Swoon at Your Own Risk (24 page)

I shake my head yes, then no. And I'm not even sure which way I'm supposed to be turning my head. I'm all distracted by Xander's eyes, and my face radiates more heat than the sun dipping toward the mountains in the West.

"I didn't, you know, miss you."

Xander leans toward me, his hair brushing my shoulder, lips brushing my ear. "I think you're lying," he whispers. And then he walks away just like that.

I watch him meet up with Dex and Kyra, who wait patiently by the exit, probably bribed with ice cream or something. When he's safely out of sight, I let out a huge scream of frustration.

I'm such an idiot, a babbling idiot. I talked about scabs! I told him his sunglasses made me nervous!

I completely lost focus. No control. Where was someone to blow the whistle at me? Right at that moment, like in a terrible sitcom script, Sawyer walks past. "Why are you still here, Pollywog? You're not going to get any overtime, you know."

"I'm just really committed to my job, Saw-me-in-half, so I'm going to stay until I pluck every used Elmo Band-Aid out of this here pool."

He shakes his head and walks over to meet Kipper, who's somehow now wearing even less fabric than that generously
supplied by our Wild Waves uniform. Now there's no way I'm even going near the locker room. Not until I see Sawyer leave.

I stand in the pool watching a few guys from school finish up a miniature golf game nearby. "Hey, Martin!" one of them yells. Another guy makes a remark I can't hear, and all of them start laughing. I fake a big smile and wave and then I run toward the locker room. Sawyer or not. One of the guys whistles at me. Another one says, "Oh yeah!" I'm about 100 percent certain they're not talking about putt-putt golf. Dumb Wild Waves uniform. I should sue the place for sexual harassment or something, making me wear this skimpy outfit, subjecting me to, you know, male eyes.

And I'd better check out Sonnet's latest blog. She told me earlier that she was doing a series called "Undercover Fantasies." I figured that meant her way too detailed ideas for pleasing Sexy Lifeguard. But now I'm wondering if she's just making stuff up—possibly about me. She's obsessed with my non-relationship with Xander.

I tentatively open the door to the employee locker room. Sure enough, Sawyer's manhandling Kipper's end zone. She looks at me before diving back in. I struggle with my locker combination. Could they stop that for like forty-five seconds?
I need to get my stuff. I'm so over him, but still, I don't need a show-and-tell display about how he's so over me. I hit my locker in frustration, and it bounces open, thank God. I grab my duffel and go, slamming my locker shut. I hear Kipper say, "Buh-bye." Sawyer laughs.

I wipe away a few tears as I walk across the parking lot. I'd love to blame them on sunscreen but it's Sawyer. I was willing to do all that—stuff. I just didn't want to burden him with my problems, talk about my emotions. I mean, who really wants to deal with that? Guys usually
complain
about moody girls, PMS, and that sharing feelings crap.

I reach my car. Hayden's Waxman Way bumper sticker clings like a scab. Omigod, why did I mention my scabs to Xander? And why do I care? I'm trying so hard
not
to like him. I reach down and rip off most of the sticker, leaving sticky white streaks behind. I click to unlock my door, glancing around the parking lot. I'm alone. I'm supposed to like it this way, right? This is what I've been wanting. I pull the door open, and tiny paper cranes spill onto my feet. There must be a thousand of them!

I'm laughing and crying as I pick up the cranes that have fallen all over the pavement. Each one is as carefully folded as the next. Hours and hours of work!

For me.

I carefully move each crane from the driver's seat into the back seat, not wanting to crush any of them. I marvel at the different colors, the various delicate patterns on the thin origami paper.

And I'm sobbing.

I'm crying for the little girl whose mother divorced her father, the girl who wanted to fall in love for the first time but wasn't ready for sex, the girl who dated a boy just because he wasn't the first one, the girl who fell hard for the guy with the easy smile and green eyes, the girl who needed to prove she could hook up on a class trip, the girl who ran for student council just to impress a guy, the girl who lost her best friend, the girl whose father doesn't care anymore, the girl who doesn't have the money for college, the girl who just wants her grandma to fix everything, the girl who can't talk to her mother about anything, the girl who doesn't talk to anyone about anything, the girl who just
can't
fall in love again—even if a sweet guy folds a thousand paper cranes. Just for her.

I barely remember driving home, and I'm relieved I didn't get pulled over. With snot dripping from my nose, tears zigzagging down my cheeks, a rainbow of paper cranes rattling in the breeze coming through my windows still opened a crack, I would have been committed for sure. I pull in to the driveway, expecting—
okay, hoping—to see Xander sitting on my front steps. But he isn't there. Not that I'm disappointed. I'm not. Not really.

No one is home. I go back to my car and gather the cranes in a bunch of Hamburger Heaven To Go bags. I take them to my room and spill them across my bed. I pick up a light yellow crane. And that's when I notice writing. I unfold the crane:
wit.
I pick up another one:
kindness.
Another:
great legs.
A blue one:
scared but brave.
A hot pink one:
great kisser.
A green one:
scientific mind.
A maroon one:
scabs.

I start sobbing all over again. What's wrong with me?

I decide to call Jane.

Dear Miss Swoon:
We need to talk.
ASAP.
—Torn And Confused

Dear T & C:
I'm always here to give you some TLC.
Love, Grandma

Not Shakespeare's Sonnet
Okay, so as you know, I've given up on blonds. (See
Brain Deadage
here.) Oh yeah, and making
out in bathrooms. (No linkage: parentals demanded a delete.) Thanks for your input on
Random Picnic Fantasies
. Come on Sexy Lifeguard: sunsets and subs. (Read more here, but not you, Dad. Joking!) And sorry, guys, but I'm holding out for quality—no bragging about your six-foot sub sandwiches, okay? (Hi Mom! Hi Dad!)

New feature: Undercover Fantasies!
I'm inspired by my cute, funny, smart, sexy, just-can't-be-a-bad-girl-if-she-tries coworker. P.M., you know you've got some secret lust for a certain tall, dark, wheelie-poppin' guy. GO FOR IT!!! Okay, unrequited lovers. What are your top-secret Undercover Fantasies? Movie passes to the winner!

I remember when my biggest challenge was simply climbing a tree. Branch by branch, sitting triumphantly among shifting green leaves, blue sky above, bird song. Not so simple anymore.
—
X.C.

So Jane and I have once again achieved best friend status. All it took was approximately three hours of embarrassing soul baring, a bit of sobbing, revealing way too many of my innermost secrets, a three-hour shopping trip for the ultimate bikini, and, um, agreeing to go on a camping trip with members of the yearbook staff—at least there won't be any movie marathons or shopping carts involved.

Jane rips open a package of tortilla chips and hands it to me in the back seat. She's sitting up front with Rowdy, and all I can say is, thank God for seat belts. If she caresses his thigh one more time, leans over to kiss his ear again, or talks about what a blast we're going to have, I'm going to need more than a seat belt to restrain
me.
I'm squished into the back seat of Rowdy's truck, sitting next to a quiet duffel bag and an even
quieter sophomore named Emily. Jane allowed me three preconditions. One: no males on the ride up (except for her precious Rowdy). Two: we'd share a tent (not with her precious Rowdy). Three: I'm saving number three for an emergency (but it will probably involve a guy).

The long drive, wide open vistas, and lonely-looking desert landscape precipitate too much thinking. (Ha-ha. It hasn't rained out here in weeks: Get it? Precipitation?) Rowdy speeds along the same route my dad always takes to the cabin, although Jane swears that the campground isn't anywhere near my dad's cabin. Too many memories push into my consciousness as we climb the hills through Pee Pass—where we once made an emergency stop because Grace and I had drunk too much lemonade. A few miles later we pass the spot where we stopped so Grace could take a photo of a black cow munching on sagebrush; she won her school's art contest with it. It hangs framed in our living room. In a few more miles we'll pass through the little town with the candy store where we always "gather provisions." My mouth waters as I think of rocky road fudge.

"Hey," Jane says, almost as if reading my mind. "Isn't that candy store up ahead? We should stop. They have the best chocolate almond fudge ever."

I look out the window, biting my lip hard. "Naw. That's okay." Don't think about it.

"I like fudge." Silent Emily speaks.

"You can bring some back for Grace."

"I don't think so. We've become allergic to it."

Jane gives me a look. "Come on now, Polly. We've talked about this—"

I tilt my head toward Rowdy. "Yes, so we don't need to talk about it now."

Jane goes for the thigh again. "He knows everything. Thanks to Miss Swoon's advice, we don't keep secrets."

Oh, that's just great.

"Then we definitely don't need to talk." I tilt my head toward Emily—unless, of course, Grandma advised Jane to tell nerdy sophomores all my deep dark secrets, too.

For some reason Emily takes this nod as an invitation to speak. "I do like fudge," she says.

Will she please lay off the incessant chatter? My glare frightens her into looking at her shoes.

"Chocolate peanut butter," she mutters.

What a chatterbox!

"Fine, stop. But you can't make me purchase or consume any sort of confections."

Rowdy turns and grins at me, veering toward oncoming traffic, not that there is any traffic out here in the middle of nowhere, but it's the principle of the matter. "Well, with that attitude you sound like you could use some sweets." He leans over and kisses Jane, now steering toward the shoulder of the road. "You're
my
sweetie."

"That's supposed to be funny?" I ask. "Keep your eye on the road there, Rowdy. I plan on surviving this weekend. Somehow."

I'm not sure why. Lacking consciousness would be easier. I close my eyes as if that can prevent the memory of my humiliating phone call to Dad two nights ago.
Please, please take us to the cabin. Just for two little nights? You can do your business meetings by phone.
He said no and hung up to take another call. I phoned several times throughout the day, but he never picked up again. I have a sneaking feeling that he'd break up with me via text message if he could, you know, do it legally with the paternity laws and everything.

I didn't tell Grace. But later that night I overheard Mom comforting her because she'd made her own pathetic Dad call.

Jane came over right after that to bring me a sleeping bag.

"Has it been washed, um, this century?" The plaid fabric smelled musty. "And isn't it kind of big?"

"It's a double bag."

"Are you trying to do some foreshadowing? Maybe change my relationship trajectory?" I joked.

Jane sighed. "Polly, you've got to get to know yourself before you venture into a relationship."

"Don't quote my own grandmother back to me," I'd said, searching for a sweatshirt to pack for the trip since I'd given away my blue hoodie. "You realize that she juggles men the way a circus clown juggles balls?"

"Balls, huh?" Jane had laughed. "I know whose balls I'd like to juggle."

I rolled my eyes. "Hanging out with Rowdy has completely ruined your sense of humor."

"You're the one talking about balls." She grinned.

"Next thing I know you're going to start telling Uranus jokes like my mom."

"Oh, she told the funniest one the other night at Hamburger Heaven. Let's see, what does a boy—"

"Jane, don't. I still have a molecule of respect for you. Don't ruin it."

"Oh, you're no fun!"

I wait in the truck while they all go into the candy shop. I only consider hitchhiking home with a dangerous stranger for,
oh ... the entire time they're in the candy store. I feel worse when the stink of fudge fills the car.

We arrive at the campground about two hours and three pounds of fudge later. I haven't ingested a single disgusting, calorie-laden morsel, so Rowdy and Jane blame my reaction to the campsite on low blood sugar.

I drop my duffel on the ground. "Jane! I can see Dad's cabin from here!" The log house looms against the hillside. "You promised."

"Now, don't overreact. It's not really that close." She shades her eyes with her hand. "It would take ten minutes to get there—in a boat."

"Maybe even fifteen," Rowdy adds unhelpfully.

"His boat is right there." I point toward the marina. "You totally lied to me, tricked me, fooled me, misled me, bamboozled me—"

"Blood sugar." Rowdy holds out a greasy bag of fudge. "Polly, you've really got to take care of your body."

"Blood sugar is not the issue." I slap the fudge away. "The issue is my father!"

"See?" Jane nods at Rowdy. "That's what I've been saying all along."

"Argh!" I turn away from the lake only to catch Sawyer and Kipper going at it while putting up their tent. "Jane, what the hell is he doing here?"

"Oh, who? Sawyer? He's the new sports editor."

"Do you not realize that he mixes his metaphors—his
sports
metaphors—like, like—" I can't think of a good metaphor of my own. I'm too busy watching Sonnet climb out of Jack's truck. She'd mentioned "wild weekend plans" on her blog—but I never expected that she meant camping. With the yearbook staff! It's like I've entered the portal to the Dimension of Ex-boyfriends.

"Explain," I say to Jane.

Rowdy kisses her cheek and makes a quick exit. "Good luck."