Just Flirt Read online

  In return, Mom was supportive when I decided to put my auction skills to good use by selling items for other people on eBay and craigslist—for commission and fees, of course. And she listened, for once, when I begged her not to accept the bartending position Larson Walker recently offered her. Larson as in Blaine’s father, who bought the Riverside Inn four years ago when they first moved to town. My mother working for my boyfriend’s father? That would have been the very definition of tacky. He also offered me a summer job waitressing, but I have no desire to serve finicky, whiny customers. I pick my own hours, thank you. And it’s amazing how much business I got after mailing flyers to everyone in our development and posting them at a few senior centers. Still, sometimes I think Mom wants her grand plans to fail, so she can badger my father for more alimony. She resents him for cheating on her with a co-worker named Belinda—and then marrying her—so she will do anything to make him pay.

  Such as keep me from seeing him.

  Mom steps out of her closet, wearing a pair of skintight jeans and a denim vest. She uncurls the hot rollers from her hair and turns to me. “Well, what do you think?”

  Where to begin, where to begin. “Your outfit is too tight, too inappropriate, and don’t try to change the subject. Why did you tell Dad I had to work?”

  Mom ducks back into the closet and peels off her jeans. “Because I need you this weekend. Not him. Why you want to be anywhere near that horrible Belinda woman is beyond me. And you never get mad when he cancels.”

  She’s wrong. I hate being around Belinda, the home wrecker who tore our family apart, and her brat of a daughter, Angela. And yeah, maybe I don’t get mad because he’s been paying the price for his mistake by having to work eighty-hour weeks to support two families. Mom steps out again, this time wearing a leopard-print wrap shirt and black skirt. “Okay. How does this look?”

  “Like you belong in an ’80s Mötley Crüe video.”

  Mom runs her hands down her hips and smiles. “Aw, thanks, darling! That’s such a sweet thing to say. Now, be a love and let me borrow your gold hoop earrings and we’ll head out to Chuck’s, okay?”

  “Can’t I please go to Dad’s?” I ask again, with a catch in my voice.

  Her face hardens. “No. You could see your father all the time if he hadn’t run off with that woman, now, couldn’t you? So. Grab a sweater, throw some concealer on that teeny pimple on your nose, and let’s go. It’s showtime!”

  * * *

  “Testing, testing, one—two—three, can y’all hear me?”

  Mom stands center stage in front of the campers gathered at Chuck Lambert’s pool, although “pool” is an understatement. It’s more like an outdoor night club with its streams of Chinese lanterns, rainbow-colored lights sparkling under the water, and a bar with a row of blenders that churn out daiquiris for six bucks a glass. Mom takes a sip of hers—virgin only, drinking on the job is, surprisingly, one of her big no-no’s—and repeats into the mike, “I said, can y’all hear me? Who’s ready for some singing?”

  A cluster of kids shriek and run over to us, placing their wet, chlorine-soaked hands on the table and almost knocking over the MONA’S LOW-KEY KARAOKE sign.

  “I wanna sing some Britney Spears!”

  “No, me first! Taylor Swift! Taylor Swift!”

  “Can—can I sing a Barney song?” a shivering little girl asks.

  Ugh. Their chatter gives me an instant headache. That and knowing I’ll be listening to the same annoying pop songs all night long. I glare down at the girl and say, “No, sorry, Barney’s dead.”

  Her lower lip begins to quiver.

  “Now, now, Sabrina,” Mom scolds. She takes the girl’s hand and leads her to the mike stand. “Sure, honey, you can sing some Barney and I’ll even let you go first if you promise not to cry or tell your momma what mean ole Sabrina said.”

  After she cues up the music and the girl starts to mumble the lyrics, Mom sits down with clenched teeth. “Must you, Sabrina? Look at this turnout. Word about my business is getting around, so don’t blow it for me.”

  Me? Blow it for her? Not hardly. The woman is quite capable of her own sabotage, thanks to her short skirts and obnoxious flirting. And although Chuck is a complete slime, he’s the one having a good turnout, not her. This place is an adolescent fantasyland, with moon bounces and an outdoor movie screen. Chuck told us that next year he’s putting in water slides, once he raises more capital. I watch as he licks the rim of his margarita glass while leering at a female camper. Gross. He probably uses this place to target single, lonely mothers. At least Mom has the good sense to stay away from him … so far.

  “And,” she continues, pointing down the river, “my horoscope said this is a good week for new business ventures, so I’m thinking about visiting that Barton place to see if they want to hire me. I was gonna stop in today, but my Sunshine nails needed redoing.”

  Mom wiggles her fingernails, which are painted bright orange with tiny yellow suns. For as long as I can remember, she has always named her manicures, like her Glory, Glory, Hallelujah nails that had small flags in honor of Memorial Day. She collects a song selection slip from an older man—“The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” oh, joy—and says, “Aren’t you friends with the owner’s daughter? Lee? Bee?”

  My mouth goes dry.

  Friends? I was never friends with Dee Barton—not when she was dating Blaine, not when she was trying to steal him back, and certainly not now.

  “Dee!” Mom snaps her fingers. “That’s her name, right? Think you can ask her to put in a good word for me?”

  I think not. It was enough that I was polite to Dee when Blaine dragged her to our crowd’s parties. It was enough that I never flaunted our relationship when we started dating a week after they broke up, even though she bombarded him with texts like a desperate stalker. But when Dee wrote him that letter—trying to break us up just like Belinda did to my family—I did something to make sure everyone knew what kind of person she really is.

  Mom notices my scowl and brushes my brown hair back with one of her Sunshine nails. “Why are you cranky, honey, because you and Blaine are fighting?”

  I almost drop a Charlie Daniels CD. “How did you know?”

  She sips her daiquiri, leaving a giant red lipstick print on the cup’s brim. “Oh, I borrowed your cell while you were in the bathroom and stumbled upon a text by accident.”

  Accident, my rear. And Blaine sent me a text? I grab my phone off the table.

  Ur not still angry, r u Sabbie?

  Of course I’m angry, not just because of his female scoping, but because of his inability to see why it upset me, just like he didn’t understand why those photos of Dee he kept in his room hurt my feelings. And I hate being called Sabbie.

  “Well, what happened?” Mom asks.

  “Nothing. Stop reading my messages.”

  “Come on, tell Momma all about it,” she urges, scooting her chair closer and wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

  Common sense tells me to keep my mouth shut. Firmly shut. But it would be nice to talk to somebody. After all, this isn’t a conversation I can have with Torrance or my other best friend, Bridget, so I tell her everything, including all about the tramp stamp tattoo the girl had on her lower back that captured Blaine’s attention.

  “Oh, honey, is that why you’re mad, because he snuck a peekie at another gal?” Mom reaches for my hand. “Darling, he’s a guy. That’s what guys do! You just need to keep him happy so his wandering eye won’t stray beyond the borders, if you know what I mean, because—trust me—that boy is a keeper. Don’t hurt having a man with money.”

  And why is that? Because I’m incapable of earning my own? Uh, try again. Just because I have no clue what I want to do in the future—eBay can only get you so far—doesn’t mean I won’t be successful. Mom is partially right, though. Maybe Blaine’s “peekie” didn’t mean a thing. And it’s not as though girls never check out other guys. We’re just
less obvious about it.

  Besides, if Mom had kept my father happy, then maybe he’d still be around.

  Mom nudges me and points at the parking lot. “And see? There’s Blaine now, so don’t you feel silly?”

  My heart leaps when I see Blaine stepping out of his Mercedes looking like a Polo model in his jeans and untucked white shirt. But how did he know I was here? I’m supposed to be in Harpers Ferry with my dad. “Mom, did you call him?”

  She plays innocent by laying a hand against her chest, causing her silver bangles to slide down to her elbow with a clink, clink, clink. “Of course not, honey! I’d never do that. I only texted him and pretended to be you.”

  Impersonating your daughter is wrong on so many levels, but I am happy to see him. Otherwise, he might have gone to Prescott’s party thinking I was angry and if he met someone new, then … No, he wouldn’t do that to me. Still, as Blaine walks toward the gate I can’t help but scan the crowd for any potential competition to worry about. There’s a redhead wearing low-cut shorts and a bikini top, but she’s packing to leave. So when Blaine strolls into the pool area, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him until she’s gone.

  Give him something to keep him happy.

  “Wow,” Blaine says. “I take it you’re not mad at me anymore.”

  I pull back and laugh. “Of course not! I know how much you love me, right?”

  “Of course. You’re my number one girl.”

  But for once, I wish Blaine would tell me I’m his only girl.

  * * *

  “There, isn’t this better? Just the two of us?”

  Blaine lays a hand on my knee from the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, his brown hair draping over one eye and traces of a sunburn from today’s golf game on his nose. After listening to thirty minutes of butchered karaoke, he was more than ready to leave when Chuck sauntered over and said, “Now, Sabrina, why is such a good-looking girl working on a Friday night? Get out of here, go have some fun, and I’ll help your little sister.”

  Mom giggled like a preteen when Chuck gave her an exaggerated wink, but to me, his cliché line threw up a huge red flag. I did not want to leave her alone with that man in case they hooked up, because once it ended—and yes, it would end—Mom could lose her job. But if I was at Dad’s like I’m supposed to be, she’d be on her own anyway. And now that Blaine and I have made up it would be good to spend some time together.

  “It sure is better,” I reply, trying to sound light and airy. Tonight, we are not going to fight. I am not going to mention the tramp stamp and beat the subject like a dead horse until it is nothing but a pile of hide and hooves. I am going to be the perfect girlfriend.

  Blaine puts his blinker on and turns into Riverside Estates, a large development between Chuck’s and Dee’s campgrounds that Rex Reynolds, Mom’s old boss, designed. Talk about McMansions—Rex’s model home could put even Torrance’s house to shame. Larson and Blaine have a gorgeous Cape Cod right by the river. On the lot beside them, the new owners are having a massive Georgian built, but so far, the house looks like a dismal graveyard with black silt fencing surrounding the rocky yard and stacks of mud-splattered bricks. Blaine waves at Rex, who is talking with a woman wearing a pink suit and a girl standing with arms crossed and a NASCAR cap pulled down low on her forehead. “My new neighbors,” he says. “Victoria and Roxanne Swain.” Uh, yeah, the mom is total Riverside Estates material, but her daughter? She looks more suited for a trailer park. And seeing her poorly dyed red hair beneath her cap makes me once again think of the bleached blonde at McDonald’s with the tramp stamp.

  No. Dead subject, dead horse.

  But I can’t keep my anger from swelling as we walk through the mudroom door. When the security alarm beeps, I stand facing him, refusing to move. “Sabrina, please?” Blaine asks, his fingers lingering above the code box. “I thought you weren’t mad anymore.”

  “I’m not,” I lie before reluctantly turning around. “It’s just that I … I don’t understand why Larson doesn’t trust me enough to know the alarm code. It’s not like I’m going to break in or anything.”

  The beeping stops. Blaine takes my hand and puts his face inches from mine, the richness of his brown eyes making my heart jump. “Why don’t you trust me? Don’t you know you’re the best thing that’s happened to me?”

  “Better than—”

  “Yes, better than Dee Barton,” Blaine finishes, kissing me softly. “Better than the girl at McDonald’s, better than that redhead at Chuck’s, better than anything. And come on—if I was going to cheat, don’t you think I’d be smart enough not to get caught?”

  Well … yes, I guess.

  “So,” Blaine says, with his thousand-watt, knee-weakening smile. He wraps his strong arms around my waist and pulls me close. “Why don’t I order a pizza for me and salad for you and we’ll watch a movie. Your pick.”

  I’d rather have pizza than salad, but his offer to let me pick the movie does provide the perfect opportunity to see exactly how willing he is to please me. So I think of the cheesiest, most romantic movie I can. “Fine. How about Mamma Mia?”

  Blaine starts to protest, but then, to my surprise, he kisses the tip of my nose and says, “Okay. You put it on and I’ll be right there.”

  Well, that’s a pleasant change. I walk down the stairs to his suite in the basement, which is decorated with manly chocolate brown walls, leather furniture, and a flat-screen TV. Usually, Blaine convinces me to watch Clint Eastwood or some horrible action movie where nearly everyone ends up as a bloody corpse. Maybe he is trying and I overreacted. After all, his mother did leave to pursue a singing career in Nashville when he was nine, taking Larson’s Corvette and the contents of their joint checking account with her. It must have been hard, knowing your own mother wasn’t interested in shared custody. So it’s no wonder Blaine doesn’t know how to act in a relationship. She screwed him over and he’s been raised by Larson Walker, who’s quite the bachelor with an active dating life and who kind of reminds me of Pierce Brosnan in Mamma Mia with his rugged good looks and perfectly cut salt-and-pepper hair.

  Still, when I notice Blaine’s backpack on his desk, a horrible temptation to search every nook and cranny sweeps through me.

  No, don’t snoop. Only pathetic girls snoop.

  But what would’ve happened if I had never found the letter Dee wrote him hidden in his glove compartment? What if Blaine lied about throwing away all those photos of her? And what if he saved mementos from other relationships, like the serial killers who save their victims’ fingers or toes?

  I am pathetic.

  Because not only did I just compare my boyfriend to a serial killer, I also find absolutely nothing incriminating in his backpack or in his desk drawers, just an old library card and a report card from the school he went to before he moved to Riverside. Pathetic, pathetic, I am pathetic. After all, Blaine said I was better than Dee. Better than the girl at McDonald’s and better than the redhead at the campground …

  Which means even though he was kissing me, he still noticed her.

  The Superflirt Chronicles

  … blogs from a teenage flirtologist

  Sunday, June 13

  THE WEEKEND FLIRT REPORT!

  MOOD: A tad disappointed, but still happy that school’s OUT!

  MUSIC: “Electric Bird,” Sia

  It’s time, dear readers, for my first summer flirt report!

  Oh, how I wish it were full of romance and rapport with a handsome, well-mannered, gentlemanly fellow, but sadly, it’s not. Let’s all hope it’s not a bad omen for the rest of the summer, shall we?

  THE DUDE: “Sox,” who I thought had such potential!

  THE GRADE: Eh … C. No, that’s mean. I’ll give him a C+.

  THE BREAKDOWN: Sox definitely has “handsome” down. Great hair. Straight teeth. Abs you could crack an egg on, which would be kind of gross if you think about it. Well-mannered, seeing as how he let me go first when we played pool Friday night, and ge
ntlemanly, seeing as how he didn’t gape at my breasts when I made my shots—either that or he was clever enough to get away with it.

  So why the C+, a low rating Miss N and I haven’t given out since Beater Boy? It’s because of his continuous, nonstop, oh so aggravating ramblings about the Boston Red Sox.

  Nothing against Boston, so please, no hate mail. It is, after all, admirable to have loyalty to your home team, but, Sox lives in Maryland, not New England.

  Dude. Dude!

  Does the song go Root, root, root for whatever-team-has-the-best-record? No, I believe it goes, Root, root, root for the HOME team. And his nonstop ragging on my home team annoyed me more than skinny models who claim they eat like hogs, so it was adios, Sox the Traitor! Sorry, you’re cute, but I no longer tolerate guys who rag, nag, criticize, or hypnotize. I’ve already been down that road with Mercedes—the KING of rags, nags, criticism, and hypnotism, who was a major lesson on why serious relationships suck.

  It’s more fun to flirt.

  At least Mercedes is now dating a total nightmare of a girl, which does bring me a substantial amount of happiness. And hey, now that I have some time on my hands, how’s ’bout I reply to a few comments that readers have posted during the past week? You’ll love this one:

  Hey, SF, can I ask you something? I’m a college student who works part time at a grocery store. There’s this gorgeous guy who sometimes bags for me and I think he likes me from the way he’s always checking me out. He has a girlfriend, but he said they’re having problems and are breaking up soon, so is it okay for me to flirt with him? —WisconsinWendy