Grace shakes her head, looking solemn. "Nope, she even wore her silky parent-teacher conference shirt. It's the real deal."
Last night Mom had said something about applying to be a server at Hamburger Heaven, but I thought she'd just been saying it to torture me. Like I hadn't had a bad enough day anyway. But Mom likes to joke people out of a bad mood. It's the hazard of teaching ten-year-olds. (Let's just say she uses the word Uranus much too often.) Everyone in town eats at Hamburger Heaven. Sure I'd seen more unopened bills lying around, but Mom isn't exactly—what do you call it? Organized. I assumed she'd spend her summer vacation taking teacher classes at the university, volunteering at the library, maybe tutoring a bit, and acting like, you know, a grownup. Kids from school get jobs at Hamburger Heaven.
Grace flaps the paper at me again. "What about Grandma? We have to call."
I grab the newspaper out of Grace's hand. Sure enough, in the place right above the horoscopes (which are completely unscientific and give people false illusions about finding love), there's an advice column. Not Miss Swoon but the Sassy Sage. I quickly scan the first letter about a desperate woman trying to attract a coworker. The Sassy Sage tells her to start wearing shorter skirts to work. This is an outrage. No one should date a coworker; you break up (because no relationship lasts) and they end up shoving your butt out of the pool, watching kids vomit on you, and calling you embarrassing nicknames.
I jump out of bed, clutching the paper, and immediately search for the phone. I finally find it stuck between the sofa cushions covered with crumbs. I dial the Style editor. An angry diatribe runs through my head: how dare you allow an irresponsible fool to proffer advice to idiotic love-obsessed women, et cetera, et cetera. But when a person actually answers the phone, it goes more like this: "Um, what happened to Miss Swoon?" "Oh, okay. Thank you."
"Ugh!" I toss the phone down. "I can't believe I actually said thank you!"
Grace's eyes go wide. "What happened?"
"On Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, Grandma will be replaced by a 'hip and edgy, younger syndicated columnist' due to 'decreased reader relatability.'"
"But Grandma is so good!"
"I know! What's the deal? People only need solid advice on the weekends and Tuesdays?"
I shred the rest of the paper into pieces fit for a hamster cage. At least that's what Grace says as she gathers them to save for her best friend, Amy. The pair of them are like Siamese twins with different addresses. But I've overheard them plotting to ask to be adopted by each other's families—that is if their fantasy of being shipwrecked on a tropical island where they become twin queens doesn't pan out. Thinking about their happy little friendship reminds me that I haven't called my supposedly best friend, Jane, since school got out. Not that she's called me, either. Not since I ignored her during my all-too-recent and brief relationship with Hayden Steele (after I'd ditched her for that hiking adventure with Gareth). Things aren't too copacetic between Jane and me. But that can all change now that I'm standing on the side of the dating pool. Like Miss Swoon says, "Boyfriends come and go. Girlfriends are forever."
I dial Jane's cell but hang up when I realize that it's only eight o'clock in the morning and she's probably sleeping because her summer enrichment classes don't start until next week. I look around at the mess in the living room.
"How can Mom leave the house looking like this?" Crusty dishes clutter the coffee table, along with stacks of school papers, newspapers, magazines, and, of course, bills. Grace's backpack has been in the middle of floor since the last day of school. "Oh God, my student council petition. Ugh!" I crumple the page of signatures.
"But I thought you were excited about planning dances and stuff." Grace twirls around the living room. "You said it would be so romantic."
"Only because I was tricked by my hormones."
Grace wrinkles her forehead. "But you said you were going to buy a purple dress."
I shrug. "Things change. Boys suck. And I will not be attending a prom during the Holocene Epoch."
"What?"
"It's a geology term."
"Well." She holds up a catalog for me to see. "I think you should get a blue dress."
I roll my eyes. "Oh, Grace."
"To match your eyes."
I dated Hayden during election season, unfortunately, and got talked—maybe kissed—into running for the student council. (I didn't expect to win!) Now I'll be stuck spending every Friday lunch planning the prom. Hayden didn't think I was deep enough, either, except he called it "not committed to a cause." His cause includes banning books from schools due to "negative content." I was a little too fixated on his dark hair and the way he always used SAT words correctly (so unlike Saw-Me-In-Half).
"How am I going to figure out my life if I live in a junk heap of my past?" I grab the catalog and sweep it into the pile of discarded school papers. "Grace, we're cleaning the house."
She tilts her head skeptically but then, dragging her backpack, runs off to organize her stuffed animals. I tune the radio to a country music station, since I've never dated anyone who indulged in that particular genre. I don't really like the twangy sound, but at least it doesn't bring up any bad memories. Besides, those gals are totally right about men done gone and leaving you high and dry and stuff. I'm singing along, making up my own lyrics, and collecting stacks of recycling. I open the mail, putting the bills aside for Mom.
Way too many of them have ugly red Past Due notices stamped on them. Why can't she get her act together? How difficult is it to sort through a few envelopes, sit down with a calculator, and pay the bills like an adult? This is the woman who goes ballistic if the first letter of the alphabet shows up on my report card with a minus sign attached. Mom flunks Housekeeping 101, that's for sure!
I notice an envelope with Dad's handwriting. It's the only one that's already been opened. I peek inside hoping for a note, but it's empty. He used to hand deliver the child support checks when he came to drive me to my dance lessons. Now he mails them. No note. And he never drives Grace anywhere. Too busy, he says. He bought me a car at the start of junior year so I could "help out." It should've made me happy; everyone wants a car, right? Except it felt more like he was buying me off. He can ignore me guilt-free; we now have an e-mail relationship based on forwarded articles from the New York Times.
Cleaning feels good, as if vacuuming the floor has sucked all the negative thoughts out of my mind. By the time Mom walks through the door around lunchtime, our cozy little abode looks like we're expecting company. I'm lounging on the de-crumbed sofa reading my autographed copy of Miss Swoon's Best Columns, Volume 3. I giggle over her advice to "ditch the dogs," "abandon the bums," and "leave 'em on the front porch like a pair of worn-out loafers." I love how she tells Jilted Jill to "emphasize the positivity." Yeah, I should focus on my good qualities, not Sawyer Later Alligator's various possibly appealing traits. Green eyes = so what?
Mom comes in with Hamburger Heaven To Go bags. "Good news!" She sets the bags on the counter, and I smell cheese fries. "Meet your new lunch shift Angel." Mom's smile can't hide the strain at the edge of her mouth.
"That's such a demeaning label, Mom." I hold up my Swoon book. "Grandma says titles are how we talk about each other; 'angel' might even be worse than using 'girl' in the workplace." I'm not sure where "deputy" fits into the mix, but it can't be good.
Mom frowns. "It's just a silly title. And two dollars above minimum wage plus tips." She already looks tired. "Besides, it makes me feel young and gorgeous." She fluffs her hair. "I always wanted to be an angel—like on Charlie's Angels."
Grace bursts out of her room. "Yay! And yum! Do you get to bring home treats every day?" She hugs Mom, then immediately goes rooting through the bags. "Can Amy come over to help celebrate?"
Mom nods. "Sure."
Grace runs for the phone, and Mom looks around the room. "So, aliens from the Planet De-Clutter invaded while I was gone?"
I fake a smile. "Yeah, first I couldn't find
the phone, then I lost Grace, so I figured..."
"Looks great." Mom flips through a stack of bills. "Except for these. This decorating trend is quite passé."
"Just open them on the day they come. That's easy enough, right?"
"You betcha. I just saved these because I was thinking about wallpapering the bathroom in Old American Phone Bill." Mom slides the Styrofoam container of fries over to me. "You enjoying your day off?"
I shrug. "Cleaning beats standing in a pool of pee and squealing kids."
"But you were so excited about working at Wild Waves."
"Yeah, well." I munch a soggy, slightly cold french fry. "You're not going to have to wear wings and one of those halos, are you, at your age?"
Mom rolls her eyes. "Standard uniform."
"Wait, Mom. What about Grace? With my work schedule and yours she's going to be home alone." Unless I quit my job and stay home, learning about the evils of love by watching soap operas and talk show repeats all summer. "I could always, you know, take one for the team and stay home with her."
"Oh!" Mom clapped her hands. "I completely forgot. Good news. You get to keep your summer job in the sun, and I can hustle my hiney at Hamburger Heaven because"—Mom makes a drumroll sound on the counter—"our very own favorite advice columnist is coming to stay with us for ... a while."
Grace drops the phone and jumps around the room. "Grandma's coming! Grandma's coming! Omigosh. What kinds of presents will she bring this time? I hope she brings me the new..." Grace lists must-have critters from her Internet-based stuffed animal obsession.
I watch Mom's face. "Grandma?"
"She called about needing a place to plop while her condo is renovated. And she's working on a new book. So I offered her your room and—"
"Not my room!" How can I find the positivity in that? With all the stuffed animals invading Grace's bunk bed, I might end up sleeping on the couch. Well, I did just vacuum the sofa cushions.
"Your room's bigger, so she can use it as an office of sorts, to write her column and work on her book."
Grace bounces across the sofa cushions. In her shoes. But I'm not going to think about the billions of bacteria clinging to her feet. "Yay! Grandma!"
"I guess it will be good."
"Good? It's going to be grrrrreat!" Mom lifts her fist in the air like that cartoon tiger in the cereal commercial. She really does spend too much time with ten-year-olds. Maybe having Grandma around espousing her sensible advice will help Mom get back on track. Me, too.
And soon we're all jumping around the living room imitating that obnoxious tiger.
Dear Miss Swoon:
We finally got the kids out of the house, but now my mother-in-law wants to move in. She has the means to purchase a home of her own, but she says she's afraid of living alone at her age. How do I convince my wife that we need a little empty-nest time of our own?
—Too Many Birds In The Nest
Dear Nest:
Don't push Grandma out of the nest! Life flies by. When Grandma's gone, you will have your love-nest back. And you might just miss the old bird!
—Miss Swoon
Chapter Three
We're spread out across the O.K. Corral practicing lifeguard techniques. An hour before work. An unpaid hour before work. But I'm emphasizing the positivity: my little incident is helping the entire staff, because now we're all required to take extra training. It might save lives. I'm not hearing the snide comments about drowning Pollywogs. I'm also going to forget Sonnet Silverman's blog post about Sawyer putting his hands all over my butt—she completely left out the near-drowning aspect of the situation. Six people e-mailed me last night to congratulate me on "getting back together." I only knew one of them.
The EMT instructor yawns, looking as thrilled to be here as everyone else. "Okay, partner up."
Several guys make a move toward Sonnet because that curvy little gossip rarely worries about pulling up her swimsuit.
"Looking forward to a little mouth-to-mouth action?" Sonnet asks me. "Maybe reignite your lost love?"
"Yeah, because resuscitation is so romantic."
Sonnet waggles her eyebrows. "It's all about who you're with, right?"
I giggle at the look on her face when she finds herself paired with a completely unblog-worthy sophomore. "Exactly."
She flips me off.
The other girls, including dance team diva Kipper Carlyle, head over to Aaron, the older lifeguard. Yeah, he might look exactly like an underwear mode if you were the kind of person who noticed that kind of thing. That leaves me standing next to Sawyer.
Sonnet says, "So, mouth-to-mouth can lead to making out, right?" Her partner blushes the color of a Wild Waves bandana. "I'm just asking, because Polly and—"
"Ahem." The EMT clears his throat and points to Sawyer and me. "We'll use you two as an example." I lie on the grass, pretending to have nearly drowned. Sawyer leans over me, shaking my shoulders with big warm hands. But so what? I have hands. Everyone has hands. Except that guy in that horror movie ... I'm envisioning the movie's bloodiest scene, not the way Sawyer's looking at me like he still cares, his green eyes wide and concerned. So what? I have eyes. Everyone has eyes. Except for those blind cave fish. Sawyer leans toward me, lips slightly parted. Lips = making out. No! I sit up, completely revived. "Thank you for saving me. That was great." I ignore those kinds of feelings now pulsing through my body.
"Uh-uh," the instructor says, frowning. "You've got to start chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth."
Sawyer stares at me, mouth gaping—unattractively, I might add. I pull my knees to my chest. "No need. Look." I take a few deep breaths. "Breathing just fine." I jump to my feet. "Next victim."
One of the girls who missed out on Aaron runs over. "I'll do it."
"He's all yours. I mean, it's all yours." I slink to the back of the group, partnering with a kid who's always quoting Star Wars and could be an acne cream model. No temptation there.
I spend the rest of the training session mentally focusing on the positivity about saving lives, learning new skills, and, you know, giving my partner the opportunity to touch a girl who isn't a relative. When Sawyer gives us the daily assignments, I get garbage duty.
"We're going to keep you out of the water for another day." Sawyer talks to his clipboard, and that's fine with me. Really. Let's keep this ex-ex-ex relationship strictly professional. And keep his green eyes and full lips out of it, too.
"Great!" I say with forced enthusiasm. "I'll get those litterbugs."
By my afternoon break I've touched more used drinking straws than the health department should allow. But at least the babies crawling around on the grass won't choke on them now. Still, I'm fantasizing about dipping my whole body in a vat of liquid hand-sanitizer. Not a bad fantasy, really. It's totally clean. (Get it?)
I keep my eyes on the ground, weaving between beach-towel encampments and clusters of women sitting in foldup chairs bragging about their kids between shouting reprimands to those same amazingly talented little prodigies. And even though, after working here for three days, I've pretty much decided never to reproduce, I am glad that Wild Waves caters to the elementary school crowd. No one I know would come here unless forced to attend a family reunion or company picnic. I'm almost content in a finding-inner-peace sort of way, stabbing plastic sandwich bags, hamburger wrappers, paper napkins ... I enjoy the crunchy sound the metal post makes as it slices through paper. Stab, stab, stab. I'm cleaning up a gold mine o' litter, pardner.
But then, just as I'm bending in a totally cleavage-exposing way to pick up a cluster of squashed grapes, I see Xander Cooper. Sitting on a beach towel. Biting his lip to trap the smile that completely shows in his eyes. Brown eyes that are several shades darker than his kinkyish, curlyish, sun-streaked hair.
What is he doing here? He flashes his eyebrows up at me before leaning—hair flopping over to cover his face but not his huge smile—to write something in a little black notebook.
Quickly I turn a
round and stab more and more litter, pretending the laughter I hear is coming from a bunch of scabby fourth-grade boys, not tall, lean, mocha-colored Xander Cooper. When did he start looking so—struggling for vocabulary here—hot? Why am I suddenly feeling so, um, hot? The guy lives up the street from me. I've known him since he routinely licked Kool-Aid powder off his desk in third grade, stuffed his chubby body into Spider-Man sweatpants, and hummed during silent reading time. He's such a geek—a hot (come on, brain!), sexy geek.
"Hey!" a lady yells as I pick up a few french fry cartons. "We weren't done with those! Do you know what those cost me?"
I ignore the angry lady, even though she's still ranting about concession prices. I turn back toward Xander Cooper. Did he see that? Hear that? He's occupied with blowing up a floaty. A little girl hops around jangling, as gobs of beaded braids brush her dark shoulders; a little boy stares at me through his swim goggles. I'm all confused. What's with the kids? But then I remember Xander has an older sister. He's an uncle.
"Deputy Polly?" The woman's voice sounds really—how do you say it?—sarcastic.
I finally look at her angry red face; her hair has dried funny, giving her an almost rabid demeanor. "Here," I say, handing her the five-dollar bill I'd gotten as change during lunch. "Buy more fries."
"It's the principle of the thing," she huffs, taking my money.
I decide to clean up the other side of the good old O.K. Corral, steering clear of Xander. Just real quick, I glance over at him. He's holding that little notebook again, but now he's watching a baby giggle as a woman blows soap bubbles. Oh, to be so easily charmed. I'm talking about the baby, not the guy and certainly not me.
I tug the front of my suit up, my shorts down. Maybe if I were a deeper thinker, I'd be able to come up with a simple biological explanation for why someone like Xander Cooper would send my body chemistry into such a frenzy. I did read somewhere that biracial faces are more symmetrical or something. As I look over at Sonnet patrolling the Lazy River, I see that I'm not the only one noticing his hotter than hot (please, brain cells) presence. She's most definitely not concerned about the state of her swimsuit. So what? He's just a human being. A regular person with flaws, even if they aren't visible to the, you know, human eye.
Swoon at Your Own Risk Page 2
