Swoon at Your Own Risk

by Sydney Salter

  I spot a kid about to snap a girl's swimsuit straps. "Hands to yourself!" The kid looks at me with wide-eyed innocence. "Yeah, well, I saw you!" Little perverts like him should be branded so girls like me won't try to date them in high school. I'm sure Kurt snapped swimsuits!

  I tug my swimsuit up, shorts down. "Is there a single person here who isn't compelled to break the rules?" I say it too loud, and a couple of mom types glare at me like How dare you talk about my snot-dripping cuties?

  "What rule am I breaking?"

  I spin around at the sound of Xander Cooper's voice, not that I recognize it or anything, but he has been bringing his niece and nephew here all week and I've heard him talking to them. This is the first time he's talked to me. He smiles with one eyebrow raised in a question. I look into his eyes— big brown eyes—because he's not wearing a shirt. His lips curve into a smirk, and I realize that my witty response is way overdue.

  I tilt my head. "I think you know."

  That makes him laugh. "Yeah, but do you know?"

  I gawk at him. My mind goes blank. My eyes flash down at his chest. No, not there. I look up at his hair. Not there, either. I focus on his wrist. How can a wrist be sexy? Fingers. Smudged with black ink. He's been writing in that notebook on and off all morning, not that I'm watching, but it is my job to patrol, or whatever.

  "Do you?" he asks, touching inky fingers to his kinky-curly hair.

  Yeah, I do know. He's broken the rule of standing so close to me that I can smell his sunscreen and see the mole on his left wrist, the chapped spot on his bottom lip, the reddish streak in his hair, the way his skin is the color of tea with milk. Grandma drinks a lot of tea. Thinking about Grandma is much preferable to thinking about—Wait! He's the kid who once ate an old piece of chewed gum from under my desk. I take a deep breath and draw myself up a bit taller, in spite of the way it makes my swimsuit pull downward.

  "Oh, I think I do know." I resist tugging at my suit, my shorts. "But you should know that I like to follow the rules." Rule number one: avoid guys!

  I ignore a group of kids running past screaming, whacking each other with their towels, and clearly violating Wild Waves regulations one through three. Well, maybe they don't all have communicable diseases, but whatever.

  Xander cuts his eyes toward them. "Clearly some rules are made to be broken."

  Sawyer's whistle blows but who cares? I ignore the screaming, splashing sound echoing off the walls of the Lazy River. The whistle blows again. "Polly!" Sawyer screams. "Take action."

  So I do. I look straight into Xander Cooper's eyes and say, "Don't mess with the deputy, Mr. Cooper." I head over to the melee in the pool, but over my shoulder I say, "Or I'll have to lock you up."

  Now he's the one who's speechless.

  I cannonball into the water—yeah, breaking the always-enter-via-the-stairway rule, but I'm an employee, right? And we have a situation. Plus, I need to cool my hot face, skin, hot all of me. I stay underwater for a few seconds, but Sawyer's still blowing that whistle, so I pop up, brush my hair back, and swim the few strokes toward the boys who've created an inner tube barricade under the Shot-Bucket Waterfall—about once a minute a gunshot pings, and the bucket dumps water into the Lazy River. These boys have got a younger kid trapped, and they've decided it's funny to steer his head under the streaming water. I recognize Corn Dog Boy.

  "Hey, you!" I try to blow my whistle, but it's full of water. "Stop right now!"

  The victim gets dunked by another bucket of water.

  I reach over and yank one kid's tube out from under him. "I said stop!" But of course, that kid doesn't hear me because he's under water. So I knock another kid off his tube. If they're all concerned with staying afloat, they can't torture their victim, right? With my foot I give the victim's tube a good shove so he drifts away.

  The other kids have turned on me. One says, "Hey! I'm telling my mom you pushed me into the water!"

  "I'm going to tell her that you were engaging in unnecessary roughhousing."

  The kid looks at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "My mom is going to be so mad at you! I almost drownded."

  "The word is drowned! You almost drowned. I mean, not really. Argh!"

  Sawyer blows his whistle loud. Right next to me. Deafening.

  "Out of the pool, boys."

  "Okay," Corn Dog Boy says. "But did you see what she did?"

  "You're still in the penalty box." Sawyer points to the pool stairs. "Back to the twenty-yard line."

  Now I look at him like he's speaking a foreign language, but the kids seem to understand his well-churned sports metaphor. And he thinks he can become an ESPN commentator!

  "You, too, Pollywog. We need to discuss procalls."

  Protocol. The word is protocol.

  Sawyer waves Sonnet over. "Here's the lowdown. I need you to man the Lazy River for a few minutes."

  "Gosh, Sawyer. Can't you tell that I'm a girl?" She throws her shoulders back, exposing even more mammary tissue. "Isn't that kind of sexist? Shouldn't I 'woman' the Lazy River?"

  "Yeah, sure." Sawyer runs his hand through his hair. "Just do it, okay?"

  "'Do it.'" Sonnet snickers. "Who with?"

  Sawyer puts his hand on my shoulder—what gives him the right?—and steers me toward the employee break room behind The General Store.

  "You owe me one, Sawyer," Sonnet says. "There's a totally cute dad in the Splash Pasture."

  I look back over my shoulder. "Um, gross."

  "Don't judge, Pollywog. What about that single dad of yours? "

  I shake Sawyer's hand off. "What?"

  "That tall iced coffee of a man who doesn't seem to own a shirt?"

  "Xander Cooper? He goes to our school. And those aren't his kids; they're his niece and nephew."

  Sonnet's mouth gapes. "How come I've never noticed him before?"

  I shrug. "He's more of an academic guy. And maybe he finally had his growth spurt?"

  "Well, hell, sign me up for the physics club!" Sonnet chuckles. "Spurt? Good one, P.M."

  "Sonnet, please?" Sawyer's all business. "I just need a few seconds alone with Polly."

  Sonnet winks at me. "So, is that why you kids broke up?"

  I roll my eyes. Sawyer ignores her—more likely he didn't get the joke.

  "Look, Sawyer. Can't you yell at me here?"

  "Is that what you think? I'm not going to yell; I just want to talk deep."

  "Can't we just talk in the deep end?"

  Sawyer knits his eyebrows. "No, we're going to the employee break room."

  I sigh. "Never mind."

  On the other side of the O.K. Corral I spot Xander Cooper sitting in the shade, writing in his notebook while watching a sparrow struggle to fly with a french fry in its beak. He snaps the notebook shut as we pass. But when I look back reflexively, he makes his fingers into a gun and shoots me, then blows on his finger. What a doofus! So, what's wrong with my palpitating heart? He used to be so ... so not hot. Xander tips an invisible cowboy hat to me. Freak.

  I'm jittery as Sawyer motions for me to sit in a plastic chair. "You can get your towel first."

  "I'm okay." I look at the Wanted poster hanging on the wall displaying the employee of the month: Acne Cream Guy. I want my brain to cooperate: stop sending all these chemical signals to my heart, stomach, quivering knees.

  "You're shivering."

  "Just because I'm nervous." I try to rub my goose pimples away. "Going over the big protocol and everything." How can Xander Cooper have this effect on me? I know way too much about his sordid elementary school habits.

  "This is serious, Polly. You're having trouble controlling with control."

  I look at him, confused. Does he know about Xander Cooper? Did he totally see me flirting? Was I blushing that much? Sure, I felt hot, but it's ninety-four degrees outside. I let my guard down a bit. "I know. But I'm working on it."

  Sawyer's forehead squishes into a frown. "Kids just don't listen to you."

  "Oh, the ki
ds." I shift in my chair. "Well, yeah, those little brats don't listen to anyone. Have you seen the way they treat their mothers?"

  "Wild Waves safety depends upon your ability to lead the team."

  "Well, hey, I told you the deputy should be allowed to carry a gun. And a lasso."

  "That wasn't funny this morning and it isn't funny now." Sawyer pulls a chair out, turns it backward, and sits down, draping his arms over the backrest. "Polly, if you want to keep this job, you've got to learn how to act like a coach, you know? Ruling with rules. And you can't dump kids in the water."

  "Fine. I obviously suck at this job. So fire me." Yeah, I totally need the money, but who needs the temptation—I mean, aggravation? I'll never save enough money for college anyway.

  Sawyer rests his warm hand on my clammy arm. "I know how much this job means to you. You were so excited about it back—"

  "Before I got in over my head in the deep end?" I hate the way he acts like a concerned dad—not that I have much experience in that department, but whatever. He keeps looking at me with his big puppy-dog eyes, all interested in my well-being. What a poser.

  He doesn't even smile. "I don't want our relationship—what used to be our relationship, a more involved, yet not quite that involved, involvement of sorts—to dampen your summer employment enjoyment."

  "Employment enjoyment?" He sounds like a poorly written English essay, the kind he writes all the time. "Dampen?" I look down at my still-wet swimsuit. "We work at a water park, Sawyer."

  "Stop trying to use humor to disabuse the situation."

  I stand up. "I think you mean defuse. I use humor to defuse the situation—as in lessen the tension. Look, Sawyer. I have no problem working with you." I scoot my chair back under the table. "And I'll work on increasing my leadership, or whatever. Now, please let me get back to work before one of those brats kills someone."

  Sawyer stands up. "But we're not finished, Pollywog. We have to go over an incident management plan."

  "Write it down on a little piece of paper. And I'll take it home and memorize it, okay? But right now I'm freezing, and I want to get back to work. Outside. In the sunshine." I turn and wave. "Saw-yer later!"

  I run—yes, breaking the rules—through the concession area, glancing briefly at Xander Cooper—shirt on—packing up his stuff. Normal guys don't take baby-sitting jobs. They mow lawns, sell fast food, videos, coffee.

  When I get back to the Lazy River, Sonnet is forcing a kid to pick up a bunch of spilled ice cubes on the sidewalk. How does she manage to have so much authority? "So, how did that go? You were gone long enough!"

  "He's my ex, okay? No need to post anything on your blog about it."

  "Omigod! You read my blog?" Sonnet sounds way too excited, but then her face grows stern as she points to a melting ice cube. "You forgot one," she tells the kid before turning back to me. "Maybe you should tell Sawyer to read my blog. He's doesn't act like he knows he's your ex."

  "He broke up with me. So, yeah, I think he knows."

  Sonnet laughs. "Then why does he always assign himself to your station? I haven't worked with him once." She sticks her hand on her hip. "And I'm on a mission to hook up with blonds this summer."

  "Probably because he thinks I'm incompetent." I glance at Sonnet's bulging bosom. "And you probably scare him."

  That makes Sonnet laugh loud enough to garner herself a few mom glares. "He likes them to play hard to get, huh? That's so last century."

  I sigh as a kid runs past me toward the Switchback slide, shoving his little sister so that she stumbles. "I don't know."

  "Well, you know what I know? Working with an ex has to suck. Especially when he's got seniority. You know what you need? A little bit of sneaky revenge." Sonnet clicks her tongue, glancing around. "Let's give him something to liven up his afternoon. See those kids over there? Friends of my little sister's. They will do anything for ice cream. How about we fake a little swimmer's cramp and force Sawyer to jump into the pool? That guy never gets wet."

  "He did once."

  "Oh, yeah. So he could manhandle your wet butt." Sonnet looks at me as if doubting our breakup. "From what I recall, he had his hands all over your cute little behind."

  "It was only a lifeguard thing."

  Sonnet winks at me. "Sure it was. No matter what, he deserves to get soaked. It is really hot today."

  Before I can stop her—not that it's feasible—Sonnet heads over to a group of girls, who huddle around her like a cheerleading squad. Not five minutes after Sawyer climbs back to his post, the girls enter the Lazy River without their tubes. Soon there's a bunch of scared screeching, followed by Sawyer's dramatic jump into the pool, followed by a bunch of squealing laughter. I bite my lip as I watch the girls listening not so seriously to a patented this-is-not-funny Sawyer Holms lecture.

  Maybe a little workplace revenge is the answer.

  Dear Miss Swoon:

  When is it ethical to seek revenge at work? What if your boss is your ex-husband? Quitting is not an option since we co-own the company. But I need to do something to maintain my sanity.

  —Ethics Or Sanity

  Dear Ethics:

  Sell your share in the company before you sell your soul.

  —Miss Swoon

  Not Shakespeare's Sonnet!

  Blond count: 1.5 (Thank you, guy-at-party, dude.) Random Acts of EX-Revenge (inspired by my summer reading list—yeah, I know: dorky):

  Is it best to hook up with lots of girls/guys? Did R.S. really feel better after dating half the water polo team after T.M. dumped her? Or did she just spend a lot of money on antibiotics? (See Gonorrhea and a Pack of Gum here.)

  The self-improvement plan? You go, guy, Max Reams! We all cheered when you ditched the 104-pound biatch. And we really noticed when you ditched a few lbs. after joining the track team instead of chasing that unappreciative horror of a GF.

  Rumors? Yeah, it's like Basic Breakup 101. Spread a nasty rumor. (For a particularly meaty example, see Polly Martin Revs Another Engine here.) Bonus question: does the rumor have to be true?

  Tell me your favorite revenge stories. I'm kinda missing The Count of Monte Cristo after sucking down all 1,321 pages. I need more revenge stories. Now! Feed me!

  Chapter Nine

  Payday! Normal girls—like Sonnet Silverman—head to the mall, buy cute little tank tops, nail polish, a snack at the food court, tickets to the blockbuster movie. What did I do? I headed to the bank and put half my money in savings. I spent the other half on nail polish, sunscreen, and, you know, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, apples, oranges, and other members of the plant kingdom. While unloading groceries, I reach in to grab an apple that's rolled to the back of my trunk when I hear wheels skid to a stop next to me. Skateboard wheels.

  Xander reaches into my car, saying, "I can get that." He holds the apple out to me, and I'm suddenly having a flashback to a Sunday school lesson—back to those few weeks when my parents thought that churchgoing might save their relationship. Apples = temptation. One side of Xander's mouth curves into a smile. He's enjoying this way too much. And then he takes a bite out of my apple. Juice drips down his lip. He catches it with his tongue. Xander = temptation.

  "Okay. Well, um, thanks, but not really, since you're eating my apple—and that, you know, cost me like three and a half minutes in that stinking Lazy River, but whatever. Consider it a gift." I slam the trunk.

  He takes another bite. "Let me pay you back."

  Way too smooth for a guy who used to dip his Tater Tots in chocolate pudding.

  "I think it's about fifty cents." I stare at the ripped-up stickers on the bottom of his skateboard: skulls, swearwords, and other evil stuff, like, um, lips and tongues.

  "That's not exactly what I meant, but okay." He reaches into his pocket, sifts through some coins on his open palm—it's so pale, pink compared to his dark skin. "I only have thirty-five cents. Maybe we should share it?"

  "No, that's okay." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Besides, I was
only, you know, joking."

  "Next time watch your word choice." He snaps off another chunk of apple. "The best jokes are short and sweet. It's all about timing."

  He grins while chewing, and it really should be completely gross. But it isn't.

  I shift the bag of groceries to my other hip, trying to think of something cute but not too cute to say about word choice, but I'm stuck on the word timing. Instead I blurt out, "You're right! You're completely right. It is about timing. And now is not the time. Thank you. The apple is all yours. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go make dinner. See you another time."

  I square my shoulders, quite satisfied with myself. I pick up the other bag of groceries, turn on my heel, and head toward the house. I expect to hear Xander's skateboard clacking down the driveway. Instead I hear him say, "Oh, we'll be spending plenty of time together."

  I turn. "What?"

  "You heard me."

  My face heats up like the flame sticker on the bottom of his skateboard.

  "See you tomorrow," he says. "How about we sleep in, though? Since it's Saturday. Nine o'clock?"

  I nearly drop my groceries, and I'm forced to catch a bag by lifting up my thigh in a most-definitely-not-cute move. "Um, I don't know what you're talking about."

  Xander laughs, but at least he clangs his skateboard onto the pavement. I watch for a second—just long enough to see him stop, pull that little notebook out of his pocket, and write something down. The guy gives me the creeps! Well, at least I wish he gave me the creeps. He should. I'm going to work on that. Maybe I'll read one of those rabid feminist magazines Mom bought after the divorce; I'm sure they're still stuffed under her bed.

  The house seems empty when I open the door. Grace must be off somewhere with Amy. I've gotten the feeling that Amy's parents don't approve of how much Mom has been working lately. Join the club! The door to my room—Grandma's room—is ajar. I could use a good dose of Miss Swoon sensibility. A guy like Xander shouldn't turn me into a tongue-tied, blushing, grocery-dropping mess. I peek inside, expecting to see Grandma clacking away at her keyboard, but instead she's lying on my bed, eyes closed, snoring softly. It's only five o'clock in the afternoon. Poor Grandma; she's been working so hard on her book deadline.