Just Flirt (7 page)

Mona curls her lips into a confident grin as Mom shifts anxiously and glances at her watch. “I, uh, appreciate you stopping by, but DJ Drake does karaoke for us on Saturday nights, so—”

“But,” Mona says, tapping the counter with a long fingernail that has tiny musical notes painted on it. “I’d bet my old Charlie Pride records that I can provide more entertainment than DJ Drake. And, Dee, you know my daughter, Sabrina, right? She’s my assistant, so the two of you could hang out if I worked here. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

What?

Sabrina as in Sabrina Owens? Mona is her
mother
? No way. I imagined her mom as a vain socialite or someone like Victoria Swain. And Sabrina, here? Over my dead body. I hope Mom will make the connection, but she only stammers, “Um, yeah, sure, if we ever need someone to fill in, maybe we’ll call.”

Maybe we’ll call?
I can barely focus on anything else they say. Once Mona finally leaves in a pink, poufy, musky-cinnamon haze, I explode. “Mom, how could you take her card? Don’t you realize who she is?”

Mom knows what Sabrina did to me. I told her everything, otherwise she would have worried herself to death trying to figure out why I was so upset last September. But before I can say anything else, Mom grasps my forearms. “Dee, I’m sorry, but right now we have bigger problems to worry about.”

Oh, no. Her agitated look reminds me of the time when this idiot mother let her kids play barefoot at the septic dump station and then threatened to sue us because of their chances of getting hepatitis C. “Why, what’s wrong, Mom?”

“Madeline called from the airport in Florida. She’s going to be here in
three hours
.”

The Superflirt Chronicles

… blogs from a teenage flirtologist

Saturday, June 19

M
Y FLIRTLESS NIGHTMARE OF A WEEKEND

MOOD: Anxious, overwhelmed, and highly perturbed

MUSIC: “Blue Suitcase,” Erin McCarley

Why the horrible mood?

Because I’m awaiting the arrival of an unwanted guest here at the campground. The identity of this guest is best left undisclosed so pardon my secrecy, but let me say that the mere
thought
of seeing this person makes my stomach ache like I’ve held my pee too long. You know the feeling, don’t you? Of course you do.

And why am I flirtless?

Because the only cute guy here this weekend is younger than me and Miss N and I do
not
flirt with younger boys. Yes, perhaps this is hypocritical. After all, it is acceptable for a seventeen-year-old guy to date a fifteen-year-old girl, but an older girl dating a younger guy? No, sorry, maybe some gals can rock the whole cougar thing, but it’s just not for me. Besides, the young dude has another strike against him:

He spits.

I mean, really, why
do
guys spit? They do it nonstop—out car windows, in trash cans, on sidewalks, leaving gross piles for the rest of us to step in. Even pro baseball players spit, becoming role models for a whole new generation of spitters. Why? Is there some physical difference between men and women—besides the obvious—that causes this behavior? Do they have extra phlegm glands or overly large mucus producers?

And please—do
not
give me that lame
it’s a guy thing
excuse. Some actions just can’t be excused. Like what’s going on with our girl Meghan:

Hey, it’s Meghan again. I went to the salon and mall yesterday, like you said, but the stylist gave me awful red highlights and a salesclerk convinced me to buy these horrible trendy jeans. When I got home, my daughters called me Raggedy Ann and then accused me of trying to be like a teenager. They were joking, of course, but while I was having dinner with my friend, even she told me that my hair looked bad during the first course. So now what do I do? —Meghan9800

Okay, Meghan, love, I’m sorry, but if your daughters are such experts on hair and fashion, then they should help instead of criticize. And a true friend would never dis your hair in public, so I’m leery of her motives. But chin up, sweetie, all hope is not lost. You just need a better stylist—try getting a reference from someone who has great hair. Then you need to find a store that does NOT employ commission-seeking sales hogs but instead has lovely salesclerks who will dress you in clothes that make you feel beautiful. After that, I want you to go back out to dinner … only with a better friend this time.

And as for me, it’s time to go back to waiting for our unwanted guest.

Which gives me a sudden urge to spit.

4
Dee

Do I hug Madeline or shake her hand?

Hug or handshake?

I check the store clock. Almost four-twenty. Madeline’s flight was supposed to arrive at two-fifteen and we’re only an hour away from the airport so they should be here by now. Was there a flight delay or hold-up at baggage claim? No, her visits never last more than a few days, so she should only have carry-on. At least I pray she only has carry-on.

I coil my hair into a bun and then let it down. No, maybe I should keep it up. And maybe I shouldn’t have worn these shorts. Maybe they’re too … short.

“Why are you so uptight, Dee? It’s not like your grandmother still owns the place,” Jake asks, while cleaning the grass stains off his legs with baby wipes. He grins and throws a soiled one at Natalie, who is sitting at the computer.

She picks it up with pinched fingers. “Oh my gosh, really, Jake?”

He ignores her scorn and walks behind the counter, elbowing her in the ribs so she’ll share the bar stool. “What’s on the Internet menu today, more wedgies?”

Natalie shifts to give him more room. “No, I’m checking my ADRs.”

“What’s that, your Attention Deficit Registry?” Jake jokes, scratching his elbow and getting grass on the counter that Natalie already polished. She swipes away his mess with an annoyed groan and then explains all about the Advanced Dining Reservations she made a hundred and eighty days in advance—seriously?—for her Disney World vacation. As Natalie launches into detailed descriptions of the restaurants, I think about what Jake said.

Why am I so uptight?

Why did we spend the entire afternoon cleaning like the queen herself was visiting? I mean, it’s not as though the campground was a total pigsty or Madeline’s opinion matters. But no, every time she visits, Mom and I turn into spineless minions desperate to win her approval, like when she showed up unexpectedly last October and criticized the “tacky” haunted hayrides and trick-or-treating that would never be allowed when
she
owned the campground.

Whatever. We like tacky.

Even so, I can’t help but say, “Okay, Natalie—you tidied the store and porch, I took care of the pool, pavilions, and cabins, Ivy cleaned the bathrooms with Roxanne, but what about the laundry room? And did anyone check the arcade?”

Natalie swivels to face me. “Dee. Everything looks fabulous. Chill.”

Right. Chill.

Chill, chill, chill.

And everything does look fabulous, thanks to us—especially Jake, who cleaned, mowed, and weed-whacked like a maniac, even though it’s his day off. He can be a creep, but when push comes to shove, he’s the first to help. And he stopped a near riot at the horseshoe tournament I had foolishly put Roxanne in charge of, by offering the players free ice cream after she read a magazine during the championship round instead of keeping score.

I watch out the window as Roxanne lugs the horseshoes toward the shed, stopping every ten steps to rest and then yelling at a little boy who almost nipped her heels with his Big Wheel. She comes into the store several minutes later looking as happy as a drenched cat with her red hair plastered to her scalp. “I’m taking my break,” she proclaims. “You do realize it’s against the law not to give employees breaks, don’t you?”

Breaks? We don’t take breaks here. We bust our butts when it’s busy and goof off when it’s slow and everything works out even in the end. But before I can tell her to go ahead, take that break, Mom pulls in.

Oh, man.

An icy chill goes up my spine at the sight of Madeline’s stiff silhouette in the truck’s passenger seat. Once Mom parks, my grandmother steps out wearing crisp linen slacks that don’t dare wrinkle and a sleeveless mock turtleneck that emphasizes her leathery Florida tan. Natalie and Jake join me in time to see Madeline survey the campground with her upper lip curled as though she just sniffed an uncovered septic hole.

“Yikes,” Natalie says. “My butt cheeks just clenched.”

Jake nods. “Yeah, I’d rather suck on a spark plug than be around that woman, so if you attention deficits will excuse me, I’m going to go work on my kart for tomorrow’s race.”

“You have a laydown enduro kart, right?”

Whoa. Who said that, Roxanne?

The three of us turn in unison and stare at her in disbelief. A pink flush quickly spreads across her face, so even
she
must not believe she said it either.

“Yeah, it’s an enduro.” Jake gives her that rock-star grin of his as though he’s impressed. “Wow, you know about kart racing?”

Roxanne shrugs, and then grips the hem of her baggy shirt. “Um … not a lot,” she says, giving me a quick glance. “Just that their two-stroke engines have top speeds of a hundred miles per hour, and zero suspension, and how a lot of famous drivers like Chase Elliott and Michael Schumacher started their careers with karts.”

Okay, she must have looked this up on the Internet just to impress Jake. But then I notice the rolled-up magazine peeking out from the lower pocket of her cargo shorts.
Auto Trends
? So Roxanne is a—

“Hey, a fellow gearhead!” Jake steps forward to give Roxanne a very enthusiastic knuckle tap. Gearhead, is that some kind of insider term? Jake then hooks a thumb in my direction. “I’m used to
some
girls calling my kart a ‘thingy.’”

What? No, I do not.

Oh, wait … yes, I do.

Jake grabs a Gatorade from the fridge and tosses two dollars on the counter. “So, Roxanne, feel like getting your hands dirty? My friend Danny was supposed to come over, but he went to a party instead.”

Ugh, Danny as in Danny Reynolds, Rex’s son, and one of Blaine’s buddies. If that wasn’t gag-worthy enough, Danny is also dating Torrance Jones, Sabrina’s best friend. I do not understand why Jake would want to hang out with someone like him, especially since they race against each other. And Jake is inviting
Roxanne
to his garage, the girl who’s been a total jerk to me from day one? I hope she blows him off, but her stony indifference melts like ice thrown into a campfire when she says, “Sure, that’d be cool!”

Oh, yeah, she’ll be nice to him but not to me. Well, fine. There’s bigger problems on my plate, anyway, such as a big fat serving of Madeline Barton.

“I love, love, LOVE your grandmother’s suitcases, Dee,” Natalie says, pressing her hand to the window. “Are they Louis Vuitton? I bet they smell
divine
.”

They must be Louis Vuitton, seeing as how Madeline isn’t the knockoff type. Wow, her luggage costs a fortune and yet she had the nerve to insinuate on the phone to Mom that she wants to stay in our best cabin for free? She knows money has been tight since Dad died. He did have some life insurance, but it wasn’t enough to cover funeral costs and the hideous amount of taxes Mom had to pay and …

Suitcases? As in
long, long visit
suitcases?

My heart sinks as Mom sets Madeline’s one, two,
three
suitcases on a patch of grass. Mom then stands, rubbing her back and looking around as though she’s searching for me. Well, I guess it’s not fair to leave her on her own. “I’m going out there.”

“God be with you,” Natalie says, patting my back.

I force myself out the door. Madeline hesitates when she sees me, maybe because of my strong resemblance to my dad. Right then and there, I decide to go with a formal handshake, but for some insane reason, instinct takes over and I hug her instead, only to get an awkward pat on the back in return.
Shoot. I should’ve gone with the handshake.

“Yes, hello, Dee, you’ve grown since October,” Madeline says, her lopsided brows and angular jaw giving her a daunting appearance. Her hair is cut in a severe bob with thin, clumped bangs clinging to her forehead like a brown vulture claw. It sways when she scrutinizes my outfit. “And you’ve almost outgrown your clothing.”

Should’ve gone with the handshake, should’ve worn longer shorts
.

Mom gives me a warm, lingering hug that seems as though it’s more for her benefit than mine. She smells of Taco Bell and peppermint, meaning she comforted herself with burritos on the drive to the airport and then tried to cover them up with Altoids. “Hi, sweetie. Anything happen while I was gone?”

“Nope, everything was smooth sailing, as usual,” I say, emphasizing the
as usual
to my grandmother. “We’ve been so busy, and our customers? They love it here.”

Madeline’s beady eyes scan the packed swimming pool, the shuffleboard court, and the stream of kids waiting by the wagon for Ivy to fire up the John Deere for tonight’s hayride. Everyone
is
having fun, but instead of focusing on the positive, Madeline only notices a guest who stubs his toe on a horseshoe Roxanne must have dropped on the way to the shed. “Well, I see you’ve been too busy to worry about customer safety.”

Should’ve stuck with the handshake. Should’ve worn longer shorts. Should’ve NEVER trusted Roxanne.

*   *   *

The first thing Madeline wants is a tour, so she can report back to my grandfather how we’ve let the campground go to pot. After stowing her Louis Vuittons in the store, much to Natalie’s delight, she primly climbs into the golf cart and grasps the roll bar when Mom hits the gas harder than normal. She does nod approvingly at the picturesque landscaping surrounding the lodge, with its swaying cattail grass and gentle daisies, but when she
tsk tsks
a pothole I tune her out and concentrate on our guests instead. I love how they turn their sites into mini home-away-from-homes. Some campers only need the basics—tent, lantern, cooler—while others go all out with canopies, propane grills, outdoor carpet, and decorations, like the couple from Maine who have white lights and wind chimes hanging from their awning. Or their neighbor, who had fun with this weekend’s western theme by using old cowboy boots for geranium planters, making a red bandanna tablecloth, and wrapping green chili pepper lights around an oak tree.