Any Red-Blooded Girl (3 page)

So in case it isn’t obvious, I should
probably point out something about myself: I am not an outdoorsy
girl. And when I say
not outdoorsy,
what I really mean is
that I’m sure nature is out to get me; it’s out to get everyone
(what with all the bugs, reptiles, floods, fires, tornadoes,
hurricanes, heat waves, blizzards…etc., etc.). I mean, what kind of
deranged human being could possibly enjoy this crap? I, for one, am
not ashamed to admit I love the
in
doors. I’d take a plasma
TV, a laptop computer, and a fridge full of junk food over
any
nature-related experience,
any
day.

“Here you go,” I said with a huff, plunking
my duffel on a pile of debris in the middle of my parents’ little
camp. “Put this wherever you want it.”

As much as I wanted to hang around and make
everyone’s life miserable, I had to find a bathroom—and
pronto
.

“I can tell you where to put it,” my brother
offered.

“Will! That’s not necessary!” my mother
scolded. Then she turned her irritation on me. “And, Flora, let up
on the attitude, please. We’re here to have fun.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

As I walked off, Will said something under his
breath. Probably something nasty about me. Lucky for him, though, I
couldn’t hear it over the sudden rustle of the trees.

Since I’d expected the worst, I was sort of
surprised to find that the shabby pee shack actually had working
sinks, toilets, and hand dryers (although it also had cold concrete
floors and tiny, too-high windows that were covered in spider webs.
Eww).

I got in line behind a little redhead, tapped
my toes lightly on the concrete, and stared at my ragged
fingernails. If only I could grow them out like Carla Pearson’s.
She
has the perfect nails. Maybe if I could just stop biting
mine…

“
Hurry up, Jo-Jo,”
the little redhead
in front of me whined, as she bunny-hopped in place with her hands
over her crotch.

Please, God, don’t let this girl pee
herself right here,
I pleaded.

From the middle stall, the bunny-hopper’s
twin emerged with a mischievous grin on her face. “Go ahead, Kat,”
she said. As she skipped by, she gave her sister’s waist-length
braid a playful tug.

“Ouch! That hurt!” the bunny-hopper
exaggerated. I swear to God, her head had barely even moved.

“Are you going to use that?” I asked the
bunny-hopper impatiently, pointing at the empty stall. “Because if
you’re not, I am.”

Before I could make good on my threat,
though, the bunny-hopper darted into the stall ahead of me. But a
few seconds later, an old lady in a loud Hawaiian shirt exited the
next stall over.

“There you go, honey,” the old lady said with
a frown. “It’s all yours.”

How embarrassing. Now even grandma thought I
was some kind of narc. “Thanks,” I mumbled, clunking the heavy
wooden door shut behind me.

And by the time I finished peeing, the
bathroom had miraculously emptied out. So while I washed my hands
in the rust-streaked sink, I leaned forward to check my look in the
mirror. Unfortunately, though, nothing had changed. My hair was
just as orange and crispy as ever, my skin just as blotchy. Why
couldn’t I have turned out more Mexican, like my mother? At least
she
has a defined look: warm, creamy skin, liquid-black
hair, curvy shape. All
I
got was this strange, mixed-up
concoction of characteristics that ended up looking like nothing
special at all.

“Ugh,” I said, sick of my own face. I mean,
shouldn’t I be turning into a swan already? After all, I was going
to be sixteen in two days. But so far there was no sign I was
blossoming into anything other than an older version of the same
little quacker I’d always been. I hate to say it, but fairytales
suck. And they lie. I bet swans are born, not made—unless, of
course, you count plastic surgery.

Even though it wasn’t quite dinnertime, it
was already cooling down outside. And the bugs were going nuts.
Case in point: I had just turned onto the dirt road behind the
shabby pee shack, when some flying pest catapulted itself right
into my eye.

Like a madwoman, I tried in vain to blink and
cry the disgusting gnat, or mosquito, or whatever the hell it was
out of my eye. But it was no use. I swear, I could feel the thing
fragmenting, decomposing, and scraping across my eyeball; hence, I
just about poked my eye out trying to rub it bug-free. But even
this spastic move was unsuccessful. So now, on top of the
decomposing bug parts, I had a few stray eyelashes embedded in my
eye. Perfect.

And wouldn’t you know, that’s when I spotted
him. The hillbilly boy of my dreams. He was right there behind the
shabby pee shack with Flopsy and Mopsy—the redheaded twins—swinging
one of them around like a helicopter blade while the other one
stood just far enough aside to avoid taking a foot to the face.

I don’t think he saw me at first, because he
was so busy playing helicopter. But honestly, I was pretty hard to
miss. I mean, my eye must have swollen to like twice its normal
size. Plus, I’d frozen like a dork at the mere sight of him.

And before I could think of a way to salvage
my image, Hillbilly Boy returned Helicopter Girl to earth and bent
over—hands on his knees—to catch his breath. Then he straightened
back up and stared right at me.

“Hey,” he said, smiling and walking in my
direction. He had the cutest quirky smile with just a few slightly
crooked teeth, which made him look like a sensitive nice guy
instead of a pretty-boy wannabe. “Don’t I know you?” he asked with
a chuckle.

Okay, it was a lame opening line. But at
least he knew it was lame. I took a step toward him, and then, in a
freak moment, did one of those amateur things girls sometimes do
when they’re clueless about men: I looked around to make sure he
was really talking to me.

“Um…hi,” I eked out tentatively, once I
realized nobody else was around.

That was it. That was all I could say. This
guy was
way
too sexy for me to think straight. I mean, I had
a better chance of puking than of composing a coherent sentence in
his presence.

“I’m Mick,” he said. “And you are…?”

He was so close to me I could have touched
him. And for a second, I thought
he
was going to touch
me
. But instead, he ran his thick, rough fingers through his
luscious black locks, at which point I think I might have
subconsciously licked my lips (which I truly hope I didn’t). But if
Mick noticed, he didn’t let on.

“Flora. I’m Flora Fontain. I’m fifteen,” I
blurted. Holy freakin’ stupid. I must have been having a stroke or
something. Apparently I could only say words that started with the
letter
f.

Mick chuckled. “Well, I’m
sixteen
—if
that matters.”

Flopsy and Mopsy must have gotten sick of
waiting around for helicopter rides, because the pig-tailed twin
pinched the other twin on the stomach, and they both took off
running.

“You’re only sixteen?” I asked,
incredulous.

“Yeah. My birthday’s June 20
^th.
I
just hit a growth spurt,” Mick said with a grin. “People think I’m
a lot older.”

I must agree. It seemed impossible that this
perfect creature was a mere month older than me. I mean,
personally, I wasn’t even convinced we were from the same galaxy,
let alone the same kingdom, order, and species—and born a matter of
days apart, no less.

“My birthday’s the day after tomorrow,” I
said, like he’d care.

“Will you be here?”

Hmm. Maybe he was more interested in me than
I thought. “Uh-huh. We’re here for six days,” I said. “Then we’re
going to Lake Champlain.” In case it might scare him off, I left
out the part about searching for Champ.

“Ooh, Champlain is beautiful,” he said. “Have
you ever been?”

I was just about to answer him with a really
inventive lie, when I heard a disturbing sound off in the distance.
It was my mother, screeching my name like a banshee. What could
possibly be so important? Had Will accidentally pounded a tent
stake through his foot? Had Mr. Tightwad singed off his eyebrows
trying to light the grill? I swear, nothing would surprise me
coming from these people.

My name rang out again. “Flor-a! Flor-a!”

“That’s me, I guess,” I said, rolling my
eyes. “I should probably go.”

“Do you have to?” Mick asked. “We just got
started.”

We just got started?!
Oh my God! That
meant something. It
had
to mean something. He was into me.
The most gorgeous guy in the world thought we were starting
something. Together. Him and me. Okay, breathe.

“I don’t know. My mother sounds pretty
excited. I really should...”

“What about later? Want to do something with
me later?” he asked.

Well,
that
was a stupid question. Of
course I wanted to do something with him later. I wanted to do
everything
with him, all the time—or at least very close to
everything anyway.

“Sure,” I happily agreed. “When?”

As far as I could tell, Mick didn’t have a
watch. “How about eight thirty?” he asked, tilting his stunning
face toward the sky. “Around sunset?”

Sunset? That sounded right to me. And it
would make a great story for our future children someday too: Our
first date was a sunset stroll, or dip, or make out session at
summer camp. How romantic.

“I love you.” What?! Did I really just say
that out loud? Did he hear me? “I mean, I’d love to.”

“Meet you right here then?” he said. “Or I
can come by your campsite.”

Ouch. Not a good idea. My parents definitely
would not approve of my interest in a sexy hillbilly boy. I could
already hear them rattling off the reasons Mick was off limits to a
simple, naïve girl like me.

“Here’s good,” I said. “See you at eight
thirty?” For the time being, I had to keep my association with Mick
under wraps.

“Eight thirty it is.”

Even though we’d just met, I felt like he
should kiss me goodbye. Not necessarily a long, drawn out
tongue-lashing, but maybe something sweet and tender, like a good
friend who really cares about you but doesn’t know yet if he likes
you
that way
. That’s the type of connection Mick and I had
right off: comfortable compatibility with a hint of sexual tension
(well, maybe more than a hint—on my part, at least).

To my great disappointment, though, Mick
wasn’t on the same page as me about the kissing. He didn’t even
try. Not so much as a lean-in-and-see-if-she-bites move. Nothing.
But I guess my consolation prize was the penetrating,
pulse-quickening look he gave me just before he turned to leave.
With the kind of hot intensity I’d never even dared imagine, he
stared right at me—right
through
me—until my mind went blank
and my body went warm and tingly.

Four

IN case something important had actually
happened, I rushed back to Tupelo-9. But of course it was just a
false alarm.

“How were the bathrooms?” my mother asked,
handing me a thick Styrofoam plate full of food.

“Fine.”

“Were they crowded? You were gone a while,”
she said, pointing out the obvious.

“Sort of. These little girls were fooling
around in there and stuff.” Hey,
technically
it was
true.

“Your brother’s going for a swim,” my dad
chimed in. “You should go with him, Flowbee.”

I glanced over at Will, only to discover that
he’d changed out of his track uniform (which would normally have
inspired me to thank God) into something even worse: a
banana-yellow Speedo. Ick.

I wrinkled my whole face in disgust. “I don’t
know. I think I might take a nap after dinner,” I said. Anything
but frolicking on the beach with my moody, scantily-clad brother,
who might just be mistaken for my boyfriend. Double ick, but don’t
laugh. It’s happened before.

“Your loss,” Will said.

“I doubt it.”

“Whatever,” he muttered. Then he lifted his
goggles off the ground and flung a beach towel over his
shoulder.

“Remember to wait ten more minutes,” the
Mental Hygienist said, as Will waltzed down the dirt road. “You
just ate.”

I stretched out in a showy yawn. “I’m tired,”
I whined. Hey, maybe if I made a big enough production out of
needing a nap, nobody would catch on to the fact that I was just
trying to freshen up for my date. “Where am I sleeping anyway?” I
asked off-hand.

My dad trotted out from behind the grill and
wrapped his arm around my shoulder, like he was a used car salesman
trying to hook me on a junker. “You see that little beauty over
there?” he asked, gesturing toward a domed silver tent that
resembled a three-eyed alien head. “That’s the Eureka Tetragon
1610. Three rooms. Sleeps nine. Your room is on the left,
sunshine.”

“And my stuff? My bag?” I asked, forcing a
fake smile so he’d think I was impressed with his tent-selection
skills.

He glanced around, confused. “Lu-Lu, where’s
Little Miss Sunshine’s bag?”

“In her room,” my mother said flatly.

“Well, there you go. You heard your mother.
Skedaddle on in there and check out your new digs,” he said,
patting me on the back with such enthusiasm he nearly tipped me
over.

“Okay, Dad. Thanks,” I said. For a few extra
brownie points, I threw in a split-second peck on the cheek, which
made the old man practically glow with paternal pride.

Then I strolled over, unzipped my alien eye,
and climbed inside. The place was tiny, but I was still glad my
parents had sprung for separate rooms. Thank God for small
miracles, I guess. Anyway, I spread out my sleeping bag until it
pretty much covered the entire floor. And I must say, having that
extra layer between me and the ground made me feel a little bit
less like a cockroach and a little bit more like a human being. A
human being without even a speck of control over her life, but
still.