Swoon at Your Own Risk

by Sydney Salter

  After my shift I walk over to the employee locker room. Someone's phone rings, playing an intensely grating tween pop song. It's mine. How many times have I told Grace not to mess with my phone? Ignoring the dirty looks I'm getting from fellow employees (what else is new?), I fumble with my locker combination and dig around for my phone. It's Jane.

  "So, hey. I noticed you called me yesterday?" She sounds way more confused than a best friend should. "Is something wrong?"

  "No, of course not." I grab my tote bag and exit the locker room without changing into regular clothes. Too many ears listening. Too much Sonnet Silverman hoping to score another blog entry. "What? Do I only call you when I'm having a crisis?" I laugh, not thinking about my teary post-Gareth, he-doesn't-think-I-appreciate-nature-enough phone call. Or my post-Hayden, so-what-if-I-don't-have-an-opinion-on-school-vouchers phone call.

  Jane's quiet for a few moments, as if she's also listening to my thoughts. "Um, well, lately? Yeah."

  I feign a laugh as I cross the parking lot to my car. "Well, the new me is all about you! I was just calling to see what you were up to, because, you know, it's Friday. The first—well, I guess the second Friday of, you know, summer vacation. And—"

  "You called on Thursday morning."

  "Oh yeah. Well, I was still thinking—"

  "Don't you work on Thursdays?"

  I click my doors open. "Had the day off." I slide into my sauna of a car, thighs burning on the leather seats. "So, you know..."

  Jane barrages me with questions. Did you get fired? No. Did you quit? I wish. Was there an incident? Sort of. Sawyer? Sort of. Are you over him? Yes. Is he over you? Big yes.

  Jane sighs. "Well, what happened?"

  As I drive home, I tell her the short version of the incident, the one that makes me look heroic and worthy of her friendship. "But I really did call because I wanted to hang out with you."

  "You're not crushing on some debate team guy, are you?"

  "No! Why do you always think it's about that?"

  "Hayden."

  "But that was, like, weeks ago."

  "Three weeks ago."

  "Well, in dog years that's practically eighth grade."

  Jane laughs. "A group of us is getting together tonight."

  "Oh, great. Debate team people?"

  "Polly! You said—"

  "Joking."

  "Actually, yearbook staff."

  I mentally go over the yearbook staff, visualizing the group photo. Crazy, red-haired dude. Nope. Math class guy. Nope. Lurking photographer. Nope. "Sounds great. And hey, Jane. Just for the record, I've sworn off guys. For good."

  Jane guffaws—in an entirely unfeminine manner, I might add. I try to do all the traditional see-you-later, good-bye stuff, but she's laughing so hard she can't breathe. I tell myself she's watching something funny on TV. It's not about me.

  Dear Miss Swoon:

  Why are girls always attracted to the jerks who don't treat them right?

  —Not A Bad Boy

  Dear Not:

  Rebels = fun!

  —Miss Swoon

  Toothless grin, a chubby hand, reaches for the ethereal. The temporary. A soapy bubble bursts in her hand. A quick frown pops her smile. But with each new bubble the baby giggles again and again.

  —X.C.

  Chapter Four

  Yes, I think as we sit in Rowdy Cox's basement with a bunch of people from the yearbook staff. This is why my friendship with Jane is so good for me.

  Several of us sit squished together on a plaid 1980s sectional that smells like it's stuffed with wet dog hair, watching the second installment of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I'm completely bored, but I'm bonding with Jane; our flesh practically melds as I sit crushed between her and a dweeby freshman kid who keeps moving his leg away from mine like I've got cooties or something. Cooties = good. I've got to find my inner cootie catcher again, maybe return to a more third-grade view of romance. Boys = yucky. (Think Xander Cooper licking grape Kool-Aid powder off his desk.) We're all taking big handfuls of stale popcorn out of a bag the size of a five-yearold. And it's probably about that old. I hold a handful of stale kernels in my hand, not wanting to, you know, ingest them. A few of the guys take sips from one shared beer. There's no way I'm going to get myself into trouble here.

  "Jane." I whisper since these guys take the movie quite seriously. "Where's the bathroom?"

  "Upstairs near the kitchen."

  The freshman looks palpably relieved when I extricate myself from the sofa.

  "We're not scaring you off, are we?" Rowdy asks.

  His friends laugh nervously.

  "Nope. Just using the ladies' room. Don't want to miss it when that Egghorn guy comes back riding his stallion."

  Blank looks.

  Whatever.

  In the kitchen I immediately find the trash under the sink, ditch the stale popcorn, and wipe my greasy hands. I spend a few minutes looking at the stuff pinned to the refrigerator. Rowdy has a sibling who loves to draw stick figures. I peer into the family photos, noticing how smiley his parents look. One big happy family at the beach. We don't have recent photos like that at my house. We haven't taken a vacation since my parents divorced, other than a few trips to visit Grandma. I do spend a couple of days each summer up at the cabin with Dad. Other than that he's real busy and I'm supposedly busy. I lean closer, examining their faces to see if these people are really all that happy. I hear the front door open and immediately grab a glass out of the dish rack as if I'd come upstairs to get a drink of water.

  "Polly?" The voice sounds confused, and familiar.

  I spin around. "Oh. Uh, hi, Hayden. Didn't realize you were part of the yearbook staff."

  He furrows his eyebrows in a way that makes me want to study SAT words with him again. "I'm not." He sets a two-liter bottle of Coke on the counter, along with a bag of pretzels. "Rowdy invited me over for a Lord of the Rings party."

  "Like, duh. I just thought everyone knew each other from yearbook or something. I'm here with Jane." I emphasize her name to make it clear that I'm not noticing his crisply ironed khaki shorts.

  I turn around and fill my glass with water and drink it above the sink, even though it's warm. Not quite as warm as my cheeks. "Everyone's downstairs," I say. "Egghorn's about to save the day again."

  "Aragorn."

  "Hmm?" I fill my glass again because it's the only thing I can think of doing.

  "Polly? What are you doing here? You hate fantasy films."

  "No, I don't. Besides, I think it has enough battle scenes to be called a movie, not a film."

  Hayden's mouth curves into a slight smile. "You sound just like that critic on NPR. You're still listening to her, aren't you?" He looks far too pleased about influencing my media habits.

  "Only because I haven't gotten around to changing my presets." I shrug. "Anyway, I'm here to spend time with Jane. Better get back to the movie." I turn and run downstairs, not thinking about how arguing with Hayden makes me want to do other things with him, or to him.

  Jane's now sitting on the floor close to Rowdy—intentionally close. Maybe she just wants to avoid taking on the scent of the sofa. She would have told me if she'd started crushing on someone like Rowdy, right? That so isn't Jane. She's focused on the future: SAT prep, applying for scholarships, taking university classes to get her prerequisites out of the way, and things like that. Not doofus boys like Rowdy who join the yearbook staff to avoid taking more—how do you say it?—academic subjects.

  I plop down on the sofa next to the freshman; he holds a cross-stitched pillow across his lap like a shield. I'm not going to even think about why. More blood and guts spill onscreen. Hayden steps down into the basement carrying a bowl of pretzels, a stack of cups, and the bottle of Coke.

  "Hey, hey, Hayden!" Rowdy shouts. "You almost missed it."

  "Told you I had to volunteer, my man." Hayden glances around the room, sees me, looks at the group sitting on the floor, and joins me on the sofa. Freshman guy
hugs his pillow tighter. I brace my foot on the floor to prevent myself from sliding up against Hayden, but the worn-out cushions don't cooperate.

  I try to watch the movie, but watching Jane is far more interesting, although frankly more disturbing, than losing the battle for Middle Earth or whatever. I'm not worried about all those gobbledygook creatures, but I am worried about Jane's judgment. Rowdy makes a joke and Jane laughs, leaning her head against his shoulder.

  Hayden whispers to me about the student council, as if that topic still interests me even remotely. I nod every time he pauses, only mildly impressed by his correct usage of two- and three-syllable words.

  Soon Rowdy has his arm behind Jane's back, barely touching her, but I recognize the basic Hook Up at a Party 101 move.

  "So, I thought I might start a student council listserv for the summer. Get the ideas flowing," Hayden says, sitting so close that I feel his breath on my neck. "What do you think?"

  "Yeah, whatever. Sounds good." Hayden makes me uncomfortable, acting like we're still in some sort of relationship even though he made it clear that he has more "pressing priorities for the foreseeable future." When he rests his hand on my arm, I lean forward.

  "Hey, Jane." I poke her in the back. "You wanna get going?"

  Rowdy whips his arm back into his lap, and Jane looks as crestfallen as she did the time I accidentally sat on her graham cracker gingerbread house in fifth grade. "Not yet." She scoots a little closer to Rowdy. "Oh, I love this part," Jane says. Onscreen Frodo's friend goes for the Ring. Little traitor! Doesn't Jane see the irony here? I sink back into the couch, sighing deep.

  Hayden leans back next to me, smelling squeaky clean. "I knew you hated this movie. I mean, film."

  I fold my arms across my chest. "Shut up."

  Hayden laughs to himself, popping a piece of peppermint gum into his mouth. It does not remind me of kissing him. He offers the pack to me. "Want one?"

  "No, thanks." I'm not falling for all that minty fresh business again. No way.

  I poke Jane.

  "What?" Rowdy's got his arm around her again.

  "Can we, um, talk for a second?"

  One of the guys makes a crude remark, and Rowdy punches him in the arm, destroying Jane's cozy little snuggle-fest. She stands up to avoid being crushed by the impromptu wrestling match that's broken out on the floor. "Okay, fine."

  "Hey, you scared of the Orcs?" Rowdy teases. "I'll protect you!" He reaches for Jane's arm, but the other guy tackles him again.

  Jane glares at me. Doesn't she realize that I'm protecting her? Dating Rowdy would be like going out with an Orc, not to mention a complete social disaster worthy of its own trilogy. I push myself off the sofa, not saying anything to Hayden, and follow Jane out of the room. I can still feel the warmth of his leg on mine, not that I'm noticing; it's just that the air conditioning is turned up high and the basement is freezing. I rub my arms.

  Jane stops halfway on the stairs. "Okay. Talk."

  "Can we at least go upstairs?"

  I glance back at Rowdy—now throwing handfuls of the greasy, stale popcorn at people.

  "I don't want to leave yet." Jane's mouth is tight. "I'm having fun."

  I nudge her in the ribs with my elbow. "Then why aren't you smiling?"

  "If this is about Hayden, just deal with it."

  "What? No. I don't even care about that. It's so over."

  "Really." Jane huffs. "Then let's get back to the movie."

  "It's just that I'm kind of tired: you know, long week at work soaking in urine, nearly drowning and all."

  Jane peeks at her cell phone. "It's only eight thirty."

  "Yeah, well." I bite my lip. I'm not going to admit that Hayden is freaking me out—what with smelling all bathed, brushed, and kissable. Why didn't I drive? Then Jane could have her ill-advised Orcish moment or whatever, and I could go home, hide under my covers—while I still have my own room—and detox from a week's worth of ex-boyfriend contamination. "I've got to clean out my room, what with my grandma coming and all."

  Jane raises her eyebrows. "Maybe Hayden will give you a ride?"

  "Jane, don't."

  "Don't what? How many times have I been stuck, left, or ignored because of your—"

  I put my hand up. "Don't. I get it."

  "Do you? Because it doesn't seem like it. Seems like you're only thinking about Polly."

  "That's not fair," I whisper. The back of my throat tingles. So do my eyes. I turn and watch Rowdy dog pile onto the sofa with the other guys, screaming about Orcs. What could she possibly see in the guy?

  Jane turns her back to me, flipping her hair. "Maybe you can walk home like I did that night you left the basketball game with Sawyer." She walks down a couple of steps. "Too bad it isn't snowing."

  I feel slapped. Did I do that? Yes, but—

  Jane runs across the room and flops onto Rowdy's lap, giggling. I walk upstairs. Maybe I do deserve this. I will walk home. It's good exercise, right? Positivity. On the way home I can figure things out, Zen-style. I remember that fortune I saved from a cookie a few weeks ago that said something about enjoying the journey.

  I grab my purse and stand in the foyer debating myself. Just walk home. That will show her. No one should be stuck in a dark basement with a fresh ex. Jane can't expect me to stay, right? I'm going to walk. I hope she feels totally guilty. I had hoped to have some girl talk time. Well, I'd listen to Jane talk, anyway. I like thinking about her sensible ideas. If I'd spent more time listening to Jane last year, I could have avoided a whole heap of ex-ex-ex-ex-ex trouble. But with the way she's now going after the great Orc clone, I'm not sure she'd have much to say tonight. I'll wait to talk to Grandma; she wrote an entire book, called Swoon for Yourself, about living single and happy, even though she, you know, ended up marrying her publicist.

  As I walk down the front steps, I'm surprised that it's still light outside. I look around and gather my bearings, searching for my neighborhood in the valley below. Really it's not that far, especially if I walk along the highway for a bit and cut down Apricot Avenue. The air feels warm, and I relax a little, thinking that a long walk might do me a lot of good. Across the street a couple saunters past walking a pair of fluffy golden retrievers. I decide to walk in the other direction.

  At the bottom of the hill cars zoom past on the highway. Ignoring the air whooshing past, I step onto the sandy shoulder. My heart pounds slightly as a semi truck takes up too much room. I wish I could call Mom, but she's covering a co-worker's shift at Hamburger Heaven. Really the woman can't say no. She reminds me of Stretched Too Thin from Miss Swoon's Tuesday column. Mom's on practically every single committee at her school and then spends time tutoring kids on the weekends. Sure, I've got obligations like organizing the Nature Club trail cleanup, Hayden's book drive thing, and planning that pathetic prom, but it's not the same.

  About a half hour later Hayden's car zips past me. Bumper stickers cover bumper stickers, making the car resemble that nasty plaid sectional, except the car is patriotic red, white, and blue. I've always wanted to ask if he joins political causes for the stickers the way Grace still orders Happy Meals for the toys.

  Hayden's Ford Focus swings to the side of the road, kicking up dust. What now? Right after a rumbling cement truck passes, Hayden's door swings open, and he runs down the road toward me.

  He gasps. "What are you doing out here?"

  "Painting my nails." I roll my eyes.

  "Jane said you left, but she didn't say you were walking. You live miles from here." Hayden jumps into a patch of weeds as a Corvette cruises past. "I'll give you a ride."

  "No, thanks." I suck in my breath as a minivan swerves away from the shoulder, but I keep walking. Hayden follows behind me, stumbling in the thick weeds growing along the shoulder.

  "Polly, this is crazy. You're going to get us killed."

  I turn around. "I didn't ask you to be here." I reach Hayden's car; red paint gleams between the bumper stickers. I keep walking.

>   Hayden follows. "Please get in the car, Polly. Please."

  I ignore him and keep walking, sticking a little closer to the shoulder when I realize that the sun is going down and I'm walking in the shadows. Hayden finally gives up and runs back to his car. As he speeds past me, I wave cheerfully.

  The car pulls over, brake lights flashing red. Again, Hayden gets out, jogs toward me. "Just get in the car, Polly. Let me drive you home. As a friend, if that's what this is about."

  "This isn't about anything. Can't a girl walk home in peace?" A passing sedan honks at me, a little too angry sounding.

  "Be careful!" Hayden pulls me by the arm into the weedy section. I shake him off, but now we're both stumbling along in the dusky light. Really Hayden's precious city council should get someone to mow this stuff down, maybe install some good lighting. Sidewalks.

  Hayden makes a move to grab my arm when we reach his car again. But I run ahead of him, now jogging along the side of the road, feet slipping in the sand. I hear Hayden make an exasperated sound like he does when he's displeased with some politician's gaffe. Why does he care? He decided not to care about me three weeks ago when he told me we should "take a break during campaign season and see where we are in November." I apparently distracted him too much, taking away precious volunteer time. I think he freaked because he got a B plus on a civics exam. Making out ≠ studying.

  Hayden's car roars ahead of me. His break lights flash, but he doesn't pull over. A pickup honks, nearly hitting him, before swerving into the other lane. Hayden speeds up. But then I see those break lights flash one more time. He pulls over to the side of the road. In the darkness I hear his car door slam. Traffic has thinned out a little, but it's pretty dark now.

  "I hope you know that I can't even see you from here!" he shouts. "You're wearing rather dark clothing."

  I look down at my jeans and purple T-shirt. So what if I can't, um, see my own legs? I hear Hayden's feet crunching along toward me at a slow jog. "Polly." He sounds breathless. "You will get into my car. And trust me, I'm not doing this because I—" He takes another deep breath. "It's just that I like to think of myself as a decent human being. I don't want your death on my conscience."