Just Flirt (5 page)

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

T
HE
W
EEKEND
F
LIRT
R
EPORT
!

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 gentlemanly, 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

Oh, my dear, dear Wendy. The dude wants to bag more than your groceries, sweetheart—he wants to bag your booty. True, Superflirt does encourage all kinds of fun, harmless flirting, but with another woman’s man? No, no, NO! That’s just not cool. So please, immediately point Mr. Booty-Bagger back to his girlfriend, because you, my friend, do not want to be a home wrecker, no matter how wrecked that home already happens to be.

On to the next one, posted by “anonymous,” as you’ll soon find out why:

So, let me see if I understand this correctly. You drape yourself over a different dude every weekend and then say goodbye without another thought. Wouldn’t the correct terminology for someone who behaves in this fashion be a slut? —Anonymous

First off—and I mean this with total love and sisterhood—up yours. Way up. Up, up, up. Second, I’m not doing anything wrong. I am not a tease nor do I sleep with these guys (per MY choice), and third, I’m not hurting anyone. I’m having fun meeting different people, and if there’s flirting involved, guess what, sweetheart? It’s my right! So go find another Web site to haunt, like www.iamajudgementalbitch.com, okay?

Okay. Time for one more:

Sure, flirting might be fun for the young and pretty, but it’s not something a divorced woman in her forties who has two teenage girls, stretch marks, and wrinkles can pull off. I hardly have time to see my friends—what’s left of them—let alone date. And what would my kids think? Sorry, but flirting is best left to the young. —Meghan9800

Thank you, Meghan, for bringing up a fascinating topic: When is a woman too old to flirt? To answer that question, here’s a little test:

1. Stick out the index and middle fingers on your right hand.

2. Place said fingers gently against the inside of your left wrist.

3. Feel for a pulse.

4. If you find one, then YOU’RE NOT TOO OLD TO FLIRT!

Okay, so you have stretch marks, wrinkles, and things I can’t identify with. And yeah, you’re divorced with kids. But neither of these facts mean life is over or that you’re not entitled to have fun! Meghan, honey, you are my new summer project. First off, I want you to download “Electric Bird” by Sia. Listen to every word. Twice, maybe three times. Then go treat yourself to a total day of beauty, including, but not limited to, a facial, manicure, pedicure, and highlights. Buy yourself a brand-new outfit and then go out to dinner with a girlfriend where you will smile at two different single men. Just not at your waiter, bartender, and for God’s sake, not at a Mr. Booty-Bagger.

About your daughters. Look. Any teenage girl would admire a confident, bold mother who lives a life where age is neither an issue nor a hindrance. So in other words, stop using excuses to bury yourself in a hole, my dear.

And I mean that with total love and sisterhood.

3
Dee

Thank God for quick-brew coffee makers. Seventy dollars for twelve cups in three minutes? Worth every penny, especially at five-thirty on a Saturday morning.

Our cabin’s front screen door creaks open. From the kitchen window, I watch Mom stumble out onto the porch, bundled in a quilt with her hair gathered in a sleepy ponytail. She surveys the campground below and then sits in Dad’s rocking chair, where he used to watch the sunrise every morning. Back then, Mom was more of a night owl who stayed up late watching
Law & Order
reruns, but one week after his funeral, after the well-wishers had stopped visiting and the flowers had wilted, I was woken by the sound of her rocking slowly in his chair. If she was surprised when I joined her, she didn’t show it. “I need to do inventory so we don’t run out of anything,” she said, maybe to me, maybe to herself.
“I can’t run out of anything.”

I didn’t know what to say other than “Okay.”

“Some of the tent sites need another layer of gravel,” she stammered. “And the hiking paths—your father said something about overgrown briars before he…”

Before he died.

Mom stared straight ahead. Her words sounded as wispy as the fog lingering over the fishing pond when she said, “Your grandmother Madeline thinks I won’t be able to handle the campground alone, Dee. She thinks I should sell it.”

The mere thought made me suck in my breath. “Will you?”

Her jaw tightened. “No. I won’t. I
refuse.
”

Dad would have been devastated if she did. To John Barton, this place wasn’t just a business, it was home and every guest was kin. He grew up here, after his parents, Arthur and Madeline, built the campground in 1972, and to him, it was bad enough when they financed their Florida retirement eight years ago by selling twenty acres to Rex Reynolds, a sleazy land developer. At least my grandparents sold the business to Dad for a price below market value so he could keep the rest in the family and away from Rex. And on that morning with my mother, I vowed to make sure it stayed that way.

“Mom, I’ll check the paths … but I don’t know how to do inventory.”

“I don’t either,” she said in a small voice.

There was a lot we didn’t know. Before, our home was my playground rather than a responsibility, and Mom only took care of the social aspects. Dad wanted it that way, to protect his girls from the dirty work. But we eventually did figure out how to do inventory—and fix leaky toilets, repair pool tiles, and pay bills, although we still struggle in that department. I quit softball because sports no longer seemed important, and we set out to prove Madeline wrong—we
can
handle the campground. And we can handle Rex, who came slithering around two weeks ago, now that his swanky development is nearly sold out and we have additional lots he wants to buy.

Yeah, right. Not selling, snake.

Once the coffee is ready, I fill two mugs and step out onto the porch. The smells of dewy earth and a camper’s early morning fire welcome me as I hand Mom her coffee. “Mmm, thank you,” she says, cupping her mug with both hands and taking a big sip. “Yummy. And can you believe it’s already been a week since school ended? You’re a
senior
now
,
Dee!”

Me, a senior. It still hasn’t sunk in.

“But it’s too early for me to get emotional, so let’s talk schedule,” Mom says. “How’s it looking for today, sweetie?”

I sit down beside her. Flirt-wise? Not good. The only cute guy who’s checked in has two strikes against him: he’s younger than me
and
he has quite the disgusting spitting habit. Work-wise? Busy. We always go in a thousand different directions on the weekends. “Well, I’m going for a run before my shift in the store starts at seven and then Nat and I are taking the kids hiking to find pinecones for craft hour at ten. After that, we might hang at the river until the horseshoe tournament, unless you need me.”

Mom rubs the brim of her mug. “Well, ah, there’s that one thing, remember? About training Roxanne how to use the register at eleven?”

The coffee turns to sludge in my stomach. No, I didn’t forget. I just hoped it was only a delusion when Mom told me about her agreement to let Roxanne work on the weekends, because Mrs. Swain is determined to keep her away from video games while their new house is being built. I do
not
want to be anywhere near that girl, but Mom has enough stress to deal with. “Sure, no problem. Anything else?”

“Well, I kind of have to find out if the insurance office is open today,” she says, sounding both guilty and embarrassed. “I misfiled our original bill and their overdue notice was buried in paperwork, so I’m late with the payment. Oh, and what about the tractor keys, has anyone found them? I’d hate to cancel the hayride.”

“Yeah, Jake did. They were in—” I notice a pile of college brochures on the porch floor. “Um, Mom? What are those for?”

She leans over, almost dripping coffee on her quilt. “Oh, right! A lady from the bank gave them to me. Her daughter is sixteen, but she’s been researching colleges and scholarships since she was ten. Ten! I’ve never done that, Dee!”

I flip through the brochures. Yale, McDaniel, Duke, schools we can’t afford and that would never accept me, anyway, unless it’s for a janitorial position. “I’m going to Riverside Community College, so who cares?”

She sets her mug down and scoots to the edge of her chair, the worry lines on her forehead deepening. “I care, Dee, you’re
graduating
soon! What if I screwed up your future by not giving your education enough importance?”

Okay, now she’s getting ridiculous. “Mom, stop. You didn’t screw anything up. I
want
to go to Riverside just like I
want
to always help run the campground. What’s the big deal? It’s a great school.
You
went there.”

Mom lets out a sarcastic grunt. “Yeah, for one semester until I quit because it interfered with my bar-hopping schedule, that’s the big deal. I want better for you, Dee!”