 | The Season of (No?) Love
Jane's snagged a gig at the local theme park as part of the star attraction -- the Mermaid Show. But then the Conspiracy strikes, and she ends up starstruck in a furry beaver costume all day long. Hard to breathe, let alone flirt....Can Jane figure a way out of the beaver suit and into the arms of her summer love? |
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Chapter 1
I am the victim of a global conspiracy.
I know that sounds overly dramatic - like one of those Everwood episodes where Ephram and Amy break up, get back together and break up again all before the first commercial – but it’s the only explanation I can think of.
For seventeen years, my life has been just like those shows on the History Channel that my dad is always forcing me to sit through. (He loves to say, “Watch with me Janey, it’s like the Real World, only real.”) Except unlike The D-Day Conspiracy or the Pearl Harbor Conspiracy, which only seem like they last forever, the Jane Conspiracy is endless.
Apparently, everyone on the freaking planet has plotted to make sure that I am never anywhere in the vicinity of being cool and that under no circumstance do I ever meet a boy.
I’ve got to hand it to them. Their record is spotless – so far.
But things are going to change. This summer is going to be different. I was inspired by an unlikely source - my big sister Kendra. She’s a junior at Florida State and last month she came home for a three day weekend to get her laundry done, sponge money off my parents and hook up with her ex-boyfriend Erik. (Or, as she told Mom and Dad, “Because I missed you all so much.”)
Somehow in the middle of all that manipulating, she actually found time to give me some good advice. (That’s once in seventeen years, but she means well.)
“Make the most of this summer,” she told me. “It should be the best three months of your life.”
We were having a girls’ day at the time. Mom had given us some money, the keys to her car and told us to go have fun. (Mom is always trying to bring us closer together.) As we drove to the mall, Kendra explained the crucial nature of the summer before senior year.
“You’re almost old enough to be an adult, but you don’t have any adult responsibilities,” she reasoned. “The summer after graduation will be all about getting ready for college. So this is the summer to really have fun!”
Normally, Kendra’s idea of advice is something she read on an Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt. So this was a big deal. For a second I even thought we were going to bond. But then she dumped me at the mall so she could go “bond” with Erik.
Still, it was a nice moment.
I kept thinking about it as I bought a jewel belt at the Gap. And I thought about it some more when I got some jeans on sale at Hollister. (I got all of the money in exchange for keeping quiet about Erik.)
In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. I had to make the most of this summer. I decided that it would mark the end of the conspiracy.
That night I was watching Behind the Music on VH-1. The show was about this old alt-rock group called the B-52’s. They were hilarious with huge beehive hairdos and retro thrift store clothes. They sang this great song called “The Summer of Love.” I instantly decided that it would become my new theme.
Now, it’s six weeks later, and my plan is coming together. (I’m also wearing the jeans which I love.) Today is the last day of school and I drove to campus in a brand new, oh so adorable Cabriolet. Okay, technically it’s nine years old, but it’s brand new to me.
Having a car changes everything. No more begging for rides. No more getting stuck at lame parties with no way home. And no more waiting in the mall parking lot while Kendra’s off somewhere macking with Erik.
I am now 100% mobile Jane.
Of course, the car comes with a catch. I have to pay for half of it. The deal my parents gave me is that I give them the money - $1250 - by the end of summer. To do this, I have arranged for not one but two summer jobs.
For the third straight year, I’ll be giving swimming lessons at the Y. Usually, I give group lessons, but now I’m going to do one-on-one. One-on-one’s kind of tricky. The pay’s better, but you can get stuck with a nightmare kid. For a car, though, it’s totally worth the risk.
When I’m done at the pool, I will hop into my Cabrio – how I love to say that - and drive to job number two at Tragic Waters. (That’s what the locals call Magic Waters.)
Magic Waters is a lame amusement/theme park that was a big deal back in the 50s. People actually used to come all the way to Florida just to see it. My heart aches for how starved for entertainment they must have been. To modern eyes, it’s just a collection of dinky rides and mind numbing shows like the Mermaid Spectacular.
The mermaid show is what made Magic Waters famous. Twice a day, tourists watch six girls wearing clamshell bikini tops and body fins perform underwater to music. It sounds pathetic, (who am I kidding, it is pathetic) but it’s got a kind of tacky kitsch appeal. There’s also a huge upside for the mermaids - boys.
For thirty minutes after the show, the ‘maids swim around the fake lagoon and pose for pictures. That’s where the boys come in. Tons of them. By the early afternoon, most guys have decided that talking with a mer-chick in a bikini is a lot more fun than waiting in line to ride the Sea Serpent for the fourteenth time.
Here’s the amazing part. This summer, I’m going to be one of the mer-chicks. (This and a car, it’s like I’m moving from the History Channel to the WB.) Most ‘maids are picked because they have C-cups and perfect skin. I was picked for a different reason. I can swim circles around the other girls. In fact, that’s literally what I do during the show’s finale.
I’m the best swimmer at Ruby Beach High. Good enough that I’m hoping to snag a scholarship or at least make a top college swim team. The mermaid show needs at least one great swimmer for the tricky moves.
This year it’s me.
It doesn’t matter if the other girls have better skin or bigger boobs, I’ll be one of only six mermaids surrounded by dozens of boys on a daily basis. Not even a global conspiracy can overcome those odds.
I can’t help but smile as a now familiar song plays in my head. It’s the B-52’s and they’re singing away.
It’s the summer of love, love, love...
Chapter 2
The smell of Sloppy Joes is so strong that I feel dizzy just walking past the cafeteria. The students aren’t supposed to know but the lunch budget ran out three weeks ago. The school’s gotten by with leftovers and a large shipment of “alternate food product” which was purchased with an emergency loan from the PTA. (I was warned by my mom, who’s an English teacher and a member of the PTA board.)
It’s not like I needed the extra incentive to avoid the cafeteria. I always brown bag it and eat on the patio with my two best friends, Becca and Melanie. We started eating lunch together in the fourth grade, the year Becca’s family moved here from Cuba.
We’ve been inseparable ever since, which is why they grant me all of three seconds to sit down before they launch into me.
“I can’t believe you got a car and didn’t tell us,” Becca says between sips of her Diet Dr. Pepper.
I plead for forgiveness. “I didn’t know. My parents surprised me. I thought we were going to get it next weekend.”
It’s pointless to defend myself. They’re not even listening.
“It’s the mermaid thing,” Melanie says with authority. “We’re getting replaced by the C-Cups.”
This is officially Day Five of the Jane Abuse Tour.
Bec and Mel – my two oldest, dearest friends on the planet – have been giving me non-stop hell every day since I got the mermaid job. Like it’s going to change me.
“I bet she told Crystal,” Becca adds with a pointed look. “Mermaids share everything. It’s part of their code.”
Melanie nods in agreement as she chomps on a carrot stick. “Are you kidding? She probably already gave Crystal a ride.”
“Right,” I answer, finally getting a word in. “She really wants to ride in my nine-year-old Volkswagen instead of the pimped out Beemer she got for her birthday.”
This logic finally slows the assault.
Becca’s the first to concede. “Okay. We went too far with that one.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Melanie agrees. “I still can’t believe her parents gave her such a sweet car. Life is just not fair.”
“Just not fair” is often used to describe the charmed life of Crystal Gentry. The Queen Bee of Ruby Beach High, she’s a third-year varsity cheerleader, a second generation mermaid and a first degree bitch.
We also share a history.
There was a time when the three of us were the four of us. Crystal was the fourth. We hung together all through elementary and middle school. We were really tight. Then, when we got to high school, Crystal was gone. She joined the elites and she never looked back.
Becca flashes a sly smile. “Do you think the rumor’s true? Do you think that in addition to the car, her parents also got her a boob job?”
This is the hottest gossip at school. I don’t think it’s true, but I don’t disagree when anyone says it. I don’t know if that makes me a bad person or anything. I just don’t like her.
Crystal and I have been enemies ever since she ditched the group. The problem is that now we’ll also be co-workers. When I got the mermaid job, the two of us kind of agreed to a truce for the summer. Bec and Mel still haven’t forgiven me for that.
“Just promise that you won’t dump us for her,” Melanie says joking, but maybe a little bit serious. “Fake or real, those things attract a lot of boys, and you might be tempted to hang around for the overflow.”
“I promise - again,” I say strong enough so she knows I mean it. “And that’s why I want you two to be the first ones to ride in my new car. I’ll drive us all to the park for the ritual.”
They share a disapproving look.
“Sorry can’t make it,” Becca says.
“Yeah,” Mel adds. “Sorry.”
“What do you mean?” I say not believing this. “Today’s the last day of school! It’s our tradition!”
“Yeah,” Becca says. “But Crystal wants to be friends again and she offered to give us a ride in the Beemer.”
Melanie shrugs. “Although, we’re stuck with our original boobs.”
With that we all laugh, which feels good. Things have been tense lately and I guess I understand. The three of us have mocked the mermaids for as long as I can remember. And, I do feel a little bad about it. Because, maybe all that mocking was really jealousy. Now that I’m one, I’m really excited. Maybe they’re jealous of me. But, no one could ever replace Bec and Mel. They must know that.
“Quincy!” The name echoes across the patio attracting far more attention than I’d like. I turn and see Coach Latham, my swim coach and the only person on earth who calls me by my last name. I smile and wave, hoping he will quiet down.
“My office!” he barks before disappearing back into the physical education building.
Becca laughs. “You’ve got to give him credit. He does not waste a lot of time with extra words.”
“I’ve studied it,” Melanie comments. “His trick is that he doesn’t use verbs. Can you imagine how he proposed to his wife? ‘Marriage! You and Me!’”
I quickly gather my stuff and turn to them. “After school. In the parking lot.”
“She’s the same way. No verbs. Must be a swim thing.”
I roll my eyes and rush over to the office. Coach Latham does not like to wait. I bet he wants to go over my summer workout schedule. He’s always worried that we’ll party too much and get out of shape. Personally, that’s what I’m shooting for.
“Quincy, it’s a good thing you swim faster than you run,” he says as I hurry into the room.
“I had to get my books,” I explain. Then he looks up and I realize he’s only joking.
“Sit down, we need to talk.”
Suddenly, this sounds serious.
Despite his gruff, verb free exterior, Coach Latham is a total teddy bear. He coaches both the boys’ and girls’ swim teams and even drives the bus to meets. (He started doing this when he learned the bus driver was making more money than he was for coaching.) He’s also been trying to help me land a scholarship.
He hands me an envelope. It’s a recruiting letter from the University of Southern California. My heart skips a beat. USC is my first choice and not just because it’s in LA, which would be awesome. Great school. Great swim team. Great everything.
“The coach was very interested when I told him about your times at state this year,” he says.
I can’t help but smile. For some unexpected reason I dominated at the state swim meet. I swam PR’s – personal records – in my two main events. And, in a huge upset, I won the 200 yard IM (Individual Medley) touching the wall just ahead of a girl named Tina Sue Hinton who got a full ride scholarship to Stanford. I got my picture in the paper and everything. It was the closest to cool I’d ever been.
“But, he wants to make sure it wasn’t a fluke,” Coach Latham continues.
“Which means?”
“Which means,” he says with a smile. “If you keep swimming like you did at state, I think they’ll offer at least a partial athletic scholarship. With your grades, tack on an academic one and you’ll be set.”
I try to catch my breath. This is huge. We aren’t exactly wealthy, and with Kendra still in college, money’s tight at home. Landing a scholarship would be incredible.
“It also means,” he says bringing me back to earth. “That you’re going to have to train your butt off this summer. Nothing’s set and there’s a whole year left to screw things up.”
He hands me a workout schedule. It’s brutal. Two jobs and training my butt off – this should leave plenty of time for an active social life.
“Absolutely,” I tell him finally catching my breath.
I can hardly contain myself. First the car. Then the mermaid show. Now this. It’s as if seventeen years of nothing going right is all turning around in one week.
“Thanks,” I say as I get up to go.
“Down,” he says, signaling me to sit.
Then it happens.
The global conspiracy to keep me uncool and unattached rears its ugly head. He pulls out another envelope. This one is from the state athletic association.
“I’ve been reading over the new eligibility guidelines,” he said. “And, you’re not going to be able to swim at Magic Waters this summer.”
At first, I think he’s joking and I start to laugh.
“You’re going to have to find a different job,” he continues.
I’m still laughing, but I realize that he’s not laughing with me. He’s serious. “Why not?” I ask.
He explains that a new rule was passed because some high school basketball star got paid tons of money to be in a movie. According to the rule, if I get paid to swim in a show, it would make me a professional swimmer. And professionals are ineligible to swim for their high school or college teams.
I just sit there for a moment and let it sink in.
Goodbye mermaid show.
Goodbye boys.
Goodbye summer of love.
Chapter 3
By the end of the day, I’m completely mental. I’m excited about summer vacation, but pissed about the mermaid show. I can’t believe that USC is interested in me, but I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I finally have a car, but now I don’t know how I’ll pay for it.
(It also officially marks another school year gone by without a significant boyfriend. Not that I’m keeping track or anything.)
Like I said - completely mental.
Since it’s the last day of school, the student parking lot is even more of a zoo than usual. There are people everywhere and someone is blasting 50 Cent so loud that the windows are about to vibrate out of his car.
I fight my way through a maze of people hugging, kissing and making phony promises to keep in touch over the summer. Three sophomore girls are saying tearful goodbyes to one another while a boy stares at them in total disbelief.
“Why are you crying?” he asks dumbfounded. “You cry on the first day of school, not the last!”
When I finally make it through the crowds, I find Becca and Melanie leaning against my car with big goofy grins on their faces.
“We looooove it!” Becca says. “Can we ride with the top down?”
“Sure,” I tell them. “Except I don’t know how to put it down.”
“No problem,” Becca replies.
She saunters over to a group of boys and turns on her smoldering Latina thing. (Becca is such a hottie. She looks like a tall Eva Longoria and could have easily joined Crystal in the elite crowd if she’d wanted.) Within seconds, three boys are hard at work trying to figure out my roof.
Melanie and I share a smile. “You could have gotten them to do that too,” I tell her.
Melanie just laughs. “Yeah, if I promised to do their homework for a year.”
In no time, the top is down and we’re cruising down RBA – Ruby Beach Avenue – listening to the Black Eyed Peas. It’s like they’re singing just for us and the summer ahead.
Let’s get it started ha...
Let’s get it started in here...
Becca grabs Melanie’s yearbook and starts flipping through it. “You’ve got to hear what Kevin wrote to our little bookworm.” She finds the page and starts to read it. “I hope to see you over the summer – stay sexy.”
I can’t help but smile at this. Bec and I even sing along with Fergie and the boys to tease Mel a bit.
Let’s get it started ha...
Let’s get it started in here...
Melanie, of course, blushes. She always blushes. She’s had a crush on Kevin for years. Even though he’s more than a foot taller than her, they would make the most adorable mismatched couple. That is, they would if it weren’t for the one problem that has kept her from acting on that crush.
“He misspelled ‘sexy’,” Mel points out. “He wrote s-e-x-i-e.”
That’s the problem.
Melanie is a total brain. She’s our likely valedictorian and is bound for med school. The only way they’ll cross paths as adults is if she’s on call in the emergency room the night he finally breaks his leg trying to do a back flip on his jet ski.
“So, he’s no genius,” Becca concedes. “Do you want him to proofread your papers?” Her voice drops to a husky whisper. “Or, do you want him to make you a woman?”
Melanie laughs thinks this one over. “Good point. But sexy’s a pretty simple word. I think I’d like a guy who could be it and spell it.”
“A reasonable standard,” I add in agreement.
Mel smiles at me from the backseat. “That’s why I’m using my insider connections with the mermaid community to hook me up with Mr. Wonderful this summer.”
This brings my mood to a crashing halt.
“Hate to break it to you,” I say. “But you just lost your inside connection.” I tell them all about my meeting with Coach Latham and why I can’t swim in the mermaid show.
“Un-freaking-believable!”
Typical Becca. She starts off at outraged and builds from there.
“You should sue,” she continues. “We can get one of those shifty looking lawyers off the back of the phone book.”
I explain that it’s no use. “I can’t jeopardize my chance for a scholarship. I just have to go in and quit.”
As I say it, I realize it’s true. I really have to go in and quit. This blows.
“This is so ruining our first ride in your car,” Melanie adds.
“Why?” I ask taking an unfair swipe at them. “I thought you’d both be happy. You’ve been trying to make me miserable ever since I got the job.”
“Yeah,” Becca says. “But, it’s all right if we make you miserable. We love you. It’s not okay for some lard butt we don’t even know to make you miserable. That’s not even close to being okay.”
I start to laugh and so does Melanie. Lard Butt was the first put down Becca learned when she came to America. Through the years it has remained a favorite. Every time she says it I think it’s funny.
We’re still laughing when I pull the car into the gravel lot at Russell Park. The park stretches for a few blocks and overlooks the beach. It has public restrooms, a picnic area and a band shell that they use for special events like the Fourth of July. It also has a huge barbecue pit, which is why we come here every year on the last day of school.
Our ritual is simple. We pull out our school planners and write down the name of the one person who has most wronged us during the year. Then we burn the planners in the barbecue pit and say, “You’re fired.” Just like Donald Trump, only we thought of it first.
We’ve been doing this since the eighth grade and as corny as it sounds, it’s really fun. We just sit there, kick back and look forward to summer vacation.
I was going to write Scott Bushnell’s name in my planner. He was supposed to take me to the Spring Fling, but he bailed at the last moment to go to a model airplane convention. Although I haven’t forgiven him, I’m currently more pissed about the mermaid thing. So, I write down the name of the state athletic association. Their stupid rule has already ruined my summer.
As we watch the planners burn away, Becca tries to lighten the mood. “I have just the thing to cheer you up,” she offers.
“What?” I ask skeptically.
“Choice gossip verification.”
Mel and I both lean forward in anticipation. Becca is the Queen of Dish. She’s had a subscription to Teen People since the very first issue. If she says it’s good, you can count on it.
“The rumors have gone on long enough,” she says dramatically. “So, I decided it was time to find out the truth about Crystal’s boob job.”
She savors the moment and leaves us hanging.
“And...” Mel blurts almost unable to contain herself.
Bec flashes a huge smile. “They’re just as phony as her personality.”
“I knew it,” Mel gasps.
I’m still skeptical. “How were you able to confirm this?”
Becca beams, obviously proud of herself. “At great risk of personal injury, I tripped and fell into her while she was at her locker.”
“You tripped?” Mel asks. “On purpose?”
“I slammed right into them,” Becca says.
I start to laugh.
“I almost got a black eye from the left one,” she adds. “Someday some poor boy’s going to get hurt on that thing.”
Now, I’m laughing so hard I think I’m going to pee my pants. I can fully picture Becca doing this. After all, she is the one who actually does the things that Melanie and I only talk about doing.
Becca was the one who got her belly button pierced. (My parents would have killed me.) And she’s the one who got a tattoo on her butt. (My parents would have killed themselves.) The tattoo is hilarious. It’s a bumble bee and sometimes when she gets excited, she pokes it with her thumb and goes, “buzz, buzz, buzz.”
“How do they feel?” I ask unsure if I really want to know.
Bec scrunches her lips while she tries to think of just the right words. “Kind of like those frosting bags you use to ice a birthday cake. But filled way too much.”
I wish I hadn’t asked. I may never look at cake the same way again.
“I’m sorry, but that’s disgusting,” Mel says mulling this over. “I can’t believe boys really think that’s attractive?”
“Surf the internet,” Becca instructs her. “I think you’ll find they’re okay with it.”
It really does amaze me that a girl our age would do something like that to her body. I mean, Crystal was already hot. I just don’t get it.
“That’s why the Crystals of the world will always have their pick of guys,” I say. Then I look down at my own rather un-endowed body and add, “And, that’s why I won’t.”
“What are you talking about?” Becca asks. “I thought this was going to be the Summer of Love.”
“The Summer of Love is fast becoming the Winter of our Discontent,” I say, borrowing a line from AP English. “When I was going to be a mermaid, I thought I could pull it off. But now...It’s just all wrong.”
“What’s all wrong?” Mel asks.
“Everything,” I say. “My hair. My clothes. My body. Even my name. I mean Jane? When’s the last time you heard of someone hot named Jane?”
They think for a moment.
“Tarzan and Jane,” Becca offers. “She’s smoking hot. She’s got that whole jungle fever thing going.”
“First of all, she’s fictional,” I say. “Second, she lives with a monkey.”
“What about Jane Goodall? She’s good looking and smart.”
“Who’s Jane Goodall?” Becca asks.
“The world’s leading primatologist,” Mel answers. “You remember that video in biology, with the woman in Africa.”
“You know,” I tell her. “The English woman who also lives with monkeys.”
“Actually, they’re chimps,” Melanie says. “But that’s a little freaky.”
“You guys are really not helping here,” I tell them. “Face it. I’m Plain Jane. Strictly vanilla”
They’re quiet for a moment and then Melanie speaks up.
“Technically, vanilla is the mother of all ice cream flavors. Chocolate, rocky road, mint chocolate chip - they all start out as vanilla.” (She worked at Glenn’s Homemade Ice Cream Shoppe last summer.) “All you’ve got to do is add the right ingredients.”
Becca starts to smile. She’s obviously come up with something. As she thinks it over, she absently starts to poke her thumb into her tattoo. “Buzz, buzz, buzz.”
“What?” I ask her.
“What if...you had a second identity?”
“Ooh,” Mel joins in. “Like Peter Parker in Spiderman.” (Mel has a total Tobey Maguire fixation.)
“And in addition to being Plain Jane – who we know and love,” Bec continues. “You were also...Bikini Jane.”
“Bikini Jane?” I ask completely unimpressed.
“Exactly,” Becca answers.
“I kind of like it,” Mel says. “It’s way cheesy. But, it gets to the point.”
“First of all,” I reply laughing. “I’m missing two very important components of the Bikini Jane outfit. And unless you’ve got a couple of overfilled frosting bags in your backpack, it’s just not going to happen.”
Becca shakes her head. “That’s not what being Bikini Jane is all about.”
“Easy for you to say Captain Curvaceous.”
“No. Bikini Jane is all about attitude. That’s what those mermaid girls really have going for them. They project an ‘I’m hot’ attitude and the boys come running.”
“She’s right,” Melanie says.
The more Becca thinks it over, the more she likes the idea. “This summer, if you meet a boy and you get intimidated - Or if you’re in a situation and you’re not sure how to act - just ask yourself one thing.”
They say it together. “What would Bikini Jane do?”
“That’s hot,” Becca says. “That’ll work.”
They keep going at this for a while, acting out different scenarios and offering up what they think Bikini Jane would do in those situations. Each one is funnier than the last and pretty soon I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. I’ve got to hand it to them. I may have no luck when it comes to boys, but when it comes to friends, I’ve got the best.
Chapter 4
This is so not right.
It’s the first day of summer vacation and I’m already up at 6:30 in the morning. Officially, I’ve sworn off overpriced coffee until I’ve paid for the car. But this is an emergency, so I break my Starbucks rule and get a venti cappuccino.
By the time I reach Magic Waters, the caffeine has done its trick and I’m nearly coherent. I need to find my supervisor before orientation starts so I can beg for a different job. (Mermaid show or no mermaid show, I still owe my parents $1,250.)
She’s cool about it when I explain my problem and she even arranges for me to stay in the Entertainment Department. This is great because entertainment pays almost a dollar an hour more than any other department. The job, though, is with the zoo crew. Not great.
The zoo crew is what they call the costumed characters who roam around the park and dance in the parade. A job like that might be cool at a place like Disney World, where the costumes are well-made and the characters are beloved. But at Magic Waters, it’s like a completely lame school play.
I get assigned to play Eager Beaver.
I’m not joking. That’s really his name. Or her name. No one really knows if Eager Beaver is a boy or a girl. They only know that Eager Beaver likes to dance around the Rapid River Log Flume – “The Rootin’ Tootinest ride in the Wild Wild West.”
Next, I go to the wardrobe warehouse, which could not be freakier. When I open the door I run smack into the disembodied head of Ollie Otter. All the character heads are stored on posts right by the front door. When you’re not expecting it, it looks like you’ve stumbled into some bizarro cartoon headhunter ceremony.
I report to the costume counter which is manned by a woman who I swear is the actual Mrs. Claus. She’s got rosy red cheeks, granny glasses and a sewing apron.
“Good morning,” she says in a manner way too jolly for this time of day. “Who are you?”
“Jane,” I answer. “Jane Quincy.”
She gives a disapproving look and points her finger at me in a way that makes me want to snap it off.
“You may be Jane Quincy out there.” She motions to the door. “But once you pass through these portals you become one of our magical characters.”
I think this is going to take more than one venti.
“So let’s try again. Who are you?”
“Eager Beaver,” I mumble still trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes, hoping this is all a dream.
“Well you don’t sound so eager to me,” she says with a laugh. “But we can work on that.”
She disappears into a back room and returns with my costume. It’s hideous. She hands me a fur body suit that weighs a ton, a pair of four-fingered gloves and huge black boots that will completely ruin my feet. Then she goes over to the giant rack-o-heads (God that freaks me out) and pulls off Eager Beaver’s noggin. I don’t know why he’s so happy, but he’s got the biggest buck-toothed smile you ever did see.
I seriously consider running out the door.
Mrs. Claus misreads my dumbfounded state of shock as a case of magical wonder and awe.
She smiles warmly. “Don’t worry, dear. You’re perfect for Eager Beaver.” She says this as though it’s a good thing.
“Why is that?” I want to know. But I’m more than a little scared of what the answer might be.
“Because you’re so flat-chested,” she replies. “The costume won’t bind in the bust.”
At this point, I want to kill Mrs. Claus. But, I’m pretty sure that will cost me my job and ultimately my car. So instead, I just smile. “Lucky me.”
“Why don’t you go try it on,” she adds.
The costume, me and my flat chest all head into the locker room, which reeks of polyester, sweat and fiberglass. Despite the assurances of Mrs. Claus, the costume could not be more uncomfortable.
The fur body (think bad shag carpet) is about eight million degrees. Right from the start it makes my skin itch. The fiberglass head has only two teensy eye slits, which make it impossible to see. The head also weighs so much that if I lean just a little too much one way or another I lose my balance.
The worst part, though, is the tail. Eager Beaver’s got a gigantic tail. It’s even gigantic by cartoon standards. It pulls down on my butt so much I feel like my pants are falling down.
I spend the next few minutes walking around the locker room trying to develop my “beaver legs.” In just a few minutes, I manage to trip over my tail, knock down a potted plant, trip over my tail again, smack into a Coke machine and slam headfirst into the wall of lockers. (Altogether, not unlike the night Becca and I mixed rum and Diet Coke under the mistaken belief that they were to be blended in equal amounts.)
Orientation turns out to be a lot like the first day of school. By the time I figure out where the bathroom is, everyone else has already broken up into little groups. It doesn’t take long to see that there’s a pecking order at Magic Waters, just like there is at Ruby Beach High.
The mermaids sit alone at the top of the food chain. They’re the stars. (They even wear matching baby blue warm ups with their names stitched just above their oh-so perfect left breasts.) The Zoo Crew is somewhere in the middle just above food service and the janitorial staff.
After an initial welcome speech, everyone goes off into smaller groups with their departments.
While Crystal and the mer-chicks pose for their lobby photos, I learn the beaver dance from a “choreographer” whose name is pronounced “Chris” but spelled “Krys.” The dance is pretty much just me hopping around and shaking my tail. Krys, of course, is not satisfied.
“You’re a beaver, not a bunny,” he says clapping his hands to the beat.
I have no idea what he means, but I act like I do and just keep hopping and shaking. Luckily I am rescued by Platypus Rex, who informs Krys that Ollie Otter is having big trouble mastering the parade march.
When Krys rushes over to help Ollie, Rex hustles me out a side door to a patio.
“You looked like you needed a break,” he says as he takes off his platypus head and plops down on a bench.
“Thank you,” I tell him as I ditch my giant beaver head. “My name’s Jane.”
“Grayson.” We sort of shake hands, which is not easy in our bulky costumes.
I try to get a good image of him, but it’s hard. His hair is all stuffed into a bandana and his face is flushed from wearing the costume. I’m sure I’m not looking my best right now either.
It turns out that Grayson’s a senior at Fletcher - our rival high school. He is in his third summer as Platypus Rex. Unlike Krys and Mrs. Claus, he doesn’t seem to take it so seriously.
He tells me the various zoo crew rules, which are
plentiful. Characters are not allowed to talk (because it breaks the magic) and you can only sign autographs after special training to make sure you do it right. (I’m not kidding.)
You’re never allowed to take off your head when you’re in a guest area because it really freaks kids out. (After my first encounter with the rack-o-heads I can relate.)
He also warns me that every single kid who comes into the park will feel the need to pull my tail. Despite my natural instinct, it is not all right for me to slug them when they do this.
We chat some more until Krys finds us and orders us back inside for more practice. Two hours later, I stumble back into the locker room and collapse on the bench. I am totally exhausted. My face and hair are so covered in sweat that I don’t even know where to begin.
As if on cue, Crystal and the other mermaids come in from their photo shoot. They don’t mock or pick or even notice my existence. They don’t have to.
They just smile their perfect smiles, toss their perfect hair and heave they’re perfect (and fake) breasts. I was supposed to be one of them. I was supposed to be in a bikini, working on my tan and flirting with boys. Instead, I’m a giant beaver in a fur suit getting my tail yanked by bratty kids.
I watch them sashay by and realize a horrifying truth. The conspiracy to ruin my life is now complete.
Chapter 5
After a week at Tragic Waters, I feel like I’m a walking bruise. Every inch of my body aches and there’s a constant throbbing in my shoulders courtesy of the giganto fiberglass head. As if that’s not bad enough, last night I had my first Eager Beaver nightmare. (Grayson warned me that everyone has them.)
In the dream, I’m back in school but no one can hear me. I scream, shout, yell, everything, but the only response I get is people pointing and laughing. I run into the girl’s room, look into the mirror and see that I’m in my beaver costume. Then Mrs. Claus comes out of one of the stalls, raps me on the paw and says, “No talking in costume!”
If this keeps up, I’ll need a psychiatrist by Labor Day.
Today’s my first day of swim lessons, so I’m going to hit the pool early and start on Coach Latham’s workout routine.
I stumble into the kitchen and pour myself a bowl of Honey Combs. I’m so out of it, I don’t even notice my dad sitting at the table eating his breakfast.
“Look who’s up,” he says all bright and cheery. “Aren’t you a busy little beaver?”
My dad lives to tell bad jokes. He considers it his gift to the world. I realize that I have to nip this in the bud or it will go on all summer long.
I wave my cereal spoon at him with as much menace as I manage. “That’s not funny Dad.”
“What? You don’t like the little beaver word play?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Kind of gnaws at you, doesn’t it?”
“Stop it Dad.”
“Maybe you should lodge a complaint.”
That one almost gets me. I’m trying not to laugh on principle, but he doesn’t make it easy. He’s a really funny guy. I overcome the urge and give him my toughest look. “That’s enough.”
“So you’re not going to laugh?” he asks.
“No, I’m not.”
“Dam!” he says.
“Beaver, dam. I get it Dad. Still not funny.” As I say this, I finally break and start to laugh. Some of my milk shoots up my nose, which is just what he wanted.
“Now, I can go to work,” he says as finishes his last piece of toast. He gets up, leans over and gives me a kiss on the forehead.
“I love you Janey.”
“Love you too Daddy,” I tell him. “Stay safe.”
I always say this when he goes to work. He’s a captain with the Ruby Beach Fire Department and even though I know he’s careful, a part of me worries every time he leaves the house.
On my way to the Y, I break my Starbucks rule again and get another venti cappuccino. (I admit it. I’m an addict.) I get to the pool an hour before my lesson so I can put in some training laps. USC’s about 3,000 miles away and it seems like Coach Latham wants to see if I could swim the whole way.
The water feels great and the exercise helps work the soreness out of my shoulders. When I’m done, I feel like a new woman. I look around at all the kids arriving for lessons. They don’t look so bad. I can handle any of them as long as there isn’t a barfer. (Barfers are the worst. You’ve got to evacuate the whole pool and clean it up. No money is worth that.)
I see the director of aquatics heading my way. She’s smiling and rapping her clipboard with a pencil, which means she needs a favor. I brace myself.
“Would you mind doing a home lesson?” she asks.
Home lessons are never a good sign. Since they cost triple the normal rate, the only parents willing to pay for them are the rich bitchy types who can’t be bothered to drive their kids to the Y and wait around for an hour.
“Seriously?” I ask, trying to decide if I want to be bothered with this or try to push it off onto somebody else.
“The kid’s name is Alex Walker and apparently he is a total klutz around the water,” she says. “The mother specifically asked for our top instructor.”
This may just be buttering me up, but I’m okay with that. She hands me a registration form and my worst fears are confirmed when I see the address. The house is on Lake Shelby, which means it’s a total mansion. No doubt they’ll make me feel like a servant just for showing up. Still I remind myself that the triple rate will help put a dent in the money I owe my parents for the car.
“I’ll do it,” I tell her. “But you owe me.”
I throw on a pair of gym shorts and a Ruby Beach Bobcats t-shirt over my bathing suit and head for my car. Whoever owned the Cabrio before me put in a great sound system, so I turn some Gwen Stefani up full blast as I drive over to Lake Shelby.
Gwen always puts me in a good mood.
As expected, the house is a totally impressive show piece. But, as I make my way down the incredibly long driveway, I see some eye candy even more impressive than the house. He’s about my age and he’s pushing a lawn mower.
Like all of the other homes on Lake Shelby, the Walker estate has lush and beautiful landscaping. But, unlike the others, theirs comes with a lawn boy who’s pretty lush himself.
He’s tall (I love tall) and has a great tan. He’s got deep brown eyes that I could totally get lost in. His hair is a mess, but still cute in a surf boy kind of way. When he sees me, he stops his mower and flashes a smile that should be illegal.
All of a sudden, I hear the sound of Bec and Mel in my head and they’re both saying the same thing.
What would Bikini Jane do?
“Flirt,” I answer silently.
I smile back and sneak a quick peek in my rearview mirror. Not good. It’s my moment of need and my hair is doing absolutely nothing for me. I didn’t put anything in it because my big plans for the day were to jump in a pool and put on a beaver costume.
Be Confident.
What am I worried about? He’s doing lawn work. His hair’s a total mess too.
Relax.
Flirting does not come naturally to me, but since he stopped his mower, the least I can do is say hello. After all, we’re both just hardworking teens summoned to the mansion to earn a little cash.
“Hello,” I say as I slowly run my fingers through my hair trying to mask its total lack of body. Becca taught me this, but I can’t really do it like she does.
“Hi,” he answers back. “May I help you?”
Hot and polite – nice combo. I try to act cool, which is hard because I’m about to hyperventilate. “I’m here to see Mrs. Walker.”
“Sorry,” he says. “She just left.”
That’s strange. She should be here for the lesson.
“What about Mr. Walker?” I ask, trying not to stare too deep into those eyes.
“He left too. They were together.”
“They’re both gone?” I ask, suddenly getting pissed.
“Yep,” he says. “It’s just me.”
I forget about dreamy lawn boy for a minute and think about bratty swim lesson boy.
“I don’t believe it,” I say.
“Is there a problem?”
I can’t help myself. I start to vent. “You bet there is. I just drove all the way out here to give swim lessons to their son, who is apparently so uncoordinated that he can’t be seen in public. And they don’t even have the common decency to be here.”
With no warning I’ve gone straight to Insane Jane. I try to put on the breaks, but it’s too late. (And I wonder why I never have a boyfriend.)
“Wow!” he says, obviously surprised by my outburst.
I can’t believe I vented all over him, I’m so not playing this right. I try to change course. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bother you with my problems. It’s just...”
“That’s okay,” he says. “I understand.”
He stares at me for a moment and I have to admit it kind of freaks me out. This is beyond embarrassing and my instinct is to end the conversation and bolt. But, he’s cracking a crooked little smile that makes me think we’ve got a chance for some kind of memorable first contact.
What would Bikini Jane do?
I chance it.
“I’m Jane, by the way,” I say offering my hand.
“Like the Maroon 5 CD,” he answers with a firm and altogether sexy handshake. “Songs about Jane.” (Hello, why didn’t my friends come up with this when I was having my name crisis?)
Play it cool.
“I hate that CD,” I tell him.
“You do?”
“It’s bad enough I had to dump the guy. But then, to keep hearing about it on the radio. I wish he’d just let it go.”
This brings a laugh. “So, you’re the Jane?”
“Absolutely. Don’t you recognize me?”
I use my hands to fan out my hair like the girl on the album cover and he laughs some more. Maybe Bec and Mel were right about Bikini Jane. I don’t know who this girl is, but he seems to like her.
“Well it’s nice to meet someone so...inspirational. My name is Alex.”
Okay. I’m slow. I admit it. That’s why I still don’t see the problem. (That and the fact that I’m pretending to be this confident girl who just randomly talks to hot guys.)
“That’s funny,” I say. “Their son’s name is Alex too.”
“I know.” There’s not even a hint of anger in his voice. But finally, I see the problem.
“Oh my God,” I answer as I look into the dreamy eyes. “Oh my God. You’re not the lawn boy.”
“No,” he says in a way that kind of sounds like he’s enjoying this. “I’m the uncoordinated son who can’t be seen in public.”
To borrow a phrase from Becca:
“Un-freaking-believable.”