Swoon at Your Own Risk (2 page)

"My baby!" the mom shrieks. "He can't swim!" She struggles to get out of the tube. Not a pretty sight. Her butt is so stuck. I dive under and swim, getting there in time to pluck the kid out of the water. Gagging, the kid grips on to me, climbing me like a ladder. Legs clutching my torso. Arms grabbing my neck.

Sawyer stands on the side of the pool screaming instructions. "Get him out of the water fight!" He blows his whistle.

The kids splash some more. I trudge through the mess. The kid bawls, sputtering a nasty mixture of snot and regurgitated pool water onto my shoulder. His hand claws at my hair, pulling painfully. I can barely see with the kid climbing all over me, so I don't notice that I'm heading toward the drop-off below the Coyote Cliff jumping ledge.

Holding the sobbing kid, I plunge ten feet deep. Next thing I know, Sawyer leaps into the water, yanking me upward, practically bisecting me with my own swimsuit. We break the surface, and Sawyer tries to take the kid. But he won't let go. So
Sawyer pushes me—both of his hands on my butt—over the side. I sit on the hot pavement, gasping for breath. The kid has swallowed so much water, he vomits all over me. It's warm. Apparently he ate scrambled eggs for breakfast.

Sawyer pats the kid on the back, cooing, "You okay, little buddy?"

The mom waddles over, hugs the kid so tight he quits crying, but now
she's
sobbing. A small crowd gathers around us.

Sonnet Silverman saunters over. "Damn. I need a waterproof video camera. Words aren't going to be enough to describe this. Polly Martin wearing her swimsuit thong-style while her ex's hands—"

"Please don't make
me
hurl." I brush a gooey glob off my arm, grimacing at the sour stench.

Sonnet giggles. "I already love working with you."

Dear Miss Swoon:
Help! I dated a coworker. Then we broke up. Should I look for another job? I'm not sure I can maintain a professional relationship with this person. But the job market is tight.
—Working With X

Dear Working:
No need to hit the highway. Take the high road and move on. Next time yield when it comes to dating in the workplace.
—Miss Swoon

Not Shakespeare's Sonnet!
Blond count: a depressing 0
EX-change of Information:
Polly Martin (see
Polly-Wants-A-Beer
here) dove into the deep end at Wild Waves, leaving
her
deep end exposed, if ya know what I mean. Sadly, no image available—use the old imagination, folks. Polly's curvy, but she stays in shape. Anyway, our Miss Martin managed to snag the attention of a certain jocky blond from her past (see
Random Locker Room Fantasies
here). Let's just say the guy had his hands
all over
her deep end. I sense a rematch, Polly! Next time ditch the Eau de Spew in favor of a more sporty citrus scent.

A sound like a zipper opening the pavement on our street wakes me. I blink into the sunlight brightening my room, angry with myself for not sleeping in while I have the chance. Part of me almost jumps out of bed to look out the window but I don't. I'm sure it's just some neighbor's newfangled hybrid, and I'm so over anything remotely automotive since breaking up with Kurt. I haven't even changed the oil in my car since our breakup. It's a matter of principle. Besides, that little red check-engine light reminds me—like a stoplight—to avoid the male half of the species.

Thanks to the Lazy River incident, I have the day off. My boss wanted to fire me for not "maintaining proper control," but Sawyer talked him out of it. He even used his sweet-talking ways to remind the angry pregnant woman that I'd actually
saved
her kid's life. That and three years' worth of season passes convinced her not to call a lawyer.

I would have rather been fired, even though I totally need the money for little things like, um, college tuition. Now I'm going to owe Sawyer a big debt of gratitude. I never should have dated a coworker. Grandma is always telling people that in her columns; it's so basic. But back when snow fell practically every day and I wanted to spend every single second with Sawyer and I knew we'd be together forever—yeah, whatever—applying for the same summer job sounded amazing.

I plop my pillow on top of my face. Oh God. Now he's calling me Pollywog, a name that conjures up the image of a metamorphosizing amphibian that eventually sprouts warts and puffs out its throat when it talks. Disgusting!

I'm inventing terrible nicknames for him—Chain Sawyer Massacre, Saw-Yer-Coming so I left—when my ten-year-old sister, Grace, bursts into the room, flapping the newspaper's Style section in my face.

"They left Grandma out of the paper!" She plops her little prepubertal butt on my bed. "I searched every single section. No Miss Swoon! We've got to call the paper and make them fix it."

"Why aren't you bugging Mom with this?" I make a big
deal of rolling over, crushing my pillow over my head. "Leave me alone."

Grace tugs on my shoulder. "Mom left for her job interview."

I bolt up. "Job interview? I thought she was joking."

Grace shakes her head, looking solemn. "Nope, she even wore her silky parent-teacher conference shirt. It's the real deal."

Last night Mom had said something about applying to be a server at Hamburger Heaven, but I thought she'd just been saying it to torture me. Like I hadn't had a bad enough day anyway. But Mom likes to joke people out of a bad mood. It's the hazard of teaching ten-year-olds. (Let's just say she uses the word
Uranus
much too often.)
Everyone
in town eats at Hamburger Heaven. Sure I'd seen more unopened bills lying around, but Mom isn't exactly—what do you call it? Organized. I assumed she'd spend her summer vacation taking teacher classes at the university, volunteering at the library, maybe tutoring a bit, and acting like, you know, a grownup. Kids from
school
get jobs at Hamburger Heaven.

Grace flaps the paper at me again. "What about Grandma? We have to call."

I grab the newspaper out of Grace's hand. Sure enough, in the place right above the horoscopes (which are completely
unscientific and give people false illusions about finding love), there's an advice column. Not Miss Swoon but the Sassy Sage. I quickly scan the first letter about a desperate woman trying to attract a coworker. The Sassy Sage tells her to start wearing shorter skirts to work. This
is
an outrage. No one should date a coworker; you break up (because no relationship lasts) and they end up shoving your butt out of the pool, watching kids vomit on you, and calling you embarrassing nicknames.

I jump out of bed, clutching the paper, and immediately search for the phone. I finally find it stuck between the sofa cushions covered with crumbs. I dial the Style editor. An angry diatribe runs through my head: how dare you allow an irresponsible fool to proffer advice to idiotic love-obsessed women, et cetera, et cetera. But when a person actually answers the phone, it goes more like this: "Um, what happened to Miss Swoon?" "Oh, okay. Thank you."

"Ugh!" I toss the phone down. "I can't believe I actually said thank you!"

Grace's eyes go wide. "What happened?"

"On Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, Grandma will be replaced by a 'hip and edgy, younger syndicated columnist' due to 'decreased reader relatability.'"

"But Grandma is so good!"

"I know! What's the deal? People only need solid advice on the weekends and Tuesdays?"

I shred the rest of the paper into pieces fit for a hamster cage. At least that's what Grace says as she gathers them to save for her best friend, Amy. The pair of them are like Siamese twins with different addresses. But I've overheard them plotting to ask to be adopted by each other's families—that is if their fantasy of being shipwrecked on a tropical island where they become twin queens doesn't pan out. Thinking about their happy little friendship reminds me that I haven't called my supposedly best friend, Jane, since school got out. Not that she's called me, either. Not since I ignored her during my all-too-recent and brief relationship with Hayden Steele (after I'd ditched her for that hiking adventure with Gareth). Things aren't too copacetic between Jane and me. But that can all change now that I'm standing on the side of the dating pool. Like Miss Swoon says, "Boyfriends come and go. Girlfriends are forever."

I dial Jane's cell but hang up when I realize that it's only eight o'clock in the morning and she's probably sleeping because her summer enrichment classes don't start until next week. I look around at the mess in the living room.

"How can Mom leave the house looking like this?" Crusty
dishes clutter the coffee table, along with stacks of school papers, newspapers, magazines, and, of course, bills. Grace's backpack has been in the middle of floor since the last day of school. "Oh God, my student council petition. Ugh!" I crumple the page of signatures.

"But I thought you were excited about planning dances and stuff." Grace twirls around the living room. "You said it would be so romantic."

"Only because I was tricked by my hormones."

Grace wrinkles her forehead. "But you said you were going to buy a purple dress."

I shrug. "Things change. Boys suck. And I will not be attending a prom during the Holocene Epoch."

"What?"

"It's a geology term."

"Well." She holds up a catalog for me to see. "I think you should get a blue dress."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, Grace."

"To match your eyes."

I dated Hayden during election season, unfortunately, and got talked—maybe kissed—into running for the student council. (I didn't expect to win!) Now I'll be stuck spending every Friday lunch planning the prom. Hayden didn't think I was
deep enough, either, except he called it "not committed to a cause." His cause includes banning books from schools due to "negative content." I was a little too fixated on his dark hair and the way he always used SAT words correctly (so unlike Saw-Me-In-Half).

"How am I going to figure out my life if I live in a junk heap of my past?" I grab the catalog and sweep it into the pile of discarded school papers. "Grace, we're cleaning the house."

She tilts her head skeptically but then, dragging her backpack, runs off to organize her stuffed animals. I tune the radio to a country music station, since I've never dated anyone who indulged in that particular genre. I don't really like the twangy sound, but at least it doesn't bring up any bad memories. Besides, those gals are totally right about men done gone and leaving you high and dry and stuff. I'm singing along, making up my own lyrics, and collecting stacks of recycling. I open the mail, putting the bills aside for Mom.

Way too many of them have ugly red Past Due notices stamped on them. Why can't she get her act together? How difficult is it to sort through a few envelopes, sit down with a calculator, and pay the bills like an adult? This is the woman who goes ballistic if the first letter of the alphabet shows up on my report card with a minus sign attached. Mom flunks Housekeeping 101, that's for sure!

I notice an envelope with Dad's handwriting. It's the only one that's already been opened. I peek inside hoping for a note, but it's empty. He used to hand deliver the child support checks when he came to drive me to my dance lessons. Now he mails them. No note. And he never drives Grace anywhere. Too busy, he says. He bought me a car at the start of junior year so I could "help out." It should've made me happy; everyone wants a car, right? Except it felt more like he was buying me off. He can ignore me guilt-free; we now have an e-mail relationship based on forwarded articles from the
New York Times.

Cleaning feels good, as if vacuuming the floor has sucked all the negative thoughts out of my mind. By the time Mom walks through the door around lunchtime, our cozy little abode looks like we're expecting company. I'm lounging on the de-crumbed sofa reading my autographed copy of
Miss Swoon's Best Columns, Volume 3.
I giggle over her advice to "ditch the dogs," "abandon the bums," and "leave 'em on the front porch like a pair of worn-out loafers." I love how she tells Jilted Jill to "emphasize the positivity." Yeah, I should focus on
my
good qualities, not Sawyer Later Alligator's various possibly appealing traits. Green eyes = so what?

Mom comes in with Hamburger Heaven To Go bags. "Good news!" She sets the bags on the counter, and I smell cheese fries.
"Meet your new lunch shift Angel." Mom's smile can't hide the strain at the edge of her mouth.

"That's such a demeaning label, Mom." I hold up my
Swoon
book. "Grandma says titles are how we talk about each other; 'angel' might even be worse than using 'girl' in the workplace." I'm not sure where "deputy" fits into the mix, but it can't be good.

Mom frowns. "It's just a silly title. And two dollars above minimum wage plus tips." She already looks tired. "Besides, it makes me feel young and gorgeous." She fluffs her hair. "I always wanted to be an angel—like on
Charlie's Angels
."

Grace bursts out of her room. "Yay! And yum! Do you get to bring home treats every day?" She hugs Mom, then immediately goes rooting through the bags. "Can Amy come over to help celebrate?"

Mom nods. "Sure."

Grace runs for the phone, and Mom looks around the room. "So, aliens from the Planet De-Clutter invaded while I was gone?"

I fake a smile. "Yeah, first I couldn't find the phone, then I lost Grace, so I figured..."

"Looks great." Mom flips through a stack of bills. "Except for these. This decorating trend is quite passé."

"Just open them on the day they come. That's easy enough, right?"

"You betcha. I just saved these because I was thinking about wallpapering the bathroom in Old American Phone Bill." Mom slides the Styrofoam container of fries over to me. "You enjoying your day off?"

I shrug. "Cleaning beats standing in a pool of pee and squealing kids."

"But you were so excited about working at Wild Waves."

"Yeah, well." I munch a soggy, slightly cold french fry. "You're not going to have to wear wings and one of those halos, are you, at your age?"