the troops and says, “Welcome to Mona’s Low-Key Karaoke! I’m Mona and this lovely girl is my daughter, Sabrina, who’s going to help me get the show rolling by playing some Shania. Hit it, Sabrina!”
Sabrina flashes her mother a look of embarrassment. Huh. I didn’t think it was possible for the Ice Queen to feel embarrassed, but there’s no time to analyze, not when the opening chords of Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine” begin and Mona starts shaking her hips to the beat. She sashays over to Frank, making him spill beer on his boots when she lifts his chin with her finger and sings, “Any man of mine better be proud of me.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
Mona turns to another male camper and sexily gestures to her profile. “Even when I’m ugly, he’s still gotta love me.”
Frank yells out, “I’ll still love you,” causing Tamara, with sparks coming out of her eyes, to swat the back of his head. She isn’t the only one annoyed. One mother hauls her young son away before Mona reaches the chorus, and another woman scolds her husband when he starts to clap along.
“Jane is not going to be happy,” Ivy says.
Not going to be happy is a severe understatement. But a more terrifying thought hits me. “Where’s Madeline? She cannot see this!”
“Too late.” Ivy points to the tennis court. Madeline is glaring at Mona with sheer disgust. Ivy shakes her head. “Go get your mom, Dee. Tamara is about to blow and we do not want that woman angry.”
One look at Tamara’s muscular crossed arms has me running to the store. But only Natalie is there, sitting behind the counter painting her toenails. I flick her big toe and say, “Nat, emergency, Mona Owens is about to strip. Where’s Mom?”
Natalie jerks her feet down. “Stripping? I need to see this for myself. Watch the register, okay?” She hops off the stool, walking with her toes lifted to keep from smudging her pedicure. “Oh, and your mom is out back, talking on the phone to some guy.”
All thoughts, concerns, and worries about Mona instantly disappear.
“A guy? What guy?”
Natalie opens the door and says, “I don’t know. He didn’t give his name.”
She hobbles out before I can press for details. Maybe it was a business call. Mom did say she was going to check in with Drake to see how he’s doing. But when I peer out the back window and see her seated on the rear porch steps, throwing her head back with a silky laugh and combing her fingers through her hair, I know: Mom is flirting.
Mom’s flirting.
But with who?
I lean against the wall before she can see me, a painful throb swelling in my chest. Mom, dating? No, I can’t imagine it, even though I know perfectly well how my father would respond. He’d want her to be happy. He’d want her to move on. That’s how I should feel instead of hiding like a spoiled brat, but I just can’t handle another curveball thrown at what is left of our family. And what if she gets hurt, like Blaine hurt me?
What if she can’t recover this time?
* * *
For the next hour, Natalie texts me what’s going on outside. After Mona finishes her song and Ivy calms Tamara, all of the karaoke calamities are over until a little girl starts to belt out an Eminem song that’s more Playboy than PG. The store is slow, so I’m considering closing early when the bell above the door jingles.
“Hey, what’s up, Dee-Dee?”
Blaine. I hate that stupid nickname he gave me.
And I hate the way he casually strolls in, just like last summer when he’d stop by with sun-kissed cheeks and tousled hair after a day of golf. And I especially hate the way he inspects the store and says, “Huh, nothing’s changed in here, has it?”
His nonchalant comment makes the blood pound at my temples. It’s one thing to break up with me—fine, whatever, I got over it—just don’t patronize me by being cordial. But when Blaine motions to the freezer and asks, “You still got ice cream sandwiches hidden in
Sabrina flashes her mother a look of embarrassment. Huh. I didn’t think it was possible for the Ice Queen to feel embarrassed, but there’s no time to analyze, not when the opening chords of Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine” begin and Mona starts shaking her hips to the beat. She sashays over to Frank, making him spill beer on his boots when she lifts his chin with her finger and sings, “Any man of mine better be proud of me.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
Mona turns to another male camper and sexily gestures to her profile. “Even when I’m ugly, he’s still gotta love me.”
Frank yells out, “I’ll still love you,” causing Tamara, with sparks coming out of her eyes, to swat the back of his head. She isn’t the only one annoyed. One mother hauls her young son away before Mona reaches the chorus, and another woman scolds her husband when he starts to clap along.
“Jane is not going to be happy,” Ivy says.
Not going to be happy is a severe understatement. But a more terrifying thought hits me. “Where’s Madeline? She cannot see this!”
“Too late.” Ivy points to the tennis court. Madeline is glaring at Mona with sheer disgust. Ivy shakes her head. “Go get your mom, Dee. Tamara is about to blow and we do not want that woman angry.”
One look at Tamara’s muscular crossed arms has me running to the store. But only Natalie is there, sitting behind the counter painting her toenails. I flick her big toe and say, “Nat, emergency, Mona Owens is about to strip. Where’s Mom?”
Natalie jerks her feet down. “Stripping? I need to see this for myself. Watch the register, okay?” She hops off the stool, walking with her toes lifted to keep from smudging her pedicure. “Oh, and your mom is out back, talking on the phone to some guy.”
All thoughts, concerns, and worries about Mona instantly disappear.
“A guy? What guy?”
Natalie opens the door and says, “I don’t know. He didn’t give his name.”
She hobbles out before I can press for details. Maybe it was a business call. Mom did say she was going to check in with Drake to see how he’s doing. But when I peer out the back window and see her seated on the rear porch steps, throwing her head back with a silky laugh and combing her fingers through her hair, I know: Mom is flirting.
Mom’s flirting.
But with who?
I lean against the wall before she can see me, a painful throb swelling in my chest. Mom, dating? No, I can’t imagine it, even though I know perfectly well how my father would respond. He’d want her to be happy. He’d want her to move on. That’s how I should feel instead of hiding like a spoiled brat, but I just can’t handle another curveball thrown at what is left of our family. And what if she gets hurt, like Blaine hurt me?
What if she can’t recover this time?
* * *
For the next hour, Natalie texts me what’s going on outside. After Mona finishes her song and Ivy calms Tamara, all of the karaoke calamities are over until a little girl starts to belt out an Eminem song that’s more Playboy than PG. The store is slow, so I’m considering closing early when the bell above the door jingles.
“Hey, what’s up, Dee-Dee?”
Blaine. I hate that stupid nickname he gave me.
And I hate the way he casually strolls in, just like last summer when he’d stop by with sun-kissed cheeks and tousled hair after a day of golf. And I especially hate the way he inspects the store and says, “Huh, nothing’s changed in here, has it?”
His nonchalant comment makes the blood pound at my temples. It’s one thing to break up with me—fine, whatever, I got over it—just don’t patronize me by being cordial. But when Blaine motions to the freezer and asks, “You still got ice cream sandwiches hidden in
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