Just Flirt (8 page)

All of which is
completely
gaudy, according to Madeline.

She dusts invisible dirt off her slacks when we return to the lodge. “Now, Jane. I’d like to eat dinner early tonight. And I assume you remember I don’t eat red meat?”

Mom turns to me in a near panic. Oh, man, we just sell frozen hamburgers and hot dogs at the store and neither one of us thought to go to the grocery store, so our fridge is near empty, with only a few rotting tomatoes, dill pickles, and condiments.

“Well, Madeline … we could, um, karaoke starts at seven, so—”

“So we thought you’d like to go to Railroad Diner,” I say. “They’ve added more items to the menu you might enjoy.”

Mom gives me a grateful smile as we walk into the store. “Well, I suppose, if eating out is my only option,” Madeline says with a grimace. Yep, pretty much, unless she wants a rotten tomato/pickle sandwich. “And what—pray tell—are you doing to my suitcases?”

Natalie looks up from a Louis Vuitton. “Sorry, I just wanted to smell them once more!”

*   *   *

We sit in uncomfortable silence while Madeline studies the menu. I already know my order, seeing as how Railroad serves the best Maryland crab cakes. The jukebox is free, so I pick a few songs, including an Alison Krauss bluegrass one that’s Mom’s favorite. “The usual, ladies? Crab cakes and side salads?” our waitress, Lou, asks.

“Absolutely,” I say. “And a diet Coke with lemon.”

“Bud Light for me,” Mom adds.

Madeline raises an overly plucked brow at Mom’s drink choice and then tosses her menu aside. “Unsweetened iced tea, please, with lemon, and I suppose I’ll get the crab cake on a toasted bun. No butter, no mayonnaise, just lettuce and Dijon mustard on the side.”

More uncomfortable silence until the jukebox kicks in and Mom’s song plays. She squeezes my knee under the table before saying, “So, Madeline, how are things at the RV resort with Arthur?”

“Wonderful. It’s the perfect place for retired couples such as us,” Madeline says crisply while inspecting her silverware for cleanliness. “It’s neat, efficient, and children are only allowed on Sundays.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask in astonishment. “What kind of a campground doesn’t allow children?”

“A quiet one.” Madeline shudders when a nearby toddler loudly refuses to eat his green beans, and then leans back when Lou delivers our drinks and salads. “So, Dee, what are your college plans? My bridge partner has three grandchildren going to Harvard, which is remarkable.”

“Yeah, remarkable,” I repeat, squeezing lemon in my soda and imagining some of it squirting in her eye. “But I’m going to Riverside Community.”

Madeline reaches for two Splendas, disappointment etched on her bony face. Oh, joy, she’s probably going to launch into a lecture on how community college is beneath me, and how she expects more from a Barton, blah, blah, blah. What she says, however, is far, far worse. “Yes, well, that would be appropriate for you.”

Appropriate? Meaning I’m incapable of higher aspirations? That I’m not smart enough? Yeah, maybe I’m not. Maybe Riverside
is
my only option, but her verbal confirmation stings like fifty yellow jackets, making me dump too much dressing on my salad and miss half of her dull ramblings about my grandfather’s newfound interest in art. But then Madeline changes the subject by asking, “So, Jane, have you started dating yet?”

What?
Honestly, Madeline shouldn’t even
think
to ask such a question of her son’s widow. It’s none of her business, but instead of saying so, Mom traces the ring of condensation around her beer and says, “Not exactly.”

Hold on.

Not exactly?
Wait … Is she thinking about dating?

Mom’s cell rings. She scrambles to answer it, as though grateful for the distraction. “Hello? Oh, hi, Drake, how are you? Uh-huh? Oh, that’s horrible. I’m so sorry. No, we’ll be fine. I just hope you feel better soon.”

Mom frowns as she hangs up and then takes a long, desperate drink.

“What was that about?” Madeline asks.

“That? Oh, nothing, just business stuff,” Mom answers breezily while making a show of unwrapping the paper napkin from her silverware and placing it on her lap.

“What kind of business?” Madeline leans forward and places an elbow on the table. “It sounded as though someone was hurt.”

Mom gives a nonchalant wave. “Well, yes, our karaoke DJ can’t make it tonight because he threw his back out. But he’ll be fine, and really, it’s no big deal.”

“No big deal? Your guests are expecting entertainment tonight. They’ve
paid
for entertainment, so what are you going to do?”

“Um, we’ll have…” Mom shifts in her seat, the wheels turning in her head for a solution. “Bingo! We’ll have bingo instead.”

“You
cannot
be serious, Jane,” Madeline says as Lou delivers our food. She picks up the bun to inspect her crab cake and then flicks away a fry cooked too much for her liking. “If your guests expect karaoke, you should provide karaoke. Surely you have a backup plan, don’t you? Any good business owner would. Chuck Lambert would.”

Oh, man. That’s low, even for Madeline. Mom swallows hard, sinking in her seat. But then her panicked look slowly morphs into a confident smile as though she had everything under control all along. She sits up straight. “Yes, of course. I just have to call her.”

Her? What her?

Oh, no. No, no, no! Not
that
her!

My heart thumps as Mom pulls out her cell and dials. I nudge her with my foot—hard—as she says, “Natalie, it’s Jane. Oh, hello, Roxanne, I forgot you’re working until seven. No, don’t get Natalie if she’s helping a guest, I just need a business card that’s in the drawer beneath the cash register. It’s green, I think.”

Mom moves her feet away from me. “Yes, that’s it, for Mona’s Low-Key Karaoke. Can you see if she can fill in tonight? Thanks, dear, and … Oh, what’s that? Yes, you may use the Internet if things are slow in the store.”

Mom drops her cell back into her purse and picks up her crab cake, smiling in relief. Now it’s my turn to panic, because not only am I
very
against the idea of Roxanne snooping around our computer, but in all of today’s commotion, I never told Mom who Mona is. And what did Mona say? That Sabrina
always
works with her.

My appetite is gone. Sabrina might be coming to the campground—
my
campground—tonight. I stare at my plate, saying nothing, until Madeline goes to the bathroom. “Dee, what’s wrong, why did you kick me?” Mom asks.

“You can’t hire Mona Owens,” I say, trying to stay calm.

“Why not? She is a bit … loud, but what was I supposed to do? Let Madeline keep talking to me like that? Besides, one night won’t be all that bad.”

“Yeah, but—” My throat locks up tighter than a rusted camper hitch.

“But what, Dee? What,
what
?”

Maybe I should just shut up, but I can’t. “
Sabrina Owens
is Mona’s daughter, so please have Natalie cancel and do bingo instead!”

Mom’s exasperation softens. She drops her shoulders and says, “Oh, Dee, I’m so sorry. Had I known that, I never would have called her, but it’s too late now and besides—maybe it’s time you stood up to Sabrina.”

“What, like you stand up to Madeline?” I snap, instantly regretting it.

We pick at our food until Madeline returns, complaining about a cracked toilet seat. Lou sets our check in the middle of the table. “Are we having problems, Dee?” Madeline asks while pushing the check in Mom’s direction.
Yes, Madeline, problems.

And I’m guessing that’s what you wanted all along.

5
Sabrina

“God, this Meghan woman should just lie down and die already!”

Bridget Carson stares at the screen of my laptop and shakes her head. Two of her favorite activities are eating and gossip hunting, both of which she’s been doing for the past hour, scanning tabloid Web sites on my bed with a bag of potato chips and relaying important facts such as which celebrity got a boob job or who dared to wear the same outfit twice.

Torrance gathers her long hair and stares at her reflection in my bedroom’s full-length mirror. “Who needs to die, Megan Fox?” she asks, keeping both eyes on her slim frame while she goes through a series of poses with her lips pursed and stomach tight as though she’s on
America’s Next Top Model.

Bridget shoves a handful of chips in her mouth and licks salt off her fingers. “No, not Megan Fox the actress, although seeing her croak would be fabulous. Meghan from this ridiculous blog called The Superflirt Chronicles.”

Surely I didn’t hear her right.

“Did you say super
fart
?” I sit down beside Bridget. Oh, gross, she’s gotten crumbs on my bed, which is even more annoying than Mom’s habit of drinking from the milk jug. Before she can plunder for more chips, I snatch the bag away. “And I swear, Bridget, must you? It’s so unfair how you can binge like a total hog and not gain weight.”

“Jeez, sorry. And no, Super
flirt.
It’s written by some teenage flirtologist chick.” Bridget points to a hideously girlie blog that reeks of estrogen with its lime green border and hot pink cheetah print. She brushes crumbs off her snow white polo shirt and says, “Meghan is this old divorced woman who’s, like,
desperate for love.
She’s in her forties. Why even bother?”

As Bridget starts to ramble about her forty-two-year-old single aunt who is headed for Spinsterville, I read the so-called Superflirt’s latest entry about her unwanted visitor—snore—and how she thinks Meghan’s daughters should help her find appropriate clothes. Yeah, right, whenever I try to get
my
mother to dress appropriately, she raids my closet for miniskirts. But even though Superflirt is probably just a pathetic, mousy wallflower living vicariously through the Internet, I have to agree—the way Meghan’s friend dissed her hair was a deliberate attempt to knock her down a few pegs, maybe because Meghan looked better than she did. It’s only one of many tricks we ladies play on each other.

And if anyone should know about tricks, it’s me.

“Enough with the blog, already,” Torrance whines, turning to the side and staring in the mirror with her back arched and palms clasping her hips. “Let’s talk about tonight’s party. I
still
can’t believe Blaine isn’t taking you, Sabrina. What’s his excuse this time?”

Speaking of tricks.

Torrance Jones’s favorite thing to do: display her passive-aggressive wit.

However.

After spending a miserable day with my father’s wife and her evil daughter, Angela, I’m not in the mood for Torrance’s potshots at Blaine. But it’s my turn to be the pre-party hostess, and drive, now that my car is fixed, so I keep my cool and say, “He doesn’t need an excuse, Torr. He has plans with his father.”

And really, I didn’t mind when Blaine told me how he wanted to spend time with Larson. Tomorrow is Father’s Day, so I think it’s sweet. Still, I must have sounded icier than expected. “Relax, Sabrina, I didn’t mean anything. It’s just that he’s been breaking a lot of plans with you lately, that’s all.”

Bridget knits her forehead in concern. “Did you guys have another fight? Torrance told me all about what happened at McDonald’s last week.”

I’m sure she did.

Torrance drops her hair, letting it fall down her back in a golden cloud. She tosses me a sweet, concerned look and then turns to Bridget. “Did I tell you? Sabrina doesn’t want to talk about how Blaine drooled over that girl, right, Sabrina?”

Yeah, more tricks. Torrance may act concerned, but I know what she’s up to. She’s slamming the ball in my court, waiting to see if I can return it. Bridget might be satisfied with her lower ranking, but Torrance and I have been volleying for control ever since we met in sixth grade, and now that senior year will soon be starting—
senior year
, the most important year ever—I am not about to back down. So I swing my racket hard and say, “Who
wouldn’t
check her out, Torr? She was hot—a guy would be totally gay not to notice. Besides,” I add with a sly smile, “it’s not as though we ladies don’t do our share of scoping. We’re just not dumb enough to get caught.”

Bridget laughs. “Yeah, she’s got you on that one, Torrance!”

Ha. Serve returned, no point.

Torrance yawns as though it doesn’t bother her. “Well,
Danny
would never do that,” she says, flouncing to my closet to rummage through my clothes.

Bridget and I exchange knowing glances. Of course Danny Reynolds, Torrance’s boyfriend of only two weeks, wouldn’t check out another girl. He’s too focused on racing, and when he’s not hanging out with Blaine and Prescott, he’s at some track or in his garage. Torrance had asked Danny out because she thought it’d be glamorous to go to races and wave checkered flags like models sometimes do. But all she did last weekend was complain about the noise and dirt, so I can’t help but grin as she pulls out the brand-new Hollister skirt I got on eBay for the wonderfully low price of five dollars instead of the retail sixty.

Winning that auction felt amazing.

Almost as amazing as when I get a new client for my consignment business or if I score a big commission. And if there’s one thing Mom and I have in common, it’s our bargain-hunting skills, although she spends too much on bargains instead of important things like, oh, getting the air-conditioning fixed. At least it’s cooler tonight and Mom is on a date with an ex-military barber instead of trying to gossip with us. Or worse, telling my friends about our mutual eBay love. They would think it’s tacky, so I keep it to myself, not because I’m ashamed or that Torrance’s occasional jabs about our small house embarrass me. Shame and embarrassment are signs of weakness and weakness will get me nowhere.

Neither will expressing any doubts over my boyfriend.

Torrance tries on my skirt and does a few more poses, but a small photo album sticking out of my faux Kate Spade bag captures her attention. She opens it without asking and turns to a picture of a nine-year-old girl in a softball uniform with my father’s arm around her shoulder. “Sabrina, is this your stepsister, Angela? She’s adorable. And wow, it’s like she could pass for your father’s
real
daughter.”