Just Flirt (13 page)

Yeah, so sick that he kept dating her.

“And I’m sorry things ended the way they did, Dee. You just needed me too much, maybe because of your father—”

“It had nothing to do with my father!”

“Let me finish!” Blaine puts both hands on my shoulders. “I’m just trying to say that I should have been more understanding. I should have realized you were being so clingy because you lost your dad.”

Outside, I think I hear light footsteps coming up the stairs, but I can only focus on the pounding in my skull. Clingy? Was that how he saw me? Or did Blaine do it again—flip the situation around so
I
feel guilty, like
I
am the one who should be apologizing? But before I can brush away his hands, the door swings open.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?”

I jump back.

It’s Sabrina.

Standing in the doorway like a bull about to charge.

“Answer me! What’s going on?” She angrily strides toward us, her face bloodred and fists clenched. I stand speechless as Blaine gently takes her by the forearms and pins them to his chest.

“Sabbie, relax, babe! Dee and I were just talking. I swear!”

For once, he is telling the truth, but Sabrina wrenches her arms away. “Don’t Sabbie me, Blaine. And you—” Sabrina points at me, venom spilling from her lips. “Who do you think you are, playing your games, huh? I know your story. Someone already told me, just like they told me you were up here with
my
boyfriend.”

“What? Who? It’s not true, I never—”

Time slips into astonishing slow motion as she lunges for me. I avoid her by stepping back, and then brace myself for her next attack.

But instead, Sabrina stops.

She turns to Blaine.

“How could you?” she whispers, before running for the door.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, not bothering to go after her until we hear a shriek and the sound of someone falling. I run out to the deck and down the steps, kneeling beside Sabrina where she lies at the bottom.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Get your hands off me!” Sabrina hisses, clutching her left wrist. She stands, leaning against the railing for support. “I’m fine—I only tripped, so stay away from me, Dee, I swear, you better stay away from me
and
him.”

Blaine pushes me aside and grabs Sabrina by the elbow, leading her toward his Mercedes and giving me one last glance as she stumbles before getting into the passenger seat. I stand speechless, still watching the road after his taillights disappear, only to discover someone else is watching me.

Jake.

9
Sabrina

“Well, I made it home okay, no thanks to you,” Mom says as she storms into our house at eleven and slams the door. She tosses her purse on the end table and slumps onto the leather recliner, kicking off her boots and letting them fall to the carpet. Her mascara is smeared to a hazy gray and her once perfectly straightened hair is now a frizzed blond cloud. She was right. She should have worn it curly. And she should
never
have opened her big fat mouth and told Blaine where we were going to be tonight.

If she hadn’t, none of this would have happened.

“I thought it was agreed that you were going to work tonight, Sabrina. But who had to pack up everything by herself ? Me. And who ended up dropping a very expensive speaker on the ground?
Me
, so a little help would have been nice.”

Yeah, well, you’re the least of my problems tonight
.

I rub my sore wrist and bury myself deeper into the sofa cushions. Starting an argument would be a bad idea, so I mumble, “Sorry, I was having a bad night.”

“You think you were having a bad night?” Mom fumes. “The nerve of that Jane Barton, telling me she wants someone more neutral to work at her campground, the
nerve
! Well, if she wants ‘neutral,’ she should take a peek in the mirror. I’ve never seen a woman with a more dire need of highlights in my entire life!”

She flops her head back and whimpers, glancing at me from the corner of her eye as though she’s waiting for me to ask what happened. I pretend to watch a home design show until her next whimper tapers off with a few sniffs. Fine. Might as well get it over with. “Gee, Mother, what happened? Do tell me all about it, please!”

And don’t you worry about me, okay?

“About time that you asked.” She kicks her feet down and leans forward with her elbows on her knees. “Well, after my last song, I went to Jane and said—all polite-like—how it was a pleasure to work for her. And then she’s like, ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ and gives me a check without a ‘thank you, you did great,’
nothing
!”

Why am I not surprised?

Mom pats her messy hair. “So then I told her I was available while DJ Drake recovers, bless his heart. Of course there would be a small price increase—a girl can’t work for nothing, you know—but guess what she told me?”

I’m in no mood for guessing games. All I can think about is Blaine telling me on the car ride home how it was Dee who lured him upstairs because she wanted to talk. How he shouldn’t have been so stupid, but he felt he owed it to her to hear what she had to say. At the time, I was too furious to listen. But now …

Maybe I should have believed him. Maybe I shouldn’t have slammed his car door and told him that I never wanted to see him again.

What if he was telling the truth?

“Are you listening?” Mom pouts, hitting her palm on the coffee table and causing a pile of Harlequin romances to fall to the floor. “How dare that Jane woman fire me! You were there, Sabrina, her campers loved my show!”

Right. The male ones did, but certainly not the women, although I suspect it was a combination of her nerves and caffeine that turned her usual flamboyance up about twenty notches.

“But no, she told me I made some campers uncomfortable, can you believe it? That woman fired me because a few cows were jealous.” Mom leans back again, as though her outburst exhausted her. “Well, you just wait, honey. Your momma is going to be the most popular karaoke queen in all of Riverside and then I’ll get my revenge. She’ll beg me to work for her and
I’ll
be the one who turns
her
down.”

Mom sniffs, waiting for me to respond. When I don’t, she asks, “What’s wrong with you, anyway? Why are you so grumpy?”

I give her an annoyed look. “My wrist hurts, okay?”

“What happened?” She leans forward to study my face. “And how did you get that bruise?”

I know better than to tell her the whole story about Dee and Blaine together. She’d only confirm my fears by saying I overreacted. Again. So I just tell her about falling down the Bartons’ steps and leave out the part about stumbling at Blaine’s car and hitting my forehead. Mom clucks her tongue and nods. For a second, I think she’s going to comfort me, but she only says, “Well, it’s a small bruise, but you don’t want that handsome Blaine to see you like that. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, though, your momma’s here.”

She disappears down the hallway and then returns shaking a concealer bottle. “This here is my miracle cream, baby, it covers everything you want to hide.” She dabs some on my forehead and blends it with a makeup sponge before holding a small mirror to my face. “Perfect! You can’t see a thing.”

She’s right, the bruise is gone, but I can feel it, just like I can feel the ache in my heart from seeing Blaine with his hands on Dee’s shoulders. And what else would they have done if Roxanne hadn’t told me where they were?

*   *   *

Late the next morning, my wrist feels like someone slammed a door on it. I roll over in bed and stare at the photos on my dresser. One is from prom, with Blaine and me posing with our newly won crowns. Another is of Dad and me before the divorce, standing by the Christmas tree. I touch the diamond stud earrings he gave me that year, wondering what he’s doing right now. Is he watching CNN and eating bagels, his usual Sunday morning routine? Is Angela sitting beside him on the sofa, reading magazines like I used to when he lived with us? Those are the moments I miss the most—those random, casual moments we used to have without Belinda or Angela around, making me feel like an outsider in their home. Those times were when he truly felt like my father.

My cell phone buzzes. I hope it’s Blaine, texting to apologize, to say it was a huge misunderstanding and please, forgive him. But it’s only Mom, asking if I’m awake. I ignore it and throw the covers over my head.

I must have fallen back asleep, because the sun is shining full force when Mom walks in later with her face covered with a blue purifying mask. “Sabrina, are you finally up? I brought you some breakfast, sugar.”

Mom, bringing me breakfast? There has to be some ulterior motive.

“What do you want now, Mother?”

“Oh, hush, baby,” she says in a comforting tone. She sets a tray on my nightstand and pulls a baby wipe from her robe pocket, using it to clean away the heavy concealer I didn’t bother to wash off before going to bed. “There, that’s better. Let’s show off that bruise. And how’s your wrist, sweetie, does it still hurt?”

Wow, this is a switch from last night when she couldn’t have cared less. I shrug as she hands me a mug of coffee. “Yeah, a little.”

Mom pats my thigh. “Good, we’ll take a little trip to the hospital, then. But first,” she says with her lips freakishly frozen now that her mask is drying, “where’s your camera?”

“It’s in my purse, why?”

“Just trust your momma, okay? Have I ever steered you wrong?” she asks, yanking my covers back. When she sees my face, Mom lets out an exasperated breath. “Well, maybe a few times. Just get it, okay?”

Fine. I trudge to our kitchen, which is decorated like a ’50s diner with black-and-white-checked tiles and bloodred walls. My purse is on a table by the window, where Mom’s old computer is moaning. She must have been performing her usual Sunday morning routine of drinking coffee while reading blogs and forums full of angry, jilted women, since she doesn’t have many friends or family members to talk to.

Something about the word “blog” strikes a nerve.

A big, fat, tender nerve.

Bridget. Bridget was reading a blog yesterday. What was it called? The Superflirt Chronicles, where the writer talked about an unwanted visitor at … at a
campground.
And Roxanne. She called Dee “Super Slut” before warning me to
watch my man.

I grab the mouse, cursing Mom’s ancient RAM as the computer slowly comes to life. My anxious fingers keep making clumsy typos while I try to Google the site, until finally, the Pepto-Bismol pink blog fills the screen. I sit, slamming my knee into a table leg, but the pain is soon forgotten.

An icy chill goes down my spine as I read the latest entry.

It’s about getting revenge on a Mercedes.

My Mercedes.

This is
Dee’s
blog. She’s writing about Blaine. About me—I am Mercedes’s evil girlfriend, just like Roxanne called me, so she must know about the blog, too, and—oh God, last night was nothing but a cruel joke planned out by Dee. Blaine
was
telling me the truth, Dee
was
the one who lured him upstairs, and I didn’t believe him.

I can’t think. Can’t speak. But I do know one thing:

Dee Barton is a dead girl.

The Superflirt Chronicles

… blogs from a teenage flirtologist

Sunday, June 20

O
H, WHAT A GLORIOUS MORNING
!

MOOD: Validated

MUSIC: “So What,” Pink

You know what they say:
LIVING WELL IS THE BEST REVENGE!

THE DUDE: Mercedes

THE GRADE: A+

THE BREAKDOWN: Surely you don’t think the A+ is for Mercedes, do you? No, darlings, it’s for me, for proving to my ex that I am, indeed, living well without him, thanks to the efforts of a certain race car driver who came in handy on the dance floor. And the best part of the evening? Getting Mercedes away from his evil girlfriend and hearing him admit how much he misses me.

Well, guess what, Mercedes?

I don’t miss you.

As for the evil girlfriend, I do feel partly responsible for an unfortunate mishap on her behalf. But, dear readers, would you feel horrified if I confessed to feeling a tingle of delight over her finally getting what she deserves?

10
Dee

Church is different at a campground.

There’s no singing, no pulpit, no pews, just Pastor Mike speaking gently from where he sits on the top of a picnic table, dressed in plaid shorts, Nike sandals, and a
JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY
T-shirt. Campers face him in their folding chairs, eating doughnuts and sipping coffee, a few still in pajamas. An intoxicating breeze causes Ivy to nod off beside me. I’m halfway there myself, after hardly sleeping last night, until Pastor Mike quotes from Romans: “Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God’s wrath … if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.”