Just Flirt (18 page)

Wait—I don’t mean that.

If anything, I should be relieved because his blasé attitude toward her welfare proves once and for all he doesn’t still have feelings for her.

But how could he have read the article if he’s in New York?

“Um, Blaine, where are you?”

“Home, but not for long. Prescott and I are going to the driving range in about twenty minutes.”

Anger swells in my chest. He’s home? And going golfing with
Prescott
? Prescott is more important to him than me? No, don’t get upset.
Be calm, be calm.

“Oh, really? And when were you planning on calling me, huh?”

Yeah, real calm, Sabrina.

Blaine gives me his
here we go again
sigh. “Sabbie, we got in this afternoon, and since you don’t like going to the range, I planned on calling you later.”

My pulse quickens from the possibility that he has blown me off—again. But I’m not going to bicker, not after we’ve already made up. No, we are going to have a wonderful summer together, so I force myself to say, “Well, welcome home, baby. Have fun tonight and call me when you’re done, okay? I want to hear all about your trip and—”

Larson’s booming voice cuts me off. “Blaine, time to get off the phone.”

“Fine, Dad. Sorry, Sabbie, I gotta go. But I’ll call you later, okay?”

He hangs up before I can say goodbye, leaving me to wonder if Blaine used his father to get me off the phone. Oh, no, he better not. I
refuse
to be played that way, even though, technically, I just did the same thing to Torrance.

“I’m going to Blaine’s,” I tell Mom while walking back into the kitchen and trying to ignore the fact that she has her bare feet propped on the table.

“Dressed like that?” She clucks her tongue as I open the side door. “You don’t want Blaine seeing you all grubby, do you, baby?”

Screw it. Blaine is leaving in twenty minutes, so there isn’t time to change. But after I get in the Honda and turn the key … there’s nothing. Only a grinding moan.

Son of a …

“Need a lift, Sabrina?” Mom asks from the open doorway, dangling the keys to her Trooper. “I feel like taking a spin.”

No, I’m not that desperate to see Blaine.

Oh, who am I kidding. Of course I am.

14
Sabrina

When we pull into Blaine’s driveway, it feels as though we have interrupted a Ralph Lauren photo shoot. Larson, Rex Reynolds, and a posh couple in their forties are lounging on the porch in designer clothes with a pitcher of sangria on the table between them.

Mom was right. I should’ve changed my clothes.

She certainly did. Even though she’s only dropping me off, I had to wait for her to throw on black capris, heeled sandals, and a tight Baltimore Ravens jersey. “Okay, Mom, thanks for the ride, I’ll see you—”

“Don’t be silly, Sabrina,” Mom says, opening her door and gazing upon the sangria social scene. “I can’t leave without saying hello, now, can I?”

Right, like politeness is her only motive.

Larson waves at us from where he is sitting on a wicker chair with his legs crossed. “Sabrina, Mona, what a lovely surprise! Come meet our new neighbors, Dr. Martin Swain and his charming wife, Victoria. They’re building the house next door.”

Blaine’s Mercedes is still in the garage, thank God, so I’d rather go find him, but Mom clutches my arm and pulls me toward the porch as though I’m her two-legged security blanket. I feel like complete scum in my gardening outfit compared to Dr. Swain’s gray trousers and Mrs. Swain’s silk tunic, but I fake a confident smile as Mrs. Swain makes polite small talk about seeing us the night we worked at Barton’s Campground. Larson then motions to Rex. “You both know Rex Reynolds, right?”

Sure, Mom’s ex-boss and Danny’s father. Rex greets us, his slightly crooked teeth, broad face, and stocky build making him look like an ex–football player who’s more comfortable drinking beer than sipping cocktails—which is odd, considering the swanky development he designed. “Hello, Sabrina. And, Mona, how are you doing?”

“Fine and dandy, couldn’t be better,” Mom answers, keeping her eyes on their drinks as though she is dying for an invitation to join them. She then tilts her head toward the lot next door. “And I don’t know much about construction, but I can tell that house is going to be just gorgeous, Rex!”

Larson uncrosses his legs and reaches for the pitcher, his tall runner’s body reminding me so much of Blaine. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing well, all things considered. I read today’s article—horrible situation, just horrible. Sangria, Mona?”

I can’t tell what Larson means. Horrible, as in she’s horrible? But at the word “lawsuit,” an odd look creeps over Rex’s face, one I can’t decipher.

Is it … intrigue?

Just as Mom drops her purse on the floor and starts to sit, Rex stands. “Would you like a tour of the Swains’ house, Mona? I’d be happy to show it to you.”

Mom obviously doesn’t want to go, not when she just scored an invite, but when Rex holds out his hand, she takes it. “Why, thank you, Rex, that’d be lovely.”

I’m about to hunt down Blaine after they leave, but something Dr. Swain says stops me in my tracks. “Well, regarding the lawsuit, I, for one, am not comfortable staying at Barton’s Campground any longer if the owner is negligent. So I spoke with Chuck Lambert. He’s offered us a discounted rate for the rest of the summer.”

Oh, man. I didn’t think about Dee’s mother losing business.

Mrs. Swain isn’t pleased either. She grips her necklace and says, “Martin, we can’t move! I’ve already bought decorations for this weekend’s Fourth of July best-decorated-site contest. Besides, Chuck’s campground is so distasteful. And I was hoping we’d, you know, start spending more time with Roxanne. They have so many lovely activities we don’t take partake in. Like hiking. Or maybe we could try karaoke. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Dr. Swain regards her as though she suggested they go streaking in a cactus forest. “Right, Victoria, like you’d ever do something so redneck as karaoke.”

What?

As he casually adjusts his gold Rolex watch, Mrs. Swain glances at me, her face ashen. Larson shakes his head, as though pleading with me not to react, but no, I don’t think so. It’s okay for me not to be a big fan of Mom’s business. But it’s definitely
not
okay for someone else to insult her.

“My mother owns a karaoke company, Dr. Swain. Do you think
she’s
a redneck?”

Dr. Swain stammers for something to say, but any lame apology from him is not worth listening to. Not when Blaine is leaving soon. I turn back to Larson. “If you will excuse me, I’m going to see Blaine now.”

Larson swirls his sangria, ice clinking against the crystal glass. “Uh, I’m sorry, Sabrina, but he isn’t here. Prescott picked him up and they went to the driving range a while ago.”

Great.

I missed him, so all of this was for nothing. Well, fine, I’ll just find Mom and we’ll take our redneck rears home. I mumble my goodbyes and step off the porch, but before I can make it past the fragrant roses lining Larson’s sidewalk, Mrs. Swain catches up with me. “Now, Sabrina, you know my husband didn’t mean any disrespect with his comment.”

Uh, yes, he did.

“And while you’re here, do you go to Riverside High?” she asks, guiding me almost forcefully past Mom’s Trooper and around the side of Larson’s house. She smiles when I nod and leads me toward the river where a girl is sitting on a pier with her feet dangling in the water and the warm sun beating on her face. “Then come meet my daughter, Roxanne. She’s about your age and I’m
sure
she’d love to meet you!”

Before I can tell her no, we’ve already met, Mrs. Swain calls out to Roxanne. She is dressed in knee-length camouflage cutoffs and a huge black T-shirt. Wow, if Dr. Swain thinks karaoke is redneck, he must be horrified with her.

“Roxanne,” Mrs. Swain purrs, linking her arm in mine. “This is Sabrina. She goes to Riverside High, just like you will, although I’m sure she’s not taking those horrible auto mechanics classes. But why don’t you two get to know each other and then you’ll have someone to eat lunch with, how’s that?”

You’ve got to be joking.

Why is it that grown women—who have already been through the miseries of high school and should vividly remember how mortifying it can be—still manage to embarrass their own daughters? This sounds like the perfect topic to be discussed on The Superflirt Chronicles … if I were even remotely interested in that stupid blog.

Which I’m not.

“Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” Mrs. Swain says, before taking away a half-empty bag of Doritos that Roxanne must have been eating. She then steps back cautiously, like someone who has just finished building a house of cards and is afraid it will come crashing down with one false move.

Roxanne glares at her mother’s retreating back and then turns all of that angry and—quite frankly—
boring
teenage angst onto me. “Well, I’m sure you’re quite pleased with yourself,” she says, as though she’s been counting the days for the chance to say that.

Pardon me?

“What are you talking about, your mother? Hey, I never asked to be dragged out here like some—”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Roxanne says, kicking her legs back and standing. She jams her wet feet into her Converse sneakers, which are old and beaten with the back heels flattened like clogs. “
Your
mother. The lawsuit.
That’s
what I’m talking about.”

That’s right.

I had completely forgotten. Roxanne was there that night. She was the one who saw me looking for Blaine after he told me he was only going to the store for another soda. She was the one who called out to me from the porch swing, and who pointed up the stairs.

Did she also see me fall?

Does she know the truth, that Dee didn’t push me?

Oh, my stupid mother. Of all the stupid things she’s done, this is the absolute stupidest by far. It’s too late now, though, so the only thing I can do is get me
and
Mom through the legal proceedings as unscathed as possible, although once again, Mom has left me to deal with the weeds. Only now, that weed is Roxanne Swain.

“What do you care about the Bartons?” I ask, planning my words carefully so I can find out exactly what she knows. “You were the one who called Dee Barton a super slut, so
you know
from her blog about the games she plays. You were the one who made me paranoid with all that
watch your man
stuff. And you were by the steps, so I’m sure you know what happened!”

Or what
didn’t
happen.

“So,” I continue, “you might as well tell me everything you saw before my mother’s lawyers grill you.”
Or Jane Barton’s do.

Roxanne shifts her weight, grasping an elbow with her opposite hand as she looks down the riverbank to where two girls are fishing. Her concrete shell seems to weaken and crack when the two friends burst out laughing, as though she longs to be with them—the same way Mom wanted to be with Larson’s crowd earlier. “I know what you’re up to,” she says. “You want to know if I saw Dee push you. Well, no, I didn’t. I couldn’t see from where I was sitting, does that make you feel better?”

She’s telling the truth.

But no, I don’t feel better. Especially when the rest of Roxanne’s rigid façade melts just enough for her to say, “And … I only told you where they were because I was mad at Dee for dancing with Jake. He’s a nice guy who didn’t deserve to be used like that just to make her ex jealous. And yeah, I did see her flirting with Blaine in the store, but when Dee ran upstairs, she seemed … she seemed upset, like she wanted to be left alone, not like she sounds on her blog.”

So does this mean Roxanne feels
guilty
over what happened? And Dee—upset? Why would she be upset if she was getting exactly what she wanted?

“But.” Roxanne faces me with her shoulders squared. “I may not like Dee, but I don’t believe for one second that she’d push anyone. Steal someone’s boyfriend? Sure, I wouldn’t put it past her. Flirt with her teacher for a better grade? Why not. But push someone? No. No way.”

A piece of driftwood floats toward us. So Roxanne is suspicious of me, after all. Okay, that’s fine, I’ll just have to persuade her to keep those suspicions to herself. “Look,” I say as gently as the water lapping against the pier’s green-stained posts. “My mom has no intention of going to trial for the full two million. She just wants a fair settlement, so all of this will be over by the time school starts. And speaking of school—”

“What are you going to do, Sabrina, put in a good word for me? Tell the A-Listers not to torture the weird new chick? What makes you think I need your help?”

Girl, you should NOT have asked that question.

“Well, let’s see,” I begin, motioning to her new house under construction. “I’m guessing you were forced to move away from your old home and you lost your friends as a result, judging from the way you keep watching those girls fish and the way your mother is dead set and determined to play matchmaker.”

Roxanne says nothing, but from the way she watches that helpless driftwood until it’s pulled around the bend, I know I’m right.

“And about your parents. Your mother snatched away your Doritos, and your father is a judgmental snob, so I’d say they don’t exactly approve of your weight, your clothes, and those ‘horrible auto mechanics’ classes, right?”

Roxanne bites the inside of her cheek.

Check, check, and check.

“So no, I’m not going to invite you to my lunch table, Roxanne. But I can certainly make life a lot easier for you when school starts
if
you’re interested in helping me make the settlement happen as quietly as possible.”

On the other side of the river, a circling buzzard is spiraling over some poor dead animal. Roxanne watches as it flies lower, and lower, and lower, until it disappears from sight.

She turns back to me. “Okay. I’m interested.”

At first, I feel victorious as I leave without saying goodbye and go back to the front of the house where Larson is showing Mom his roses. But through his open garage doors, I see something resting against a workbench that makes my blood run cold.