"Do you think you maybe could give me a ride home instead?"
Jack tilts his head. "Yeah, okay." He hands the unopened beers to a guy watching Xander's girl make a lame attempt with Guitar Hero. She may be tall and gorgeous and a former prom queen and all, but she lacks hand-eye coordination. Xander jumps up to help her. A bunch of guys make crude comments as they stand way close.
"Come on." Jack puts an arm around me. As we walk upstairs, I look back to see if Xander's watching, but he's too busy playing with his prom queen.
The house has emptied out upstairs, except for plastic cups and other debris. I can't find Sonnet anywhere, so Jack drives me home. He laughs and makes video game sound effects as we curve down the hill, and that makes me laugh, too. I like the way he doesn't take things too seriously.
My house is completely dark as Jack pulls into the driveway. I sit there for a moment, not sure what to say. I feel bad about leaving Sonnet, or did she leave me? And Xander? What's with the complete metamorphosis? And why do I care? I've never liked him, not since he called me a Polly bear during our Arctic mammals unit in second grade—and got a better grade on his diorama.
Jack turns off the ignition. "So, Polly, I've been thinking about you lately."
Oh no.
"Just because I still rule at Donkey Kong."
"No, before tonight."
Double oh no.
"Yeah, right." I playfully bump his shoulder. "You say that to all the girls."
Jack reaches over and plays with one of my curls, wrapping his finger around it. "You see, I'm going to this graphic-design camp thing in a couple of weeks, and my parents are going on a cruise, and they want to board Buster, and I don't know—"
"Ah, poor little Buster." I can't help it; it's a reflex. I discovered early in our relationship that Jack only dated girls who showed adoration for his squishy-faced, wrinkly, tough-looking, snuffly bulldog.
"I knew you'd understand." Jack lets his finger wander from my hair to my lips, and I stop listening because I think he's going to kiss me again, and this time no one's around, and it's really dark, and ... I close my eyes.
"So you think you could maybe watch him while I'm gone?"
"What?" I snap my eyes open. "Oh. Yeah. Um, sure."
Jack takes my hands in his. "Thank you so much. Buster always did like you."
The dog liked me. Not the boy. The dog. The squishy-faced, wrinkly, bad-boy, snuffly dog. At least it's dark and Jack can't see my face turn as red as a dog's rabies tag. How embarrassing to be all foaming at the mouth for another kiss. The guy broke up with me—eons ago!
"Yeah, sure." I open the car door. "Look, Jack. I'd better get going." I slam the door hard, wanting to smack myself upside the head to knock loose the brain blockage I'm obviously suffering. The window zooms down.
Jack calls out to me, "I'll bring Buster by on Wednesday. Thanks, Polly! And by the way I let you win those last couple of games."
"You're a total dog!" I say.
I'm absolutely serious, but he laughs. "Good one. Thanks again, P.M."
Dear Miss Swoon:
When I broke up with my ex, we decided to share custody of our dog. Now my ex is moving out of state and wants to take the dog with him. I can't live without this dog!
—Not Without Him
Dear Without:
Let the dog move on! Go to your local animal shelter and fall in love all over again.
—Miss Swoon
Not Shakespeare's Sonnet
Blond count: 5.5 (Now we're talking.) So, yeah, the rumors are true. (Read Where's The @ction's blog here.) I'd show you proof, but I promised the parentals that I'd never post naked pictures of myself on the Internet. Whatever! I'll just say that my girl Polly and I had a really good time at R.J.'s party. And thanks to you blond boys, too! Now back to bed. Not feeling so hot. More later unless something better happens first.
Her body leans into his, but her eyes watch mine. Like the stray kitten Kyra found outside the Iceberg. Wide eyes watching, hiding under the dank Dumpster, tail puffed up. So afraid.
—X.C.
Chapter Eleven
I wake early on Sunday morning to the sound of Grandma's keyboard clacking away. I wade through the stuffed animals strewn over the floor. Grace, of course, is having another sleepover with Amy. I give a stuffed dog a swift kick across the room.
Last night after Jack left all happy about finding a dog-sitter and practicing his, um, kissing skills, I sort of threw a—how do you say it?—tantrum. Grandma tapped on the door to suggest we meet in the morning over coffee to have a wee chat. It's not like I was that out of control, screaming that loud, and the neighbor turned on his lights only to let his cat out, probably. At least Mom hadn't been home; she now works the closing shift at Hamburger Heaven. Big promotion, apparently. Better tips.
I knock on Grandma's door, feeling a little weird about asking permission to enter my own room. "Hey, Grandma?"
Grandma flings the door open. "Come on in. I've been up for hours! I woke in the middle of the night and had a complete breakthrough on my book. Thanks to you!"
I'm not sure if I should be flattered or frightened.
"Good." I sit down on my bed, feeling a bit wistful about my previously more private, less stuffed-animal-inundated existence. "Glad to be of service."
"Your little shenanigans reminded me of the power of positivity. I'm going to do a whole chapter on affirmations!" Grandma clicks away on her laptop, wrapped in her puffy blue bathrobe, mumbling something about the universe blessing her with love. Her hair sticks out in all directions, exposing the gray roots. Grandma keeps typing, and I realize that she's probably forgotten all about our scheduled chat.
"Well, I guess I'd better, you know, get ready for another urine-soaked, skin-cancerous, ex-boyfriend-filled day."
Grandma spins around in her chair. "Now, that's not very positive!"
I pick at a loose string on my pajamas. "But it's true."
"Honey, do you want to talk about last night?"
"Naw, that's okay. You're having a breakthrough, and I've got to get ready for work."
"Come on. Who better to advise the lovelorn than Miss Swoon?"
"I'm not lovelorn, Grandma. I'm an overly hormonal idiot." Tired of keeping the entire situation to myself—except when I'm screaming about it to the, um, whole neighborhood or taking it out on Grace's stuffed animals—I decide to talk. "I ended up at the wrong party, kissed the wrong ex-boyfriend, and now I'm baby-sitting the wrong bulldog."
"Well, it doesn't sound like you've done irreparable damage. We've all kissed an ex, and you like dogs, right?"
I flop back against the bed. "Grandma, I don't know what I like."
"What about that Nature Club you joined? You sent me a postcard listing all the flowers you saw in that National Park—"
"Gareth. I joined the Nature Club because of a cute guy."
"Well, that's why I signed up for my new book club, but, hey, the books look almost as good as the fella, so why not? You like doing outdoorsy stuff, right?"
"Not really. I don't know. I think I just liked Gareth, and if that meant memorizing Great Basin wildflowers, so what?"
"What about your involvement in student government?"
"Hayden."
"Well, honey. What do you like? Maybe start there."
"Nothing. Now that I've given up on the male half of the species."
Grandma purses her lips. She watches me with her wide-set eyes until I grow uncomfortable. Suddenly Grandma spins around and scrolls through the text on her computer screen. "Sounds like you could use some affirmations! Friends. Love. Relationships." Click. Click. Click.
She acts as if solving problems is as easy as ordering office supplies online like she did last week. Boxes and boxes of things have been arriving. Grandma is on a first-name basis with the express delivery guy and has a coffee date scheduled with him. But whatever. At least she's not baby-sitting the dude's bulldog.
I crush a pillow over my
face; it smells like Grandma's perfume. "Maybe you could convince Mom to maroon me on a deserted island or somewhere where I can evolve into a smarter human being, without the temptations of—"
I sit up, distracted by the sound of Xander's skateboard curving down the street outside the window. Don't look. I cross my feet together to lock my body into a sitting position. Grandma jumps up and peeks through the curtains. "You've got to see this dreamboat, honey. The other day he was skateboarding, talking on the phone, and drinking coffee. Today he's dressed up. For church, maybe. Oh, if I were your age! Hubba-hubba."
"Oh, Grandma!"
Betrayed by my autonomic nervous system, I race to the window. Sure enough, Xander's wearing a powder blue button-down shirt—and, yeah, snug khaki pants. Without turning to look, he waves over the top of his head. "Oh. My. God," I whisper. "Just lock me up and throw away the key."
"No, no, no. Positivity. Affirmations. Write these down. Let's start with a basic."
I decide to forgo a piece of paper and instead write the affirmations on my arm with a Sharpie. Body ink = edgy. I'm too afraid of infection to get a real tattoo. Probably a good thing: at this point my arm would've looked like an old grocery list with a bunch of guys' names crossed off. Using three different colors, I pen the affirmations onto my skin.
1. I deserve harmonious relationships with myself and others.
2. I deserve happiness.
3. I deserve loving and supportive friends.
Grandma returns to her laptop. "Now, just repeat these affirmations ten to twenty times a day and you will transform your life like magic." She snaps her fingers.
"I hope so," I say. "Thanks, Grandma Swoon." I kiss the top of her head to get harmonious relationship vibes going. On the way out of the room I scrawl one more affirmation on my arm. Number four: I deserve a life free from male contamination. My ink-covered arm looks as if I donated it to a preschool art project, but whatever.
Before heading to work, I e-mail Jane a long, self-deprecating apology full of Matrix references, along with an invitation to go get our nails done at the mall after I finish my Wild Waves shift. I also rearrange Grace's stuffed animals into chatting groups of appropriately distributed species.
I can do this!
I silently repeat affirmation number four, the one about boys, as Sawyer mediates an argument between Acne Model and another guy. They both want to work the Switchback slide. Not because dealing with kids zooming through tunnels, knocking each other off inner tubes, and getting stuck in various eddies is fun—but because it's my assignment. Sonnet apparently blogged about the party, divulging plenty of details about her evening, mentioning that I'd joined her escapades—not mentioning that I didn't join the most titillating ones. What do these doofus boys think? That I'm going to whip my clothes off in the middle of my shift? Really! But then Acne Kid says, "You know, I kick ass at Donkey Kong."
Oh, crap. Obviously Sonnet isn't the only one with gossip-inducing escapades. I deserve a life free from male contamination. I deserve... The damn affirmation is too long. No boys. I'm a no-boy zone. I do not attract guys.
"Okay, enough. I'll work with Pollywog. You guys tackle the Lazy River." Sawyer scribbles on his clipboard. "Hit it out of the park, team."
The guys walk off grumbling. I overhear one of them saying, "He did too date her. I read about it in Sonnet's archived entries." The sad thing: I have no idea to whom he is referring. I take a deep breath, reaffirming, I do not attract guys.
"Having a good weekend?" Sawyer asks as we head over to the Switchback.
"Like you don't know."
"Whoa!" Sawyer puts his hand up. "Time out, cowgirl. I'm just asking as a friend."
"Yeah, right." But then I catch sight of the inky messages on my forearm. Happiness. Friends. "Sawyer, I'm having a dandy weekend, thank you. How about you?"
"I've been helping my parents with our garden, thinking about how nurturing nature is so nurturing, you know?"
"Must be why they call her Mom."
"You are so right, Pollywog. I hadn't thought about that." Sawyer stares off in thought. "Thanks for sharing your insightfulness." He says it so earnestly.
I'm almost relieved when kids zoom through the tunnels, smashing their inner tubes into my legs before demanding that I help push them out of the waterfall eddy. Whoever designed this slide must have failed their college engineering classes. Every single tube gets stuck. It's the most popular ride at Wild Waves, so I'm keeping busy. Sawyer's working the entrance, so pretty much everyone obeys the rules: only one person per tube, no trains more than three tubes long, no coming down with a sexy smile on your face, dark skin glistening in the sunlight ... Xander Cooper violates yet another rule.
His tube spins backwards, and I'm not sure he's even seen me, but before I know it, he's smashed into my legs, and my feet fly out from under me. So I, um, end up in his lap. Our combined weight zips us through the waterfall—I scream as the water drenches me—and the tube slips down the next section, ricocheting off the walls. But I'm not thinking about physics—well, not for more than a second or two—because Xander's laughter reverberates through me, making my whole body ticklish, and soon I'm laughing. Our guffaws echo off the walls of the tunnel we're passing through. Right before the big drop at the end Xander wraps his arms around me, still laughing. I can't stop laughing and screaming, either. I can barely breathe. The tube tips over the edge of the steep slide, and we fly down it, catching air—floating for a moment—before crashing into the deep water at the bottom. Xander doesn't let go of me, and my whole body feels like it's smiling. What a rush!
After we break the surface, Xander whispers in my ear, "Feels good to let go, doesn't it?"
But he hasn't let go.
I nod, not even turning to look at him. He's still standing behind me, his fingers playing with mine. He traces the words written on my arm. I should feel totally embarrassed, but I'm not—must be all the endorphins rushing my system, from riding really fast and everything. Kids should be splashing into the pool behind us, but we're still standing there alone. I am aware of every single cell in my body.
A whistle starts blowing. Sawyer runs down the steps, talking on his walkie-talkie. "What are you doing? The whole system is jammed! Tubes are stuck in the eddy. You left your post! What the—?"
I should explain that the whole thing happened accidentally. I know this is the time to get serious, but I just start laughing, letting all those good, vibrating feelings escape.
"Polly, you must seriously be serious!" Sawyer blows his whistle again. He looks ridiculous, standing in his little cowboy swim trunks with a red bandana around his neck, freaking out about a poorly designed waterslide. I can't stop chortling. I'm not trying to be mean; I just can't help it.
"Relax, dude." Xander takes a deep breath, and I realize that we are standing very close. "This is a water park. A beautiful Sunday in June. No one is drowning."
"You!" Sawyer blows his whistle. "Out! You've violated the one-person-on-a-tube rule."
"This is nothing!" I say. "Nothing."
Sawyer points to me. "You better get back to work or you're fired."
I'm still glaring at Sawyer as Xander walks out of the pool without turning back. Kids finally start splashing down into the deep pool, and a moment later I'm questioning my sanity, wondering if any of that actually happened. Or maybe I'm just coming down with heat stroke.
Sawyer continues lecturing me, but I'm not paying attention. I watch Xander walk up the stairs as if nothing happened. I follow, feeling more confused than ever. Sawyer says something about strikes or penalties, but I think he's mostly pissed because I don't seem to care.
Finally I turn to him and say, "It was an accident, Sawyer. Get over it. Won't happen again."
But I hope that isn't true.
Dear Miss Swoon:
How many guys do you have to be with before you are considered a slut?
—More Than Three Boys
Dear More Than Three:
You can't win an Olympic medal for sex. Slow down.
—Miss Swoon
Our bodies hummed with laughter. I held her, our fingers knit together, felt her breathe and relax. And then NOTHING. NO thing. NOT hing. NOTH ing. Meaningless? —X.C.
Chapter Twelve
The sun peeks over the mountains, adding a soft pink glow to the clouds gathering across the valley. Buster stops to sniff yet another invisible something. I figured since I was up anyway, I might as well walk the dog.
I've had trouble sleeping for the last few nights; I keep thinking about affirmations, advice, and the way Xander said it feels good to let go, with his arms, um, wrapped around me. I've analyzed those few words with more scrutiny than I gave the Emily Dickinson poem I dissected for my AP English final. I got an A on the English essay—not doing so well with the Xander Cooper thing.
Buster snuffles forward a few paces, lifting his leg on an ornamental shrub. The two of us are practically outcasts. In three days Buster has managed to alienate the entire family by chewing up stuffed animals, barking during Grandma's precious writing hours, and regurgitating Hamburger Heaven leftovers on Mom's shoes. Frankly I felt that statement deserved more study.
The affirmations written on my arm are getting plenty of analysis. Damn permanent ink! Sonnet told me that Sawyer tried to get me fired for violating the rule about excessive body art. She's come up with all means of revenge. The girl may not do great in school, but she's got one helluva creative mind. I'm still considering the soap bubbles thing.
Anyway, these affirmations may be making Grandma happy as she types away on her book, but they've done nothing for me.
Buster noses a stinky glob of muck in the gutter. "Dude, have some standards."
And that's the moment I hear the skateboard. It's too early! I'm wearing my pajamas and the Shrek slippers Jane gave me as a joke. I yank Buster's leash, prepared to race home, but Buster isn't a jogging kind of dog. He plants his wrinkly butt on the sidewalk and makes a low rumble in his throat. So I'm leaning down, pleading with a scrunch-faced bulldog—promising treats, belly rubs, offering up any of Grace's stuffed animals as chew toys—when Xander skids to a stop.
Swoon at Your Own Risk Page 8
