Chapter 11
THANKFULLY Mick hadn’t said a word about my girlie tears of joy, because even if he had, I would’ve been at a total loss to explain.
“Seven o’clock? Right here?” I asked, pointing at the tree in front of the Clubhouse with the wiener-eating contest sign.
Mick laughed. “Definitely. I’ll be here,” he said. “You know, your birthday’s not over yet. I still have one last surprise for you.”
“But you want to go to the dance, right?” I confirmed, just in case he planned to kidnap me for some other crazy adventure. “It might be lame, but…”
He shook his head. “It’ll be fun,” he said, sounding totally self-assured. “After all, you’ll be there. And we’ll be together. That’s all that matters.”
Longing for the thump…thump…thump of his heart, I pressed my ear to his chest. “You’re right. We’re gonna have a great time,” I declared. Then I tiptoed up for a quick peck. “But I really have to go now.” I mean, as unpredictable as my parents were acting lately, I knew they’d never let me pull a complete disappearing act on my sweet sixteen.
Mick blew me a parting kiss from under the Weiner Tree. “See you soon,” he promised. Then he stood watch until I was out of sight, which I only know because I couldn’t stop looking back at him just one last time.
Back at Tupelo-9, everyone was waiting for me. And apparently my mother had even gone to the trouble of leaving Wild Acres to fetch a birthday cake—which, I must admit, made me feel a tad guilty.
“Well, there she is!” Mr. Tightwad shouted, as I strolled into camp.
“Late as usual,” Will mumbled, obviously irritated.
Like I’d figured, my mother was still mad at me. “Happy birthday, Flora,” she said stiffly.
I took a goofy bow. “Yes, it’s true. I have returned,” I said. “Let the party begin.”
I flopped my ass down at the picnic table, put my elbows up, and cupped my chin in my hands—which I’m sure made me look like a complete dope, but that was sort of the point. I mean, at least if my parents felt sorry for sad, pathetic little Flora, maybe they’d thank God any boy would even look at me. With all my obvious defects, maybe they’d be glad I’d found Mick—or that was the plan anyway.
“Cake or presents first?” my mother asked, averting her eyes so she wouldn’t be forced to murder me. “I got marble. Your favorite.”
“I love marble!” I enthused, licking my lips in slow motion to gross Will out.
Mission accomplished. “Nice. Real nice,” my brother remarked.
My dad jimmied the flimsy plastic lid off the cake and divvied it up, offering me the first piece—a fat slice with an ornate purple flower smack dab in the middle. And as I devoured the thing in silence, something sad dawned on me: It was the first time my mother hadn’t baked me a special homemade birthday cake. I guess it was another sign I’d graduated into semi-adulthood: My parents were done catering to me.
To break the ice, I asked my mother, “So did you win at bingo?” I mean, I didn’t want her hating me forever.
“As a matter of fact, I did. Sixty-four dollars,” she reported.
“Cha-ching!” I cried. “Awesome!”
Will laughed, but it was more of a you’re pathetic laugh than a you’re funny laugh.
Then my father bellowed, “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. The present-opening hour is upon us. Gather ’round one and all.” Dramatically, he waved us toward the sputtering campfire.
The idea of celebrating my birthday in the wilderness was repulsive, to say the least. But unfortunately I hadn’t gotten a vote in the matter. So I shuffled over to a lawn chair and settled in. Because hopefully once the whole present thing was over, I could escape again and land back in Mick’s arms.
My mother passed me a shiny gold package from a teetering pile of gifts that was stacked on the cooler. And unless I was mistaken—which I was pretty sure I wasn’t—it was a book. A paperback book. And a fat one, at that.
I slowly peeled the corners of the paper away and slipped the thing out of its crinkly wrapper, all the while blanking out my expression so my mother wouldn’t be offended. Honest to God, she’d given me a self-help book written by Dr. Phil’s kid. How insulting. I mean, I know she’s obsessed with Dr. Phil, but a self-help book? For my birthday? Could she get any more delusional?
“You like it?” she asked, studying my reaction.
“Uh-huh. Yeah,” I lied. “It looks…interesting.” What else could I say, really? It was atrocious.
The Mental Hygienist smiled. I guess she was so dense she actually believed me. “There are lots of good tips in there,” she went on to explain, “to help you navigate the rough waters of adolescence. I think you’ll get a lot out of it.”
Holy shit. More expert-speak psycho-babble. I could hardly keep a straight face. “I’m sure it’ll be great, Mom. Thanks,” I said.
Finally relaxing the irritation in her voice, she said, “You’re welcome.”
Next, my father handed me a large box that was wrapped in the same reflective gold paper as the book. But this time I had absolutely no clue what the thing was. And I was beginning to think I didn’t want to know. In case it isn’t abundantly clear, I should point out that my family is pretty inept at gift giving. Hence, before I’d even opened my dad’s gift, I was sure it was as bad as my mom’s, just in a different way.
“Here goes,” I said, ripping right into the thing. I mean, why prolong the agony?
Okay…so maybe agony wasn’t the right word exactly, since the contents of the box almost defied description altogether. Apparently my supposedly normal father thought I would enjoy a weird makeup-kit-contraption-thing with a zillion hidden compartments, all stuffed inside a giant pair of red plastic lips. Honestly, I was so confused just looking at the crazy mess of eye shadows and lipsticks that I felt like heaving the whole thing right in the garbage. I mean, even if I were a makeup girl—which I’m not—this junk looked more like a make-believe kit for a five-year-old than serious beauty-enhancing cosmetics.
“What’s the matter, Flowbee? Don’t you like it?” my dad asked with a prematurely disappointed frown. “I know it’s a little grown up and that you don’t usually wear much makeup, but since you’re sixteen now, I thought you might want to try it. Not that you need it, of course.”
I didn’t know where to start. I mean, the gift was definitely not grown up; it was childish. And to correct my father, I usually don’t wear any makeup, so I wasn’t exactly sure who he’d been looking at lately. As for whether I needed makeup in the first place, the obvious answer was yes. I have boring features and blotchy skin. You do the math.
All I could say was, “Um…”
“What’s the matter? Too girlie for ya?” Will asked sarcastically.
Perfect. Just the motivation I needed to say something gracious—to my father, at least. “Actually I love it. I’ve been thinking of changing my look for a while now, so this will give me some good ideas,” I said. “Thanks, Daddy.”
Will looked deflated. With a shrug, he handed over the last package in the pile. “This is from me,” he said. “Enjoy.”
Of all the gifts, Will’s was the smallest and potentially the most annoying—although it was hard to imagine anyone topping what my parents had already done. Still, I was afraid to open the damn thing. It was probably some hideous joke gift or something that was going to explode in my face. I swear, birthdays are not supposed to be like this. They’re supposed to be fun.
With trepidation, I pulled at the edge of the package until the wrapping came undone. “A flashlight?” I asked, confused by what I saw.
“It’s not a flashlight,” Will said, snickering. “It’s Mace.”
“Like for protection? To fight off muggers?” I asked, inspecting the metallic purple tube. To me, it still looked like a flashlight, except that there was no bulb at the end. Instead, there was a small hole where I assumed the pepper spray came out. “Huh. That’s
weird,” I said, still unsure how to react to the sort of thoughtful gift.
“Well, I figured I’m not going to be around this year, so you’ll have to look out for yourself,” Will said. “I knew you didn’t have any.”
Again, my otherwise selfish brother surprised me. “That’s really nice. I appreciate it,” I said. “I hope I don’t need it, but it’s good to have. Thanks.”
As far as I could tell, the Mace-on-a-stick concluded my birthday celebration. Because while my mother took the leftover cake to the campsite next door, Will retreated to his sleep pod for some alone time, or a nap, or whatever else he could dream up without batteries or electricity.
And as I pondered how to fritter away the minutes until seven o’clock, my dad called, “Hey, Flowbee. Come check this out.”
What the hell. Some more brownie points couldn’t hurt. I dragged my lawn chair over to where Mr. Tightwad sat displaying a detailed map of Lake Champlain that was all marked up with stars and dots and notes in the margins.
“Wow, this looks…complicated,” I said. “Do you think we really have a chance of finding Champ?”
My dad smirked. “If I didn’t think we had a chance, Flowbee, we wouldn’t be going. I’m not that loony,” he said with a chuckle. “And don’t assume that just because Champ hasn’t been found, he can’t be found. That’s negative thinking. If Champ exists—and I believe he does—then he’s findable. And this little cheat sheet here is gonna help us accomplish just that,” he declared, tapping the center of the map like he was poking someone in the chest.
I was just about to explain that I wasn’t questioning my father’s obvious expertise, when my mother’s voice surprised me from behind. “That’s right,” she chimed in. “We have a very well-researched plan. It’s practically scientific.”
Well, then…if it was practically scientific.
“I know. Dad’s been telling me about it,” I said. “Believe it or not, I’m actually a little excited about the Champ hunt. It might be fun.”
“I’m glad you’ve come around,” my mother said. “It’s nice to have you on board with things around here again. That’s all we’ve wanted, you know.”
My dad looked like he was about to burst out of his skin in triumph. “See, Lu-Lu. I told you Flora was on our side. She’s still one of us—even if she is going through a tricky phase right now. Aren’t you, sweet pea?” he said, tousling my hair (as much as the fried, orange mess on top of my head could be tousled anyway).
“Sure, Dad. Yeah. I am still a Fontain, right?” I said. Then I gingerly changed the subject. “So I’m going to head down to the Clubhouse pretty soon to see what’s going on. I think there might be a dance tonight or something. Isn’t that right, Dad?”
“Oh, the dance. Yes, I do remember something…” my father pondered. “Now where did I put that schedule?”
“That’s okay, Dad. I think I still have it somewhere,” I said. “I’ll check it before I get going.”
I stood up to leave, but before I even hit the road in front of Tupelo-9, my mother said, “Make sure you’re not back too late. The dance gets over around ten o’clock, if I’m not mistaken.”
Well, I guess I hadn’t totally gotten away with my suck-up routine, but at least my parents weren’t stopping me from seeing Mick. “Okay, Mom. No problem,” I agreed. “I won’t be too late.”