Any Red-Blooded Girl (4 page)

With my head firmly planted on my duffel for
lack of a pillow, my mind was free to wander…

Mick. It was an interesting name. Was it
short for Michael, or Mickey, or Michelangelo? Maybe it wasn’t
short for anything at all. Maybe it was just Mick. That sounded
best to me. My tall, manly, crooked-smiled, sensitive, intense,
make-me-tingle-all-over Mick. My new boyfriend. The love of my
life. The future father of my children. My special secret.

All of a sudden, I felt dirty for fantasizing
about a boy I barely knew, like people would think I was some sort
of wannabe slut for lusting after him. But honestly, the dirty
feeling went away pretty quickly, because I
liked
lusting
after him. It made me happy. And I was pretty sure it was a
chemical reaction anyway, so who could possibly blame me? It was a
force of nature. An act of God. The perfect storm. I was born to
want this hillbilly boy with every molecule of my being; I could
only pray he was born to want me too.

So as improbable as this sounds, I guess I
was tired enough to drift off to sleep in that scrunched-up little
cubbyhole after all. And a legit nap would have been fine. I mean,
it would have been refreshing even—or at least so I imagined. But
the problem was, my body doesn’t do naps. It does comas. And once
you’re in a coma, it’s pretty hard to remind yourself you’re only
supposed to be taking a nap. It doesn’t work that way.

I don’t know what time I fell asleep, but I’m
absolutely certain about when I woke up: past sunset, after eight
thirty, when my first date with the man of my dreams was long over.
I’d stood Mick up. I swear, people as dumb as me really should be
shot, or slapped, or, at the very least, screamed at in an angry
tone.

Through the mesh door of my cubicle, I peered
into the darkness. And I listened. Maybe the sun had just set.
Maybe I could catch Mick before he ended up hating me. Maybe our
date wasn’t really over yet after all.

I unzipped my pod and stumbled into the
night. But the reality was, nobody in my immediate vicinity was
awake (other than some drunk people down the block who were
throwing an all-nighter). It had to be like three o’clock in the
morning. There was no doubt about it: I really
had
missed
Mick.

Life sucks and then you die. There was no
other explanation. I mean, I’d overslept for lots of things, but
this was the worst by far. Honestly, I felt like throwing a hissy
fit right there in the dark at Tupelo-9. But why bother? Nobody was
around to appreciate it but me.

I plunked my defeated ass down at the picnic
table and began a serious pout session. And before long, I had a
worthy target for my frustrations: mosquitoes. I swear, the damn
things were sucking my blood by the gallon. They’d tapped all of my
obvious veins and most of the not-so-obvious ones too. So I was
busy swatting the life out of every pesky bloodsucker I could, when
I caught a glimpse of two suspicious figures lurking around the
campsite next door.

Now a normal person probably would have
disappeared back into the tent—for safety’s sake, of course. But
for some kooky reason, I wasn’t in the mood to act normal. Like an
amateur sleuth with half a clue, I crawled on my hands and knees to
the edge of our campsite and hid behind a thicket of brush. And as
I looked on, one of the would-be crooks directed a jittery
flashlight through the side window of our neighbors’ van, while his
accomplice boomeranged his head back and forth in search of any
unwelcome attention.

Apparently the coast was clear, because
Lookout Guy whispered something inaudible, then Mr. Flashlight
pulled on the door handle. But the van was locked. Shit. I couldn’t
believe it. These guys were trying to break and enter—or at least
maybe
they were. For all I knew, it was
their
van.

So as idiotic as this sounds, I decided to
make some noise. After all, the thieves seemed pretty skittish, so
I figured maybe I could scare them off. Quietly, I crawled back to
the middle of our campsite and crunched some brittle twigs under my
feet, which, in the silent night, echoed like machine gun fire. And
the amazing thing was, my retarded plan actually worked. The second
the mystery men heard me crunching around, they immediately took
off—not running or anything, just sort of nonchalantly moseying,
like they had every right to be lurking around a stranger’s
property in the middle of the night, like if anyone should dare
question them, they’d just flip the script and say, “Well,
you’re
out here too. What are
you
up to?” Case
closed.

I must admit, though, I was sort of sad to
see the would-be thieves go. Because while I’d been focused on
them, I’d completely forgotten about Mick. If only I could fall
into a vat of toxic waste and inherit some superpowers, maybe then
I could reverse the earth’s rotation and turn back time to fix
things between me and the man of my dreams—if that’s how you do it
anyway. I swear, even the superhero-me would probably turn out to
be a wretched loser. So on second thought, I’d better just skip the
toxic waste and pray for a miracle.

Five

DAY two at Wild Acres started with a bang.
Literally. Because one minute I was lost in a psychedelic disco
dream, and the next minute I was rocked awake by an explosion.

“What was that?!” I demanded at top volume,
struggling to yank my sneaker on as I hopped away from the tent on
one foot.

“Oh, that was nothing,” my mother said, way
too calm for my liking. “Your father just knocked a can of bug
spray into the fire, and it blew up.”

“That’s
something,
” I said. “A very
loud something.”

“Don’t walk over here,” my dad warned,
motioning toward the spot where the exploded goo had landed. “I
still have to clean this up.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t plan on it.”

Will was already scarfing down a bowl of
soggy Rice Krispies at the picnic table, so I sat down beside him
and poured some for myself. And even though I didn’t see it coming,
I’m sure what my evil brother did next was completely intentional.
He waited until I had a big mouthful of cereal, then let loose with
the following:

“So your boyfriend was here looking for you
last night.”

Of course, I started choking and gagging. And
as hard as I tried to force the cereal back down my throat, some of
it just wouldn’t go. The result: I ended up spewing about half a
mouthful of the semi-chewed stuff across the table in front of
me.

“What?!” I finally managed to say. “What do
you mean? Who was here?”

Will just smirked this know-it-all,
pain-in-the-ass, gotcha smirk, which caused me to reflexively punch
him in the arm.

“Hey! Knock it off!” he complained.

“Why? You deserve it,
asshole
.”

“Nice language.”

“Oh, and you’re a saint?” I said with an
exaggerated eye roll. “
Puh-lease
.”

“Well, at least I’m not conniving like you.
You think Mom and Dad are gonna let you go out with that guy who
came over here last night? You think they’re gonna let precious
little corruptible Flora get sucked in by the Trailer Park Kid? I
don’t think so,” Will said with such finality I almost stopped
breathing.

No matter what my parents thought, they had
no right to keep me from Mick.
No right
. It was
my
life and
my
decision.

I swallowed my pride. “Did Mom and Dad see
him? Did they talk to him?” I asked. I could hardly believe I’d
slept through something so pivotal, but at least Mick had come for
me. Maybe he didn’t hate me after all—unless, of course, my parents
had ruined things, which I was having a hard time getting out of
Will.

“Yeah, they saw him.”

“And…”

“And they told him you were sleeping.”

“That’s it? That’s all they said?”

“All they said to him.”

“What do you mean
all they said to
him?
Who else was there to say anything to?” I demanded, losing
my cool.

“It’s not what they said
to
him,” Will
continued. “It’s what they said
about
him. After he
left.”

“Cut the shit, Will. What happened?”

My brother broke out in another trademark
smirk. “Well, of course Mom and Dad were nice to his face. They
were polite, like they would’ve been to anyone. But when he was
gone, they got into a discussion about him and his family—you know,
because they saw them all camped out at the rest area. I guess that
whole scene made quite the impression on Mom and Dad. Anyway, Dad
said they looked like a band of gypsies. Then he told Mom a bunch
of stories about gypsies being cheats, liars, and thieves. He said
they were nothing but trouble. And Mom said he was way too old for
you anyway, so the gypsy thing didn’t even matter. There was no way
they were letting you anywhere near the guy.”

“But they don’t even know him,” I objected.
“He’s nice. He’s beautiful. He’s…”

Okay, so
I
didn’t even know Mick that
well yet. But I was going to. I was going to know every last gory
detail. The good. The bad. The ugly. Things he didn’t even know
about himself.

Will got up from the table as my father sat
down. “Morning, buttercup,” my dad said. “Sleep tight?”

“Fine and dandy,” I replied, wiggling off the
bench and making a break for my sleep pod. After all, now that my
parents were up to speed on Mick, I couldn’t afford to spend any
more time around them than absolutely necessary. The situation was
a fight waiting to happen.

Quickly, I shoved a change of clothes and a
towel into my beach bag. “I’m taking a shower,” I announced,
glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention.

For the umpteenth time, my father’s head was
buried in a road atlas, so he was oblivious. But my mother was
poised to confront me at the tiki torch. As I braced for an
argument over Mick, though, she hit me with a totally unexpected
plan of attack instead.

“A shower? That sounds great!” she effused.
“Hold on. I’ll go with you.”

“Huh?”

“I’m dying for a hot, steamy one,” she
claimed. “Just let me get my…”

Great. This was definitely not going to work.
I could not have the Mental Hygienist tagging along like my
BFF.

“I’m sick,” I blurted. “I don’t feel good.
Everyone should stay away from me.”

“What’s the matter? Do you have a fever?” my
mother asked, rushing to my side and clamping her palm over my
forehead. “No. No fever,” she decided after a few seconds of
monitoring me.

“It’s my stomach. I think I have the flu,” I
said, bending halfway over and clutching my guts. “I’ll probably be
in the bathroom for like two hours. Can you get me some Pepto?”

I could tell by the skeptical look on my
mother’s face that she didn’t believe me. But I also knew she’d
never go so far as to deny me medicine.

“Geez, Flora, I don’t think we brought any
Pepto. But I might have a roll of Tums in my purse. You could try
those.”

“Come on. I
need
the Pepto, Mom. I’m
sick,” I whined. Then I faked the beginning of a dry heave.

“Okay, okay,” she finally relented. “I’ll go
to the store. I’ll get some Pepto—if they have it. Do you want your
father to walk you to the bathroom? Vic, come here!” she yelled,
before I could respond. “Flora’s sick. I’m going for Pepto. Can you
walk her to the bathroom?”

“Ab-SO-lutely! I can,” my goofball father
shouted.

For a second, I thought about arguing that I
didn’t need a bathroom escort. But then I realized getting rid of
my dad would be a piece of cake once my mother was gone. Still,
without waiting for him to follow, I plowed full steam ahead. And
when he finally caught up to me a few campsites away, I pulled out
the big guns. I had to.

“I think I forgot my bra. Can you go back and
get it for me?” I asked innocently.

Nothing freaked my father out like female
undergarments or
that time of the month
. And yes, I realize
this was a cruel move, but I was desperate.

“Uh…um…” he stumbled. “We could turn around.”
He glanced longingly back at our tent.

“I can’t,” I whimpered. “My stomach. I’ve
gotta hurry.” I picked up my pace even further, forcing him into a
quick decision.

“All right,” he crumbled. “Where is it?”

“In my duffel. In the side pocket. But make
sure you get the pink one with the yellow polka dots, not the blue
one with the green stripes. The blue one’s too tight, and I’m
already sick.”

“Pink with yellow polka dots. Check. I’ll
meet you at the showers.”

Now I know I probably should have felt guilty
about sending my dad on a wild goose chase, since the pink
polka-dotted bra was still at home in my underwear drawer. But
honestly, I didn’t really feel that bad at all. I mean, sometimes a
girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right?

In case my father gave up on the elusive bra
hunt sooner than anticipated, though, I ditched my beach bag in the
bushes and ducked behind the expansive rows of tents. Because if I
remembered correctly, the RVs were at the back of the campground.
And that’s where I should be able to find the blue and silver
pickup that belonged to my sweet, sweet Mick.

I’d only passed about five unfamiliar
campsites when I recognized his rich, velvet voice. “Flora, hi.
Over here,” he called.

When I laid eyes on him again, my heart
literally skipped a beat. Because even though he’d been super sexy
yesterday in his cargo shorts and muscle-tight tee, today he was
drool-worthy. He had on these ragged jeans that were ripped in all
the right places—and not because he’d bought them that way at some
trendy store. He’d ripped them
doing
things.
Manly
things. They were so tattered, in fact, I could see a three-inch
patch of bare skin on his upper thigh through a well-placed hole.
Delicious.