"So, you're the one who got stuck with Buster."
This is not the cryptic message I'm expecting. "What?"
Buster stretches on the sidewalk with all four legs splayed out like a girl trying to get a tan.
Xander tips his skateboard into his hand. "Jack asked everyone at that party to take care of Buster. Maybe if he'd offered to stick his tongue down my throat."
I turn away. Buster looks up at me with his watery eyes as if waiting for me to come up with a clever response. "That was nothing."
Xander nods. "You seem to have a lot of nothing going on."
"That's not what I said. I mean, it is what I said, but it's not what I mean."
"That seems to happen a lot, too." He's not smiling.
My heart beats faster, like I have been jogging. "Now, that's just mean, if you know what I mean." God, I sound like Sawyer.
"Don't try to be clever." Xander frowns, shaking his head. "Doesn't do much for me."
"Who says I'm trying to do anything for you?" I nudge Buster with my foot, hoping to make him stand up. "And what's wrong with dog-sitting for a friend?"
"It's just that Jack played you better than Guitar Hero."
I cringe. "Donkey Kong."
"Don't let guys do that to you. You're too smart for that."
"Oh, gee, thanks, Miss Swoon." I yank hard on Buster's leash. Nothing. Ha-ha.
Xander sets his skateboard back down but holds it steady with his foot. "No need for sarcasm. I know you can do better than that."
"What? Because we were in the same fourth-grade class? You don't even know me anymore!"
"Does anyone?" Xander steps onto his board and slips down the street, curving gracefully.
"No one knows you, either!" I scream. "You're the one who completely changed!" I sit down on the curb, resting my face in my hands. Do not let a guy like that bother you! You deserve harmonious relationships. You deserve happiness. Your friends are loving and supportive. Affirmations are a load of dog crap.
Buster finally inches his way up from the sidewalk, nuzzles me, slobbers on my arm, and when we get back to my lawn, promptly releases a pile of feces. I decide not to pick it up. Sure, I may step in it later, but that would only serve as a reminder of what my life has become.
I open the front door to the cacophony of Mom and Grandma arguing in the kitchen. Buster marches inside, tugging the leash; all that lounging around mocking me has apparently made him hungry. "No, wait." I listen for a minute at the doorway, waiting for Mom to crack a joke or something.
Buster whines.
"You said you would be contributing to household expenses!" Mom clangs the silverware door shut. "I'm barely hanging on. With Polly turning eighteen next year, I will be down an entire child support payment each month. I've got to save money this summer—one hamburger order at a time."
"Let's try and stay positive here."
"Where's the positive in having the electricity cut off during the hottest month of the summer?"
"We could start our own Bikram yoga studio?"
"That's just not funny, Mother."
"Well, why don't you and I find us a couple of millionaires to marry? And then I'll become a best-selling author, and we'll move to our own private island."
Mom blows out an exasperated sigh. "What about your book deal?"
"Well, it's not really anything formal. Since my old editor up and retired on me, and market conditions changed, and that edgy young Sassy thing is taking over. You should read about her book deal! Well, so my book—it's really something I'm doing for myself at this point. I have so much to say."
I peek around the corner. Mom leans against the counter for support. "So, there isn't any book money?" When Mom tips her head, I can see her gray roots. Can no one around here afford hair care anymore?
"Not yet, but with these affirmations ... Look how well they're working for Polly; she's practically tattooed herself with them. Maybe I can include rub-on tattoos with the book? In the teen edition. Oh, I'd better go write that down, right away, before I forget. We can finish our chat a wee bit later."
As Grandma sweeps out of the kitchen, wearing her bathrobe, I make a show of returning from my walk, clearing my throat, and kicking my slippers off. Buster's so hungry that he eagerly gets in on the act, yanking me into the kitchen.
Mom smiles when she sees me. "I bet you're looking for cold cheese fries for breakfast," she says. "Too bad Grandma just ate them all."
"Very funny. Not."
Mom laughs. "Don't try to steal my material. I don't have much, but I've got that." She starts singing that old show tune about "plenty of nothing." But it has never seemed less funny. Not after what Xander just said to me. Not after what Grandma just revealed. Not the way Mom struggles to pay the bills. I take my time getting a bowl of cereal for myself.
"You look like you need some cheering up," Mom says. "I've got just the thing."
"Chocolate? Bath oils? My own room back?"
"No, a joke, silly. One of my students came into the restaurant last night and told me this one—I think he expected extra credit or something. I gave him extra fries. Okay, ready?"
"I'm sure that I'm not."
"What do you get when you cross a french fry with a frog?"
"Mom, I really don't want to know."
"A potatoad. Get it? Isn't that cute? I told it to several customers last night and I think I got better tips. I'm going to work on a whole routine of hamburger and fry jokes. Break out of this town, go on the road, maybe score big bucks in my own Vegas show. What do you think?"
"I think I saw another stack of bills sitting on the coffee table."
"Just decorating, dah-ling." Mom swats my butt. "You'd better run along and get ready for a luxurious day in the sun."
"Hardly."
"You're becoming a bronze sun goddess."
I smirk. "Right."
"Okay, you're more of a porcelain shade goddess, but you're still my beautiful Polly Marie Martin."
"Whatever, Mom."
On the way to the shower I peek in on Grandma busily typing on her computer. Maybe Mom should give her break; she's obviously working hard on this book. I'm sure it will sell millions of copies. At least Grandma thinks big and takes chances that can create big results. Mom's schlepping burgers like a teenager. Before she met Dad, she wanted to be an international journalist, but she gave up that dream to teach fifth grade and take golf vacations. I don't think she's used her passport since college.
Grace pushes past me, screaming at Buster. "He's killing Peanuts! Bad, bad dog!"
Buster stops in front of me, jaws clenched around Grace's stuffed elephant, shaking his head, and sending clouds of stuffing into the air.
Maybe going to work won't be so bad. It's Thursday. Xander almost never shows up on Thursdays, not that I'm keeping track of his schedule or anything.
Dear Miss Swoon:
My mother just doesn't understand me. It's like we're different species! She's a cave dweller, always staying home and watching television. I want to fly—go out to parties, movies, shopping with my friends. What can I do to convince her that I'm old enough to go out?
—Trapped In The Cave
Dear Trapped:
Prove to your mother that you're responsible enough to have a more evolved social life. Offering to clean the cave every now and then couldn't hurt.
—Miss Swoon
Clouds
Pink as an open palm
An invitation.
—X.C.
Chapter Thirteen
I'm standing in a discarded pile of skirts, shorts, skorts, minis, T-shirts, tank tops, tube tops, and even stuff from the Career Woman department.
Jane peers over her shoulder at her reflection in the mirror. "I'm beyond help. I need a complete butt makeover."
The cropped pants strain and bunch across her thighs. "I think you look cute in those, but like I said about ten miniskirts ago, you've got great legs," I say. "Play up the legs."
"But Rowdy's a butt man."
"Okay, I so didn't need to know that. And I don't even want to know how you know that." I flip through a few skirts still on hangers while Jane strips off the pants.
"Matrix Marathon."
"Why didn't you tell me? I would've picked up a few robes and Gor-tex body suits for you to try on."
Jane shakes her head."Stop being funny."
I push aside a pile of tops in various shades of blue-green, Rowdy's favorite color—because, you know, he made a comment during The Lord of the Rings. I perch on the little dressing room bench. Jane is beyond saving. And frankly, if things weren't so tense at home, I would be there instead of at the mall on a Friday night. Attending Grace and Amy's stuffed-animal picnic sounds appealing at this point.
"Don't let me forget to buy that Webimal."
Jane looks at me. "You've reminded me a million times. Now, what do you think? Hide the butt with a blousy top or wear this?" Jane holds up a superlong, flowing skirt that looks like it belongs in a 1960s documentary.
"Jane, my dear, we're living in the twenty-first century."
"Maybe my butt isn't. Maybe my butt belongs back in the eighteen hundreds or something. It's like a vestibule organ or something."
"It's a vestigial organ."
"Whatever." Jane slips the skirt over her hips. "You know people hate it when you do that, don't you? Correct them all the time. Sawyer once told me it makes him feel stupid, before you broke up."
"God, Jane! What a thing to say. I hardly ever corrected him. Only when I absolutely couldn't help it. What are you going to tell me next? That I had a booger hanging out my nose three weeks ago? There's nothing I can do about it now."
"You could stop correcting people all the time. That's something, isn't it?"
"So what, I'm supposed to let people go around sounding stupid?"
"So, I sound stupid, huh?" Jane frowns and takes off the skirt.
I toss a sparkly green top at her. "Try this one; it'll totally show off your you know." I motion toward her chest.
"And you always do that, too!"
"What? Recommend fashion combinations? I thought that's what I was here for." I fold a few T-shirts into neat squares, feeling nervous. Why is she attacking me? I'm the one giving up my Friday night to help her shop for her big amusement park date with Rowdy and ten thousand other yearbook people. It's not like it's even a real date. It's more like a field trip, and those kinds of group excursions totally don't count. Even though at the time I thought the spring break Nature Club trip with Gareth counted. Maybe it didn't.
Jane holds up the top, making a face. "I don't want to come on too strong." She tosses the shirt onto my lap. "Polly, you're always changing the subject when I try to talk about something real."
"Real? So talking about clothes equals 'not real' but talking about my apparently numerous flaws is 'real'?" I decide to hang blouses back on hangers. That way I can't see Jane grimacing at me in the dressing room mirror.
"I'm only talking to you like a friend," Jane says.
I lean down and pick up a see-through blouse thing. "I don't know why you even deigned to take this one off the hanger."
"See, you're doing it right now." Jane shimmies into a pair of snug white jeans.
"Oh, so I can't talk about the clothes at all. That's going to make it pretty difficult for me to offer advice, you know. Maybe we can work up some kind of code. That five-four-six looks good with the seven-four-three. Is that better?"
"Grr." She growls, but she's not even looking in the mirror, so she might be growling at me. "Polly. Sometimes I want a confidante, someone to talk to about serious stuff."
"Yeah, so? I've been a totally good listener. I'm even supporting your misguided decision to pursue Rowdy."
"Yeah. That's real supportive." Jane finally glances in the mirror, tugging at the fabric clinging to her thighs. "The thing about being a good listener is that you need to be a good talker, too."
That's so not grammatically correct, but I don't say anything. See, I am learning.
Jane pulls off a navy blue T-shirt and exchanges it for a powder blue one. She tilts her head in the mirror. "What do you think?"
"I think it's a finalist."
"Me, too." She quickly disrobes and adds it to the meager maybe pile. I think about sneaking a quick peek at my cell phone to check the time, but that doesn't seem very friendlike so I don't. Besides, I'm just going to return home to a dinner of rejected hamburgers, a stuffed-animal party, and a grandmother who refuses to talk to my mother. Where's the positivity in that?
"And the nominees are..." I hold up the three outfits that have made it through the incredibly boring selection process.
"I think I'll get all three. That way I can change my mind tomorrow morning if I want. And if the weather—"
"Hot and sunny. That's the weather. You just want to be hot, right? So go with the"—I make a drumroll sound on my thighs—"supershort mini."
"I've got my mom's credit card, so..." Jane picks up the clothes without even looking at the price tags.
"Hey, you might as well get a couple of the reject outfits, too, in that case."
Jane eyes one of the reject blouses. "It's not like I can spend tha much."
I peek at the price on the jeans: worth about fourteen hours of Lazy River duty. "Hey, if you've got it, spend it, right?"
"You should get something, too, Polly. What about that blue top? It totally makes your eyes pop."
"It's kind of scratchy." Jane convinced me to bring a few items into the dressing room, so I did, just to be in the spirit of things. But if there's one thing all the home-front awkwardness has proven, we're having serious financial issues. I'm pretty much saving all my money, except for a few bags of groceries now and then. Jane would never consider buying groceries with her own money; she doesn't even pay for her own gas.
"Plus, I'm trying really hard not to attract guys, you know. So I think if I'm going to purchase something, it had better be this." I hold up a really ugly, orange stretchy top that I'd picked up just to be funny. I talk in a gravelly smoker's voice. "Hey there, fellas. Wanna party?"
"See, there you go again. I was trying to be serious."
Oh no. I did not want to return to the subject of me. And my personality flaws. "Ten minutes ago you thought this shirt was totally funny. That's what you said. I'm just referring to an earlier joke. It's not like I'm condemning the future of our friendship. Have a sense of humor, Jane."
"I do. But here's the thing. Why should I always be the one sharing my secrets? Sometimes I want to hear yours, too. It's like equity or something."
Equitable. The word is equitable. But I don't say anything. I pluck a green T-shirt off the discard pile, put it on my head, and lurch toward the mirror, growling. Jane sighs, but then I make her laugh.
She slides the T-shirt off my head. "I kind of liked that one. I think I'll get it, too."
We finally leave the dressing room, and Jane goes to pay for her clothes. She spends more than what I make in a month working at Wild Waves. And then she wants to head over to the shoe department. But first she stops at the cologne counter to "catch a whiff of Rowdy's scent." He hardly seems like a signature scent kind of guy, but I can't say anything because Jane has endured many stops at this same counter so I could smell various ex-ex-ex-ex-ex aromas.
"Come on, Polly." Jane waves a cologne sample in front of her nose. "You love doing this."
"Not tonight." I play with the shoulder strap on my purse, wishing I had a shopping bag to hold. "No need to go letting my olfactory complex trigger any scent-related memories."
Jane giggles. "You are such a doofus! You accuse me of hanging out with a bunch of dweebs when you're the biggest one of all—always spouting off with your big vocabulary and all."
"I am not! I'm totally channeling my inner bad girl. After work I purposely dropped an armload of kickboards just so that I could catch a glimpse of Sexy Lifeguard's crack when he bent down to help me."
She smirks. "That's, like, so junior high, Polly. A real bad girl would've had her hands all over that boy's—"
"Hey, it's a start. I'm trying."
She breaks into major guffaws, but I'm sure she's just high off sniffing too much Rowdy cologne.
Jane drops me off early, saying she needs to get her "so-called beauty sleep," but really I saw her checking her text messages and getting that syrupy, reserved-for-Rowdy smile on her face.
"Have fun tomorrow!" I shout. "But don't fall in love; it will only lead to your downfall."
"Very funny."
I wasn't trying to be funny.
The house looks normal from the outside, but it's all chaos when I step through the door. Amy and Grace chase Buster around the living room, screaming about murder. Buster stops and shakes his head—a killer whale flopping in his mouth, tufts of white fluff on his wrinkled lips.
"You did this!" Grace yells. "You owe me a new killer whale plus interest." She learned that last part listening to Mom and Grandma arguing about money.
I toss the crinkly pink plastic bag with the new Webimal inside to Grace and make an attempt to trap Buster. He jigs to the left, kind of impressive, really, and races past, leaving a trail of unstuffed white whale guts. And Grace's tears. Amy moves in to comfort her. I'm disgusted with myself for allowing yet another male to leave me in the dust.
I follow the sound of teeth shredding fabric to Grandma's room. I half expect to see her typing away, but the room is empty. I frown at the dark computer screen. I had hoped to talk to her about Jane. The whole I-deserve-loving-and-supportive-friends affirmation just isn't cutting it. I need something more substantial.
Grace and Amy run into our room, slamming the door. I sit down at Grandma's desk, twisting in her new ergonomic office chair. I can't stop thinking about what Jane said about me always using humor to avoid talking about things. There's nothing wrong with being funny, right? Friends are supposed to laugh with each other. But she's right about me not telling her stuff. I haven't mentioned Xander; I haven't talked about Mom's feud with Grandma; I haven't told her that my dad hasn't invited me to the cabin for even a long weekend this summer. The last time Dad called, we spent ten minutes talking about the weather. Our temperature zones—we're only talking about thirty miles here—differed by two degrees Fahrenheit, not taking in relative humidity. I almost envied Grace's stuffed-animal-based conversation.
Swoon at Your Own Risk Page 9
