Any Red-Blooded Girl (10 page)

“Absolutely. I love everything,” I said. “How
did you think of all this anyway?” I asked, waving my hand
erratically from the lake, to the beach, to the boat, to the picnic
basket.

“I like making people happy. And it’s usually
easy for me,” he said—not bragging or anything, just explaining so
I’d understand. “It’s small things that make a difference,” he
continued. “I guess you could say it’s my personality to pay
attention to those things.”

“Well, you’re definitely on the right track,”
I said. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever felt so special in my
whole life.”

In silence, we nibbled away at the rest of
our sandwiches and drove each other crazy with love-struck goo-goo
eyes, until Mick broke the spell by saying, “I have something else
for you.” He shot me a wide grin. “Something sweet for my
sweetheart.”

“Dessert?”

“Uh-huh.” He drew a paper bag adorned with
curly pink ribbon from the basket. “Happy birthday, birthday
girl.”

“Ooh, pretty!” I gushed, shaking the bag like
it was a mystery gift from my secret Santa. “Cookies.
Definitely
cookies,” I stated emphatically.

Mick shook his head and smirked. “Very good.
Were you spying on me?” he asked with mock indignation. “Well, go
ahead. Open ’em up. I was going to make you close your eyes,
but…”

Instead of carefully peeling the ribbon away,
I eagerly tore through the thin paper, almost spilling the tiny
heart-shaped cookies overboard. “I knew it,” I gloated. “Two points
for me.”

Without pausing to offer any of the delicate
treats to Mick, I downed like three or four of them in a row. And
as I munched, I caught my sweetie in the most touching stare.

Until then, I never knew the word
heartache
referred to a real physical feeling. But at the
sight of Mick’s unbounded love for me, my heart literally ached
like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed it. It ached
with happiness, and I began to cry.

Eleven

THANKFULLY Mick hadn’t said a word about my
girlie tears of joy, because even if he had, I would’ve been at a
total loss to explain.

“Seven o’clock? Right here?” I asked,
pointing at the tree in front of the Clubhouse with the
wiener-eating contest sign.

Mick laughed. “Definitely. I’ll be here,” he
said. “You know, your birthday’s not over yet. I still have one
last surprise for you.”

“But you want to go to the dance, right?” I
confirmed, just in case he planned to kidnap me for some other
crazy adventure. “It might be lame, but…”

He shook his head. “It’ll be fun,” he said,
sounding totally self-assured. “After all,
you’ll
be there.
And we’ll be together. That’s all that matters.”

Longing for the thump…thump…thump of his
heart, I pressed my ear to his chest. “You’re right. We’re gonna
have a great time,” I declared. Then I tiptoed up for a quick peck.
“But I really have to go now.” I mean, as unpredictable as my
parents were acting lately, I knew they’d never let me pull a
complete disappearing act on my sweet sixteen.

Mick blew me a parting kiss from under the
Weiner Tree. “See you soon,” he promised. Then he stood watch until
I was out of sight, which I only know because I couldn’t stop
looking back at him
just one last time
.

Back at Tupelo-9, everyone was waiting for
me. And apparently my mother had even gone to the trouble of
leaving Wild Acres to fetch a birthday cake—which, I must admit,
made me feel a tad guilty.

“Well,
there
she is!” Mr. Tightwad
shouted, as I strolled into camp.

“Late as usual,” Will mumbled, obviously
irritated.

Like I’d figured, my mother was still mad at
me. “Happy birthday, Flora,” she said stiffly.

I took a goofy bow. “Yes, it’s true. I have
returned,” I said. “Let the party begin.”

I flopped my ass down at the picnic table,
put my elbows up, and cupped my chin in my hands—which I’m sure
made me look like a complete dope, but that was sort of the point.
I mean, at least if my parents felt sorry for sad, pathetic little
Flora, maybe they’d thank God any boy would even look at me. With
all my obvious defects, maybe they’d be glad I’d found Mick—or that
was the plan anyway.

“Cake or presents first?” my mother asked,
averting her eyes so she wouldn’t be forced to murder me. “I got
marble. Your favorite.”

“I love marble!” I enthused, licking my lips
in slow motion to gross Will out.

Mission accomplished. “Nice. Real nice,” my
brother remarked.

My dad jimmied the flimsy plastic lid off the
cake and divvied it up, offering me the first piece—a fat slice
with an ornate purple flower smack dab in the middle. And as I
devoured the thing in silence, something sad dawned on me: It was
the first time my mother hadn’t baked me a special homemade
birthday cake. I guess it was another sign I’d graduated into
semi-adulthood: My parents were done catering to me.

To break the ice, I asked my mother, “So did
you win at bingo?” I mean, I didn’t want her hating me forever.

“As a matter of fact, I did. Sixty-four
dollars,” she reported.

“Cha-ching!” I cried. “Awesome!”

Will laughed, but it was more of a
you’re
pathetic
laugh than a
you’re funny
laugh.

Then my father bellowed, “Attention, ladies
and gentlemen. The present-opening hour is upon us. Gather ’round
one and all.” Dramatically, he waved us toward the sputtering
campfire.

The idea of celebrating my birthday in the
wilderness was repulsive, to say the least. But unfortunately I
hadn’t gotten a vote in the matter. So I shuffled over to a lawn
chair and settled in. Because hopefully once the whole present
thing was over, I could escape again and land back in Mick’s
arms.

My mother passed me a shiny gold package from
a teetering pile of gifts that was stacked on the cooler. And
unless I was mistaken—which I was pretty sure I wasn’t—it was a
book. A paperback book. And a fat one, at that.

I slowly peeled the corners of the paper away
and slipped the thing out of its crinkly wrapper, all the while
blanking out my expression so my mother wouldn’t be offended.
Honest to God, she’d given me a self-help book written by Dr.
Phil’s kid. How insulting. I mean, I know
she’s
obsessed
with Dr. Phil, but a self-help book? For my birthday? Could she get
any more delusional?

“You like it?” she asked, studying my
reaction.

“Uh-huh. Yeah,” I lied. “It
looks…interesting.” What else could I say, really? It was
atrocious.

The Mental Hygienist smiled. I guess she was
so dense she actually believed me. “There are lots of good tips in
there,” she went on to explain, “to help you navigate the rough
waters of adolescence. I think you’ll get a lot out of it.”

Holy shit. More expert-speak psycho-babble. I
could hardly keep a straight face. “I’m sure it’ll be great, Mom.
Thanks,” I said.

Finally relaxing the irritation in her voice,
she said, “You’re welcome.”

Next, my father handed me a large box that
was wrapped in the same reflective gold paper as the book. But this
time I had absolutely no clue what the thing was. And I was
beginning to think I didn’t want to know. In case it isn’t
abundantly clear, I should point out that my family is pretty inept
at gift giving. Hence, before I’d even opened my dad’s gift, I was
sure it was as bad as my mom’s, just in a different way.

“Here goes,” I said, ripping right into the
thing. I mean, why prolong the agony?

Okay…so maybe
agony
wasn’t the right
word exactly, since the contents of the box almost defied
description altogether. Apparently my supposedly normal father
thought I would enjoy a weird makeup-kit-contraption-thing with a
zillion hidden compartments, all stuffed inside a giant pair of red
plastic lips. Honestly, I was so confused just looking at the crazy
mess of eye shadows and lipsticks that I felt like heaving the
whole thing right in the garbage. I mean, even if I
were
a
makeup girl—which I’m not—this junk looked more like a make-believe
kit for a five-year-old than serious beauty-enhancing
cosmetics.

“What’s the matter, Flowbee? Don’t you like
it?” my dad asked with a prematurely disappointed frown. “I know
it’s a little grown up and that you don’t usually wear much makeup,
but since you’re sixteen now, I thought you might want to try it.
Not that you need it, of course.”

I didn’t know where to start. I mean, the
gift was definitely not grown up; it was childish. And to correct
my father, I usually don’t wear
any
makeup, so I wasn’t
exactly sure who
he’d
been looking at lately. As for whether
I needed makeup in the first place, the obvious answer was yes. I
have boring features and blotchy skin. You do the math.

All I could say was, “Um…”

“What’s the matter? Too girlie for ya?” Will
asked sarcastically.

Perfect. Just the motivation I needed to say
something gracious—to my father, at least. “Actually I love it.
I’ve been thinking of changing my look for a while now, so this
will give me some good ideas,” I said. “Thanks, Daddy.”

Will looked deflated. With a shrug, he handed
over the last package in the pile. “This is from me,” he said.
“Enjoy.”

Of all the gifts, Will’s was the smallest and
potentially the most annoying—although it was hard to imagine
anyone topping what my parents had already done. Still, I was
afraid to open the damn thing. It was probably some hideous joke
gift or something that was going to explode in my face. I swear,
birthdays are not supposed to be like this. They’re
supposed
to be fun.

With trepidation, I pulled at the edge of the
package until the wrapping came undone. “A flashlight?” I asked,
confused by what I saw.

“It’s not a flashlight,” Will said,
snickering. “It’s Mace.”

“Like for protection? To fight off muggers?”
I asked, inspecting the metallic purple tube. To me, it still
looked like a flashlight, except that there was no bulb at the end.
Instead, there was a small hole where I assumed the pepper spray
came out. “Huh. That’s weird,” I said, still unsure how to react to
the sort of thoughtful gift.

“Well, I figured I’m not going to be around
this year, so you’ll have to look out for yourself,” Will said. “I
knew you didn’t have any.”

Again, my otherwise selfish brother surprised
me. “That’s really nice. I appreciate it,” I said. “I hope I don’t
need it, but it’s good to have. Thanks.”

As far as I could tell, the Mace-on-a-stick
concluded my birthday celebration. Because while my mother took the
leftover cake to the campsite next door, Will retreated to his
sleep pod for some alone time, or a nap, or whatever else he could
dream up without batteries or electricity.

And as I pondered how to fritter away the
minutes until seven o’clock, my dad called, “Hey, Flowbee. Come
check this out.”

What the hell. Some more brownie points
couldn’t hurt. I dragged my lawn chair over to where Mr. Tightwad
sat displaying a detailed map of Lake Champlain that was all marked
up with stars and dots and notes in the margins.

“Wow, this looks…complicated,” I said. “Do
you think we really have a chance of finding Champ?”

My dad smirked. “If I didn’t think we had a
chance, Flowbee, we wouldn’t be going. I’m not
that
loony,”
he said with a chuckle. “And don’t assume that just because Champ
hasn’t
been found, he
can’t
be found. That’s negative
thinking. If Champ exists—and I believe he does—then he’s findable.
And this little cheat sheet here is gonna help us accomplish just
that,” he declared, tapping the center of the map like he was
poking someone in the chest.

I was just about to explain that I wasn’t
questioning my father’s obvious expertise, when my mother’s voice
surprised me from behind. “That’s right,” she chimed in. “We have a
very well-researched plan. It’s practically scientific.”

Well, then…if it was practically
scientific.

“I know. Dad’s been telling me about it,” I
said. “Believe it or not, I’m actually a little excited about the
Champ hunt. It might be fun.”

“I’m glad you’ve come around,” my mother
said. “It’s nice to have you on board with things around here
again. That’s all we’ve wanted, you know.”

My dad looked like he was about to burst out
of his skin in triumph. “See, Lu-Lu. I told you Flora was on our
side. She’s still one of us—even if she is going through a tricky
phase right now. Aren’t you, sweet pea?” he said, tousling my hair
(as much as the fried, orange mess on top of my head could be
tousled anyway).

“Sure, Dad. Yeah. I
am
still a
Fontain, right?” I said. Then I gingerly changed the subject. “So
I’m going to head down to the Clubhouse pretty soon to see what’s
going on. I think there might be a dance tonight or something.
Isn’t that right, Dad?”

“Oh, the dance. Yes, I do remember
something…” my father pondered. “Now where did I put that
schedule?”

“That’s okay, Dad. I think I still have it
somewhere,” I said. “I’ll check it before I get going.”

I stood up to leave, but before I even hit
the road in front of Tupelo-9, my mother said, “Make sure you’re
not back too late. The dance gets over around ten o’clock, if I’m
not mistaken.”

Well, I guess I hadn’t totally gotten away
with my suck-up routine, but at least my parents weren’t stopping
me from seeing Mick. “Okay, Mom. No problem,” I agreed. “I won’t be
too late.”

Twelve

I GUESS it was past seven o’clock when I got
to the Clubhouse, because Mick was already waiting for me.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, cocooning me under
his rugged arm as soon as I got within his grasp. “I missed
you.”