Swoon at Your Own Risk (3 page)

Mom rolls her eyes. "Standard uniform."

"Wait, Mom. What about Grace? With my work schedule and yours she's going to be home alone." Unless I quit my job and stay home, learning about the evils of love by watching soap operas and talk show repeats all summer. "I could always, you know, take one for the team and stay home with her."

"Oh!" Mom clapped her hands. "I completely forgot. Good news. You get to keep your summer job in the sun, and I can hustle my hiney at Hamburger Heaven because"—Mom makes a drumroll sound on the counter—"our very own favorite advice columnist is coming to stay with us for ... a while."

Grace drops the phone and jumps around the room. "Grandma's coming! Grandma's coming! Omigosh. What kinds of presents will she bring this time? I hope she brings me the new..." Grace lists must-have critters from her Internet-based stuffed animal obsession.

I watch Mom's face. "Grandma?"

"She called about needing a place to plop while her condo is renovated. And she's working on a new book. So I offered her your room and—"

"Not my room!" How can I find the positivity in that? With all the stuffed animals invading Grace's bunk bed, I might end up sleeping on the couch. Well, I did just vacuum the sofa cushions.

"Your room's bigger, so she can use it as an office of sorts, to write her column and work on her book."

Grace bounces across the sofa cushions. In her shoes. But I'm
not
going to think about the billions of bacteria clinging to her feet. "Yay! Grandma!"

"I guess it will be good."

"Good? It's going to be grrrrreat!" Mom lifts her fist in the air like that cartoon tiger in the cereal commercial. She really does spend too much time with ten-year-olds. Maybe having Grandma around espousing her sensible advice will help Mom get back on track. Me, too.

And soon we're all jumping around the living room imitating that obnoxious tiger.

Dear Miss Swoon:
We finally got the kids out of the house, but now my mother-in-law wants to move in. She has the means to purchase a home of her own, but she says she's afraid of living alone at her age. How do I convince my wife that we need a little empty-nest time of our own?
—Too Many Birds In The Nest

Dear Nest:
Don't push Grandma out of the nest! Life flies by. When Grandma's gone, you will have your love-nest back. And you might just miss the old bird!
—Miss Swoon

We're spread out across the O.K. Corral practicing lifeguard techniques. An hour before work. An
unpaid
hour before work. But I'm emphasizing the positivity: my little incident is helping the entire staff, because now we're all required to take extra training. It might save lives. I'm
not
hearing the snide comments about drowning Pollywogs. I'm also going to forget Sonnet Silverman's blog post about Sawyer putting his hands all over my butt—she completely left out the near-drowning aspect of the situation. Six people e-mailed me last night to congratulate me on "getting back together." I only knew one of them.

The EMT instructor yawns, looking as thrilled to be here as everyone else. "Okay, partner up."

Several guys make a move toward Sonnet because that curvy little gossip rarely worries about pulling up her swimsuit.

"Looking forward to a little mouth-to-mouth action?" Sonnet asks me. "Maybe reignite your lost love?"

"Yeah, because resuscitation is so romantic."

Sonnet waggles her eyebrows. "It's all about who you're with, right?"

I giggle at the look on her face when she finds herself paired with a completely unblog-worthy sophomore. "Exactly."

She flips me off.

The other girls, including dance team diva Kipper Carlyle, head over to Aaron, the older lifeguard. Yeah, he might look exactly like an underwear mode
if
you were the kind of person who noticed that kind of thing. That leaves me standing next to Sawyer.

Sonnet says, "So, mouth-to-mouth can lead to making out, right?" Her partner blushes the color of a Wild Waves bandana. "I'm just asking, because Polly and—"

"Ahem." The EMT clears his throat and points to Sawyer and me. "We'll use you two as an example." I lie on the grass, pretending to have nearly drowned. Sawyer leans over me, shaking my shoulders with big warm hands. But so what? I have hands. Everyone has hands. Except that guy in that horror movie ... I'm envisioning the movie's bloodiest scene,
not
the way Sawyer's looking at me like he still cares, his green eyes
wide and concerned. So what? I have eyes. Everyone has eyes. Except for those blind cave fish. Sawyer leans toward me, lips slightly parted. Lips = making out.
No!
I sit up, completely revived. "Thank you for saving me. That was great." I ignore
those
kinds of feelings now pulsing through my body.

"Uh-uh," the instructor says, frowning. "You've got to start chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth."

Sawyer stares at me, mouth gaping—unattractively, I might add. I pull my knees to my chest. "No need. Look." I take a few deep breaths. "Breathing just fine." I jump to my feet. "Next victim."

One of the girls who missed out on Aaron runs over. "I'll do it."

"He's all yours. I mean, it's all yours." I slink to the back of the group, partnering with a kid who's always quoting
Star Wars
and could be an acne cream model. No temptation there.

I spend the rest of the training session mentally focusing on the positivity about saving lives, learning new skills, and, you know, giving my partner the opportunity to touch a girl who isn't a relative. When Sawyer gives us the daily assignments, I get garbage duty.

"We're going to keep you out of the water for another day." Sawyer talks to his clipboard, and that's fine with me. Really.
Let's keep this ex-ex-ex relationship strictly professional. And keep his green eyes and full lips out of it, too.

"Great!" I say with forced enthusiasm. "I'll get those litterbugs."

By my afternoon break I've touched more used drinking straws than the health department should allow. But at least the babies crawling around on the grass won't choke on them now. Still, I'm fantasizing about dipping my whole body in a vat of liquid hand-sanitizer. Not a bad fantasy, really. It's totally clean. (Get it?)

I keep my eyes on the ground, weaving between beach-towel encampments and clusters of women sitting in foldup chairs bragging about their kids between shouting reprimands to those same amazingly talented little prodigies. And even though, after working here for three days, I've pretty much decided never to reproduce, I am glad that Wild Waves caters to the elementary school crowd. No one I know would come here unless forced to attend a family reunion or company picnic. I'm almost content in a finding-inner-peace sort of way, stabbing plastic sandwich bags, hamburger wrappers, paper napkins ... I enjoy the crunchy sound the metal post makes as it slices through paper. Stab, stab, stab.
I'm cleaning up a gold mine o' litter, pardner.

But then, just as I'm bending in a totally cleavage-exposing way to pick up a cluster of squashed grapes, I see Xander Cooper. Sitting on a beach towel. Biting his lip to trap the smile that completely shows in his eyes. Brown eyes that are several shades darker than his kinkyish, curlyish, sun-streaked hair.

What is
he
doing here? He flashes his eyebrows up at me before leaning—hair flopping over to cover his face but not his huge smile—to write something in a little black notebook.

Quickly I turn around and stab more and more litter, pretending the laughter I hear is coming from a bunch of scabby fourth-grade boys, not tall, lean, mocha-colored Xander Cooper. When did he start looking so—struggling for vocabulary here—hot? Why am I suddenly
feeling
so, um, hot? The guy lives up the street from me. I've known him since he routinely licked Kool-Aid powder off his desk in third grade, stuffed his chubby body into Spider-Man sweatpants, and hummed during silent reading time. He's such a geek—a hot (come on, brain!), sexy geek.

"Hey!" a lady yells as I pick up a few french fry cartons. "We weren't done with those! Do you know what those cost me?"

I ignore the angry lady, even though she's still ranting about concession prices. I turn back toward Xander Cooper. Did he see that? Hear that? He's occupied with blowing up a floaty. A
little girl hops around jangling, as gobs of beaded braids brush her dark shoulders; a little boy stares at me through his swim goggles. I'm all confused. What's with the kids? But then I remember Xander has an older sister. He's an uncle.

"Deputy Polly?" The woman's voice sounds really—how do you say it?—sarcastic.

I finally look at her angry red face; her hair has dried funny, giving her an almost rabid demeanor. "Here," I say, handing her the five-dollar bill I'd gotten as change during lunch. "Buy more fries."

"It's the principle of the thing," she huffs, taking my money.

I decide to clean up the other side of the good old O.K. Corral, steering clear of Xander. Just real quick, I glance over at him. He's holding that little notebook again, but now he's watching a baby giggle as a woman blows soap bubbles. Oh, to be so easily charmed. I'm talking about the baby,
not
the guy and certainly not me.

I tug the front of my suit up, my shorts down. Maybe if I were a deeper thinker, I'd be able to come up with a simple biological explanation for why someone like Xander Cooper would send my body chemistry into such a frenzy. I did read somewhere that biracial faces are more symmetrical or something. As I look over at Sonnet patrolling the Lazy River, I see that I'm not the only one noticing his hotter than hot (please, brain cells) presence. She's most definitely not concerned about the state of her swimsuit. So what? He's just a human being. A regular person with flaws, even if they aren't visible to the, you know, human eye.

After my shift I walk over to the employee locker room. Someone's phone rings, playing an intensely grating tween pop song. It's mine. How many times have I told Grace not to mess with my phone? Ignoring the dirty looks I'm getting from fellow employees (what else is new?), I fumble with my locker combination and dig around for my phone. It's Jane.

"So, hey. I noticed you called me yesterday?" She sounds way more confused than a best friend should. "Is something wrong?"

"No, of course not." I grab my tote bag and exit the locker room without changing into regular clothes. Too many ears listening. Too much Sonnet Silverman hoping to score another blog entry. "What? Do I only call you when I'm having a crisis?" I laugh,
not
thinking about my teary post-Gareth, he-doesn't-think-I-appreciate-nature-enough phone call. Or my post-Hayden, so-what-if-I-don't-have-an-opinion-on-school-vouchers phone call.

Jane's quiet for a few moments, as if she's also listening to my thoughts. "Um, well, lately? Yeah."

I feign a laugh as I cross the parking lot to my car. "Well, the new me is all about you! I was just calling to see what you were up to, because, you know, it's Friday. The first—well, I guess the second Friday of, you know, summer vacation. And—"

"You called on Thursday morning."

"Oh yeah. Well, I was still thinking—"

"Don't you work on Thursdays?"

I click my doors open. "Had the day off." I slide into my sauna of a car, thighs burning on the leather seats. "So, you know..."

Jane barrages me with questions. Did you get fired? No. Did you quit? I wish. Was there an incident? Sort of. Sawyer? Sort of. Are you over him? Yes. Is he over you? Big yes.

Jane sighs. "Well, what happened?"

As I drive home, I tell her the short version of the incident, the one that makes me look heroic and worthy of her friendship. "But I really did call because I wanted to hang out with you."

"You're not crushing on some debate team guy, are you?"

"No! Why do you always think it's about that?"

"Hayden."

"But that was, like, weeks ago."

"Three weeks ago."

"Well, in dog years that's practically eighth grade."

Jane laughs. "A group of us
is
getting together tonight."

"Oh, great. Debate team people?"

"Polly! You said—"

"Joking."

"Actually, yearbook staff."

I mentally go over the yearbook staff, visualizing the group photo.
Crazy, red-haired dude. Nope. Math class guy. Nope. Lurking photographer. Nope
. "Sounds great. And hey, Jane. Just for the record, I've sworn off guys. For good."

Jane guffaws—in an entirely unfeminine manner, I might add. I try to do all the traditional see-you-later, good-bye stuff, but she's laughing so hard she can't breathe. I tell myself she's watching something funny on TV. It's
not
about me.

Dear Miss Swoon:
Why are girls always attracted to the jerks who don't treat them right?
—Not A Bad Boy

Dear Not:
Rebels = fun!
—Miss Swoon
Toothless grin, a chubby hand, reaches for the ethereal. The temporary. A soapy bubble bursts in her hand. A quick frown pops her smile. But with each new bubble the baby giggles again and again
.
—
X.C.

Y
es
, I think as we sit in Rowdy Cox's basement with a bunch of people from the yearbook staff.
This is why my friendship with Jane is so good for me.

Several of us sit squished together on a plaid 1980s sectional that smells like it's stuffed with wet dog hair, watching the second installment of
The Lord of the Rings
trilogy. I'm completely bored, but I'm bonding with Jane; our flesh practically melds as I sit crushed between her and a dweeby freshman kid who keeps moving his leg away from mine like I've got cooties or something. Cooties = good. I've got to find my inner cootie catcher again, maybe return to a more third-grade view of romance. Boys = yucky. (Think Xander Cooper licking grape Kool-Aid powder off his desk.) We're all taking big handfuls of stale popcorn out of a bag the size of a five-yearold. And it's probably about that old. I hold a handful of stale kernels in my hand, not wanting to, you know, ingest them. A few of the guys take sips from
one
shared beer. There's no way I'm going to get myself into trouble here.