests him the
least
.

"Five days a week."

"Not spending too much time at the mall, are you?"

I shake my head, wishing I had the guts to say something about saving money for groceries since he's going to stop sending child support in six months. Not to mention the fact that my career aspirations require an education beyond high school.

"Good. Good." Dad peruses the menu quickly, shutting it with a snap and motioning to the server. "You ready to order?" He looks at his watch again. "I've got to get back to the office for a conference call."

Even Grace frowns, using all those facial muscles I can't remember, when he says that.

"Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to see us, I say.

"Sure thing." He doesn't catch the sarcasm. "So, have you guys been to see any new movies?"

"Amy's mom takes us to the movies every Tuesday, and she even buys us popcorn!"

Dad checks his cell phone for e-mails again. "That sounds nice, really nice. What about you, Polly? Any of your boyfriends take you to the movies?"

"I don't have a boyfriend."

Grace looks at me, perplexed. "What about—?"

I shake my head. Just because Xander's been coming over
every night to play catch with her doesn't mean he's
my
boyfriend. I expect Dad to pick up on Grace's confusion and start asking questions, but his phone rings and he leaves the table because he's "gotta take this call."

Grace whispers, "Why didn't you tell him about Xander?"

"Because he's more your friend than mine. We're more like › acquaintances."

"Doesn't seem like it." She puckers her lips and sends me an air kiss.

"Just shut up." I whack her in the arm. "Dad doesn't want to hear about it, anyway."

She nods a few times, as if mentally adding Xander to the list of subjects called Things We Never Discuss with Dad: Mom, money, bad grades, money, Grandma, money, emotions, money, school clothes, money, anything negative, and, of course, money.

Dad comes back as the food arrives, providing us with several safe topics of conversation. Yes, those are onions. I'm not sure, but I think it is Swiss cheese. Yes, the croutons are flavorful. Yes, the french fries are crispy.

"But I like the french fries at Hamburger Heaven best. Mom—" Grace looks at me like she's been caught uttering a bad word.

"So, Dad, I've been getting ready for our trip to the cabin. Just two weeks, right?"

Now he looks at me like I've let loose a string of expletives. "This has already been discussed." He sounds angry. "I told her that I wouldn't be available. Didn't you get the message?" He speaks to me in the same tone he used with the person on his business call.

"Message? I guess I should fire my secretary."

Tears well in Grace's eyes; I fight the prickly feeling in my throat and blink my watery eyes.

"Oh, this is just great. She didn't tell you? I told her to tell you. That woman—"

Fat tears roll down Grace's cheeks, but she doesn't wipe them away. Dad looks around the restaurant, as if we're embarrassing him. Sharp retorts fly through my brain.
Maybe she was too busy working her ass off at Hamburger Heaven to deliver your messages. Maybe you should deliver your own damn messages. Maybe you should have included it with one of your e-mail forwards.

But I'm too scared to say anything.

Dad gets up to take another phone call, so Grace and I just sit there; neither of us eats another bite. The server brings over dessert menus. "Your dad said to order whatever you want. He had to rush back to the office."

Grace stands up quickly; her chair falls over, creating a huge clattering sound. Everyone in the restaurant stares as she cries out, "He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye!"

The server looks at us with pity, and I can't stand it. I ball my hands into fists and a surge of adrenaline rushes through my body as my fight-or-flight instinct kicks into gear.

I don't even open the little leather menu. "We'll take one of everything, please. To go."

"Excellent choice." She takes the menu from me.

I'm feeling fairly satisfied, until I catch the look on Grace's face reflected in the window. She looks like she's adding this moment to some kind of mental list, too. It's the same look she gave me when I threatened to rip every one of Hayden's precious bumper stickers off his car.

But I'm too angry to care. She still lives in the soft world of stuffed animals and simple friendships. In other words, she hasn't really started to deal with the male portion of the species yet. Dad's the one teaching her that husbands and fathers can just up and leave and go on and find themselves better lives filled with nice apartments, sports cars, interchangeable blond women, and business trips to exotic places. He doesn't miss us at all. We're more of an inconvenience than anything. A drain on his vacation fund.

The server comes over carrying three plastic bags packed to
the top with Styrofoam containers; the dessert menu is apparently a little longer than I'd imagined.

"There are quite a few flavors of ice cream in here so I'd get these home right away," she says.

"Thanks!" I manage a bright smile that I don't feel. For a moment I imagine driving into the city to deliver the desserts to homeless people, or taking them to kids in the park, or even back to the Wild Waves staff room ... But when I walk outside, the hot air, bright sunshine, and clear blue skies provide such a stark contrast to my mood that I have to suck in a big sob of a breath.

I just need to get home quick.

I pile the desserts around Grace in the back seat, but she scoots away from them as if they're filled with poison, like Snow White's apple or something. I mentally scold myself for thinking about that stupid movie; Xander talked about watching it with his niece and nephew. This is about Dad! Leaving us in the middle of lunch. Canceling our cabin trip. Not knowing how to talk to us. Fighting with Mom about money. Hurting Grace, again!

Hurting me.

I drive home too fast, cornering like I'm in the Indie 500. Grace doesn't say a word, sitting in the back seat, gripping the
door handle as Styrofoam dessert boxes tumble around, slipping out of the plastic bags, falling onto the floor. Rattling too loud. Part of me wants to get pulled over by the police—I want to get in trouble. Real bad-girl trouble. Just to spite him. Maybe he didn't show up at the ER, but he'd have to show up at jail, right?

Unless he had an important call. Unless it cost him money. Unless it involved
me.

I slam the car into the driveway. Grace jumps out and runs into the house before I cut the engine. I sit there for a moment, letting the day's heat overtake the air conditioning, trying to feel every molecule change in the air. Pretty soon the car is heat stroke hot, and I think about how little things can stack up in life, little by little, until you don't realize that everything is ruined.

I need to be in more control.

I turn around and gape at the Styrofoam jumble in the back seat. Part of me wants to leave it all in my car, let it melt into one big nasty glob. But then I see Grace peeking out the window at me. I jump out and fling the boxes back into the bags.

A few moments later when I swing open the door, I hear laughter. But it's not Grace; she's in her room. I turn around
and see Jane's car parked across the street in the shade. How did I miss that? I guess that's why they call it blind fury.

I walk into the kitchen. "Anyone want dessert?" I flip open one of the box lids; inside it looks like the great chocolate massacre occurred.

Jane wrinkles her nose. "Did someone already, like, eat that?"

"No, I dropped this one." I open the rest of the containers, putting them on the counter. All of them look like I feel: battered, crushed, and smeared across the takeout box that symbolizes my life. The sweet smells mingle in the kitchen until Grandma and Jane leave their iced tea on the table and accept my offer of plastic forks. We dip into the containers, sampling melting lemon custard ice cream, jumbled strawberry shortcake, chocolate massacre. I'm coming up with various names as I dip into each confection.

Grandma and Jane start laughing, and finally Grace joins us in the kitchen.

I hand her a plastic fork. "These are half yours."

Grace looks wary, but she takes a tentative bite of what can only be termed Fruit Fight Tart.

"Your father went all out, didn't he?" Grandma slurps up a hefty forkful of Mad Mocha Tumble.

Grace looks at me, fork poised halfway to her mouth.

"Naw, Dad skipped out on dessert, so Grace and I went out and robbed a bakery."

No one laughs. Grace looks like she's about to cry. She sets the fork down. "I'm not hungry anymore," she says. "I'm going to go call—" She pauses. "I'm going to my room."

She isn't even going to call Amy?

"Call Amy and invite her to our dessert feast!" I holler after her, but she just shakes her head before disappearing into our bedroom.