Just Flirt (19 page)

Blaine’s golf clubs.

15
Dee

After an article accompanied by a photo of Mona Owens posing Queen of Sheba–style came out, news about the lawsuit spread quicker than a marshmallow catches fire.

“Did you hear someone filed a lawsuit against this campground?”

“No, really? Why?”

“Because the owner’s daughter—that girl who checked us in—hit another girl. Smacked her right in the nose!”

“How awful!”

The two women who were gossiping in the arcade while their children played skee ball last Wednesday jumped when I came in to refill the claw machine with stuffed animals, but I was grateful we still
had
guests. Chuck has been taking advantage of our situation by advertising how his campground is “safe,” and he’s even offered discounted rates to some of our permanent summer guests, which upset Mom almost as much as Madeline’s decision to postpone her return home—again. The only time I’ve seen Mom truly happy this week was when a florist delivered a bouquet of her favorite gerber daisies on Thursday evening with a card that read, “Hang in there,” and no name.

Were they from her
not exactly
?

Maybe I don’t want to know. And even if I did, there’s no time to ask. Despite the lawsuit, we’re sold out for the weekend and packed to the gills by Friday afternoon. Most guests made their reservations months in advance and the competition for the most patriotic site is downright brutal, turning the campground into a temporary sea of red, white, and blue. Of course, Madeline thinks this tradition was not something anticipated by our founding fathers, but even her persnickety frown lifted when an elderly veteran saluted the flag.

And then there’s Uncle Sam.

“Wow. You’re so
old
.”

Jake turns from the mirror mounted on his garage wall, wearing red-and-white-striped pants, a royal blue tuxedo jacket, and a white stovepipe hat with blue stars. “Look,” he says, the attached Uncle Sam beard jiggling with his every word, “I better get paid extra for this. And I am
not
judging next year, I’m telling you that right now.”

He stares at the many containers full of cookies, brownies, and cupcakes that are scattered among the tools and unassembled parts on his worktables. Poor Jake. Word somehow leaked out that he is this year’s judge for the best decorated site so he’s been sucked up to more times than a casting director on audition day.

I grab a cupcake and sit on a bar stool, breathing in the pungent smell of motor oil and dirt and feeling the dampness of the concrete blocks chill my arms. I never really thought about it before, but Jake’s garage is kind of cool, with racing schedules posted on a bulletin board, classic rock playing on the radio, and battered tool chests covered in bumper stickers lining the wall. What I like the most, however, is that Roxanne isn’t in here, although the reason
why
she’s absent does make me nervous.

Earlier today, she was lingering by Ivy’s leased BMW parked in front of the store, her head sticking through the open window and her chest expanding as though she was inhaling the new car scent. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Ivy asked.

Roxanne jumped, crashing her head against the car frame as Ivy walked down the porch steps with me, carrying files for her meeting with Mona’s lawyers.

“I wasn’t stealing anything!” Roxanne said. “I just—I just was coming to the store to ask you something.”

Ivy opened the BMW’s back door and tossed her briefcase inside. “Of course you weren’t, Roxanne. Surely you’d be smart enough not to take anything in plain sight, so what is it that you want?”

As I put Ivy’s files on the backseat, Roxanne shuffled from side to side, ignoring my gaze as she said in a surprisingly polite voice, “Yeah, uh, I wanted to know if you needed any help with the case. It would, ah, look good on my college applications.”

What? Jake told me how Roxanne wants to go to Lincoln Tech to study auto mechanics—a plan her parents aren’t exactly thrilled about—so assisting Ivy wouldn’t matter one bit on her college applications. Ivy seemed suspicious as well, but she only twisted her lips to the side and checked her watch. “Well, I have a three o’clock appointment with Aaron Wyatt. Do you have your driver’s license, Roxanne?”

Roxanne stepped back. “Uh, no, just a learner’s permit. Why?”

“Because you’re driving, that’s why,” Ivy said.

Driving?
Her BMW, are you kidding me? But even though I was completely annoyed, I couldn’t help but notice the jubilation that spread on Roxanne’s face. It reminded me of the day when Dad announced he was teaching me how to drive. Of course, I was six and it involved the John Deere tractor instead of a BMW, but the feeling was the same.

So when Jake takes off the Uncle Sam jacket and says, “Hey, think you can fix this before tomorrow?” while showing me a small rip on the left cuff, tears gather in my eyes. This was Dad’s costume. He always had so much fun wearing it, pointing at guests and saying, “We want you.” And my gosh, Dad always made the best Santa for our Christmas in July weekend. He was so magical, perched on the wagon as Mom pulled it with the tractor, bellowing out a
ho ho ho
that could rival any Santa at Macy’s. He had a way of making every child feel special. Especially me.

But what would he think of me now?

What would he think about his daughter flirting with guy after guy every weekend and how his campground is now at risk because of it? What would he think of the way I dress, all skimpy and showy, enough to make girls like Roxanne hate me from the start?

I know what Dad would say—he’d say that life is full of messy mistakes that help us grow into better people—but what would he
think
?

“Dee, you okay?” Jake asks.

I wipe my damp cheeks. “Yeah, sure. I’ll mend this tonight.”

Jake pulls off the stovepipe hat. “No, you’re not okay. Is it about the lawsuit?”

Duh.
Everything
for the past week has been about the lawsuit. Pain burns at my temples from trying not to cry as Jake pulls up a stool beside me. “Hey, come on, now, it’s not that bad. Ivy has everything under control.”

That’s exactly what Ivy told me before leaving for the meeting—and also that Mona’s lawyers don’t have enough evidence to back up her ridiculous claim. But it still doesn’t change who started all of this to begin with. Me. “So what, Jake? I’m a horrible person for letting this happen.”

Jake swats at a persistent honeybee that’s circling his soda. “Dee, you’re not a horrible person and you know it.”

“No, it’s true. I am a horrible person who does stupid pool tricks, and who drapes herself over guys, just like you said, remember?”

He winces and holds up his hands. “Okay, that was a low blow on my part, but come on, Dee. You’d take a bullet for your mom. And I bet if I quizzed you, you could tell me the name of every camper staying here this weekend. Why? Because you genuinely care about people.”

I mentally run through the names of guests who have checked in so far. The Ogles, who own a convenience store. The Tacketts, who are celebrating their twentieth anniversary, and the Sibles, who once rode their Harleys cross-country, but so what? And yeah, I’d do anything to protect my mom, but what daughter wouldn’t?

Jake nudges my knee. “In fact, the only major complaint I have is about when you told that loser you were a Red Sox fan. That’s like saying you—”

“Technically,” I interrupt with a smile of my own, “I never said I was a Boston fan. I do have my limits, Jake.”

“See? So things aren’t all that bad,” he says.

I suddenly notice the closeness of our knees and how he must have gotten a haircut, judging from the tan line along his forehead. For some weird reason, I have an urge to trace it with my finger and—

Honestly. Where did that come from?

Maybe I’m going through flirt withdrawal.

Or maybe it’s because when he’s nice like this, it’s so … nice. And, my, my, the way he danced that night. Afterward, he did ask me if I had any plans for the next day. Was Jake asking me out? No. No way. Besides, he’s never—

Jake’s cell buzzes. I watch the corners of his mouth turn up into a slow, sexy grin as he reads his text. Who is it from, Roxanne? He hops off the stool and grabs a gym bag off the counter. “Hey, I’m off to take a shower, unless you want to talk some more.”

Oh, man, I’m such an idiot.

Jake has a
date
, so of course he’s not interested in me. Sure, he’s being nice, but deep down he’s still the guy who thinks I’m nothing but a silly tease. Just as I am about to tell him no, so go on your stupid date, Ivy’s urgent voice comes over the loudspeakers. “Dee Barton, please report to the main lodge.
Now
.”

Ivy is back from the meeting.

And it does not sound as though it went well.

*   *   *

When I get to the lodge, I see Ivy inside pacing up and down the hardwood floors, Mom bingeing on Taco Bell—not a good sign—and Roxanne standing awkwardly by the counter. A wave of trepidation sweeps through me, making it hard to walk in the store. As soon as I do, Ivy whips around. “Dee, didn’t I ask you to tell me the truth, the
whole
truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

My heart pounds. Of course I told her everything. Twice. Three times, even. “Well, yeah, I did, Ivy—”

She cuts me off. “And didn’t I say that anything pertinent to the case better be disclosed to me
before
I met with those two-faced lawyers? But no, you chose not to tell me about your Superflirt blog, the one that outlined your plan to flirt with Sabrina’s
boyfriend
in order to get revenge
and
all but claimed responsibility for her fall.”

What? “Ivy, I—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Dee! This supports Blaine’s statement that
you
were the one who asked him upstairs. And they’re going to try to enter some letter you wrote him as evidence of your instability!”

No, this is not happening.

The case was supposed to turn our way and Blaine was supposed to tell the truth—that
he
followed
me
upstairs. And there was something else—

“Ivy, what blog? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

*   *   *

Spike. Check Mate. Bull’s Eye.

Every single guy I’ve ever flirted with. McMuscles, a martial arts champion. Cannonball, a guy who kept jumping in the pool until he crashed into the ladder. John Deere, an FFA member who made farming sound hot.

Beater Boy. Sox.

Mercedes.

They are all there in black and white for my mother, Ivy, and Roxanne—
Roxanne Swain
, of all people—to read about. And I know exactly who put it there.

“Natalie wrote this, Ivy, not me.”

I can’t believe it. Why would Natalie do this, why would she write a blog pretending to be me? No, this has to be nothing but a big fat joke because Natalie wouldn’t do this.
She wouldn’t do this.

“Natalie?” Roxanne blurts. “You’re telling me that
Natalie
wrote this and you had absolutely no idea it existed?”

My blood instantly boils at Roxanne’s nerve, her
audacity
to stand over my shoulder, reading the blog, instead of doing what any decent person would do and leave. It’s bad enough she got to watch the lawsuit being served. Now she gets to witness my mother discovering exactly what kind of miserable person her daughter is?

“Why are you here, Roxanne, to enjoy the show? Is that why you conned your way into Ivy’s car earlier today?” I snap, whirling around to face her. I expect to see gloating pleasure or smug happiness because, after all, this blog proves her right. Instead, she looks … surprised. Completely surprised.

But then a bigger realization hits me.

“Wait a minute … you knew about this, didn’t you? Yes, you knew all about this and you were probably the one who told Sabrina,
weren’t you
?”

Roxanne shakes her head. “No, I mean, yeah, I did find the blog on the night you had dinner with your grandmother, but I never showed it to Sabrina, I swear, but I did—”

She stops when Ivy steps in between us. “Ladies, now is not the time for this conversation.”

I slump in my chair and face the computer again. Mom reads an entry out loud about how guys look so hot in dirty uniforms—especially “Jeter,” a guy who resembled Derek Jeter and arrived at the campground last April still dressed from baseball practice. I wait for her to ask me if any of this is true, if I really did flirt with these guys, but she never does—which means she probably knew all along.

She must be so disappointed in me. And Madeline, what will she think?

And Jake.

Mom exits out of the Internet, as though she’s had enough. “So, what does this mean, Ivy? Will the judge allow this to be used against us?”

“I don’t know, Jane, but Lord knows the prosecution is going to try.” Ivy takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Lawsuits are being served by the hundreds against people who make slanderous comments on their blogs, but seeing as how this was written by Natalie … I just don’t know. But you better believe I’m going to find out.”