I WAS afraid to look down. Were his pants unzipped? Shit. What was I going to do if that was my present? I mean, we’d rehearsed all these lame ways to turn a boy down in Sex Ed, but I’d forgotten the whole routine already. The truth was, I hadn’t paid much attention in Sex Ed in the first place, since my prospects of getting anywhere near a boy I liked in the next century seemed dismal. Most of the time when I liked someone, they never liked me back. I was cursed—until now, which left me entirely unprepared for whatever was in Mick’s pants.
“Okay, close your eyes again,” he said.
“Do I have to?”
“You said you loved surprises.”
Any Red-Blooded Girl
A Novel by
MAGGIE BLOOM
Copyright 2011 by Tara Nelsen-Yeackel
Cover Art Copyright 2011 by Brittany Cain
Cover Design by Tara Nelsen-Yeackel and Brittany Cain
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental and unintended.
To every girl
Chapter 1
“FLORA Moon Fontain! Get up!” my mother shouted from the doorway of my bedroom. “The car’s packed, and your dad and Will are already outside.”
Ugh. A family camping trip. I was supposed to be in Europe with Jessie, the best friend a girl could ever wish for—sipping espresso at an outdoor café in Rome; posing for cutesy tourist pics at the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe; riding the Tube and talking in a subpar cockney accent. I was supposed to be having fun.
“Uh-huh,” I groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers tight around my shoulders.
My mother flipped on the overhead light. “Flora, I mean it. We have to go. If we don’t get on the road now, we’re going to be stuck in rush hour traffic in the city.”
The city? Since when was my mother so familiar with New York City? We live in Pennsylvania. Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. Home of the weather-predicting groundhog. The last time my mother was anywhere near the city was probably before I was born.
I flung the thin quilt aside and stretched out in a toe-curling yawn, but my mother just stared at me.
“Okay…geez…I’m coming,” I promised. “You can go now.”
Even though I was more prepared to endure a brain tumor than two weeks of camping hell, I rolled out of bed and tugged on yesterday’s rumpled jeans. The Elmo T-shirt I’d worn to bed was perfect for the eight hour car ride, since nobody would see me in it anyway. But then there was the matter of my hair. Since the peroxide fiasco, there wasn’t really much I could do with the frizzy orange mess. So I wiggled a checkered headband from my underwear drawer and flattened my crispy bangs against my forehead. It was about the worst I’d ever looked, and to be honest, I didn’t really care.
With my overstuffed duffel slapping against my knees, I stumbled down our front steps toward the rented SUV. The thing was a monstrosity, but I was still glad Mr. Tightwad (that’s my dad) had splurged on it. I mean, it was bad enough we were going to be stuck together in a tent for two weeks, but if we’d somehow managed to cram all of our camping gear into Mr. Tightwad’s little Hyundai, I would have hurled myself to the ground and refused to go.
“Back here!” my dad called, waving eagerly from behind the SUV.
I stepped off the curb with the enthusiasm of a death row prisoner, but as usual, my father was oblivious. He just shot me this moronic happy-go-lucky smile and dropped my bag in the back.
And by the time I hoisted myself into the SUV, my mother was already curled up in the passenger seat with a stack of color-coded maps. Apparently she’d planned every second of this torture-fest down to the last detail. Honestly, I think she missed her calling. Instead of spending her life sticking her fingers down people’s throats (she’s a dental hygienist, by the way) she should have been a travel agent. That way she could torture strangers, instead of me—and get paid for it.
I claimed the seat in front of my brother, Will, who was sprawled out on the third row bench in his shiny red and silver track uniform. But before I could even settle into a good funk, there was a knock at my window.
“Cell phones; iPods; MP3 players; any other electronical doohickeys you two have stashed back there,” my dad demanded from the sidewalk, holding his hands out in front of him like he was expecting something to drop down from heaven. “Hand ’em over.”
“What?” I protested. “Why?”
Will started rummaging through his backpack, like he was actually going to comply with such an insane request.
My father just smiled. “Because we’re going back to nature,” he said. “We’re cutting ties with all things technological. Plus, you never know what could disturb Champ.”
Again with the Champ talk? If you’ve never heard of Champ, or Champy, or the Champster, or Mr. Champs (all names this creature is known by in our house) don’t worry. You’re not alone. Champ is basically Lake Champlain’s version of the Loch Ness Monster, and we’re going to search for him on our trip. In fact, the hunt for Champ is probably the only reason Mr. Tightwad even agreed to a vacation in the first place.
“That’s not fair. I need my stuff. Is Mom giving up her phone?” I whined, hoping my dad would fall for the equality argument.
“As a matter of fact, no. Your mother is keeping her phone. But she’s leaving it turned off. It’s only for emergencies.”
“Just give it to him,” Will piped up from the backseat. “It’s not like you’re gonna use it.”
It figured. It was just like Golden Boy to contradict me in an argument with our parents. Who was he trying to impress anyway? I mean, Mom and Dad liked him best since before I was born, so there was no contest there. I guess maybe he was just shooting for a few final brownie points before he went off to college.
“You don’t know that,” I objected. “People might be trying to call me. I’m not a leper, you know.”
But the truth was, my brother was probably right. Since the Beer Incident, it was doubtful I’d be popular again any time soon.
“Whatever,” Will snarked.
I cranked down the window and thrust my cell phone and MP3 player at my dad. “Here.”
“Muchas gracias,” the old man chirped. “And don’t worry, Flowbee. We’re gonna have lots of fun—even without all these fiddley-widdleys.”
I swear to God, if I hear my dad say doohickey, or fiddley-widdley, or refer to me by the name of a do-it-yourself haircutting machine one more time, I’ll scream. I mean, under normal circumstances, I can take Mr. Tightwad, Golden Boy, and the Mental Hygienist (a.k.a. my mother) in small doses. They can even be quite entertaining if you’re in the right frame of mind. But now, since I’m a virtual prisoner, since they think I’m devil spawn…well, my patience is wearing pretty thin.
As we pulled away from the curb, I shut my eyes and tried to disappear. Maybe if I was lucky, I could wish myself out of this horror. Because honestly, the trip to Europe with Jessie was the one thing I’d been looking forward to in my drop-dead boring existence. I mean, I have no boyfriend; I have a limited pool of decent friends; I’m an average student; I’m not athletic, like Golden Boy; I have no special talents I’m aware of. Europe was my escape. My adventure. My chance to reinvent myself. Heck, maybe if the stars had aligned just right, I would’ve even snagged an Italian stud along the way. Now I’d never know.
And the worst thing was, what nixed my European vacation in the first place wasn’t even my fault. It was stupid, lame Jimmy Bickford’s. After all, if he hadn’t smuggled those beers into my ’80s movie-palooza, I’d be clutching a barf bag on a trans-Atlantic flight as we speak.
“Flora, did you hear me?” my mother asked, distracting me from my pity party.
“Huh?”
“I said Mrs. Hobson was in the office yesterday for a root canal, and Dr. Brown had to drill her tooth so deep it almost cracked in half. Can you imagine?”
Unfortunately, I could imagine. I could imagine all too clearly. Because Mrs. Hobson was my math teacher from freshman year, and my mother loved to tell gory stories about painful dental work. Yipee.
“Uh-huh. That’s nice.”
“Nice, Flora? I don’t think so. The poor woman was terrified. But Dr. Brown is so good with the patients…” Blah. Blah. Blah.
I suppose I should’ve tried harder to follow my mother’s crazy story, since she was actually still talking to me after the Beer Incident. But honestly, I just couldn’t muster the energy.
As tired as I was, though, I was also restless. And bored. I must say, Mr. Tightwad sure knows how to suck even the tiniest shred of joy from my feeble existence.
Desperate, I turned to Will for entertainment. “So when’s Nat leaving for Tulane?” I asked, figuring he might talk to me about his girlfriend, who was ditching him for college in Louisiana.
“What do you care?”
“I don’t know. I just thought you might be kinda bummed,” I said. “I mean, you guys have been together like forever.”
“For your information, I support Nat’s decision,” Will claimed. “Sure, it would’ve been nice if she’d stayed around here, since I’m going to Temple. But Tulane has a great pre-med program, and…” He paused and shook his head. “Listen, it’ll be better for both of us. We’ll have a chance to do our own thing for a while. We’ll keep in touch. If it works out, we’ll know it’s real. We’ll know it’s right.”
I’d never felt so bad for my brother in my whole life. Because even though he was trying to sound all logical and self-assured, he really just sounded brokenhearted. Plus, I could tell everything he’d just told me had come directly from Natalie. It was how she’d explained things to him when she broke the news of her departure. In a way, though, I couldn’t blame Natalie for leaving Punxsutawney. It could be the most tedious place on earth. I bet she thirsted for something different, something exciting, something new. Hell, sometimes I even wish for bad stuff to happen, just to shake things up a little (not death or destruction, of course—maybe just a scary thunderstorm or a sprained ankle).
“Well, that makes sense,” I lied. “Sounds like you guys have things all figured out.”
“Yeah, we do.”
I picked up one of my mother’s handy-dandy roadmaps and fanned myself. “Are you hot?” I asked Will.
“Not really.”
“Well, I’m freakin’ sweating,” I complained. “Dad, can you turn on the AC?”
“Air conditioning? Already?” my father asked, as if I’d requested a five-course meal. He tapped the LCD display on the dashboard. “It’s only seventy-three degrees,” he reported. “Seventy-five. That’s the optimal temperature for air conditioning. We’ll shoot for that.”
Holy shit. Apparently Mr. Tightwad must have read some article that suggested avoiding air conditioning until you just about croaked. That should save us about fourteen cents.
“So I have to sit here and drown in my own sweat?” I whined. “Can we at least roll down the windows?”
“Okie dokie, smokie,” my dad agreed. “You go right on ahead and do that.”
All I can say is, it was going to be a long two weeks. Two weeks I’d never get back. Two weeks I should have spent having the time of my life in an exotic locale with my best friend in the whole wide world. Who knew, maybe Jessie could have twice as much fun to make up for my misery. At least that might take some of the sting out of how things had turned out.
Chapter 2
EVEN though I was exhausted, of course I couldn’t sleep scrunched up in the back of that stuffy SUV. And to make matters worse, I’d forgotten to pack a pillow—an error I could already tell was going to haunt me for the rest of the trip. And just when I figured things couldn’t possibly plunge any further downhill, my dad put on a polka CD. Yes, you heard me right: Polka! If you’ve ever listened to this crazy shit, you know it’s only fit for the criminally insane, the deaf, and people in comas. Mr. Tightwad has a whole polka library.
“So how much do you think we’d get for a good picture?” my mom asked my dad.
“Geez, Louise, I don’t know.”
“You think a million? Could we get a million?”
I could barely believe my ears. Apparently our vacation had turned into a treasure quest, and our family bonding time was for sale to the highest bidder. Plus, my parents were delusional. I mean, even if Champ did exist, there was absolutely zero chance we were going to be the ones to finally find him. Zero chance.
“Boy, I need a potty stop,” my father suddenly announced, derailing the conversation. “Two miles to the next rest area. Who’s with me?”
“Uh-huh,” Will mumbled from the back row.
“I need to stretch,” my mother said.
“Count me in,” I agreed.
What the hell. Anything had to be better than slowly frying to a crackly crunch in the back of the overheated Maroon Monstrosity. Anything.
The I-87 rest area was pretty much the same as all highway rest areas: obtrusive, commercial, and lacking adequate bathrooms. And, of course, at the mere mention of pee, my bladder started doing somersaults. So with my legs crossed at the knees, I wiggled in place behind a Girl Scout troupe that seemed to be peeing in slow motion. If I didn’t love their cookies so much…well, who knows what I might have done.
And by the time I got back to the food court, my parents had already ordered Chinese without consulting me. I guess they thought I needed the MSG. “Is this mine?” I asked, wrinkling my face in disgust at the plate that sat in front of the empty chair beside Will.
“Yep-a-doodle,” my father responded with undue glee.
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered, slamming my ass into the grooves of the molded plastic seat.
Perturbed, my mother said, “Flora, must you?”
“Well, no. It’s not imperative.”
Instead of picking through the icky mess of food on my plate for something decent to eat, I decided to crack open my fortune cookie. I mean, it was good luck, right? With a quick snap, I yanked the thing apart and retrieved the slim, red-lettered slip of paper.
Bad luck and ill misfortune will infest your pathetic soul for all eternity. I kid you not, that’s what it said. My fortune basically damned me to hell on earth and then some. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was this a joke? I glanced around to see if anyone was obviously laughing. Negative. Then I read the stupid thing again, coming to the only logical conclusion: The fortunes must have been switched. My real fortune had ended up on someone else’s plate.
“Hey, hands off!” Will objected, as I plucked the paper from the edge of his dish.
Your dynamic eyes have attracted a secret admirer. I checked Will’s eyes just be sure. Not dynamic. Was this my fortune? A secret admirer sounded okay, but I’d rather have a blatant one. And my eyes…not all that dynamic either.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” my mother asked, pausing to wipe her mouth with a coarse paper napkin.
“I’ll take a bite if you let me see your fortune,” I bargained.
She shook her head. “I don’t know about you, Flora,” she said, setting the paper down beside my fork. “I just don’t know.”
A small lucky package is on its way to you soon. Okay, that was vague. Was I expecting something in the mail? I thought about it for a minute, but nothing came to mind. The thing was a dud.
I pushed the fortune back to my mother’s side of the table, shoveled a forkful of fried rice into my mouth, and mumbled, “So, Dad, what’s your fortune say?”
“Well, aren’t you just a Curious George?” my father said. He grinned and tossed the unopened package in my direction. “Why don’t you read it to me, Flowbee?”
I ripped through the crinkly wrapper, snapped the cookie, and nabbed the paper. “A thrilling time is in store for you,” I read aloud.
“Lookie there, Lu-Lu,” my dad said. “It’s a sign, doncha think?”
“It very well could be,” my mother agreed, with one of those in-on-the-joke smiles. “Very well could be.”
On that weird note, I paused to consider my options: a secret admirer, a lucky package, or a thrilling time. Because obviously, a life of doom was out of the question. I mean, I already had enough problems without a curse on my head.
The more I thought about it, a secret admirer sounded lame too. After all, a hundred million guys could like me, and if I didn’t know about it, it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. A secret admirer was out.
And as intriguing as a lucky package sounded, I couldn’t quite think of anything I’d be that excited to receive. I mean, sure, maybe if I was waiting for college acceptance letters, the lucky package fortune would’ve fit. But that was still over a year away.
That left a thrilling time. And even though it seemed pretty unlikely that anything thrilling could happen in the presence of my parents (unless, of course, you counted the possibility we’d all fall overboard and drown in Lake Champlain), I was willing to keep an open mind.
“Can I have this?” my brother asked, stabbing his fork through two pieces of my sweet and sour chicken.
I slid the whole plate over to him. “Yeah, go ahead,” I said. I’d absentmindedly nibbled my way through most of the fried rice anyway. Everything else was dog chow, as far as I was concerned.
As soon as Will finished my meal, we tossed our plates in the trash, made yet another bathroom stop, and finally exited the luxurious somewhere-in-upstate-New York rest area.
And I guess I hadn’t noticed when we’d gotten out of the SUV, but apparently Mr. Tightwad had parked on Mars. So in search of the rented behemoth, we passed row upon row of vehicles. Vehicles of smart people. Vehicles of people who knew how to identify an empty spot within a one-mile radius of their destination. And just when it looked like we were about to crawl over the guardrail into oncoming traffic, my mother finally spotted the Maroon Monstrosity.
“Oh…there…it…is…” she sputtered, squinting into the distance. Meanwhile, my dad and Will came to a dead stop right in front of me.
Will ran his fingers through his shiny auburn locks and muttered, “What the…?”
“Well, I’ll be,” my father said, sounding awestruck.
I leaned around Will to see what all the fuss was about. And from what I could tell, a caravan of hillbilly vagabonds had set up their battered trucks and pop-up campers all around our vehicle. And they’d set up like they were planning on staying a while. To get out of there, we were going to have to strut right through the middle of their cluttered compound. How fantastic.
My mother drew a deep breath, then cracked the verbal whip on us. “Let’s move, people. We’ve got places to go and things to do.”
I must say, I was impressed. Apparently the Mental Hygienist was going to lead the charge into hillbilly territory. Following her lead, my dad, Will, and I plastered stupid, dopey smiles across our faces and snaked through—single file—as close to the Maroon Monstrosity as we could get. But the weird thing was, the hillbillies didn’t seem to notice. For a second, I even wondered if we were invisible—that was, until my sneaker caught the edge of a folding table where two hillbillies were playing cards, nearly flipping it over.
“I’m sorry,” I gushed, bending down to grab the cards I’d spilled (and practically head-butting one of the hillbilly guys in the process).
“It’s okay,” the guy mumbled. Still staring at the ground, he took the cards from my hand and went right back to his game like nothing had happened.
But I felt like a total dumbass. “Sorry,” I said again, as I reached for the door of the SUV.
There was no reply.
So I was just about to climb into the behemoth and disappear off the face of the earth, when an interesting, unexpected thing happened: I caught the most exquisite hillbilly boy staring at me from the bed of a rusty blue and silver pickup. Trust me, I do not say this lightly, but this boy was the most beautiful human being I had ever seen. Repeat, ever. His raven curls gently kissed his bronze forehead and perfectly framed his emotional steel-blue eyes. And he was tall. Much taller than me. Man tall. But the thing that attracted me most—in a way I can’t fully explain—was his body. He had this lean, muscular body that was all animal. And as if he weren’t sexy enough already, his big, thick hands were kind of rough and dirty, which gave me the chills.
“Flora!” my brother said, delivering a sharp thwack to the back of my head from inside the SUV. “Wake up!”
I guess I’d started staring too. But who could blame me, really? It was like having a front row seat for the Aurora Borealis. I couldn’t look away.
The Maroon Monstrosity started up with a rumble, and Will thwacked me again. “Hey, space cadet. We’re leaving.”
I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell the beautiful hillbilly boy he could have me, no questions asked. I wanted to run away with him. But I couldn’t do any of these things, because I was stuck wasting my life searching for a nonexistent sea monster.
Bad luck and ill misfortune will infest your pathetic soul for all eternity. Of course. Now it made sense.
With every bit of driving skill he possessed, my father extracted our vehicle from the hillbilly compound. Meanwhile, I pressed my face to the window and tried to send a telepathic message to the boy of my dreams. It was like a scene from a really sappy romance movie, where the young lovers are separated by a cruel twist of fate—only, technically, my leading man and I had never even met.
Chapter 3
AT the entrance to Wild Acres, my dad pulled right up to the check-in shack and popped the SUV in park. And just our luck, Check-in Guy was MIA.
“Why don’t you get out and look around?” my mother suggested. “We’ll wait here.”
“Right you are.”
With the SUV still idling, my father slid out the door on a mission. And only moments later, his voice echoed through the Maroon Monstrosity again.
“Reservation’s under Vic Fontain,” he said, “like the Star Trek character, but without the e.” He paused for a response, but apparently Check-in Guy was stumped. “You know, the holographic singer who ran the Vegas nightclub. Vic Fontaine.”
Honestly, did my dad really think anyone on earth but him would know the name of some double-imaginary lounge lizard from the dorkiest TV show ever? Doubtful.
“Here it is,” Check-in Guy said, gesturing toward a ragged clipboard (and ignoring my dad’s crazy talk). “Fontain. Six nights. Site Tupelo-9.”
“Ooh, Tupelo. That’s a tree, isn’t it?” my dad asked, as if our spaceship had just landed.
“Uh-huh. All the campsites are named after trees. There’s Oak, Spruce, Elm, Birch, Pine, Tupelo, Maple…” Check-in Guy said, stopping to bite his lip. “I think that’s all of ’em.”
My dad smiled and nodded, impressed with the cleverness of the witty soul who’d christened the campsites after trees. But just when he was about to ask another absurd question Check-in Guy couldn’t possibly answer, someone in the truck behind us honked their horn, which, thank God, kicked Mr. Tightwad back into gear.
“Okay…Tupelo-9,” my dad muttered, as we snailed past a massive log cabin labeled The Clubhouse. A rustic sign nailed to a tree in front of the building read:
WILD ACRES FAMILY CAMPGROUND
HOME OF THE GIANT WIENER
EATING CONTEST
SINCE 1992
Honestly, the sign was wrong on so many levels I couldn’t help laughing. And I guess my cackling must’ve woken Will, because all of a sudden, he was rearranging every item in his backpack with the delicacy of an elephant. Meanwhile, my parents were at each other’s throats arguing over the shortest route to Tupelo-9.
“Look,” my mother said, stabbing a finger at the Wild Acres map. “It goes Pine, Birch, Tupelo. We’re in the third section back on this side.”
Evidently my father didn’t believe her. “But aren’t we near the lake? I thought the tents were on the water.”
“None of the sites are on the water, according to this,” my mother declared, exasperated. “It’s beach, then restrooms and showers, then tents, then campers and trailers. We’re two rows from the beach, in the third section back.”
I stared out the window. What had my mother said? Pine, Birch, Tupelo? From the looks of things, the campground was massive. I mean, we’d only made it past Pine, and I’d already seen about sixty tents. If the math held up, the place must hold like a hundred and fifty of the things, not to mention all the pop-up campers and RVs. All told, there must be like a thousand people here, crammed together like subway passengers on a rush hour train. And unfortunately my stop was still five days, twenty-three hours and fifty minutes away.
“So what’s the plan?” Will asked, while I fantasized about hurling myself off a moving locomotive.
Plans were my mother’s territory. “Well, first we’ll pitch the tent, of course,” she said. “Then we’ll get the rest of our gear set up. And then maybe we’ll go for a swim before dinner.”
“Tupelo-9!” my father suddenly shouted, in his just-hit-the-lottery voice. “Hot diggity! Put your party pants on people!”
Party pants? Really? I have to be seen in public with this freak? I was starting to appreciate the fact that we were hundreds of miles from Punxsutawney. I mean, at least Mr. Tightwad might not get the chance to embarrass me in front of anyone who mattered anyway.
So in case it isn’t obvious, I should probably point out something about myself: I am not an outdoorsy girl. And when I say not outdoorsy, what I really mean is that I’m sure nature is out to get me; it’s out to get everyone (what with all the bugs, reptiles, floods, fires, tornadoes, hurricanes, heat waves, blizzards…etc., etc.). I mean, what kind of deranged human being could possibly enjoy this crap? I, for one, am not ashamed to admit I love the indoors. I’d take a plasma TV, a laptop computer, and a fridge full of junk food over any nature-related experience, any day.
“Here you go,” I said with a huff, plunking my duffel on a pile of debris in the middle of my parents’ little camp. “Put this wherever you want it.”
As much as I wanted to hang around and make everyone’s life miserable, I had to find a bathroom—and pronto.
“I can tell you where to put it,” my brother offered.
“Will! That’s not necessary!” my mother scolded. Then she turned her irritation on me. “And, Flora, let up on the attitude, please. We’re here to have fun.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
As I walked off, Will said something under his breath. Probably something nasty about me. Lucky for him, though, I couldn’t hear it over the sudden rustle of the trees.
Since I’d expected the worst, I was sort of surprised to find that the shabby pee shack actually had working sinks, toilets, and hand dryers (although it also had cold concrete floors and tiny, too-high windows that were covered in spider webs. Eww).
I got in line behind a little redhead, tapped my toes lightly on the concrete, and stared at my ragged fingernails. If only I could grow them out like Carla Pearson’s. She has the perfect nails. Maybe if I could just stop biting mine…
“Hurry up, Jo-Jo,” the little redhead in front of me whined, as she bunny-hopped in place with her hands over her crotch.
Please, God, don’t let this girl pee herself right here, I pleaded.
From the middle stall, the bunny-hopper’s twin emerged with a mischievous grin on her face. “Go ahead, Kat,” she said. As she skipped by, she gave her sister’s waist-length braid a playful tug.
“Ouch! That hurt!” the bunny-hopper exaggerated. I swear to God, her head had barely even moved.
“Are you going to use that?” I asked the bunny-hopper impatiently, pointing at the empty stall. “Because if you’re not, I am.”
Before I could make good on my threat, though, the bunny-hopper darted into the stall ahead of me. But a few seconds later, an old lady in a loud Hawaiian shirt exited the next stall over.
“There you go, honey,” the old lady said with a frown. “It’s all yours.”
How embarrassing. Now even grandma thought I was some kind of narc. “Thanks,” I mumbled, clunking the heavy wooden door shut behind me.
And by the time I finished peeing, the bathroom had miraculously emptied out. So while I washed my hands in the rust-streaked sink, I leaned forward to check my look in the mirror. Unfortunately, though, nothing had changed. My hair was just as orange and crispy as ever, my skin just as blotchy. Why couldn’t I have turned out more Mexican, like my mother? At least she has a defined look: warm, creamy skin, liquid-black hair, curvy shape. All I got was this strange, mixed-up concoction of characteristics that ended up looking like nothing special at all.
“Ugh,” I said, sick of my own face. I mean, shouldn’t I be turning into a swan already? After all, I was going to be sixteen in two days. But so far there was no sign I was blossoming into anything other than an older version of the same little quacker I’d always been. I hate to say it, but fairytales suck. And they lie. I bet swans are born, not made—unless, of course, you count plastic surgery.
Even though it wasn’t quite dinnertime, it was already cooling down outside. And the bugs were going nuts. Case in point: I had just turned onto the dirt road behind the shabby pee shack, when some flying pest catapulted itself right into my eye.
Like a madwoman, I tried in vain to blink and cry the disgusting gnat, or mosquito, or whatever the hell it was out of my eye. But it was no use. I swear, I could feel the thing fragmenting, decomposing, and scraping across my eyeball; hence, I just about poked my eye out trying to rub it bug-free. But even this spastic move was unsuccessful. So now, on top of the decomposing bug parts, I had a few stray eyelashes embedded in my eye. Perfect.
And wouldn’t you know, that’s when I spotted him. The hillbilly boy of my dreams. He was right there behind the shabby pee shack with Flopsy and Mopsy—the redheaded twins—swinging one of them around like a helicopter blade while the other one stood just far enough aside to avoid taking a foot to the face.
I don’t think he saw me at first, because he was so busy playing helicopter. But honestly, I was pretty hard to miss. I mean, my eye must have swollen to like twice its normal size. Plus, I’d frozen like a dork at the mere sight of him.
And before I could think of a way to salvage my image, Hillbilly Boy returned Helicopter Girl to earth and bent over—hands on his knees—to catch his breath. Then he straightened back up and stared right at me.
“Hey,” he said, smiling and walking in my direction. He had the cutest quirky smile with just a few slightly crooked teeth, which made him look like a sensitive nice guy instead of a pretty-boy wannabe. “Don’t I know you?” he asked with a chuckle.
Okay, it was a lame opening line. But at least he knew it was lame. I took a step toward him, and then, in a freak moment, did one of those amateur things girls sometimes do when they’re clueless about men: I looked around to make sure he was really talking to me.
“Um…hi,” I eked out tentatively, once I realized nobody else was around.
That was it. That was all I could say. This guy was way too sexy for me to think straight. I mean, I had a better chance of puking than of composing a coherent sentence in his presence.
“I’m Mick,” he said. “And you are…?”
He was so close to me I could have touched him. And for a second, I thought he was going to touch me. But instead, he ran his thick, rough fingers through his luscious black locks, at which point I think I might have subconsciously licked my lips (which I truly hope I didn’t). But if Mick noticed, he didn’t let on.
“Flora. I’m Flora Fontain. I’m fifteen,” I blurted. Holy freakin’ stupid. I must have been having a stroke or something. Apparently I could only say words that started with the letter f.
Mick chuckled. “Well, I’m sixteen—if that matters.”
Flopsy and Mopsy must have gotten sick of waiting around for helicopter rides, because the pig-tailed twin pinched the other twin on the stomach, and they both took off running.
“You’re only sixteen?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yeah. My birthday’s June 20th. I just hit a growth spurt,” Mick said with a grin. “People think I’m a lot older.”
I must agree. It seemed impossible that this perfect creature was a mere month older than me. I mean, personally, I wasn’t even convinced we were from the same galaxy, let alone the same kingdom, order, and species—and born a matter of days apart, no less.
“My birthday’s the day after tomorrow,” I said, like he’d care.
“Will you be here?”
Hmm. Maybe he was more interested in me than I thought. “Uh-huh. We’re here for six days,” I said. “Then we’re going to Lake Champlain.” In case it might scare him off, I left out the part about searching for Champ.
“Ooh, Champlain is beautiful,” he said. “Have you ever been?”
I was just about to answer him with a really inventive lie, when I heard a disturbing sound off in the distance. It was my mother, screeching my name like a banshee. What could possibly be so important? Had Will accidentally pounded a tent stake through his foot? Had Mr. Tightwad singed off his eyebrows trying to light the grill? I swear, nothing would surprise me coming from these people.
My name rang out again. “Flor-a! Flor-a!”
“That’s me, I guess,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I should probably go.”
“Do you have to?” Mick asked. “We just got started.”
We just got started?! Oh my God! That meant something. It had to mean something. He was into me. The most gorgeous guy in the world thought we were starting something. Together. Him and me. Okay, breathe.
“I don’t know. My mother sounds pretty excited. I really should...”
“What about later? Want to do something with me later?” he asked.
Well, that was a stupid question. Of course I wanted to do something with him later. I wanted to do everything with him, all the time—or at least very close to everything anyway.
“Sure,” I happily agreed. “When?”
As far as I could tell, Mick didn’t have a watch. “How about eight thirty?” he asked, tilting his stunning face toward the sky. “Around sunset?”
Sunset? That sounded right to me. And it would make a great story for our future children someday too: Our first date was a sunset stroll, or dip, or make out session at summer camp. How romantic.
“I love you.” What?! Did I really just say that out loud? Did he hear me? “I mean, I’d love to.”
“Meet you right here then?” he said. “Or I can come by your campsite.”
Ouch. Not a good idea. My parents definitely would not approve of my interest in a sexy hillbilly boy. I could already hear them rattling off the reasons Mick was off limits to a simple, naïve girl like me.
“Here’s good,” I said. “See you at eight thirty?” For the time being, I had to keep my association with Mick under wraps.
“Eight thirty it is.”
Even though we’d just met, I felt like he should kiss me goodbye. Not necessarily a long, drawn out tongue-lashing, but maybe something sweet and tender, like a good friend who really cares about you but doesn’t know yet if he likes you that way. That’s the type of connection Mick and I had right off: comfortable compatibility with a hint of sexual tension (well, maybe more than a hint—on my part, at least).
To my great disappointment, though, Mick wasn’t on the same page as me about the kissing. He didn’t even try. Not so much as a lean-in-and-see-if-she-bites move. Nothing. But I guess my consolation prize was the penetrating, pulse-quickening look he gave me just before he turned to leave. With the kind of hot intensity I’d never even dared imagine, he stared right at me—right through me—until my mind went blank and my body went warm and tingly.
Chapter 4
IN case something important had actually happened, I rushed back to Tupelo-9. But of course it was just a false alarm.
“How were the bathrooms?” my mother asked, handing me a thick Styrofoam plate full of food.
“Fine.”
“Were they crowded? You were gone a while,” she said, pointing out the obvious.
“Sort of. These little girls were fooling around in there and stuff.” Hey, technically it was true.
“Your brother’s going for a swim,” my dad chimed in. “You should go with him, Flowbee.”
I glanced over at Will, only to discover that he’d changed out of his track uniform (which would normally have inspired me to thank God) into something even worse: a banana-yellow Speedo. Ick.
I wrinkled my whole face in disgust. “I don’t know. I think I might take a nap after dinner,” I said. Anything but frolicking on the beach with my moody, scantily-clad brother, who might just be mistaken for my boyfriend. Double ick, but don’t laugh. It’s happened before.
“Your loss,” Will said.
“I doubt it.”
“Whatever,” he muttered. Then he lifted his goggles off the ground and flung a beach towel over his shoulder.
“Remember to wait ten more minutes,” the Mental Hygienist said, as Will waltzed down the dirt road. “You just ate.”
I stretched out in a showy yawn. “I’m tired,” I whined. Hey, maybe if I made a big enough production out of needing a nap, nobody would catch on to the fact that I was just trying to freshen up for my date. “Where am I sleeping anyway?” I asked off-hand.
My dad trotted out from behind the grill and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, like he was a used car salesman trying to hook me on a junker. “You see that little beauty over there?” he asked, gesturing toward a domed silver tent that resembled a three-eyed alien head. “That’s the Eureka Tetragon 1610. Three rooms. Sleeps nine. Your room is on the left, sunshine.”
“And my stuff? My bag?” I asked, forcing a fake smile so he’d think I was impressed with his tent-selection skills.
He glanced around, confused. “Lu-Lu, where’s Little Miss Sunshine’s bag?”
“In her room,” my mother said flatly.
“Well, there you go. You heard your mother. Skedaddle on in there and check out your new digs,” he said, patting me on the back with such enthusiasm he nearly tipped me over.
“Okay, Dad. Thanks,” I said. For a few extra brownie points, I threw in a split-second peck on the cheek, which made the old man practically glow with paternal pride.
Then I strolled over, unzipped my alien eye, and climbed inside. The place was tiny, but I was still glad my parents had sprung for separate rooms. Thank God for small miracles, I guess. Anyway, I spread out my sleeping bag until it pretty much covered the entire floor. And I must say, having that extra layer between me and the ground made me feel a little bit less like a cockroach and a little bit more like a human being. A human being without even a speck of control over her life, but still.
With my head firmly planted on my duffel for lack of a pillow, my mind was free to wander…
Mick. It was an interesting name. Was it short for Michael, or Mickey, or Michelangelo? Maybe it wasn’t short for anything at all. Maybe it was just Mick. That sounded best to me. My tall, manly, crooked-smiled, sensitive, intense, make-me-tingle-all-over Mick. My new boyfriend. The love of my life. The future father of my children. My special secret.
All of a sudden, I felt dirty for fantasizing about a boy I barely knew, like people would think I was some sort of wannabe slut for lusting after him. But honestly, the dirty feeling went away pretty quickly, because I liked lusting after him. It made me happy. And I was pretty sure it was a chemical reaction anyway, so who could possibly blame me? It was a force of nature. An act of God. The perfect storm. I was born to want this hillbilly boy with every molecule of my being; I could only pray he was born to want me too.
So as improbable as this sounds, I guess I was tired enough to drift off to sleep in that scrunched-up little cubbyhole after all. And a legit nap would have been fine. I mean, it would have been refreshing even—or at least so I imagined. But the problem was, my body doesn’t do naps. It does comas. And once you’re in a coma, it’s pretty hard to remind yourself you’re only supposed to be taking a nap. It doesn’t work that way.
I don’t know what time I fell asleep, but I’m absolutely certain about when I woke up: past sunset, after eight thirty, when my first date with the man of my dreams was long over. I’d stood Mick up. I swear, people as dumb as me really should be shot, or slapped, or, at the very least, screamed at in an angry tone.
Through the mesh door of my cubicle, I peered into the darkness. And I listened. Maybe the sun had just set. Maybe I could catch Mick before he ended up hating me. Maybe our date wasn’t really over yet after all.
I unzipped my pod and stumbled into the night. But the reality was, nobody in my immediate vicinity was awake (other than some drunk people down the block who were throwing an all-nighter). It had to be like three o’clock in the morning. There was no doubt about it: I really had missed Mick.
Life sucks and then you die. There was no other explanation. I mean, I’d overslept for lots of things, but this was the worst by far. Honestly, I felt like throwing a hissy fit right there in the dark at Tupelo-9. But why bother? Nobody was around to appreciate it but me.
I plunked my defeated ass down at the picnic table and began a serious pout session. And before long, I had a worthy target for my frustrations: mosquitoes. I swear, the damn things were sucking my blood by the gallon. They’d tapped all of my obvious veins and most of the not-so-obvious ones too. So I was busy swatting the life out of every pesky bloodsucker I could, when I caught a glimpse of two suspicious figures lurking around the campsite next door.
Now a normal person probably would have disappeared back into the tent—for safety’s sake, of course. But for some kooky reason, I wasn’t in the mood to act normal. Like an amateur sleuth with half a clue, I crawled on my hands and knees to the edge of our campsite and hid behind a thicket of brush. And as I looked on, one of the would-be crooks directed a jittery flashlight through the side window of our neighbors’ van, while his accomplice boomeranged his head back and forth in search of any unwelcome attention.
Apparently the coast was clear, because Lookout Guy whispered something inaudible, then Mr. Flashlight pulled on the door handle. But the van was locked. Shit. I couldn’t believe it. These guys were trying to break and enter—or at least maybe they were. For all I knew, it was their van.
So as idiotic as this sounds, I decided to make some noise. After all, the thieves seemed pretty skittish, so I figured maybe I could scare them off. Quietly, I crawled back to the middle of our campsite and crunched some brittle twigs under my feet, which, in the silent night, echoed like machine gun fire. And the amazing thing was, my retarded plan actually worked. The second the mystery men heard me crunching around, they immediately took off—not running or anything, just sort of nonchalantly moseying, like they had every right to be lurking around a stranger’s property in the middle of the night, like if anyone should dare question them, they’d just flip the script and say, “Well, you’re out here too. What are you up to?” Case closed.
I must admit, though, I was sort of sad to see the would-be thieves go. Because while I’d been focused on them, I’d completely forgotten about Mick. If only I could fall into a vat of toxic waste and inherit some superpowers, maybe then I could reverse the earth’s rotation and turn back time to fix things between me and the man of my dreams—if that’s how you do it anyway. I swear, even the superhero-me would probably turn out to be a wretched loser. So on second thought, I’d better just skip the toxic waste and pray for a miracle.
Chapter 5
DAY two at Wild Acres started with a bang. Literally. Because one minute I was lost in a psychedelic disco dream, and the next minute I was rocked awake by an explosion.
“What was that?!” I demanded at top volume, struggling to yank my sneaker on as I hopped away from the tent on one foot.
“Oh, that was nothing,” my mother said, way too calm for my liking. “Your father just knocked a can of bug spray into the fire, and it blew up.”
“That’s something,” I said. “A very loud something.”
“Don’t walk over here,” my dad warned, motioning toward the spot where the exploded goo had landed. “I still have to clean this up.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t plan on it.”
Will was already scarfing down a bowl of soggy Rice Krispies at the picnic table, so I sat down beside him and poured some for myself. And even though I didn’t see it coming, I’m sure what my evil brother did next was completely intentional. He waited until I had a big mouthful of cereal, then let loose with the following:
“So your boyfriend was here looking for you last night.”
Of course, I started choking and gagging. And as hard as I tried to force the cereal back down my throat, some of it just wouldn’t go. The result: I ended up spewing about half a mouthful of the semi-chewed stuff across the table in front of me.
“What?!” I finally managed to say. “What do you mean? Who was here?”
Will just smirked this know-it-all, pain-in-the-ass, gotcha smirk, which caused me to reflexively punch him in the arm.
“Hey! Knock it off!” he complained.
“Why? You deserve it, asshole.”
“Nice language.”
“Oh, and you’re a saint?” I said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Puh-lease.”
“Well, at least I’m not conniving like you. You think Mom and Dad are gonna let you go out with that guy who came over here last night? You think they’re gonna let precious little corruptible Flora get sucked in by the Trailer Park Kid? I don’t think so,” Will said with such finality I almost stopped breathing.
No matter what my parents thought, they had no right to keep me from Mick. No right. It was my life and my decision.
I swallowed my pride. “Did Mom and Dad see him? Did they talk to him?” I asked. I could hardly believe I’d slept through something so pivotal, but at least Mick had come for me. Maybe he didn’t hate me after all—unless, of course, my parents had ruined things, which I was having a hard time getting out of Will.
“Yeah, they saw him.”
“And…”
“And they told him you were sleeping.”
“That’s it? That’s all they said?”
“All they said to him.”
“What do you mean all they said to him? Who else was there to say anything to?” I demanded, losing my cool.
“It’s not what they said to him,” Will continued. “It’s what they said about him. After he left.”
“Cut the shit, Will. What happened?”
My brother broke out in another trademark smirk. “Well, of course Mom and Dad were nice to his face. They were polite, like they would’ve been to anyone. But when he was gone, they got into a discussion about him and his family—you know, because they saw them all camped out at the rest area. I guess that whole scene made quite the impression on Mom and Dad. Anyway, Dad said they looked like a band of gypsies. Then he told Mom a bunch of stories about gypsies being cheats, liars, and thieves. He said they were nothing but trouble. And Mom said he was way too old for you anyway, so the gypsy thing didn’t even matter. There was no way they were letting you anywhere near the guy.”
“But they don’t even know him,” I objected. “He’s nice. He’s beautiful. He’s…”
Okay, so I didn’t even know Mick that well yet. But I was going to. I was going to know every last gory detail. The good. The bad. The ugly. Things he didn’t even know about himself.
Will got up from the table as my father sat down. “Morning, buttercup,” my dad said. “Sleep tight?”
“Fine and dandy,” I replied, wiggling off the bench and making a break for my sleep pod. After all, now that my parents were up to speed on Mick, I couldn’t afford to spend any more time around them than absolutely necessary. The situation was a fight waiting to happen.
Quickly, I shoved a change of clothes and a towel into my beach bag. “I’m taking a shower,” I announced, glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention.
For the umpteenth time, my father’s head was buried in a road atlas, so he was oblivious. But my mother was poised to confront me at the tiki torch. As I braced for an argument over Mick, though, she hit me with a totally unexpected plan of attack instead.
“A shower? That sounds great!” she effused. “Hold on. I’ll go with you.”
“Huh?”
“I’m dying for a hot, steamy one,” she claimed. “Just let me get my…”
Great. This was definitely not going to work. I could not have the Mental Hygienist tagging along like my BFF.
“I’m sick,” I blurted. “I don’t feel good. Everyone should stay away from me.”
“What’s the matter? Do you have a fever?” my mother asked, rushing to my side and clamping her palm over my forehead. “No. No fever,” she decided after a few seconds of monitoring me.
“It’s my stomach. I think I have the flu,” I said, bending halfway over and clutching my guts. “I’ll probably be in the bathroom for like two hours. Can you get me some Pepto?”
I could tell by the skeptical look on my mother’s face that she didn’t believe me. But I also knew she’d never go so far as to deny me medicine.
“Geez, Flora, I don’t think we brought any Pepto. But I might have a roll of Tums in my purse. You could try those.”
“Come on. I need the Pepto, Mom. I’m sick,” I whined. Then I faked the beginning of a dry heave.
“Okay, okay,” she finally relented. “I’ll go to the store. I’ll get some Pepto—if they have it. Do you want your father to walk you to the bathroom? Vic, come here!” she yelled, before I could respond. “Flora’s sick. I’m going for Pepto. Can you walk her to the bathroom?”
“Ab-SO-lutely! I can,” my goofball father shouted.
For a second, I thought about arguing that I didn’t need a bathroom escort. But then I realized getting rid of my dad would be a piece of cake once my mother was gone. Still, without waiting for him to follow, I plowed full steam ahead. And when he finally caught up to me a few campsites away, I pulled out the big guns. I had to.
“I think I forgot my bra. Can you go back and get it for me?” I asked innocently.
Nothing freaked my father out like female undergarments or that time of the month. And yes, I realize this was a cruel move, but I was desperate.
“Uh…um…” he stumbled. “We could turn around.” He glanced longingly back at our tent.
“I can’t,” I whimpered. “My stomach. I’ve gotta hurry.” I picked up my pace even further, forcing him into a quick decision.
“All right,” he crumbled. “Where is it?”
“In my duffel. In the side pocket. But make sure you get the pink one with the yellow polka dots, not the blue one with the green stripes. The blue one’s too tight, and I’m already sick.”
“Pink with yellow polka dots. Check. I’ll meet you at the showers.”
Now I know I probably should have felt guilty about sending my dad on a wild goose chase, since the pink polka-dotted bra was still at home in my underwear drawer. But honestly, I didn’t really feel that bad at all. I mean, sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right?
In case my father gave up on the elusive bra hunt sooner than anticipated, though, I ditched my beach bag in the bushes and ducked behind the expansive rows of tents. Because if I remembered correctly, the RVs were at the back of the campground. And that’s where I should be able to find the blue and silver pickup that belonged to my sweet, sweet Mick.
I’d only passed about five unfamiliar campsites when I recognized his rich, velvet voice. “Flora, hi. Over here,” he called.
When I laid eyes on him again, my heart literally skipped a beat. Because even though he’d been super sexy yesterday in his cargo shorts and muscle-tight tee, today he was drool-worthy. He had on these ragged jeans that were ripped in all the right places—and not because he’d bought them that way at some trendy store. He’d ripped them doing things. Manly things. They were so tattered, in fact, I could see a three-inch patch of bare skin on his upper thigh through a well-placed hole. Delicious.
So what I did next was another testament to my inexperienced flakiness. At full speed, I ran up and tackled my should-be boyfriend to the ground. I swear, it was supposed to be a hug, not a football play. But I lost my balance, and then he lost his and…well, the rest was history.
“Wow,” Mick said, once we’d finally caught our breath. “That was brutal. You should definitely try out for the Steelers.”
“Pittsburgh? I don’t know. I was thinking maybe more like the Dolphins,” I joked. “You know, Miami. Fun in the sun. That kind of thing.”
He pulled me up from the ground with both hands. And while I brushed the dirt and debris off my clothes, he helped pick the stray pine needles out of my hair. How romantic.
“But you’re from Pennsylvania, right?” he asked.
Boy, this guy paid attention. He must have checked out the tags on the Maroon Monstrosity, which just so happened to match my home state.
“Yup, Punxsutawney.”
“Groundhog land, huh? That’s a nice place. A little small, but nice. And friendly.”
“You’ve been to Punxsutawney?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve been just about everywhere.”
“You have?” I said, surprised. After all, I’d been just about nowhere.