Jane with her happy little family, I'm sure, doesn't want to hear about all the drama in mine. Plus, it's completely embarrassing. Whose dad doesn't want to see her? That makes me a total reject, right? Plus, Jane will only try to make some pseudo psychological connection between Dad and Kurt. Unfortunately I made the mistake of breaking up with Kurt three days after she turned in her psychology essay on Freud. She only got a B minus, but that didn't dissuade her from diagnosing me.
"Do you think you maybe went for a car-obsessed guy since your dad, like, abandoned you after buying you a car? Like maybe you associate cars with father figures?" Jane's eyes had grown wide. "It's, like, so Freudian or something."
"Um, no. I went for Kurt because he revved my engine, if you know what I mean."
"Polly, you really should talk about this. I can tell you're upset."
"Not really. If there's one thing I've learned, relationships crash and burn like stock cars. Just look at my parents. And my grandma. She gets paid to give people marital advice, but she can't stay married."
"My parents have been together since like college."
"So go study them. They're the freaks of nature. Not me." But then I made the mistake of bursting into a humiliating display of emotion. I had tried so hard to make Kurt like me. Her reactions to my other breakups got exponentially more analytical, so that I didn't even tell her about Hayden until I'd recovered enough to turn it into one big joke. I told Jane he'd vetoed me. She didn't laugh. But at least I didn't cry. Much.
I flick on Grandma's computer, thinking that maybe reading a section of her book might give me some direction. I open the word processing program and click on the recent documents list. I find only Miss Swoon columns. Reading about people whining about boyfriends isn't going to help. I open a few more documents—affirmations, quick quips, chapter ideas—but I can't find her actual book anywhere.
Eventually I click on the Internet browser. It opens to a site called Golden Oldies. Ick! The stuff Grandma has to read for research. She did tell me the other day that she'd thought about doing a special series of columns about senior citizens. "Uh, gross. No," I said. "Besides shouldn't old people have it all figured out or just forget about it?"
Grandma laughed. "Oh, honey, if I had life figured out, I certainly wouldn't be living in my granddaughter's bedroom. I'd be on an island somewhere with my own personal hunk of a masseur. Did I tell you that I'm thinking of signing up for a massage class? Might help me find a man with good hands, if you know what I mean."
"I don't even want to know what you mean." I'd gotten out of there pretty fast, before Grandma had a chance to add any vivid descriptions—only to find myself overtaken by a fantasy involving Xander's ink-stained fingers.
Do not think about him! I'm just about to check my e-mail, not that I'm expecting anything, when an instant message pops up from "Graygander": Hey, Swansong! Checked out that movie. Loved it. What do you recommend next?
Grandma IMs these people? I click on the edge of the message to make it disappear and go to the "my profile" icon. Swansong: age 68 years young! Looking for love, adventure, a man who knows his culture but also knows how to laugh. She's even posted photos!
This seems to be going a little beyond research for geriatric-themed columns. Up in the corner next to Grandma's name is a little number beside "minutes logged in." I'd need my scientific calculator to figure out the number of days Grandma has spent cruising around looking for Golden Oldies. Is she even writing a book?
Buster finishes masticating the stuffed whale and stands by the door whining to go out. As I swing the door open, I see a note taped to the door.
Dear Miss Swoon:
My sister had a bad boyfriend and that bad boyfriend had a bad dog and that bad dog ate my stuffed whale. I hate her. Help!!!!!!!!!!!
—Good Girl
I rip down the note, and scrawl:
Dear Good Girl:
Survival of -the fittest! That whale should have stayed out of the dog's way. If you know what's good for you, you will stay out of your sister's way.
—Miss Won't Ever Swoon Again!
P.S. And when you're old enough, avoid boys!
Especially the desk-licking losers.
Chapter Fourteen
A late afternoon thunderstorm moves across the valley, dropping fat raindrops onto the hot pavement. Moms scream at kids to get out of the water, but the novelty of rain falling into the pool whips the kids into a splashing frenzy. The waterslides have been closed since Sawyer first spotted lightning in the distance, but kids still float in the Lazy River. Not wanting to get electrocuted, I walk along the edge, forcing kids to swim to the sides so I can pull them out of the water.
Within minutes the whole park has been cleared. I'm standing by the entrance gate handing out Rainy Day Return coupons when Xander comes by with the kids. He flashes his eyebrows, and a surge of electricity shoots through me, but I'm sure it's just something in the air—like the heavy scent of rain on hot pavement, maybe random electrons. I'm almost glad when a woman starts complaining that she had to drive two and a half hours to get here and she wants a full refund, et cetera, et cetera. By the time I've directed her to the manager's office, Xander is long gone.
Sawyer walks over to me, shaking the water from his hair. "Go ahead and sprint to home plate, Pollywog."
Part of me wants to stay because I could really use the money, but another clap of thunder crashes above me, and my car seems like the safest place to be. I race across the parking lot past a few moms packing children into their minivans. I climb into my front seat. It's soaked. I'd left my window cracked open so that the car wouldn't get too hot in the sun. I stick my key in the ignition, sitting there for a moment not thinking about Xander's eyebrows. I turn the key, and my car makes a sound like Buster hacking up a chunk of stuffed animal. Next to the check-engine light a yellow symbol flashes. I try again. Hack. Hack. Nothing. Rain pelts me from the open window.
I hit the steering wheel. "Come on, car, not today. I know I should've gotten you an oil change, but I got distracted. Just start for me, and I'll take you to the doctor first thing tomorrow. Please."
"I don't think it's listening." Xander leans down and peeks through the window. "Sounds like your alternator has gone out."
"You couldn't possibly know that. It's just flooded." I turn the key again, even though I know that the engine is most definitely not flooded and that, yeah, the little yellow light probably does have something to do with the alternator. But I just don't want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, guys who know about cars are bad news. I've learned that much!
Xander smiles. "Look, you can sit here all night if you want to, or you can let me give you a ride home."
"On your skateboard? Yeah, that's really tempting."
He laughs and jingles his keys. "I meant a car ride." He nods toward an old Subaru station wagon.
I search through my bag for my cell phone. "That's okay. I'll just make a quick call." The damn thing is dead. "Arrr! I forgot to charge it."
"Come on," he says. "You can trust me. You've known me since, what, second grade?"
"I'm not sure that's much of a recommendation." Yeah, I've known him for most of my life. Except he used to be a chubby, desk-licking freak; now he's hanging around at jock parties and skateboarding around without a shirt on that body. I'm not sure I can trust myself, not with his hair curling wet around his cheeks, his eyebrows flashing up and down, his full lips, that smile, those big brown eyes, that water-soaked shirt. Plus, the other night at the mall I fought the urge to price skateboards. Not a good sign.
"Make up your mind, because I can't leave the kids in the car alone. They keep changing the presets on my radio."
Kids = safe.
"Okay, but just because I don't want to get hit by lightning." I grab my bag and my useless cell phone.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Xander says.
"Well, don't."
Xander hands me a towel as I slide into the front
seat of his car. The towel smells like Boy. The car smells like a million McDonald's Happy Meals. I concentrate on that odor. Xander introduces me to the kids as he buckles them into their car seats. His niece, Kyra, whose hair is beaded with three shades of pink beads, grins, and says, "Is the pollywog coming for french fries?"
"Pollywog?" I should just walk.
"We're just giving her a ride home because her car is broken."
His nephew, Dex, pouts. "But what about the french fries, Uncle X? You promised!"
Xander looks at me. "Maybe we could all use a snack?"
The little black notebook Xander has tossed onto the dashboard distracts me. What's in that thing? I stare at the rumpled pages.
"Polly?" He starts the car. "Okay if we make a quick run through the drive-thru? My treat?" A blast of air conditioning textures my arms with goose bumps. It's not the way he gazes at me.
"Come on, Pollywog! French fries! French fries!" the kids chime in from the back seat.
"Yeah, okay. But call me Polly. Please."
"But Soggy calls you Pollywog."
"Soggy?"
"I think she means Sawyer." Xander puts the car in reverse, looking over his shoulder, resting his hand on my seat. Not that I'm noticing his slender dark fingers, inky pink fingertips. "Sawyer yells your name a lot. The kids have kind of picked up on it."
"Great. But where did they get Soggy?"
"I kind of started that." A mischievous grin flickers across his face. "I could tell you didn't like the whole Pollywog thing."
"I don't." I fold my arms across my chest. "But I can handle it myself."
He looks at me, but I can't read his expression. Then he says, "Who wants fries?"
"We do! We do! We do!"
I don't say much on the way down to the Iceberg drive-thru. Rain falls on the windshield, and Xander's wipers squeak. I focus on the sounds. The sky turns darker. Lightning flashes right above us. I just want to be home. Everything about this situation resembles a scene in a horror movie—before things go terribly wrong. I'm half surprised there isn't ominous music playing. Xander leans forward and turns on the radio; that Raffi song about baby Beluga blares from the speakers.
His cheeks darken and he mumbles, "It's not my car."
Am I making him blush? I'm so disconcerted by this whole unexpected situation that I blurt out, "I used to love this song."
The kids start singing along, and the next thing I know, we're all singing the lyrics about a little lost whale all alone.
"Do it jazzy style," Kyra says. "Come on, Uncle X!"
Xander glances at me quick, but then embellishes the next stanza with a bunch of doo-wops and sound effects. For a moment I flash back to the weird humming noises he made in elementary school, but we're all laughing as he pulls up to the drive-thru window.
The girl, a JV cheerleader I sorta recognize, leans through the window, squeezing her cleavage together. "Let me guess," she says. "Three orders of fries. Extra fry sauce?"
"Make it four."
The girl pulls back, noticing me for the first time. "O-kay." She says it real slow, as if already mentally composing the text message she's going to blast to all of her friends.
"Can we get shakes, Uncle X? If we promise not to tell Mom?"
Xander flashes his eyebrows up and down at the kids in the rearview mirror. See? It's something he does to everyone. He's a big flirt. "Three chocolate shakes and one"—he looks at me—"strawberry?"
Instead of answering with words, my cheeks flush the color of a strawberry.
The girl at the counter acts put out. "It may be a while. I'll have to get another batch of berries ready."
I make a never-mind motion with my hand, but Xander says, "You go ahead and do that."
We sit there waiting, kiddie tunes blasting on the radio, windows steaming up with our breath, and I'm starting to freak out. Why am I in this car? How does he know that I like strawberry shakes? Is he a total stalker or what? Was he watching me yesterday when Sonnet shoved me into Sexy Lifeguard, spilling strawberry shake down my chest?
"You better help her wipe that off," Sonnet had said.
Sexy Lifeguard rolled his eyes. "I think she can handle it."
Sonnet nudged me hard, prompting me to say something bad-girl-worthy. "I can handle a lot of things," I practically purred. Sexy Lifeguard shook his head and walked away. The whole bad-girl-repelling-bad-boy thing obviously worked on him. But did Xander write it all down in his little notebook like some sort of sicko spy?
I reach for the notebook, but Xander grabs it first. "What's in that thing, anyway?"
"Nothing."
"Oh? I thought you hated that word."
He shoves the notebook under his thigh. Facing the take-out window, he practically whispers, "I just like to capture small moments. That's all."
"Oh-kay."
He doesn't say anything, but he nudges the notebook farther under his leg.
"Like having strawberry shake spilled all over me? Is that in there?"
Xander shrugs, still not looking at me. The guy is seriously strange. Capturing moments? Bizarre. I turn around and watch the kids make Itsy Bitsy Spider motions with their hands, content in their car seats.
I finally say, "Beats blasting crap all over the Internet, I guess.
No response from Xander. What's his problem? I'm the one who's sick of being everyone's essay topic.
"Here are the fries." The girl shoves the bag at him. "I'm still figuring out the shakes."
"It's not astrophysics," he mutters, and I can't help smiling.
I try to think of a witty remark, something to lighten the mood, but I'm distracted by the way Xander opens a small tub of fry sauce and places it in the middle of each little carton. I'm having a total flashback to my dad. He used to take me to the Iceberg, this exact location, after my ballet lessons back when I was seven or eight. Just the two of us. Grace was still a baby. We'd eat in the car and talk. He'd really listen. No distractions, no arguing with Mom, no baby screaming. Just the two of us. Sometimes the windows would steam up, just like now, and I'd draw pictures with my finger. The memory floods me with emotion. I bite my lip and turn my head. But I can't stop myself from trailing a finger through the film on the glass.
"Pollywog!" Kyra calls out. "Now draw a frog."
Tears fuzz my vision. Dad used to call me Pollywog. How could I forget something like that? A small shudder ripples through me. I just want to go home. Turn on some music really loud. Forget about this.
"Come on, do a frog!"
"I want you to make a kitty," Dex says.
But I'm sitting there as frozen as the shake Xander has just handed me. Thick pink ice cream spills over the top of the clear plastic lid, dripping onto my fingers. Xander wraps a napkin around my hand, takes the shake from me, and says, "Let me help you with that."
And I just look at him, through my blurry eyes. He doesn't ask me what's wrong, what I'm thinking about, or even make a joke about messing up the car. He just dips his spoon into my shake, taking a few big bites so that it no longer spills over the lid, while his chocolate shake melts over its lid in his lap. He hands my shake back to me, and I take a few bites, but the sweetness tastes wrong in my mouth; the ice cream barely makes it past the lump in my throat.
"Can Pollywog come over and play?" Kyra asks.
"Maybe another time, K.K. Better eat your shake before you turn into a chocolate monster."
I glance back at the chocolate beard smearing Kyra's chin, thinking it's too late.
She grins. "I'm a chocolate monster and I'm going to eat you up, Uncle X!" She stretches her messy fingers toward Xander's shoulder, leaving smudgy fingerprints on his shirt, but he simply smiles as he pulls the car into the street.
He doesn't say anything as he drives me home, but when the "Wheels on the Bus" starts playing, he quickly turns the radio to the pop music station. The kids protest. I'm actually relieved to hear a love song, even if it is the one Sawyer always said reminded him of me. I
climb out of the car, careful to remember to leave Xander's towel behind.
"Um, thanks." I hold up the shake, and I'm about to make a joke about owing him fries or something, but I stop because his big brown eyes look at me so earnestly.
"I don't just write about you; I write about lots of things. If that's what's bothering you."
I tip my shake, spilling melted pink ice cream on my shorts. "Clumsy, me! Hey, no worries." My voice falters, so I turn away. "Yeah, so thanks again, for the, um, shake and stuff." I point to my leg. "Guess I've got some laundry to do."
"Hey, Polly. Take care," he says, except it doesn't sound like a throwaway line. It sounds like he means it.
And that scares me.
I run to my front door, so incredibly grateful that Grandma forgot to lock it again. Once inside, I slam the door shut, lean against it as if barricading myself from—what? I'm shaking. Just because I'm cold—because I'm wet, ate a milkshake, the air conditioning is on...
It's so quiet that I can hear the sound of Xander's wheels pulling on to the wet pavement. I focus on that sound until it disappears. Then I switch to thinking about the slight hum of the air conditioner. The weird grinding sound coming from the dishwasher. Anything but the thoughts wanting to push themselves into my head.
Dear Miss Swoon:
My boyfriend is perfect in every way. The only thing we ever argue about is music. I can't stand his music and he can't stand mine. How can we create a little more harmony?
—Messed-Up Melody
Dear Melody:
If you're making beautiful music together as a couple, it doesn't matter what's playing on the radio. Learn to love each other's differences.
Swoon at Your Own Risk Page 10
