Just Flirt (17 page)

As for Dee Barton, my first intention was to tell everyone about her stupid blog
and
see to it that her life is a total nightmare when school starts. But after reading all of her entries, I realized that everyone—especially the guys—would think the blog was
hot
, unlike her desperate letter to Blaine. Dee’s status would skyrocket to iconic levels and I’d be forever known as the evil girlfriend. Uh,
not happening
. My best course of action was to just let it go, regardless of how mad I was. Bravo, Dee, you got your revenge … and maybe I did deserve some of it.

So life
was
perfectly under control.

Until, of course, Mom screwed everything up.

Now, not only is everyone going to find out about Dee’s blog, they will also find out how my mother filed a tacky suit against her mother, seeking restitution for my hospital visit and a little extra. I won’t be just the evil girlfriend. I’ll be the pathetic, poor,
and
evil girlfriend, much to Torrance’s amusement.

And what will Blaine think?

In our backyard on Wednesday evening, I yank on a ragweed that is choking the marigolds and almost fall on my rear when it pulls loose. Mom and I have an arrangement—she plants and I weed, which is fitting, since I’m always the one who gets stuck with her messes. I toss the weed into a plastic tub and pull off my gloves, sifting my fingers through the chalky gray mulch that used to be a fresh black. I can’t even imagine how to break the news to Blaine when he gets back from New York.
Hey, guess what, sweetie, my mother is suing your ex-girlfriend’s mother, now give me a big kiss.

As I put my gloves back on to attack a cluster of ground ivy, my cell rings. I hope it’s Blaine finally calling me back. Then I can get it over with and tell him about Mom’s latest scheme, but when I answer, a shrill voice screams out, “You witch, why didn’t you tell me?”

It isn’t Blaine. “Torrance?”

“Of course. I
cannot
believe you let me find out this way!”

Oh, man. She knows about the lawsuit. My throat tightens, like the ragweed is now choking me. I’ve been dreading this ever since Mom barged into my room on the Monday after the horrible Dee incident looking like a possessed airline stewardess in a lime green skirt and pastel sweater. She pulled out a blue sundress from my closet and said, “Change into this and put your hair up all nice and pretty, sweetie. We have an important meeting that’s gonna change our lives forever!”

My first thought was
Oh, no, she’s dragging me to another one of those whacked-out psychics.
The last time Mom saw a psychic, she was depressed for weeks after the phony told her she’ll never remarry and will die alone.

“Come on, Sabrina, chop-chop!” Mom bellowed from the hallway.

My wrist was aching, so I was in no mood for her chop-chops, but I threw the dress on anyway and coiled my dark hair into a messy bun. Mom cocked her head and sighed when I met her at the front door. “Aw, you look like an angel, sweetie. Now let’s go!”

We climbed into the Trooper and she floored the accelerator before I even had a chance to put my seat belt on. “Where are you taking me, anyway?” I asked.

“I’m not telling, sugar, it’s a surprise!” Mom then lifted her giant fringed purse onto my lap and said, “Now dig in there for another little surprise, will ya?”

The only thing in her purse that could pass as a surprise was a country classics CD, unless she meant her hair-ensnarled brush or collection of super-sized tampons. “Yep, that’s it,” Mom said, taking the CD and popping it into the stereo. Twangs of steel guitar came through the speakers and Mom rocked to the beat. “You remember this one, Sabrina? ‘Harper Valley PTA’ by Jeannie C. Riley? It’s our theme song for the summer.” She started to sing. “I wanna tell you all the story ’bout a Harper Valley widowed wife.”

Seriously.

“Please, Mom, please don’t,” I begged. “And you’re not a widow.”

She kept singing, tapping the steering wheel with her Donald Trump nails that were painted hot pink with glittery green dollar signs. Trying to tune her out, I watched a group of cyclists wearing spandex pants, but it was impossible to ignore Mom as she caterwauled about a sexy widow who was criticized by the PTA members of her daughter’s school for wearing short skirts, drinking, and running wild with men. The widow gets them back, though, by barging into the PTA meeting and exposing everyone else’s dirty little secrets.

“Mom, enough! Tell me what’s going on!”

“Sugar, I’ve received some friendly legal advice that’s going to make our life a heck of a lot easier, trust me,” Mom said over the music, before singing, “That day my mama socked it to the Harper Valley PTA.”

When she swung into an elaborate brick professional center and parked beside a
WYATT, HYATT & SMITH
sign, my heart sank. Oh, fabulous. She had a meeting with Aaron Wyatt, her weasel-like lawyer who represented her through the divorce and always smells as though he just returned from a spa. Was Mom dragging Dad back in court for more alimony or for full custody? But then she repeated the last line of her ridiculous song, adding a little twist:

“That day my mama socked it to the Barton Family Campground.”

Dad wasn’t her target—Jane Barton was.

And now, while on the phone with Torrance, I try to stay calm because how everyone at school reacts to the lawsuit will depend on Torrance’s opinion, and if she thinks it’s lame I might as well kiss my senior year goodbye. “Oh, yeah, how did you find out?” I ask.

“From the article in today’s
Herald
, of course! Your mother is suing? Nothing this cool has
ever
happened in Riverside! Well, except for when Bridget’s mom sued her hairdresser for that disaster highlight job, remember?”

I should feel relieved that Torrance thinks it’s cool. But what article? Mom never said anything about a newspaper article.

“Hmph, that stylist got what she deserved,” Torrance continues in true diva form. “Those orange highlights surely were the reason her membership application at the Riverside Golf Club was denied.”

With my gloves on, I run to the front of the house, feeling the dry grass scratch my bare feet. The morning paper is still propped against the mailbox post. As Torrance rambles about highlights, I open it to see Mom on the third page, wearing a prim cardigan, with the headline “Mother Sues Local Campground” printed above her head.

“Sabrina, are you listening to me?” Torrance demands.

I mutter a quick
uh-huh
, and start to read. “Mona Owens, Riverside resident and owner of Mona’s Low-Key Karaoke, has filed suit against the Barton Family Campground on behalf of her minor daughter, Sabrina Owens, citing physical and emotional damage from negligence.”

Oh, no, she didn’t.

Emotional damage? Mom never said anything about emotional damage. She told me she was only suing for our medical expenses!

“Owens offered this statement through her lawyer, Aaron Wyatt: ‘I did not want to do this—Lord knows there are enough frivolous lawsuits swamping our legal system these days. But I put my own concerns aside and thought only of my traumatized daughter, who I had to comfort for hours after she was pushed down those rickety stairs. It was very hard on me.’”

Pushed? Dee never pushed me.

And traumatized? Comforting me for hours? All she did was cover up my bruise with her miracle cream. She didn’t even think about taking me to the hospital until the next day, when she barged into my room after surfing the Internet all morning. Aaron. Maybe she called Aaron and he told her to get X-rays taken, and to take a picture of the bruise on my face, even though it wasn’t from the fall.

“Sabrina—
hello
—give me the details! Like, did Dee really push you? Did it have something to do with Blaine? Tell me!”

I mumble something incoherent and read the last line. “Ms. Owens is seeking two million dollars for her daughter’s physical damages and emotional distress.”

Three words jump out at me like a brick to the forehead.

“
Two million dollars
, is she serious?” I yell.

“I know, isn’t it fantastic?” Torrance squeals. “Just think of all the shopping we’ll be able to do, and oh! You could go to San Diego State with me instead of that stupid Riverside Community College, so come
on
, tell me what’s going on, talk!”

No, it’s not fantastic. And yes, there is someone I want to talk to. A bleached blond forty-two-year-old Harlequin Romance addict who assured me
nothing
like this was going to happen.

“Torr, can I call you later?” I ask while rushing in the front door.

“Oh, no,” she demands. “Not until you tell me everything. I’m your best friend,
remember
? At least, I thought I was.”

Great. If Torrance gets annoyed with me now, I will be about two steps away from total social homicide. Inside the house, Mom is at the kitchen table, nursing an iced tea and applying a top coat to her Donald Trump nails. Perfect, she can help me get rid of Torrance again. I give her a knowing gesture and point at my cell. “Of course you’re my best friend, Torr,” I warmly say, while motioning at Mom. “And I’ll tell you everything.”

“Finally,” Torrance murmurs.

I pause.

My mother takes a long sip of tea.

“Mom!”
I mouth.

“Oh. Right.” She waits a second and then hollers, “Sabrina! Can you get off the phone, honey, and help me?”

It’s about time. “
Sorry
, Torrance, gotta go, but I promise to call you later, okay?” I hang up without waiting for her reply. “Mom, I can’t believe you!”

“Fine! Get your own self off the phone next time, then.”

“No, not that.” I slam the paper down and jab a finger at the article. “Two million dollars, are you insane?”

Mom smiles, putting down her nail polish and clapping her hands excitedly. “Well, my stars, I thought they were running this tomorrow! Oh, joy, my picture turned out good, huh? But look at your dirty hands, Sabrina. How can I scrapbook this with mulch stains on it?”

Scrapbooking? She’s worried about
scrapbooking
? “Screw your scrapbook, Mother, would you mind explaining?”

“Watch your language, young lady. You know I hate being called Mother,” she says, taking a sip of her tea. “And, sweetie, the article was my lawyer’s idea. Who are we to question his judgment? And don’t get your panties in a pickle over the amount. We’re not
really
suing for two million. We’re just bartering.”

“Bartering?”

Mom heaves an impatient sigh. “You know, like in Mexico when a vendor says a necklace costs ten dollars but you barter back and forth until he agrees to sell it for three? Vendors are insulted if you don’t barter with them, honey, don’t you know that?”

Oh my gosh, does she actually think Jane Barton would be insulted if she doesn’t sue for so much money? Unbelievable. But there is an even bigger topic we need to discuss. “What about Dee pushing me? You know that’s not what—”

Mom cuts me off with a sharp look. “Hey, why did you run down those steps and fall? Because Dee was with
your
boyfriend, getting revenge like her blog said, so don’t get hung up on a technicality, sugar. Besides, this will all be over in a matter of weeks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mom notices a smudge on a cuticle. She dips an orange stick in polish remover and dabs at it. “The case will never go to trial, that’s what, so it doesn’t matter whether or not Dee pushed you,” she says, waving the stick at me wandlike. “Trust me, her insurance company will be more than happy to settle for much less. And, just think, Sabrina. If your momma gets herself some money, then we can replace your car with one that isn’t breaking down every five minutes, and … your dad will pay less alimony.”

Her enticing words dangle in the air.

I never should have told her how Dad worked most of the time during our last weekend together, just like I never should have told her about Dee’s blog. But at the time, I was too angry and Mom has always known how much I hate Dad’s schedule. Less alimony would mean less work for him and more time for me. So maybe her orange stick wand does have magic powers, because I find myself saying, “Fine. But I refuse to lie about anything. That’s just not right.”

Like any of this is.

“Of course not, sugar,” Mom purrs, just as the doorbell rings. She pats my face and then sashays to the foyer to answer it, coming back later with an enormous bouquet of her favorite tiger lilies. She buries her nose in the middle of one and breathes in deeply. “My, my, what a lovely surprise. I wonder who they’re from.”

Does it matter? Whichever fool sent them will only stop calling in a week, although I am impressed by the bouquet’s volume. She fluffs them with amazement and reads the card. “Oh, my … now this
is
a surprise.”

I wait for her to coyly make me guess who they are from. The short-order cook? The barber? The UPS delivery guy she flirted with at the mall? Or, gag, Chuck Lambert? But instead, she folds the card with a Cheshire cat grin and quietly goes back to her nails. Good, I don’t want to hear about her latest love interest, not when there are bigger things to worry about.

Like Blaine.

He answers my call this time on the fourth ring. Sounds of laughter and talking accompany his quick “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetie, how are you?” I ask while walking to my room.

“What?” he says loudly over the noise. “Who’s this?”

“Blaine, it’s
Sabrina
.”

“Oh, sorry. What’s up?”

What’s up?
What’s up?
That’s something a guy says to his buddies, not a girlfriend. But maybe he’s near his dad and wants to sound manly. So I twirl a lock of hair around my finger, hoping to sound carefree and lighthearted while saying, “Oh, nothing, sweetie, there’s just something we need to talk about.”

“What, about the lawsuit?” Blaine asks. “My father showed me the article in today’s paper.”

It suddenly feels as though someone has reached down my mouth and yanked out my lungs.
He already knows.
Is that why he didn’t call from New York, because he’s mad? Even though some of my ex-boyfriends were terrible, I would
never
wish a multimillion-dollar lawsuit on any of them. But then again … Blaine doesn’t
sound
mad. He sounds … completely indifferent. Dee Barton is a horrible person, but wow, doesn’t he have any feelings for her at all?