Just Flirt (32 page)

At first, I did want to be with my father, even though he clearly prefers his new life with Belinda and Angela to me.

Why do we always want the people who don’t want us?

“I’m sorry, Mom, for never realizing how much Dad’s affair hurt you. I was just so mad about the way you reacted by dragging him through court. And I’m sorry for making you feel so alone, Mom,” I continue, placing the photo of Larson with the other woman on the vanity. “But if you marry Larson, things will only get worse. The Bartons could lose their home, and Larson will break your heart. Let’s end this, Mom. Drop the lawsuit and then see if Larson wants to stay.”

She clutches her makeup brush and releases a shaky breath. “But what if he doesn’t stay? What will I be left with? Friends? I don’t have any. Career? No one will hire me, and Chuck has already found a replacement. You’re going to college soon and I’ll be all alone, just like that psychic said I would be. What then?”

I shake my head. “Mom, you won’t be alone. I promise.”

Mom picks up her mascara. “Well, I already feel alone, Sabrina. So no, I don’t believe anything you have to say about Larson. I
can’t
.”

She stares in the mirror, running a finger along the harsh wrinkles lining her mouth and forehead that came from her lifelong struggle to find some kind of stability, someone she could put her faith in. It should’ve been me—I should have been that someone—but because I wasn’t there for her, she turned to Larson instead.

As I walk to my room, I realize there’s nothing to do other than activate the alternate line of attack that me and the other girls thought up on the drive back from Larson’s.

I dial Dee’s number. “No go. It’s time for Plan B.”

She giggles on the other end. “I like Plan B!”

28
Dee

“Time for Plan B,” I announce to the women gathered in the store. And Jake, of course, who offered to cover for us while we’re gone.

“I like Plan B,” Ivy says. She grabs her briefcase, looking powerful, sophisticated, and oh so anti–Miss Almond Pudding in her silk wrap dress.

Of course, she did NOT look the same last night after I confessed to her all of my recent illegal activities, including, but not limited to, violating restraining orders, breaking and entering, and spying. She was furious, fuming, and downright peeved. But after briefly yelling at me—for three minutes, twenty-one seconds—Ivy calmed down long enough to realize that our discoveries could help with the lawsuit.

And, hopefully, make it go away.

“Where’s your mother, Dee?” Ivy asks, before glancing at her watch. “Lord, how long does it take her to pack?”

It’s almost unbelievable that Mom will be driving my grandmother all the way to Florida tomorrow so they can haul back her belongings—and to offer moral support when Madeline signs the divorce papers, the ones she told my grandfather to piss on. It’s also unbelievable that Madeline, the woman who once terrified us, is going to live here. Permanently.

But hey, I’m starting to think we can handle anything.

When Ivy sees Mom walking down the path from our cabin, she tosses Roxanne her keys. “Good. Jane’s here, so you go fire up the Beemer and escort our guest out.”

Roxanne gazes at the keys as though they hold special meaning and then hands them back to Ivy. “Well … it might be better if fewer people are there, so Mom and I are kind of going shopping instead.”

What?
She’s missing this to go
shopping
?

Victoria Swain stops munching on her Skinny Cow. “Yes, I’m so excited—Roxanne and I have tickets for a NASCAR race at the Pocono Raceway in August, but I don’t have a thing to wear! What you’re doing sounds so exciting, though, like in the movie
Thelma and Louise
. Except you’re all clean and showered. And you’re not going to shoot anybody.” She pauses before asking Ivy, “No one’s going to be shot, are they?”

Natalie picks up her backpack, which is holding two laptops. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

As Ivy ushers all the ladies outside, I linger behind, making a show of adjusting my flip-flop—which really didn’t need adjusting. For some reason, I think of how Roxanne said Jake looks like Channing Tatum, and yeah—okay—maybe he does resemble him a little. Especially when he smiles. Which he’s doing. Right now. At me.

“Uh, pretty crazy stuff going on, huh?” I ask.

A clump of hair falls adorably over his forehead. “Yeah, pretty crazy.”

“Yep, pretty crazy,” I repeat.
Honestly, Dee? Is that all you can say? Okay, try again—coherently this time
. “Look, thanks for all your help lately. You’ve been … awesome.”

Usually Jake would give some kind of smart-alecky response. But instead, his face grows serious. He leans forward, like he’s going to tell me something. What, that he likes me? Or … that he’s dating someone else? Either way, I can’t deal with it right now. So when Ivy blares her horn outside, I run out the door before he can say anything.

*   *   *

“Larson! I’m so hap—” Mona says, after yanking open the door with animated excitement. But her joy fades when she sees Ivy, Mom, and me standing on the mat. “W-what the—you can’t be here! What’s going on?”

Sabrina steps up behind her. “It’s okay, Mom, they’re just here to talk. Please, give them a couple minutes. For me.”

The oven timer rings.

Mona runs her hands down her apron before dashing to the kitchen and pulling on a pair of oven mitts. “Well, I would love to chat, but Larson will be here soon and I need to set the table and mix up the salad dressing, and—”

“Mom, please,” Sabrina begs. “You have to listen to them!”

“And,” Mona continues, “I forgot to take the rolls out of the freezer and I bet you didn’t grind the coffee like I asked, Sabrina, did you?”

Mom goes to her side. She gently shuts the oven door. “Mona, I owe you an apology for the way I judged you and didn’t give you another chance. I’m truly sorry.”

Mona stands silent, nervously biting her lip before saying, “Well, thank you, Jane. And I do accept your apology, but right now, I want to make the salad dressing.”

Sabrina takes off her mother’s oven mitts and leads her to a bar stool on the other side of the counter. “Mom, please sit down, Miss Ivy needs to show you something.”

Mona’s lip starts to quiver, but she doesn’t sit. “Sabrina.
I need … to make … salad dressing.
Larson loves fresh salad dressing.”

“Larson loves a lot of things, like using women for money,” Ivy says, before placing on the counter a newspaper article from five years ago that she found online this morning. The photo shows Larson and a woman named Hilary Saunders standing in front of their new Irish restaurant in Philadelphia. Then she lays out another article—one that shows how the same Hilary Saunders had to file for bankruptcy a year later around the same time Larson moved to Maryland.

Mona scans both articles, and then goes to her pantry to pull down olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and dark mustard. “Right, well … I’m sure Larson has a very good explanation. And about the silly check Sabrina showed me from that Kathleen woman—she was probably just paying him back for something, that’s all.”

Ivy peers at the closed front door as though she dreads what she is about to do next. But in a burst of determination, she opens it and says, “Mona, meet Kathleen Myers, who has quite an explanation for you.”

*   *   *

The next time the doorbell rings, the table is set with dinnerware, fresh flowers, salad, and … salad dressing. Warm rolls are lovingly wrapped in a cloth napkin and a bottle of wine sits waiting, with a corkscrew beside it. Mona opens the door, the late July heat wafting over the threshold, bringing with it a very dashing Larson Walker. “Darling! I was beginning to worry about you! Always late, always late, my special man, aren’t you?”

Larson kisses her cheek and then tweaks her nose. “Yes, but I assumed you would call when dinner was almost ready, so you can’t blame me, can you?”

Mona smacks her forehead with a girlish giggle. “Oh, silly me! What was I thinking, expecting you to arrive at seven when you told me you’d be here by seven. Point taken! Now let me pour you some wine. I have some exciting news for you.”

Chair legs scrape as Larson sits, accepting the drink Mona serves with a flourish. “What kind of news, about the lawsuit?”

“Yes,
fabulous
news about the lawsuit,” Mona says, clapping her hands in excitement. “Oh, golly, where to start? Okay, Jane Barton? Well, she’s offered me a permanent job because,
apparently
, DJ Drake is moving to Denver. Did you know that? I certainly didn’t know that.”

Larson almost drops his wineglass, staring at Mona in disbelief.

“Isn’t that wonderful, honey?” Mona asks.

Larson takes an awkward sip and shifts in his seat. “Well, yes, wonderful, but won’t that be a bit uncomfortable with you suing her?”

Mona lets out a casual
pfff.
“Oh, right. That. I told my lawyers to drop the whole lawsuit thingy.”

Wine almost flies from Larson’s mouth. He starts to choke, his face turning bloodred as he spews, “You … dropped … the … lawsuit …
thingy
?”

“Oh, honey, are you okay?” Mona asks, mopping his face with a cloth napkin, even though he keeps trying to dodge her. Mona then presses a hand to her chest. “Darling, are you mad at me? I thought you’d be happy because now we can just go to Vegas and get married without all those pesky meetings to worry about.”

Larson stands, his chair almost crashing into Mona’s china cabinet. “Of course I’m mad, you stupid—I mean … you had no right to drop the lawsuit without talking to me first!”

Mona leans back in her chair and picks at an imaginary piece of food trapped in her teeth. “Oh, yeah. Maybe I should have. Sorry, love.”

“Sorry, love?
Sorry, love?
” Larson sputters. “Well, you need to call the lawyers back and tell them you’ve changed your mind. Now!”

“Can’t.” Mona pours herself some wine and takes a delicate sip. “It’s too late to change it, so stop fussing! Let’s enjoy dinner and then talk about Vegas. I do hope they play a movie on the flight out.”

“Screw the movie,” Larson yells, the veins now starting to bulge on the sides of his neck. “Screw getting married! How can I marry you if I can’t trust you?”

Mona sighs and then puts her hands on the table, slowly pushing herself up. “Well, see, I was afraid you were going to say that, Larson. But it’s funny how you say the word ‘trust.’ See, I trusted you. And you know who else trusted you?”

“Who?” Larson snarls.

“That woman right there.”

Larson turns when we walk out of the guest room, where we’ve been watching the scene thanks to Natalie’s duel laptops and webcams. His confidence fades to horror when he sees Kathleen, the woman whose loneliness and desolation after her husband’s death caused her to believe Larson’s lies. The woman who would do anything to keep him with her—even if it meant becoming an “investor” in his restaurant.

She stops in front of him. “Well, hello, Larson. I came to get my check back.”

The Superflirt Chronicles

… blogs from a teenage flirtologist

Saturday, July 24

T
HE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE

MOOD: Complete

MUSIC: “Learning to Fly,” Kate Earl

The time has come for me to tell you—all my readers—the truth:

I am not the real Superflirt.

I’m Miss N, the one who used to be too shy to even pull off a decent hair toss. I’ve been pretending to be Superflirt because it made me feel powerful. Needed. Liked. Maybe even loved. But because of this blog, I set certain things in motion that could have led to disastrous results, and for that, I’m sorry. I’m also sorry for deceiving you. But am I sorry for starting this Web site?

No.

This blog has made me stronger and no longer willing to hide from the person I want to be. (For example, instead of waiting for a certain Orlando Bloom look-alike to ask me out,
I
asked
him.
) It’s helped the real Superflirt to embrace her true self, and even though she’s sworn to never flirt again, maybe there’s a chance she will with a certain go-kart racer—if she knows what’s good for her. It’s also helped one girl to stop fighting hard to stay on the outside and it’s helped another girl to stop fighting hard to stay on the inside.

And come on—let’s all give it up for our girl Meghan, who just had her sixth date with a handsome pharmacist who just might be the prescription she’s been searching for.

So, with your forgiveness, I want to keep The Superflirt Chronicles alive. It will be a place where ladies of all ages can hang out, ask questions, maybe even learn something every now and then. With that, I’d like to propose a new set of rules:

Superflirt’s Nine Rules of Living

RULE #1:
Don’t dump your friends for a fellow. Except, of course, if your friends are a bunch of belittling, deprecating twits who judge, sabotage your happiness, encourage self-doubt, or any combination of the above. If so, then get new friends.

RULE #2:
You are NEVER too old to flirt.

RULE #3:
Avoid the Mr. Booty-Baggers.

RULE #4:
Daughters—appreciate your mother’s wisdom. Mothers—let us teach you how it feels to be young again.

RULE #5:
Never underestimate the power of Skinny Cow Fudge Bars …

RULE #6: …
But also remember that life is too short for light.

RULE #7:
Never allow yourself to be a Miss Almond Pudding, ladies. In other words—don’t allow yourself to be forced into something you do
not
want to do.