Just Flirt (15 page)

I watch the taller boy’s biceps flex as he jumps to catch the ball. Okay, he’s hot. Very hot, and worthy of a pool trick or two. I could even try to convince flirtaphobic Natalie to go first. But instead of plotting, I lean my head back and close my eyes. Maybe she’s right—maybe last night wasn’t entirely my fault. But after this weekend, one thing is for sure.

My Superflirt days? They are super
over
.

The Superflirt Chronicles

… blogs from a teenage flirtologist

Thursday, June 24

R
AIN, RAIN, SUCKY RAIN

MOOD: Soggy

MUSIC: “Steal My Sunshine,” Len

Why did I choose this song? Because it’s got the cutest beat ever, and maybe I need a little sunshine after a long week of rain, rain, rain.

Rain + Campground = Dismal, dismal, dismal.

It doesn’t help that the unwanted guest I blogged about last Saturday has yet to hop on her broom and fly home. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there have been no flirt-worthy guys here all week. Well … except for some cute brothers, but Miss N and I threw those little fish back in the water. So, my lovely readers, I’ve decided to take a flirt break. Clear my head for a while. Take a breather. Chill. But don’t you dare assume that things are going to get boring here at the Chronicles. Allow me to announce something new: The Superflirt Book Club. Here is my first selection:

How to Win Friends & Influence People
by Dale Carnegie.

What, were you expecting some kind of bodice-ripping romance? Oh, please.

And, okay, the book is from the 1930s. But guess what Dale Carnegie says is a simple way to make a good first impression? To smile. Hello—Flirt Rule #1! And he believes that the secret of dealing with people is to give honest and sincere appreciation. Uh, Flirt Rule #3 anyone? So get yourself a copy—book discussions start in two weeks! Until then, here’s an update from our friend Meghan:

Hey, Superflirt, I just don’t think I’m cut out for all this flirting stuff. This one guy, Joe, did ask me out, but on the night of our date, both of my girls became horribly ill. It’s just as well—my place is at home with them. I do thank you though for trying. —Meghan9800.

Darling Meghan, your daughters were not ill. They were faking so you’d cancel your date and it worked. Bravo for them, they deserve an Oscar. But I don’t think you would have gone, regardless of their performance. Why? Because dating Joe might have made you happy and you don’t think you deserve to be happy. Well, guess what, Meghan. You do. So maybe it’s time for you to start living for yourself for a change.

As for everyone else, I feel that I should address the petty comments that have been posted recently, like these:

Seriously, the thought of someone as old as Meghan flirting is so gross! She’s like, what, forty? She should just die now and get it over with. —BridgetRocks.

Better watch what you say, sweetheart, because there will come a day when you turn forty and karma kicks your rocking butt for making such a cruel comment! —LovinMy40s.

Ladies,
ladies
, love and sisterhood means for
all
women, both young and old, remember? Come on, shouldn’t we support each other?

11
Dee

“What in the world?” Mom demands early Friday morning. We dodge a massive mud puddle and run up the lodge steps to where my grandmother is standing by the bulletin board. “Madeline, adult swim? Spelling bee?
Bridge tournament
, are you serious?”

“There you two are!” Madeline aims her dry-erase marker at the new schedule she wrote as though it’s the Sistine Chapel ceiling and she is Michelangelo. “Isn’t this wonderful? And I think it’s high time that bridge is re-introduced into society.”

“No, no it’s not!” Mom shakes her head, the thin streak of gray hair at her part seeming to grow wider by the second. “It’s our Kids’ Holiday Weekend, one of our most popular, and despite the weather, we’re nearly booked solid!”

The rain finally stopped last night, but everything is still a wet, dismal mess. The campground has been gloomy all week, making my flirt ban easy to follow with an empty pool, abandoned playground, and our permanent summer guests sequestered in their RVs. It got even worse when Madeline decided to extend her stay because we are apparently in desperate need of help. She straightens the bulletin board and steps back to survey her perfect penmanship. “Yes, Jane, but if you’re going to have a kids’ weekend, what’s more important for today’s youth than education?”

“Today’s youth will hate this,” I say. “And adult swims are stupid. Pools are always empty during them except for that one guy who’ll leisurely paddle around in his inner tube, watching the kids with a
ha ha, losers
look on his face.”

Madeline replies with a snippy
hmph
and heads for the store with us following behind. “The concept of adult swim is to force the kids to take a break and not exhaust themselves in the water. And the concept of studying over the summer might be of benefit to you, considering your last report card.”

Well, bite my butt.

I might get the occasional B, but it’s hardly anything to be criticized for. Besides, when did she see my report card? I find out after Madeline points at Mom’s once overflowing in-bin, which is now empty. “I made myself useful and did some filing, since the task has been ignored for quite some time. That’s where I found your report card, young lady. And, Jane, perhaps you need help with the bookkeeping? I noticed you paid your last insurance bill rather late.”

Wow. In one fell swoop, Madeline managed to tap into Mom’s fear of being a bad businesswoman—
and
a bad mother. Mom doesn’t reply, but when Madeline asks if we’d like to take flowers to my father’s grave, Mom looks out the window and whispers, “No, we mourn in our own way.”

I used to visit my dad every week to pull any weeds and to fill the vase with wildflowers picked from the mountains. But it didn’t feel right—the grave was too quiet and dismal, everything he wasn’t. Mom, however, didn’t stop going until about one month ago, and—

Wait.

Does it have something to do with her
not exactly
?

*   *   *

The next few days pass in a blur of chaos and commotion. Mom takes the marker from Madeline and returns the schedule to our Kids’ Holiday theme, with DJ Drake back on board, although his announcement that he’s soon moving to Denver to be near his grandchildren throws us for a loop. The sun comes out in full force by the afternoon, bringing with it a steady stream of campers, pop-up trailers, and trucks loaded with tents, bikes, and—of course—kids. A
lot
of kids. It reminds me of the scene in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
where all the children escape from Baron Bomburst’s prison and swarm the banquet hall. Madeline reminds me of the prissy Baroness Bomburst, but to her credit, she does help, although she grumbles about the candy Natalie hides for the flashlight treasure hunt, and she doesn’t give awards to the relay race winners until they correctly spell “victory.” Roxanne helps as well, just not with any kid-related activity after she yells at a child for throwing a water balloon at her. She takes care of the store mostly, but when I go in for hula hoops, I could swear I see her reading Natalie’s copy of
How to Win Friends & Influence People
before she hides it behind the counter.

Once Sunday night rolls around, everyone is exhausted. Jake vows to never give another hayride again, and after being bombarded by cannonballing kids while trying to take a quick dip, I decide that maybe adult swim isn’t a bad idea after all. By Monday, though, most of the weekend guests have left.

So now, my Tuesday afternoon plans include a bikini, a copy of
Glamour
magazine—love their Dos and Don’ts—and a lounge chair, seeing as how Natalie is spending the day with her grandmother to finalize their Disney plans. As I head to the pool, though, I consider stopping by Jake’s garage. Just to hang out or something … as long as Roxanne isn’t there. But while passing the playground, I see her on a swing, digging her bare feet in the sand and reading a graphic novel as the Cutsons run by with Dorito-stained lips and fingers. Lyle stops long enough to squat near a toddler who is sticking his sandy fingers in his mouth and yell, “Hey, don’t eat that, you stupid ding-dong! It causes cancer!”

“Sand doesn’t cause cancer, Lyle,” Ivy tells him as she falls in step beside me with a container of Tide and a full laundry bag.

I motion to the dirty sock poking out of the top. “Got a hot date with Mr. Maytag?”

“Mr. Grisham, actually,” Ivy says, motioning to another legal thriller tucked under her arm. “I took it from my therapist’s office today.”

“You stole a book from your shrink?”

Ivy grins and turns onto the sidewalk leading to the laundry room. “Borrowed, Dee, borrowed, although considering the hideous amount he charges for services that haven’t done me any good, he owes me more than a few—”

She stops.

A patrol car is creeping up the drive.

That’s odd. The sheriff often stops by at night to make sure no campers are out of line, but never at this time of day. Mom walks out of the store and watches him approach from the porch. The sheriff parks and steps out, wearing a wide-brim hat low on his forehead and dark sunglasses. He strides up to Mom with his gun bouncing on his hip. “Ma’am, you are Jane Barton, correct?”

“Of course, Wesley, you know I am.”

“I know, Jane, I’m just following procedure,” he says, handing her a large envelope before tapping his hat brim and walking back to the patrol car. She opens it and reads the first page as he drives away.

The blood drains from her face.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

She takes a shaky step back, and another, until she reaches the porch swing. She sits, tears gathering and her breath quickening as she continues to read. “Jane?” Ivy asks as we run to join her. “What is it, what are those papers about?”

When Mom composes herself enough to speak, her words come out in a whisper. “Dee, did you—did you—shove Sabrina Owens down the steps?”

“What? Why, what’s going on?”

She turns the papers around. Across the top is fancy script letterhead that reads “Wyatt, Hyatt & Smith.”

“Dee, Mona Owens is suing the campground for two million dollars.”

12
Dee

Ivy drops her laundry and takes the papers from Mom’s shaky hands. Her gray hair falls in her face as she reads them. “This is a summons and claim citing physical and emotional damage caused by,” Ivy pauses, long enough to give me a worried glance, “by Dee Barton and campground negligence.”

Physical and emotional damage. Caused by me.

Ivy shakes the papers in the air. “And it’s from the law firm of Wyatt, Hyatt and Smith, of all places. Those bastards!”

I sit, gripping the swing’s armrest so hard my knuckles turn white.
This is not happening. No, this has to be a joke, a cruel, twisted joke.
Mom stifles a sob with the same stunned expression she wore the day my father died. She doesn’t blink until Madeline strides around the corner and says, “What’s going on? I saw the sheriff ’s car.”

Ivy reluctantly hands her the papers. Madeline skims the first page with her lips pinched. “I knew it. I knew the moment that woman walked on this property she’d be nothing but trouble. You should never have hired her to begin with, Jane.”

“Do you
really
think I need to hear this right now, Madeline?”

She ignores Mom and turns her rage to me. “And according to this, the plaintiff’s boyfriend was lured to an upstairs room by you, Dee, and you became physically violent when confronted.”

“
What?
No! Ask Blaine, he’ll tell you what happened! He came into the store. We talked and I got mad, so I ran to the rec room. Blaine followed
me
, even though I told him not to, and when Sabrina came in later … she got upset and left, and she tripped when she ran down the stairs.”

Madeline frowns, as though I’m nothing but a frivolous, lying twit. She turns back to Mom. “Jane, you need to contact your lawyer right away. You do have a lawyer, don’t you?”

Mom wipes the tears from her face. “Of course I do. He helped me when John died. Carl Bedden.”

“Carl Bedden?” Madeline asks. “Do you mean
Judge
Bedden?”

Whatever thin slice of composure Mom was clinging to dissolves like a tissue in tepid water. “What? He’s a judge now? That’s right. I completely forgot! So that means … no, I don’t have a lawyer!”

Ivy takes Mom by the elbow and pulls her to her feet. “Let’s talk in the store. Roxanne! Come over here and stand guard in case any campers have an emergency. And later on, there’s a guided hike scheduled for three o’clock. I’ll need you to grab a map and take care of it.”