Just Flirt (9 page)

The ball lands once again in my court and hits me right in the gut.

Hard.

I look out the window to the faded shed where Dad used to park his Chevy Suburban. Because he didn’t see me last Friday and our next custody weekend is a week away, we made pre–Father’s Day plans to hang out in Harpers Ferry having lunch and biking the C&O Canal. But when I arrived at his house in West Virginia early this morning, Dad was loading that Suburban with ball bags, folding chairs, and coolers.

“Honey, I’m so sorry, Angela has a makeup game today,” he said, after giving me a warm hug. “Is it okay if we go? You and I will have plenty of time to talk, but I’d understand if you’d rather skip it.”

Had it not been for the fact that it rained yesterday, I would have believed Angela planned it deliberately, judging from the victorious glare she shot me from the backseat in her bright red softball uniform. What I wanted to say was no, Dad, let’s keep it just us, but that would have only made me sound like a total diva so I sucked it up and said, “Sure, no problem.”

“That’s my girl. It’ll be fun.”

Despite the fact that Angela’s teammates chanted nonstop with these annoying, high-pitched shrieks and parents kept grumbling over bad calls, it was fun hanging out with him, just like it’s fun hanging out with Torrance when she’s not starting a pissing contest. Dad and I got to talk—really talk, about school, Blaine, and of course, my mother.

“I want you to know, Sabrina,” Dad said from where we sat underneath a canopy that shook with every strong breeze, “how frustrated I was when your mother went against our custody agreement last weekend.”

So was I, but something about his curt tone worried me. “Are you going to tell your lawyer?”

Dad waited for a nearby dad to stop cheering over his daughter’s base hit and then leaned close, squeezing my hand. The familiar smell of Old Spice aftershave swept over me, making me yearn for the days when the scent lingered in our bathroom long after his morning shower. “Honey, your mom has … issues. She’s still angry at me and doing that will only make it worse, so let’s just be tolerant for now, okay?”

The canopy shook again. I swallowed hard and said, “Okay.”

Maybe that was the best option. And it is decent how he’s always patient with Mom. So why wasn’t I relieved? But then Angela trotted over in her cleats and grabbed a Gatorade from the cooler. “Hey, Dad, did you see me steal home?”

Oh, the little jerk.

She knows perfectly well how much I hate her calling him that and it didn’t help when Dad,
my dad
, gave her a high five and said, “Good job, Ang, that catcher didn’t even know what was going on.”

Angela shot me another one of her preteen smirks before hustling back to the bench. Fine. Congratulations, home stealer.

Score one for you.

But unlike the catcher, I knew her game. Same with Belinda, my stepmother, who stopped working at the concession stand long enough to bring us both hot dogs even though I despise them. Still, I took a small bite of mine and tried not to gag when Belinda kissed my father hard on the lips. I hate seeing them kiss. For some reason, it makes him seem more like a man rather than my father.

Belinda sat in the empty chair beside him and pulled off her baseball cap, fluffing her high/low highlights that I suspect cover a boatload of gray hair. “Sabrina, I’m sorry you missed Angela’s birthday party. We even had a small gift for you so you wouldn’t feel left out,” she said with enthusiasm, as though I should be grateful for my consolation present or for my “bedroom” in their basement that’s nothing but a glorified dungeon. But I didn’t realize last weekend was Angela’s birthday. That would have been a
nightmare
, so okay, even though Mom was totally in the wrong for making me stay with her … it was a slight blessing in disguise.

Very slight.

Belinda pulled a small photo album from her bulging Vera Bradley bag and tossed it to me. “Want to see the pictures? The flowers were so gorgeous—your father picked them out. And hey, they’re doubles, so you can keep them, Sabrina, in case you’d like some current pictures of your dad.”

Keep them, was she kidding me? Her offer might sound innocent, but I knew what she was up to. The pictures of the three of them were a reminder that Dad is a member of
their
family now, not mine. And she was probably hoping I’d refuse them in front of him, making me the bad guy once again. So I squinted at a photo of them taken near a floral arrangement and said, “They are gorgeous, Belinda! My mother
adores
tiger lilies. They’re her favorite, so I’ll be sure to show her these.”

She frowned as I casually tossed the album in my purse.

My mother does love tiger lilies, that part is true, but I will
never
show her these pictures. That would be too cruel, no matter how angry she makes me. However, seeing the realization that the flowers Dad had picked are my
mother’s
favorite pass over Belinda’s face made being forced to watch another softball game so, so worth it.

Score one for me.

*   *   *

Torrance, Bridget, and I are almost ready for the party when the front door crashes open and footsteps pound across the kitchen floor hard enough to make the windows rattle. Great. Mom’s home early from her date with what’s-his-name so my bedroom will be her first stop after seeing Torrance’s BMW parked out front. Sure enough, Mom with her perpetual desire to be a teenager again bursts through the door seconds later.

“Sabrina, I’m in, sweetheart, I’m
in
!”

As Mom grabs my hands, I notice Torrance giving Bridget a
good thing she’s not my mother
look. I try to pull away but Mom squeezes harder. “Jane Barton called and they need a replacement, so let’s get cracking, young lady!”

What?
Oh, no, I don’t think so.

It was bad enough that Mom stopped by Barton’s this morning despite me telling her how Chuck may not appreciate her soliciting his competition—true—and how it’s been rumored that Jane Barton discriminates when hiring employees—which, okay, wasn’t true.

It was also bad enough that Mom complained to me on my cell during Angela’s entire sixth inning about how Jane hardly paid attention to her. But now Mom thinks we’re going anywhere near Dee’s home, let alone
working
for her? Oh, no. Absolutely no.

“Well, you should cancel, Mother, since she was so rude to you today. Besides, I have plans. We’re going to Prescott’s party.”

Normally, any mention of Prescott, whose
single
father is the mayor of Riverside, would cause Mom to nonchalantly finger a lock of hair while asking how that nice Prescott boy is doing and wouldn’t it be fun if we all got together? But she ignores me and makes a dive for my closet instead, rifling through my clothes as though the Royal Ball is in one hour and her fairy godmother is stuck in traffic. “Are you crazy, Sabrina, and miss an opportunity like this?” she says, looking at me over her shoulder with a sparkle in her eye. “Don’t worry—after one night, Jane will love me, so cancel them plans, sweetie. And wear something western. They got a cute Wild West theme going on tonight. Ooo, I’ll wear my cowboy boots! And where’s that new skirt you bought on—”

“Torrance is wearing it,” I quickly say before she can let out my eBay secret. “And you
really
want me to miss Prescott’s party? Prescott
Mannings
?”

Mom stops rifling, her expression fiery as she points at me with one of her Billy Joel nails that are painted black with white musical notes. “Sabrina, I want to make a good impression tonight, so you, young lady, will be there, am I clear?”

I know from experience that Storm Mona is about to blow, and how the humiliating damage in front of my friends would be far worse than any eBay confessions. So I concede by saying, “When are we leaving?”

Mom smiles, the danger gone. She gives me a Billy Joel thumbs-up. “Twenty minutes. And don’t worry, sweetie, tonight’s going to be such a hootenanny you won’t miss any party! And stop calling me Mother!”

After she flounces out of the room, taking my brand-new Old Navy tank that won’t survive her D cups, Torrance stares at me in disbelief. “Hootenanny? What’s a hootenanny? And don’t you
dare
tell me you’re bailing on Prescott’s. We’re supposed to go
together
, remember, because Blaine has other plans and Danny is spending the night getting ready for his race tomorrow.”

Like I have a choice. But the last thing I want is for them to go to the party and gossip about me, so it looks like I’ll just have to play a trick of my own. “Well, girls, you might want to come with
me
, considering who else will be there.”

“Who?” Torrance says, still sulking as she reaches for her Coach purse that, unlike my Kate Spade, is definitely not faux.

“Desperate Dee.”

Torrance’s eyes light up, enough to make her stop fishing for her keys. “Dee Barton? That’s right, I totally forgot she lives at a trailer park. We could have fun with that, couldn’t we?”

“Exactly. And—” Time to lay down my last card. “Her friend, Nose-Pick Natalie, might be there as well. So are you in?”

Torrance seems intrigued, her pretty face scrunched up in concentration over the possibilities. But then she says, “No, we’ll stick with Prescott’s. Bridget and I will be thinking of you, though.”

*   *   *

By the time Mom settles on an outfit and redoes her makeup, we are fifteen minutes late. She climbs into the Trooper and backs out of the driveway. “By the way, Sabrina, I forgot to tell you. Blaine called while you were loading the equipment.”

I pat my shorts pockets. Empty. Seriously, I
have
to stop leaving my cell within her reach! “He did? What did he say?”

Mom hands me my phone and then throws the Trooper in drive before cranking up her favorite Tanya Tucker song. “Oh, he wanted to know what you were doing.”

Panic shoots through me as she shimmies to the beat with the wind from the open window already starting to frizz her blown-out hair. “Mom, did you tell him where we were going?” I half shout.

Please say you didn’t.
I do
not
want Blaine to know we’re working at Dee’s in case he decides to stop by. But that’s ridiculous. If I were a guy, I would never go to my ex-girlfriend’s home with my new girlfriend.

Unless … I still had feelings for my ex.

“Darling, do you think I’m stupid?” Mom huffs out an exasperated sigh just as a bug slams against the windshield. “Of course I told him, in case he wanted to see me perform. And do you know what that sweet boy said? He said he wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

My stomach drops.

She told him. How could she do that? Now I almost wish I hadn’t hid Belinda’s photo album before she could see it.

Almost.

The Superflirt Chronicles

… blogs from a teenage flirtologist

Saturday evening, June 19

W
EEKEND
F
LIRT
R
EPORT
T
AKE
T
WO

MOOD: Determined

MUSIC: “Shine,” Laura Izibor

Well, well, well, things certainly have gotten rather interesting here at the campground.

Mercedes is here.

Yes, you read that correctly. Mercedes, the jerk who once made me feel bad about myself. Bad, guilty, insecure, ashamed, paranoid, and hopeless. The scum who took my heart, rolled it in dirt, and jammed it through a paper shredder now actually has the nerve to set foot on
my
turf.

But wait—it gets worse.

Mercedes is here with his evil
girlfriend
.

Yeah, I know.

So, if you will excuse me, I think I’m going to leave the store and run to my bedroom for a good long cry before burying myself in a canoe-sized tub of Cookies ‘N Cream ice cream. No, Rocky Road. Yes, Rocky Road ice cream, and then
another
good cry.

Hmm.

Surely you don’t believe that, now, do you?

Good. Because what I’m
really
going to do is give Mercedes his own Rocky Road by finding myself a cute but gullible dude to flirt with right in front of him and make that jerk perfectly aware of what he’s missing because—sorry—Evil Girlfriend’s legs will
never
be as good as mine. Or, better yet, I might fight off my gag reflex and flirt with Mercedes myself and
then
move on to my cute but gullible dude. After all, the song “Shine” does say, “Let the sun shine on your face.”

My sun is
so
ready to shine.

Until then, please allow me to make the following public service announcement for all women out there who have either been through or who are currently in a bad relationship:

*Ahem.*

Relationships are supposed to make you feel good.

Relationships are NOT supposed to make you feel bad.

Or guilty, insecure, ashamed, paranoid, or hopeless.

Good.

So when a relationship makes you feel bad, guilty, insecure, ashamed, paranoid, or hopeless, end it. Get over him. Move on.

Flirt.

6
Sabrina

“Excuse me, lady, can I sing this?”

Sweat trickles down my back as I heave a speaker onto its stand. A little girl in a saggy-bottomed yellow swimsuit holds out a song selection slip, but I hardly pay attention to her or any of the other campers who are clustered around the song books like vocal vultures.