Swoon at Your Own Risk

by Sydney Salter

  Bossy Lady rushes off to supervise the guys starting up the barbecue.

  "I don't want to get in trouble. I need the, you know—" I stop myself from saying the M word: money. It's turned into a swearword at home.

  "Aggravation?"

  I run with it. "Yeah, I totally need aggravation because I'm not, you know, dating anyone right now. So I've got to find my daily dose of drama at work and stuff." I laugh. "My family is trying, but you know." I tilt my head and roll my eyes.

  "Polly Martin not dating anyone? That's a good one. I heard Xander Cooper carried you out of Hamburger Heaven after you got stuck in the meat grinder or something." She gestures toward my scabby arm. "I thought it was an exaggeration, but now—"

  "That's not how it happened. I mean, really, if you believe everything you read, I've got a space alien for you to date." One of Mom's stupid Uranus jokes pops to my head, but I have the sense not to repeat it.

  "But you were with Xander Cooper?"

  "Technically."

  Sonnet pops a party favor into her pocket. "Ooh, that sounds kinky."

  I feel my face reddening like the barbecue flames shooting into the air near Bossy Lady. "It's really nothing."

  "Oh, really? The guy's been stalking you all summer, writing love odes and all, and then he rescues you from being mangled by a meat grinder, and you call that nothing? I'm lucky if I can get a guy to hold my hair back while I vomit."

  "That's a pleasant image."

  Sonnet laughs. "Yeah, right. Well, that bonfire party got a little crazy the other night. Hey, where were you? I watched for you, for a while, anyway. Until Travis showed up. But that's a long story."

  "Do tell. I love long stories, especially when I'm stuck working for a pattern-obsessed political volunteer." I make a big show of putting two red party favors next to each other. Sonnet starts gabbing about the party, and I'm more than happy to avoid the whole Xander Cooper topic. So what if people have started rumors? I've lived through that plenty of times before—five times, to be exact.

  Just as the fundraiser is about to start, Bossy Lady walks over and hands us each a "Do It the Waxman Way" T-shirt. "I'd like each of you to wear one of these for the party. If you want to keep them, I'll need a minimum twenty-five-dollar donation."

  Sonnet scrunches her mouth into a look of disgust. "They're so baggy!"

  "Um, yeah," I say. "We kind of have our Wild Waves uniform code and all."

  The woman looks me up and down like one of the lecherous old dads Sonnet recently blogged about. "I think something with a bit more coverage might be more becoming to this austere occasion."

  "I don't think we're allowed." Sonnet stands up tall so that her suit dips even lower. "Oyster occasion or not."

  Bossy Lady huffs. "The word is austere."

  I roll my eyes, like, really does she not think we know our SAT vocabulary? Sonnet takes AP English, too.

  "I'm sorry," I say, "but due to company policy Waxman will not be able to have his way with me."

  That sends Sonnet into a fit of un-austere giggles. And I realize that I've made the whole thing sound dirty.

  "Must be the latent bad girl in me," I say with a smirk as Bossy Lady strides over to switch party favors around.

  "Latent?" Sonnet whispers. "I'd say it's manifesting. I heard you and Xander made out in the ER."

  I roll my eyes. "I bled so much that I passed out."

  "In Xander's muscular arms."

  "Not exactly."

  "But sort of?"

  "Just don't blog about it, okay? I'm starting to look like a slut."

  Sonnet shrugs. "Just makes you interesting."

  Bossy Lady aims her red, white, and blue fingernail at table six. "Fix that—I see several conspicuous errors! I'm going to supervise the caterer."

  "We'll fix the conspiring errors for this oyster occasion," I say, grinning at Sonnet.

  The woman shakes her head, seeming to realize that we've been making fun of her. But then she narrows her eyes, gives us a quick nod, and stomps off, holding the bright red "Waxman Way" T-shirts.

  A few minutes later Sawyer lopes up to us carrying those hideous red T-shirts.

  "Hey, guys. I really appreciate that you're following the rules and everything. But since this is a private party you can privately wear the party T-shirt."

  "What if we don't want to?" Sonnet pops her hip out. "It's, like, way baggy, not to mention the ugliest shade of red ever invented."

  "We're trying to keep the customer happy here, so..." Sawyer shakes his hair out of his eyes.

  "So we can sell out our ideals for—what?" I put my hand on my hip. "I mean, do we even know what this Waxman person stands for? What if he wants to curb our civil liberties, take away our freedoms?"

  Sawyer looks at me. "You're the one who wanted the overtime."

  "You're the one who respects big ideas and depth of character."

  He glances at Sonnet, who looks like she's already composing her next blog post in her mind: ex-lovers have a poolside spat. If he dares put his hand on my arm, she'll probably write that we had sex in the tube slide.

  "This isn't the timeliest time for this, Pollywog."

  "Right. Now's the time to be the happy little pool girl." I tilt my head and speak in a sultry voice. "Coffee, tea, or me, Mr. Waxman? We're a full-service facility here at Wild Waves."

  Sonnet guffaws. "Oh God. Polly. You're too much!"

  "Please. Just cooperate, okay?" Sawyer puts his hand on my shoulder. "We can discuss this later."

  I cross my arms across my chest, bumping his arm off but giving my bust a boost. "I'm not into talking, remember?"

  Sawyer blushes, not quite the otherworldly color of the T-shirts but it looks like 83 percent of his blood has rushed to his face, giving him an instant sunburned look. Sonnet's eyes bug out, and I can tell I'm back in her blog again. Already. "Just wear the shirt," he says quietly and leaves.

  Sonnet and I decide that we'll wear the shirts, all right, in the form of halter-tops. With the knot in the middle I fold my T-shirt to read DO WAN WAY. I start laughing. "It's like we're being paid to be personal billboards by some nerd's mother to help him lose his virginity so he'll move out of the house or something."

  Sonnet doubles over, cackling like a cartoon hyena. "I wish I had my camera. This is too funny! And so bloggable!"

  "Sonnet, I'm beginning to think you have a problem. Maybe you should check into Bloggers Anonymous or something."

  "I know, right? I'm still blogging about you and the Sawdust, though. Can't hurt to make Xander a little jealous, right?"

  "Sonnet." I sigh.

  ***

  Finally the political fundraiser is in full swing. Sonnet and I run around fetching beverages and a variety of barbecued meats. Some people in the crowd wear swimwear while others wear business suits, making the party look like a setup for a bad joke. Waxman talks loudly about his plans for "our blessed community" while waving a bottle of water around and occasionally mopping his forehead with a blue paper napkin that's leaving grayish smudges on his sweaty forehead. Mrs. Waxman stands at his side smiling. Her face doesn't change even when Waxman starts talking about poverty. And sure, she looks pretty and her dress probably costs more than I've spent on clothes over the last three years, but she seems so vacant. I'm tempted to ask her a real question—maybe whether she'd prefer a burger or a hot dog. Just to see if her mind functions on its own.

  I'm about to conduct my mini-experiment when someone rests a hand on my shoulder. "Polly, I didn't know you were involved in the Waxman campaign!"

  I spin around. Hayden smiles at me, wearing the same hideous red T-shirt with a pair of khaki pants. "Hey, is it okay if I put a bumper sticker on your car?"

  "I'm, um—" Not expecting to see him.

  "Great." He flaps a stack of bumper stickers. "Knew you'd come around. He's going to make a big difference. Bring back the moral authority in the schools, clean things up morally, reverse the moral decay."

  Hayden sou
nds like he's memorized the guy's apparently redundant campaign brochure. I stop listening. I'm too focused on the wife: the way she just stands there not talking to anyone, not seeming to listen, not engaged in her life at all. What would she rather be doing? Does her husband even know? Does he even care? He treats her like a prop, touching her arm to make a point about "preserving families" or slinging an arm around her waist as he goes on about motherhood being "the most important profession." Her smile never changes.

  "His wife," I say, not bothering to answer whatever question Hayden just posed.

  "Oh, she's terrific. Two-time Mother of the Year."

  "She looks so..."

  "Elegant? I know. She's like the perfect example of a political wife. Looks great, supports the right causes—"

  "But isn't all that stuff just on the surface? Like, what is she thinking right now?"

  His forehead crinkles. "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing."

  He starts in on something about libraries, but I excuse myself as Sonnet holds up her tray, looking a little sweaty and frazzled. "I'd better get back to work."

  "That's all it takes, a little hard work," Hayden says, again sounding like a campaign slogan. He still doesn't seem to realize that I'm actually working at the party. Stupid T-shirt! I spend the rest of the evening refreshing drinks, clearing plates, and serving slices of cake frosted with that same unnatural shade of red. The whole time I keep an eye on Mrs. Waxman.

  Only after everyone has left and I'm searching for garbage in the dark does it occur to me that sometimes I act as superficial as Mrs. Waxman: smiling when I don't feel like it, not speaking up when I disagree, letting others take charge. Did I say yes to a bumper sticker?

  I push the thoughts away like the paper plates I'm shoving into my garbage sack, but they keep floating to the surface like the plastic cups bobbing in the Lazy River. At this point I'm feeling pretty certain that the Waxman Way does not include strong environmental policies. Maybe I'd make a great political wife, delivering funny one-liners and looking cute in my little outfits. Is that why Hayden found me attractive? Does he like women like that? But she looks so ... empty.

  The way I've been feeling lately.

  I spot one more massive dumping spot with paper plates piled on another picnic table. It's right near a trash can, but whatever. As I'm clearing the table, I think about how Mom's probably doing the same exact thing at Hamburger Heaven. I'm sure she's joking with the customers, making her teenage coworkers laugh. Don't they see that it's all an act? No one works so they can see their favorite students. They work because their ex-husband is going to stop sending child support in six months and there's a stack of unpaid bills taking over the kitchen counter like a fungus.

  Grandma's the same way. She's full of wisdom when she does interviews and stuff. She always says something quick and snappy in her columns, but at home she's pretending to write a book while she's really trolling for men online. Plus, she's had a few of those mystery callers that I've come to recognize as people wanting their money. Could Grandma be having money trouble, too? Is that why she's not paying Mom? But she's so famous!

  I look over at the moon shining on the wide Watering Hole pool, a mirror image of the sky. You can't see the hidden depths. And the moon and the water look so beautiful, so perfect. Why would anyone want to see what's underneath? It's all old Band-Aids, chewed-up gum, dead bugs.

  Dear Sassy Sage:

  My boyfriend reads a lot of men's magazines and wants me to wear sexy lingerie almost every time we're together. I'm worried that he has expectations that I won't be able to meet.

  —Needs Another Bustier

  Dear Needs:

  Maybe you need to be reading the same magazines. You can learn a lot! And all of it will help in the satisfaction department. Go for it, girl!

  —Sassy, and don't forget Sage!

  Not Shakespeare's Sonnet

  Blond count: 8 (Or is it 9?)

  EX-change of Information:

  Polly Martin—where to start? Sawyer Holms can barely keep his hands off you, even when his new fling is around. Kipper, girl, are you worried? I overheard Sawyer waxing on about having his way with sexy little Poll. Wouldn't be her first ex hookup this summer. (See Ex-change of Saliva here.)

  Brandon'S.—No news is good news, right? Maybe she is thinking about you!

  Winner!!!!! (drumroll) The best love poem goes to Razorblade09. You've got a twisted mind & I like it. Are you blond?

  Chapter Twenty

  My alarm goes off way too soon. I'm not even close to getting those medically advised eight hours of sleep or the respite I need from Wild Waves. I wander into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal, only to find Grace and Grandma hunched over the newspaper. Grandma is explaining various lingerie items to Grace, and I'm thinking that things with Hank the Wonder Repairman have gone way too far.

  "Grandma, isn't Grace a little too—"

  Grandma looks at me, raising her eyes to the ceiling. "Sassy Sage," she says in a too-cheerful voice. "I wonder if they realize what hip and edgy are doing to breakfast table conversation?"

  "So, why do people want to wear those again?" asks Grace.

  "Honey," Grandma says, smoothing Grace's bed head. "I don't know, because they pinch like the devil."

  "Yuck! They should fire that Sage person, Grandma. You're much better."

  Grandma kisses the top of Grace's head. "You're a sweetheart, but I'm just an old dinosaur. It's all about sex, sex, sex nowadays."

  Grace looks at Grandma with wide eyes. Grandma smiles, looking sad. "That's another conversation, sweetie." Grandma pushes away her empty cereal bowl. "I'll need a more substantial meal to take on that one."

  "Tonight, at dinner! Promise?" Grace runs off to phone Amy, because they haven't talked in a whole twelve hours.

  "You know, that candidate who was at the political fund-raiser I worked last night talked a lot about that kind of thing: improving our community morals."

  "We could do that by banning politicians."

  "Yeah, well, I'd like to ban political fundraisers. Those guys acted like pigs, leaving their trash all over the place." I pour cereal flakes into my bowl. Again I'm stuck with the dusty dregs—and I bought this box!

  "Most politicians are pigs, that's for sure."

  "Hayden thinks this guy's okay."

  "You've got to think for yourself," she says, again sounding too much like a Miss Swoon column. "Don't let a man make your decisions."

  "Grandma, have you even been listening to me this summer? I'm completely through with guys."

  She stands and scoots her chair back under the table with too much force. "No need for the attitude! I was just offering friendly advice."

  I call out to her retreating back. "I like your advice!" I let my spoon sink into my cereal bowl. "It's just that sometimes I want to have an actual back-and-forth thing. What do you call them? Conversations!"

  Grace slides through the room. "Talking to yourself means you're crazy, you know."

  "Then I guess you should be worried. You never know what I might do to your stuffed animals while you sleep!"

  Grace runs out of the room. "Mom! Polly is going to hurt my stuffed animals! Mom!"

  I glance at my clock. I've got fifteen minutes to get to work. I grab my keys and holler goodbye, but no one answers.

  At work Sawyer assigns himself to Kipper's station. Sonnet gets Sexy Lifeguard. I'm stuck on garbage duty; apparently Sawyer thinks I could have been more committed to my task last night. The job is far more disgusting this morning. Ketchup has congealed with mustard, birds have strewn dew-soaked buns across the O.K. Corral, and napkins dot the grass like poppies. The early moms have plenty to say about Wild Waves hygiene as they step around the trash. Surveying the windblown garbage, I realize I could really use a rake.

  And speaking of rakes, Xander arrives with Kyra and Dex. The kids run over and ask if I'll go out for ice cream after swimming. Uncle X promised them a treat if they didn't fight o
nce, and they're not going to fight because they have a plan to not swim near each other all day. I can't help but smile. They're so cute!

  "Good luck, guys! I'm sure you'll earn that ice cream." I pick up a plate with a smooshed piece of cake and shove it into my garbage bag.

  Xander wanders over to me with a pair of soda cans in his hands. "You can come for ice cream if you want. As long as you don't fight with anyone today." He smiles.

  "I'm not sure I can manage that. Some of these ladies look like they're itching for a rumble." I make fists and jab at the air. A smile plays in his eyes. I feel completely silly, and my cheeks warm, despite the morning breeze. I reach for the cans that Xander holds out to me. "Thanks for helping out my cause and everything." When my fingers brush against his, I fumble and drop the cans. So I bend down in a curtsey like I've been doing since I first took ballet in preschool.

  Oh! The words written inside the crane.

  Holding the dripping soda cans, I stand up to see Xander's amused expression. "That was about me," I whisper.

  He raises his eyebrows in response. And I'm equally speechless. We stand looking at each other in a quiet way, and I don't move a muscle until warm soda drips from the cans onto my toes.

  I break his gaze and tuck the soda cans into the recycling bag. "Okay, well, I'd, um, better get back to, you know, work." I turn around and head toward a paper plate stuck against a forsythia bush. I hate the way he makes me feel so awkward. The way I can't think of anything to say. The way his fingers feel so warm. The way he looks at me like he can see inside my thoughts. Is he writing about me in that little notebook?

  "Don't forget about the ice cream," Xander says. "My treat."

  Finally something I can joke about. "Maybe—I'm not sure I can stay out of trouble." I nod toward a lady kicking at a balled-up paper napkin with the toe of her sandal.

  "I'll keep an eye on you."

  Again I get all flustered. "Um, yeah, well. See you. I mean, yeah, I'll just be over here."

  He laughs. When I look back a few minutes later, he's writing something in his little black notebook.