Just Flirt (20 page)

There is something I need to find out as well.

How Natalie could do this.

I get my chance when she breezes into the recreation room later that night, just as I am loading a
Schoolhouse Rock
movie into the DVD player for the row of kids sitting on the sofa. “Get this, Dee, my brother just called, and apparently he wants this girl he met in Ocean City to come to Disney with us!”

For hours, I’ve been rehearsing what to say to Natalie, but now that I see her face—one that I’ve always gone to for guidance and for comfort—my words disappear. She picks up the movie case and puts it back on the shelf while saying, “Seriously? After all the planning my grandmother and I have done, he thinks he can just spring this on us six weeks before the trip? Unbelievable! It will completely screw up my ADRs!”

The DVD whirls. I hit the play button and stand, not yet trusting myself to speak.

“Dee? What’s wrong?”

It’s impossible to talk. I walk outside and grip the deck railing, hearing laughter and the sound of Butch and the Boys playing James Brown’s “Living in America” with a bluegrass flair. Natalie steps up beside me and yanks twice on my shirtsleeve. “Hey, did something happen at today’s meeting?”

I turn to face her.

“The Superflirt Chronicles? How could you, Natalie?”

She drops her hand.

“Dee, no—please, let me explain.”

“Explain! What’s there to explain, Natalie? For
ten months
you’ve been posting things I thought were just between you and me. Is that all I am, good blog material? Is that why you always dared me to flirt, because I’m some journalism project?”

Tears brim in her eyes. “Dee, that’s not true! And I kept the blog anonymous. No one was supposed to know!”

“Oh, and that makes it okay? Roxanne knew about it.
Sabrina
knew about it—that’s why she said I lured Blaine up here, because of what you posted about that night, how I did it for revenge.”

And maybe she was right. Wasn’t that why I was dancing with Jake?

“Dee,” Natalie chokes out. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I started it for fun, you know, and I had no idea it would turn into something so big. But I swear, I’ll delete everything. I’ll post another entry telling people that it was all a lie, a big stupid lie.”

Even though it wasn’t.

“Natalie, don’t you understand? The damage is already done, and Ivy said that if you take the blog down now, it will only make us look
more
guilty,” I cry, tears now streaming down my face as well. “But what I don’t understand the most is why you didn’t tell me about it. Why keep it a secret from me? From
me
?”

Natalie presses her lips together and looks down at the grassy common area where two preteen girls are practicing a cheerleading routine. It’s not until Butch finishes his song that she says, “Because … it was my chance to be Superflirt. My chance to be
you
, the star of the show, the pretty girl everyone notices.”

I step back, my mind reeling. “What are you talking about? I’m not the star. At least I never try to be. If anything, I’m always trying to get
you
to flirt and—”

“—And I always chicken out,” Natalie interrupts, with a deep self-loathing. “And I know you don’t realize it or do it deliberately, but come on, Dee,” she says, first pointing to my chest and then her own, “you’re the star and I’m the sidekick and you know it. So this blog was my chance to shine, because in the real world, it’s not easy for most girls. We can’t all be perfect like you.”

A jolt runs through my body, like someone kicked me into an electric fence. Isn’t that what Roxanne said to me in the auto store, that I was
just perfect
? It was clear that Roxanne didn’t mean it as a compliment.

And I don’t think Natalie does either.

“What’s that supposed to mean, that I’m some horrible show-off ? That I think I’m special? Because you of all people should know I don’t.”

Natalie shakes her head. “Of course you don’t, Dee, you never intentionally show off.”

“So, what, I
un
intentionally show off ?”

Natalie holds a hand against her forehead and paces the length of the small deck. “No! I didn’t mean—
God
, I’m saying everything wrong!” She stops and stares at a nearby aspen tree just as a strong breeze ruffles the green and silver leaves, causing them to twist and quiver in a frenzied dance. “Dee, it’s just that … You don’t understand. Everything comes so easy for you. Your looks, your figure, your hair. The way you can talk to anybody, the clothes you wear. It’s like you’re a magnet when you walk into the room.”

I cannot believe my ears.

“But, Natalie, you pick out half of my clothes! You encourage me to flirt!”

“I know, I know!” Natalie exclaims. “And that’s why we’re such wonderful friends, because if I didn’t know you, I’d completely hate you.”

Oh my gosh.

There it is, the cold, hard truth.

If I didn’t know you, I would hate you.
That’s what I would expect girls like Roxanne or Sabrina to say to me, but Natalie? No, that can only mean one thing. I am a show-off. I wasn’t being paranoid, all those times I worried about talking too much or laughing too hard or acting like a total jerk. Jake was only being nice earlier today, trying to make me feel better, but the harsh reality is that while I might have been a flirt, I was never,
ever
super.

16
Sabrina

Dear Blaine,

I had a wonderful time last night at Prescott’s party,
even though you spent more time playing poker than being with me, and I really don’t think I brought bad luck by standing behind you.
I know you’re busy practicing for the golf tournament, but I thought it would be fun if we got together tomorrow for the Clint Eastwood marathon on TV,
which you would know about if you bothered to read any of my texts.
So give me a call—or text, e-mail, whatever—
because I feel like I am losing you and that would break my heart.

“What are you reading, Sabrina?”

I jump at the sound of Bridget’s voice and nearly fall off my chair when she throws open one of Macy’s dressing room doors and almost catches me trying to write a letter to Blaine. “Oh, nothing,” I lie, “just, um, something from my dad.”

“Aw, how sweet!” Bridget says, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “My father never sends me anything.”

Neither does mine, come to think about it
. Even his Christmas cards are signed by Belinda. I shove the letter deep into my purse, in case Bridget asks to read it, but she has already moved on to a more interesting topic. Herself. “What do you think of this?” she asks, while posing in a size one dress.

Another stall door opens and an overweight woman steps out with an armful of clothes that don’t fit, judging from the way she hangs them on the return rack and then frowns at her reflection. Bridget winks at me. “Do I look fat in this?” she asks, with her back arched and hips thrust forward. The woman slows her pace long enough to study Bridget’s tiny frame with a deep sadness in her eyes. Bridget giggles when she leaves. “Oopsie! I totally didn’t mean to say that so loud!”

Right. She knows perfectly well what she’s doing. Just like I’ve always known when I was being mean for fun.

How many people have I hurt like that?

“You know, in London, they don’t have separate stalls in the dressing rooms,” Torrance says, as she comes out wearing a black halter dress cut to her navel. She gazes at Bridget from head to toe. “Hmm, are you sure you don’t need a bigger size?”

Bridget’s smugness disappears. She anxiously checks her reflection.
Nice, Torrance, give her an eating disorder, why don’t you,
I want to say. But these girls are like wolves. They’ll attack at the slightest trace of blood or weakness, and right now I can’t afford to be on their bad side. I didn’t even want to come along for their Sunday afternoon shopping ritual, not after my neighbor, Mrs. Mason, gave me a ton of curtains to sell on craigslist for a thirty percent commission. But it’s almost senior year and I have no intention of spending it as an outsider, not after I’ve worked so hard to be on the inside. So I reach into my purse and crumple the letter to Blaine that I’ve been trying to compose for days. There’s
no way
I can send him this, even though he’s driving me completely insane and—

Desperate.

Like Dee was when they broke up.

Now I understand why she wrote that letter.

“Sabrina,” Torrance coos. “When your mother wins the lawsuit, you really should go to London. The crown jewels are spectacular!”

“Yeah, that would be awesome,” I say with fake enthusiasm. Torrance doesn’t know Mom’s lawyers have scheduled another meeting for next week where they plan on asking for a sixty-thousand-dollar settlement instead of going to trial. Because of Blaine’s statement and Dee’s blog, they are optimistic about getting at least twenty-five thousand, once negotiations are done, but that’s still a lot of money. Dee’s mother drives a beat-up truck, and Dee doesn’t even have a car. How are they going to afford a settlement?

Stop.
Since when do I care about her?

Twenty-five thousand dollars won’t break them, and besides, I read her blog. And Dee did stalk Blaine, both last September and at the campground. Still. At the party last night, I saw Bridget duck into a pantry with Prescott—and I doubt it was for cookies. His girlfriend, Vanessa, would be livid if she found out, but would that justify filing a lawsuit?

“Sabrina, what’s wrong with you? You haven’t answered me,” Torrance says, checking the tag on her dress and not balking at the beefy price. “Are you hanging out at my house for tonight’s Fourth of July party or not? Blaine will be there, unless, of course, the fireworks between you two are gone for good.”

That’s cold. Even for Torrance.

From the way Bridget’s eyes gleam, I suspect she must be planning on sneaking off with Prescott again tonight.
These girls are my friends?
I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure friends aren’t supposed to make snide remarks about the guy who’s breaking your heart, or sneak around with another girl’s boyfriend. And what did Dee say on her blog about relationships? How they’re supposed to make you feel good and not bad?

“What’s wrong, Sabrina?” Torrance asks. “You’re not mad at us for teasing you about the book we found in your room, are you?”

Bridget clutches her hands to her chest. “Oh, yeah,
How to Win Friends & Influence People
, how stupid!”

Why didn’t I have the good sense to hide that book Dee mentioned on her blog? And better yet, why can’t I stop reading that ridiculous Web site? Now the wolves are about to attack, so I have to regain my footing. Quick. Knowing that Vanessa is capable of making Bridget’s life miserable, I say, “Oh, really, Bridget, as stupid as, say, hanging out in a pantry during a perfectly good party?”

The color slowly drains from her face as the realization that I know what she did sinks in. She swallows hard and glances at Torrance. “Ah, actually, Sabrina, the book sounds cool. Can I borrow it when you’re done?”

“Sure,” I say sweetly.

*   *   *

After Torrance drops me off at home, the only thing on my agenda is crawling into bed for a nap, but when I walk into my room, I hear sounds of shuffling inside my closet. Fabulous. My darling mother is once again raiding my clothes, trying to find something skintight to wear.

“Sabrina, is that you?” Mom asks.

“Who else, Mother? And don’t even think of wearing my new pink sweater set. It will never fit me after your monster boobs have been in it.”

Mom steps out. Instead of her usual video vixen attire, she’s wearing a conservative black pencil skirt, a simple blouse that hides her swelling cleavage, and minuscule diamond studs instead of bangle-sized hoops.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Surely I’m in the twilight zone.

“Sweetie! There you are,” Mom says, her lips now a modest shade of mauve instead of fiery red, and her nails—her trademark nails—painted a pale pink, with no designs, no sparkles, nothing fancy, nothing
Mona
.

As she pushes my leather belt through the skirt loops, it hits me, the reason she’s dressed like this.
Of course.
“Are you meeting with the lawyers? Another photo session for the papers?”

Mom looks into the mirror, smoothing a stray hair back in place. She gives me a demure smile. “No, sweetheart, I have another date tonight. And is it okay that I borrowed your belt? I don’t have any that are quite right.”

Oh, no. I recognize that spark in her eye, the one that means she has fallen hard for a new guy—probably the one she’s seen every night since she got those flowers last week. But she has never,
ever
changed her appearance. Not Mona Owens, who doesn’t give a rat’s behind about the unofficial
no miniskirts over thirty-five
rule. And since when has Mom ever asked permission to borrow my belt? Normally she just swipes whatever she wants and then
la, la, la
, goes about her merry way.

This is strange. More than strange.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say.

“Thanks, toots. Well, how do I look?” Mom asks, turning away from the mirror and waiting for my response. There is something about her, something so different from her usual devil-may-care attitude. Insecurity?

“Um, you look nice, Mom. Really nice.”

She breathes out deep with relief and then encases me in a huge hug. “Thanks, sweetie. Now for heaven’s sakes, I gotta get going before I’m late!”

I follow her to the foyer, where she grabs a small leather clutch instead of her favorite purse. Another bouquet of tiger lilies is sitting on the entry table. “More flowers, are they from the same guy? And why are you being so coy about who he is?”

Mom grips the doorknob, pausing long enough to nervously say, “I’ll tell you later, sweetie, I promise, once things are … once I’m sure, okay?”