Just Flirt Read online

  For my three wonderful guys, Bob, Broc, and Cooper, for making my life complete

  In loving memory of Monica Sue Long

  1981–2003

  You are forever in our hearts

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Superflirt Chronicles. Friday, June 11

  1. Dee

  2. Sabrina

  The Superflirt Chronicles. Sunday, June 13

  3. Dee

  The Superflirt Chronicles. Saturday, June 19

  4. Dee

  5. Sabrina

  The Superflirt Chronicles. Saturday evening, June 19

  6. Sabrina

  7. Dee

  8. Dee

  9. Sabrina

  The Superflirt Chronicles. Sunday, June 20

  10. Dee

  The Superflirt Chronicles. Thursday, June 24

  11. Dee

  12. Dee

  13. Sabrina

  14. Sabrina

  15. Dee

  16. Sabrina

  The Superflirt Chronicles. Tuesday, July 6

  17. Dee

  18. Sabrina

  19. Dee

  20. Dee

  21. Sabrina

  22. Dee

  23. Sabrina

  24. Dee

  25. Sabrina

  26. Dee

  27. Sabrina

  28. Dee

  The Superflirt Chronicles. Saturday, July 24

  29. Dee

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  The Superflirt Chronicles

  … blogs from a teenage flirtologist

  Friday, June 11

  YES! GOODBYE, SCHOOL. HELLO, SUMMER!

  MOOD: Wonderful, blissful, and simply joyful!

  MUSIC: “Summer Girl,” Jessica Andrews

  Ahhhh. Summer, sweet summer.

  The sunshine. The smells of freshly mown Maryland grass and chlorine-damp hair. The parents who flood our campground with their loaded RVs, and most important, the flirting with their cute teenage sons! Only one thing could make the last day of school even better: realizing that this is my one-hundredth blog post here at The Superflirt Chronicles!

  Ahhhh. Memories, sweet memories.

  I so fondly recall the first entry I made here last October. Trivia Question: Does anyone remember who it was about? Answer: An adorable varsity linebacker I nicknamed Spike, who wore his football uniform to our Halloween haunted hayride.

  Original costume? No.

  Cute? Oh, yes.

  Then there was my second post about Check Mate, whose baby blues actually made chess interesting, which—I admit—was a first for me. And how can we forget Bull’s Eye, that gorgeous archery champ who showed me how to shoot a compound bow, and the clumsy-yet-adorable Scratch, a terrible pool player who I taught how to bank a combo?

  Ahhhh. Scratch, sweet Scratch.

  Of course, there have been some duds, like Beater Boy, who wore those thin wife-beater tank tops. He seemed cool at first, but his frequent references to his “beaters” as though he were a future spouse abuser caused me to swear off all guys who wear them. But one must take the bad with the good, so in honor of summer, my Ghosts of Flirtcapades Past, and the many new readers here at the Chronicles, allow me to once again post the nine rules of flirting written by me and my partner in all flirting crimes, the fabulous Miss N.

  Memorize it, and I promise … you’ll be mesmerizing!

  Superflirt’s Nine Rules of Flirting

  RULE #1: Smile. Seriously. I cannot stress this enough. Guys don’t want to hang around some whiner who complains about parents, school, monster cramps, life’s glooms and dooms, wah, wah, wah. Everyone has problems, my dears. Even Superflirt has problems, but being miserable won’t make them go away. So until they do, smile!

  RULE #2: Be confident. Okay, which contestant on a reality show do you think a guy would prefer: A.) the nervous one who’s so worried about elimination that she’s eliminated, B.) the complainer, C.) the gossip, or D.) the confident girl everyone loves, hmm? Get the picture?

  RULE #3: Be interested. So simple—so effective. Pay attention to what most people don’t notice. Compliment him, in subtle, honest ways with no fake flattery. Ask questions, like what kind of music he’s into. Just don’t lie and say you love rap unless you want to be dragged to an Eminem concert. And don’t try to impress him with any do-or-die debating skills. Playful banter? Good. Ball busting? Bad, very bad.

  RULE #4: Make eye contact. Readers often ask how to tell if a guy likes you. Of course, there are the novice observations: the stolen glances he gives you when he thinks you’re not looking, the way he “accidentally” bumps into you at different places. But for professional results, do this: Make eye contact. Hold it for three seconds. One … two … three. By the third count, you’ll know if he’s interested, ladies, you’ll know. And then?

  Gotcha.

  RULE #5: Timing, timing, timing. Do not approach a group of guys and think you’ll be able to single one out like a dog herding sheep. Guys get all macho when they’re with their friends and will most likely say things such as “Dude, did you see that chick? She wants me, man.” So wait until he’s away from the testosterone troop before making a move.

  RULE #6: Work it. Speak softly; give him a reason to lean in closer. Play with your hair; let him know you’re interested without saying a word. Lightly touch his arm, but don’t overdo it. And, at opportune moments, lower your gaze … wait a second … and then look up at him with a soft smile. Killer move. Practice this one in the mirror.

  RULE #7: Know when to walk away. Don’t let him be the first to end the conversation. Never, never, never. Otherwise, you might appear desperate, and you don’t want that. Leave him wanting more by breaking away first.

  RULE #8: Know when NOT to flirt. It is so not cool to flirt: A.) with someone who’s in a relationship, B.) if you’re in a relationship, or C.) with hurtful intentions. I also choose not to flirt with guys from school or work (because of the whole don’t poo where you eat thing), but this I leave to your discretion.

  RULE #9: Don’t take it seriously! Look, flirting is not about scoring the perfect boyfriend or lifelong mate. Gag. It’s about having fun and meeting people.

  So here’s to a summer of being bold! To being fearless! To Fridays, which bring a fresh crop of campers! Will there be any cute guys among them? Stay tuned to find out …

  1 Dee

  After spending the afternoon checking in campers, tracking down a lost hiker, and foolishly breaking up a water gun fight while—duh—wearing a white T-shirt, I am more than ready to celebrate the last day of school by slipping into a most delightful, most decadent poolside nap.

  Natalie and her laptop, however, have other plans.

  “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” she says, poking my thigh with her big toe. I open my eyes just enough to see her flashing a wicked grin from underneath the umbrella. “Check out this Web site called Wedgie-watch.com, Dee. It’s hilarious!”

  Wedgies? Okay, that’s worth being woken up for, even though surfing the Internet isn’t high on my agenda tonight. But Natalie’s wild computer addiction does not yield to sun, swimming, or siestas, so I scoot closer to see a display of very graphic, very torturous wedgies that make my own cheeks clench in pain.

  “Uh, Nat, sweetie, how exactly did you find this?”

  “I Googled ‘wedgie’ and this came up,” she says, as though it’s totally normal.

  “And … why did you Google ‘wedgie’?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Natalie says, picking up her melted cherry snowball. “Why Google anything?”

  I grin and lean back in my lounge chair with the warm sun on my face. It is, without a doubt, perfect camping weather. Hot enough to swim, bu
t nippy enough at night to cozy by the fire in a sweatshirt. This is my favorite time of day, when the evening activities kick in and the campground truly comes alive with guests cramming in as much fun as possible before it gets too dark. I love seeing kids zipping by on dusty bikes, determined fishermen casting their lines at the river, volleyball players in a sweaty duel at the sand court, and couples holding hands on their evening stroll.

  Natalie groans when the band starts a twangy version of a Beach Boys song. “Ugh, bluegrass. Tell me again why I come here on Friday evenings when it’s my night off ?”

  “To be with your bestest, bestest friend?”

  “Eh, not really,” she jokes. “You ain’t all that.”

  I drop my jaw in mock protest. “What? Oh, please, without me, you’d be at home hanging out in boring chat rooms or reading all those forums.”

  She knows I have her on this one. Her latest obsession, besides wedgies, has been a forum dedicated to all things Disney World after her grandmother announced that she’s using her tax refund to take Natalie’s entire family there in August.

  Seriously. Talk about one sweet refund.

  Her mom and dad are always swamped at their accounting firm and her older brother is spending the summer in Ocean City with his college buddies, so Natalie has taken it upon herself to plan the ultimate Disney itinerary. She hands me the remains of her snowball—she likes them fresh, I like them melted—and says, “Okay, fine. My name is Natalie and I’m a Webaholic; hello, Natalie. But those forums did help me map out where a ton of hidden Mickeys are, so there.”

  Hidden Mickeys? Yeah, no clue about that one. I’ve never been to the Magic Kingdom, or on any other real vacation for that matter. There’s always too much work to do, and besides, our campground has its own special kind of magic, so why go on vacations when vacations come here? I am curious about the hidden Mickeys, though, but before I can ask, Jake Bollinger strolls in with the chlorine kit, wearing faded Levi’s and a SAVE A HORSE, RACE A STOCK CAR T-shirt. Like Nat and me, Jake will be a senior at Riverside High next fall. He mostly hangs with the crowd from his auto mechanics class, so we didn’t meet until Mom hired him in April to do odd maintenance chores. She also lets him use one of our empty buildings as a garage for the cute go-kart thingy he races. Just don’t call it cute in front of him. Or a thingy.

  They’re apparently not the manliest of terms.

  Natalie’s wicked grin returns. She winks at me and says, “Hey, Jake, come check out this dirt bike race on YouTube!”

  He hurries over, only to cringe at what must be the mother of all wedgies on the screen. “Dude, that’s so wrong! You’re sick, Natalie Green. Sick. Both of you are.”

  Oh, really?

  I go into instant flirt mode, dropping my chin and gazing at him through my lashes while seductively running a finger along the side of his arm. “You don’t truly believe that, now, do you, Jake?” I purr. “Not about little ole me.”

  A tad over the top, yes, but it’s not like I would flirt for real with Jake. Flirting with campground employees is strictly against the rules … no matter how cute they happen to be. This goes double for Jake’s buddies who hang out at the garage, and I never flirt with anyone from school. Flirting is meant to be fresh. Fun. Spontaneous, with someone you don’t see on a regular basis. Besides, Jake never takes me seriously.

  And after what I did last year, every guy at Riverside thinks I’m a total psychotic flake.

  Jake leans forward, his battered cowboy hat almost touching my forehead. He gives me a cocky half smile and says, “You really don’t expect me to fall for your bullcrap, do ya, Dee-Dee?”

  Argh.

  I hate being called Dee-Dee. It’s Dee. Not Dee-Dee or Didi or Dodo Bird, like this one creep dubbed me in preschool. Just Dee.

  It was such a mistake to tell Jake how much it annoyed me when my ex used to call me that. HUGE mistake. But at least I didn’t mention the many other things that Blaine Walker did to annoy me when we dated last spring and summer. Like breaking our dates at the last minute. Or always wanting to hang out with his snotty friends instead of mine. And then there was his wandering eye that I tolerated for five months because Lord forbid I dare sound like a jealous cow, and his habit of accusing me of flirting with his friends if I—Lord forbid—dared to laugh or talk too much.

  The most annoying thing? When he dumped me last September with a text message saying how he wanted a “fresh start” for our junior year.

  No, that’s a lie.

  The most annoying thing is the pathetic way I wanted him back … and what I did that caused everyone at school to think I am a desperate psycho. But whatever. It’s all water under the bridge now. Dirty, nasty, scummy water. So I gaze up at Jake adoringly and say, “I love it when you call me that. Do it again. Dee-Dee.”

  He rolls his eyes and heads back to the pool. “Aw, come back, Jake!” Natalie calls out with a giggle. “Don’t let Dee-Dee scare you away.”

  “Yeah, Jake, let’s talk about your cute race kart thingy!”

  “Bite me, sickos,” he says over his shoulder.

  Whatever comeback Natalie has in mind is cut off when the screen door of the main lodge slams open and the Cutson brothers run out with Sponge Bob temporary tattoos on their foreheads and damp swimsuits hanging on their scrawny bodies. Natalie lets out an annoyed huff. “Lyle! Tanner! Stop banging that door, you little creeps!”

  The barefoot twins ignore her, wobbling like ducks on the gravel road and throwing their popsicle wrappers on the ground. “Yeah, and pick up that trash,” I add.

  Tanner smacks his butt and yells, “Make me!”

  Oh, that twerp! Natalie seems tempted to do just that until someone calls out, “Yoo-hoo, girls!” We turn to see Ivy Neville, a retired investment banker and one of our permanent summer guests, walking toward us. She leans her tall frame against the fence and pulls off an outback-style hat that looks like it came straight out of a Cabela’s catalog.

  “Hey, Miss Ivy. How’s everything, you need any more help?” I ask.

  “Oh, no, girls, take your break, I’m all set up.” She motions toward a fifth-wheel RV parked by the river at a premier site that’s been hers from mid-June to late October for the past three years. When we are closed for the winter, Ivy stays in South Carolina where the warm weather is less harsh on an old woman’s body—her words, not mine. “I just wanted to tell you, Natalie,” she says, smoothing her silver-gray hair, “how nice it was to meet you earlier today, and how thrilled I am to see Dee keeping better company this summer.”

  Meaning company other than Blaine, who she wasn’t exactly a fan of.

  “And, Dee, I wanted to tell you that the campground looks just lovely!”

  A feeling of pride swells in my chest.

  My home is lovely. Lovely and charming, with giant oak trees, blooming crepe myrtles, and fifty-five sites woven in among rolling hills, riverbanks, and the flanking mountains I know better than the tops of my favorite flip-flops. Rustic log bathhouses and pavilions surround our eighteenth-century lodge, a row of cozy guest cabins line the trout pond, and on a broad hilltop sits the large cabin my mom and I live in. Everything here is traditional and quaint, unlike Chuck Lambert’s pimped-out RV Resort two miles down the road that’s more theme park than campground, with its coffee café and spa services by request. But, Chuck’s place is always booked solid, and we only reach full capacity on holiday weekends.

  Ivy studies me fondly. “And you remind me more of your father every year. Lord, I miss that man. How are things, kiddo, you and your momma getting on okay?”

  Just like that, my good mood melts like Natalie’s snowball.

  You’d think after fifteen months it’d get easier.

  You’d think I could hear people talk about Dad without feeling like someone rammed a stick of firewood into my stomach. Instead, each condolence only brings back the unbelievable truth that a man as dynamic and healthy as John Barton could have a heart attack, one that caused him to crash
his truck and die instantly.

  I still force myself to put on a practiced, polite smile and tell her that we are fine, just fine, because no one likes a drama queen. And no one, not even Ivy, needs to know Mom and I are barely making ends meet. Except for Natalie, of course. She knows everything, because she works here, and, well, I can’t imagine not telling her everything. She waits until Ivy leaves and asks, “You okay? Want to talk about it?”

  No, not really.

  And the evening is simply too pretty to be sad.

  “Good,” Natalie says with a devious glint. “Because I spy with my naughty little eye someone who I’ll bet one box of oh so delicious Skinny Cow Fudge Bars will put some joy on that pretty face of yours.”

  This is why I love Natalie—she always says the right thing at just the right time. I personally believe she should be a psychiatrist instead of a journalist, but Natalie has a low tolerance for whiners. And my, my, she’s playing the Skinny Cow card? Wow, she’s not fooling around. I scan the area and then point to a guy at the putt-putt course who is trying to mess up his father’s shot. “Him?”

  She pretends to yawn. “Oh, snore, you’re boring me, Dee.”

  Strike one. And I know she isn’t talking about Jake, so I shift my attention to the game going on at the basketball court.

  “Cold, cold, very cold,” Natalie teases.

  Strike two. In the full-hook-up section, a divorced father is draping a pink bathing suit over a makeshift clothesline that dips like a swayback mare. No cute guys there, just two little girls blowing bubbles and a messy site littered with Barbie bikes, pool noodles, and inner tubes. A few rows over, the Swains’ site is sterile in comparison, with their streamlined motor home, posh lounge chairs, and ground mats all in coordinated shades of beige. The awning shakes when the door opens and Roxanne Swain stomps out wearing cargo shorts, a baggy black T-shirt, and a NASCAR cap over her dyed red hair. When her parents checked in for the summer a few days ago, I invited her to go hiking, but she shot me down faster than the Cutsons once emptied the pool by trying to resuscitate a dead fish. When she glances our way, though, I can’t stop myself from giving her a small wave.