Swoon at Your Own Risk

By Sydney Salter

You’d think Polly Martin would have all the answers when it comes to love—after all, her grandmother is the famous syndicated advice columnist Miss Swoon. But after a junior year full of dating disasters, Polly has sworn off boys. This summer, she’s going to focus on herself for once. So Polly is happy when she finds out Grandma is moving in—think of all the great advice she’ll get.

But Miss Swoon turns out to be a man-crazy sexagenarian! How can Polly stop herself from falling for Xander Cooper, the suddenly-hot skateboarder who keeps showing up while she’s working at Wild Waves water park, when Grandma is picking up guys at the bookstore and flirting with the dishwasher repairman?

No advice column can prepare Polly for what happens when she goes on a group camping trip with three too many ex-boyfriends and the tempting Xander. Polly is forced to face her feelings and figure out if she can be in love—and still be herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Apr 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9780547487755

Sydney Salter

SYDNEY SALTER is the author of My Big Nose and Other Natural Disasters and Jungle Crossing. She lives in Utah. www.sydneysalter.com

Book preview

Chapter One

I am not noticing his green eyes. Or the way the sun has already streaked his hair blond. I am not. Sawyer taps his pen against the clipboard (annoying, right?) while he reads the lowdown of daily Wild Waves assignments. I tug the front of my swimsuit up for the millionth time, only half listening. I despise this stupid uniform: red bandana-patterned, one-piece bathing suit (cut too low!), supershort cutoffs, and a star-shaped nametag that reads DEPUTY POLLY (so lame).

I could have gotten a summer job at the mall like a normal person—with benefits such as air conditioning, employee discounts, and the perk of wearing, you know, clothing. Instead, I’m stuck standing in various Old West—themed pools of lukewarm pee, trying to prevent kids from drowning while their mothers lounge around in the shade reading trashy magazines and gossiping. This job doesn’t have any benefits. My pale skin doesn’t tan; it freckles. My dark hair doesn’t lighten in the sun; it dries out. And I’m stuck working with Sawyer Holms.

Pollywog. Sawyer points his pen in my direction. You and I will tackle the Lazy River.

Pollywog! Doesn’t our breakup deny him the right to call me annoying nicknames? A couple of guys snicker, repeating Pollywog. It’s going to stick—like after the one time I drank too much at a party (post-breakup) and everyone squawked Polly-Wants-A-Beer at me for two weeks. I want to smack the guys upside the head, but I simply smile at Sawyer and say, Sounds great.

Sonnet Silverman says, Polly-Wants-A-Better-Nickname, referencing the whole beer incident that she reported in-depth on her gossipy blog. She grins at me like she’s expecting me to provide her with an entire summer’s worth of bloggable moments. Didn’t I provide her with enough material last year? She gave all of my breakups a nice dramatic, fictional twist. I did not dye my hair to match Jack’s favorite gaming avatar. It was a sociologic experiment to see if blondes have more fun. (I didn’t.) Sonnet’s attention did get me invited to better parties, though.

I roll my eyes, making Sonnet laugh, before turning around to survey Wild Waves while it’s relatively empty. The park caters to the under-twelve crowd, so craziness ensues about an hour after the little darlings digest their Cheerios. The Happy Trails tube slide and the Switchback inner tube ride snake around the edges of the park. Kitschy attractions overflow in the middle. Imagine just about any Old West cliché and Wild Waves has turned it into a feature of some sort. Apparently I’m the only one who sees the irony in kids ordering their lemonade from the Saloon. The worst is the Splash Pasture, with its rubberized farm animal statues that spout water in time to cheesy Western songs. And then there’s the Lazy River: a slow-moving cesspool where kids use their inner tubes like weapons, pretend to drown, and laugh when you rush over to rescue them. It’s a real joy.

Moms dragging wheeled coolers, loaded down with tote bags, and carrying foldup chairs stake out territory on the wide lawn known as the O.K. Corral. It’s only the third day of summer vacation, but these women are determined to get their money’s worth out of their season passes while I earn minimum wage keeping their brats alive. High-pitched shrieks already echo from the Happy Trails tube slide as I take a shortcut past the covered-wagon picnic tables in the General Store concession area.

Wait up, pardner. Sawyer lopes up next to me like a golden retriever. I am not noticing the way his skin smells like a piña colada. I’m concentrating on the way his flip-flops smack against the pavement. Were his toes always so hairy and troll-like? We dated during winter quarter, during the Wild Waves hiring period, unfortunately, and I never saw his feet. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have applied for this asinine job. No, back then his feet would’ve looked as cute as puppy paws to me. But they don’t now. Not at all. I can’t help it if my optic nerves transmit signals to my amygdala about the color of his eyes, the smell of his skin, and the way his hair looks just the right kind of messy. It’s a simple biological response—a rush of adrenaline, a release of oxytocin—but I’m stronger than that. Plus, I remember the mean stuff he said when he broke up with me.

I thought I’d pilot the lifeguard chair while you patrol the high seas, he says.

Sure, I’ll patrol the Yellow Sea.

Sawyer looks confused.

Kids pee in the water, so it’s like the Yellow Sea. Near China?

Oh yeah, sure. Sawyer brushes his hair back with one hand. I’ll take the first break. His legs are lean in that runs-a-six-minute-mile kind of way (not that I’m noticing). That okay with you, Deputy Pollywog?

I play with the fringe on my cutoffs, subtly tugging them down. Sure. I fake a smile, wishing I could devise an annoying nickname for him. All I can think of is Tom Sawyer, but that’s a pathetic reminder of how we hooked up after working together on our Great Authors project in English.

You’re a real team player, Deputy.

Yes, sir. I salute. He mixed his metaphors in English class, too. But I still let him write most of the paper; he was so proud of his big ideas and everything. He took me out for ice cream when we got a C plus. Something about watching his full lips nibble on that chocolate cone made my hormones go wild. That and the fact that he wasn’t NASCAR-obsessed like my ex-ex-ex-ex-ex, Kurt. Or played too many video games like my ex-ex-ex-ex, Jack. So, I was tricked by biology, yet again.

Sawyer climbs to the lifeguard chair, looking like a king sitting on a throne: a tan, buff, half-naked king. Not that I’m noticing. I hesitate at the stairway to the Lazy River. In three hours the water will be a toasty two-thirds urine, one-third sun-warmed water solution, but at ten o’clock in the morning during the first week of June, it’s pretty chilly.

Crossing my arms across my chest, I step into the water, shivering in a way that makes Sawyer laugh. You’ll be loving the coolness when it gets warm, pardner.

Does he not see the irony in calling me pardner when we’re not exactly partners but we used to be? Apparently not. Irony is not exactly his strongest subject, either, even though Sawyer likes to think of himself as a thinking guy. That’s why we broke up. He said I wasn’t deep enough for him.

Now, that’s ironic, I mutter, wading into the chest-deep water.

Sawyer loves philosophicalizing—that’s what he calls it. It’s not exactly a real word. The real word is philosophizing. While we dated, his green eyes compensated for his language deficit.

At first I liked the way he talked about everything in grand sweeping terms, always full of advice and opinions; he’d reminded me of my grandma who writes the syndicated Miss Swoon advice column. But then Sawyer wanted to talk about feelings. I tried to get away with funny one-liners and stuff, but he kept pressuring me to really talk. I don’t even know what that means—if the mouth is moving and sound is coming out, that’s called talking. He’d gaze into my eyes, looking all sincere and needy like a puppy, and it would just freak me out. I’m sure there’s a simple biological explanation. Well, maybe it’s more psychological, but whatever.

And then we had to read A River Runs Through It for English. I couldn’t concentrate on the whole fly-fishing metaphor as we snuggled on the giant beanbag in Sawyer’s room. Hey, we should just watch the movie version. I kissed Sawyer’s neck. You know, in the dark.

But isn’t this book like blowing your mind with profound-liness?

That’s not a real word.

Enough said, I’d joked.

Sawyer had ruffled his hand through my short curly hair. You’re going to totally get into thinking all the thoughts and stuff. I promise it gets intriguing.

I truly doubted that. How could I get into fishing with our legs hooked together, ticklish feelings rippling through me? I tossed his book on the floor and sat across his lap, kissing him.

Hey, come on. Sawyer broke away. We’ve got to read this by tomorrow.

M-O-V-I-E. I nibbled his earlobe. I hear it totally follows the novella.

He reached for his book, tipping me off his lap. I’ve got to keep my grades up—for swim team. Plus, this nature stuff inspires me.

I’ll inspire you. I tugged his arm. You play what’s-his-name and I’ll be his sexy Native American girlfriend.

Not now, Pollyanna. He pulled away from me. What page are you on?

I don’t know—some sappy part about the dad.

Isn’t that so relationable? Sawyer asked, reading over my shoulder. I’m like mind-filled with the way the dad’s like—

Like totally boring? Fishing. Fishing. Rivers. Ponderous pondering. Fishing. This book needs more sex scenes.

Sawyer stared at me blankly.

My face flushed. What?

You know what I think? I think all that thinking stuff scares you.

Um, no. Biohazards, antibiotic-resistant bacteria, and deadly viruses scare me. Not salmon.

Trout.

Whatever.

This story doesn’t make you think just one little bit about how families . . . He clenched his fists as if squeezing the words out of his brain. Suffer with suffering?

Oh, it makes me think of suffering. I put my hands around my throat, mock choking myself. Did he honestly think I was going to launch into an AP English class—worthy exposition comparing and contrasting (that’s redundant by the way) my dad with Mr. River Runs Through It? I barely like thinking about my dad. I’m definitely not going to talk about him.

Sawyer pushed himself out of the beanbag. Why won’t you open up with me? You’re hard like a golf ball. He made a ball shape with his hand, again squeezing his fist tight. But I know you’ve got, like, layers.

Maybe I’m like a tennis ball. I jumped up, faking a grin. No layers but I bounce real good. I flung my arms around his neck.

Sawyer shook me off. I don’t know, Polly. You seem like a smart enough girl, but I don’t think you’re deep enough for me. He grabbed his car keys off his dresser. Maybe I better take you home.

I laughed. Just watch me go deep when we work at Wild Waves this summer. I’m all over that deep end. I made a swimming motion with my arms. Fun in the sun, right?

But Sawyer hadn’t laughed. He drove me home, walked me to the door, and said that maybe we’d be better off as friends. He needed someone who valued intellectualing and found inspiration in the wilderness, et cetera, et cetera. So I joined the Nature Club, ended up hiking during spring break, and had a fling of sorts with Gareth Miller. But I don’t want to think about that now.

Not while I’m pardnering up with my good old buddy Sawyer in the Lazy River. I squint into the sunshine, shouting at kids to stay on their inner tubes. None of them listen to me. I’m not good at sounding mean. I shuffle my feet against the rough concrete bottom. My water-logged toes look as wrinkled as that thousands-of-years-old ice man they found in the Alps, making my pink nail polish look so wrong.

A group of girls from my mom’s just-graduated fifth-grade class float past me. Hey, Mrs. Martin’s daughter!

I wave. Hi, guys!

I feel good for a minute, but then the little divas start a water fight with a group of boys. I scream and blow my whistle, but they listen to me about as well as they listened to my mom in the classroom. A hugely pregnant woman holding a toddler on her lap floats into the fray. The little hellions don’t notice her. Water swishes back and forth, sloshing up the sides like a physics lab experiment. The pregnant woman is stuck in her tube. A wave of water smacks the toddler in the face and he starts crying. Then the mom’s tube tips to the side like a boat listing in a storm of bratty fifth-graders. The kids laugh, oblivious. Sawyer blows his whistle. But they don’t care. Little monsters! Kids spill out of their tubes, crashing into the water, squealing. I run toward the fray, but it’s like one of those slow-motion dreams. This is why I should be standing outside the pool!

Stop it! My voice grows hoarse.

Boys dunk girls. Girls dunk boys. Water rolls back and forth. And the toddler goes overboard.

My baby! the mom shrieks. He can’t swim! She struggles to get out of the tube. Not a pretty sight. Her butt is so stuck. I dive under and swim, getting there in time to pluck the kid out of the water. Gagging, the kid grips on to me, climbing me like a ladder. Legs clutching my torso. Arms grabbing my neck.

Sawyer stands on the side of the pool screaming instructions. Get him out of the water fight! He blows his whistle.

The kids splash some more. I trudge through the mess. The kid bawls, sputtering a nasty mixture of snot and regurgitated pool water onto my shoulder. His hand claws at my hair, pulling painfully. I can barely see with the kid climbing all over me, so I don’t notice that I’m heading toward the drop-off below the Coyote Cliff jumping ledge.

Holding the sobbing kid, I plunge ten feet deep. Next thing I know, Sawyer leaps into the water, yanking me upward, practically bisecting me with my own swimsuit. We break the surface, and Sawyer tries to take the kid. But he won’t let go. So Sawyer pushes me—both of his hands on my butt—over the side. I sit on the hot pavement, gasping for breath. The kid has swallowed so much water, he vomits all over me. It’s warm. Apparently he ate scrambled eggs for breakfast.

Sawyer pats the kid on the back, cooing, You okay, little buddy?

The mom waddles over, hugs the kid so tight he quits crying, but now she’s sobbing. A small crowd gathers around us.

Sonnet Silverman saunters over. Damn. I need a waterproof video camera. Words aren’t going to be enough to describe this. Polly Martin wearing her swimsuit thong-style while her ex’s hands—

"Please don’t make me hurl." I brush a gooey glob off my arm, grimacing at the sour stench.

Sonnet giggles. I already love working with you.

***

Dear Miss Swoon:

Help! I dated a coworker. Then we broke up. Should I look for another job? I’m not sure I can maintain a professional relationship with this person. But the job market is tight.

—Working With X

Dear Working:

No need to hit the highway. Take the high road and move on. Next time yield when it comes to dating in the workplace.

—Miss Swoon

Not Shakespeare’s Sonnet!

Blond count: a depressing 0

EX-change of Information:

Polly Martin (see Polly-Wants-A-Beer here) dove into the deep end at Wild Waves, leaving her deep end exposed, if ya know what I mean. Sadly, no image available—use the old imagination, folks. Polly’s curvy, but she stays in shape. Anyway, our Miss Martin managed to snag the attention of a certain jocky blond from her past (see Random Locker Room Fantasies here). Let’s just say the guy had his hands all over her deep end. I sense a rematch, Polly! Next time ditch the Eau de Spew in favor of a more sporty citrus scent.

Chapter Two

A sound like a zipper opening the pavement on our street wakes me. I blink into the sunlight brightening my room, angry with myself for not sleeping in while I have the chance. Part of me almost jumps out of bed to look out the window but I don’t. I’m sure it’s just some neighbor’s newfangled hybrid, and I’m so over anything remotely automotive since breaking up with Kurt. I haven’t even changed the oil in my car since our breakup. It’s a matter of principle. Besides, that little red check-engine light reminds me—like a stoplight—to avoid the male half of the species.

Thanks to the Lazy River incident, I have the day off. My boss wanted to fire me for not maintaining proper control, but Sawyer talked him out of it. He even used his sweet-talking ways to remind the angry pregnant woman that I’d actually saved her kid’s life. That and three years’ worth of season passes convinced her not to call a lawyer.

I would have rather been fired, even though I totally need the money for little things like, um, college tuition. Now I’m going to owe Sawyer a big debt of gratitude. I never should have dated a coworker. Grandma is always telling people that in her columns; it’s so basic. But back when snow fell practically every day and I wanted to spend every single second with Sawyer and I knew we’d be together forever—yeah, whatever—applying for the same summer job sounded amazing.

I plop my pillow on top of my face. Oh God. Now he’s calling me Pollywog, a name that conjures up the image of a metamorphosizing amphibian that eventually sprouts warts and puffs out its throat when it talks. Disgusting!

I’m inventing terrible nicknames for him—Chain Sawyer Massacre, Saw-Yer-Coming so I left—when my ten-year-old sister, Grace, bursts into the room, flapping the newspaper’s Style section in my face.

They left Grandma out of the paper! She plops her little prepubertal butt on my bed. I searched every single section. No Miss Swoon! We’ve got to call the paper and make them fix it.

Why aren’t you bugging Mom with this? I make a big deal of rolling over, crushing my pillow over my head. Leave me alone.

Grace tugs on my shoulder. Mom left for her job interview.

I bolt up. Job interview? I thought she was joking.

Grace shakes her head, looking solemn. Nope, she even wore her silky parent-teacher conference shirt. It’s the real deal.

Last night Mom had said something about applying to be a server at Hamburger Heaven, but I thought she’d just been saying it to torture me. Like I hadn’t had a bad enough day anyway. But Mom likes to joke people out of a bad mood. It’s the hazard of teaching ten-year-olds. (Let’s just say she uses the word Uranus much too often.) Everyone in town eats at Hamburger Heaven. Sure I’d seen more unopened bills lying around, but Mom isn’t exactly—what do you call it? Organized. I assumed she’d spend her summer vacation taking teacher classes at the university, volunteering at the library, maybe tutoring a bit, and acting like, you know, a grownup. Kids from school get jobs at Hamburger Heaven.

Grace flaps the paper at me again. What about Grandma? We have to call.

I grab the newspaper out of Grace’s hand. Sure enough, in the place right above the horoscopes (which are completely unscientific and give people false illusions about finding love), there’s an advice column. Not Miss Swoon but the Sassy Sage. I quickly scan the first letter about a desperate woman trying to attract a coworker. The Sassy Sage tells her to start wearing shorter skirts to work. This is an outrage. No one should date a coworker; you break up (because no relationship lasts) and they end up shoving your butt out of the pool, watching kids vomit on you, and calling you embarrassing nicknames.

I jump out of bed, clutching the paper, and immediately search for the phone. I finally find it stuck between the sofa cushions covered with crumbs. I dial the Style editor. An angry diatribe runs through my head: how dare you allow an irresponsible fool to proffer advice to idiotic love-obsessed women, et cetera, et cetera. But when a person actually answers the phone, it goes more like this: Um, what happened to Miss Swoon? Oh, okay. Thank you.

Ugh! I toss the phone down. I can’t believe I actually said thank you!

Grace’s eyes go wide. What happened?

On Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, Grandma will be replaced by a ‘hip and edgy, younger syndicated columnist’ due to ‘decreased reader relatability.’

But Grandma is so good!

I know! What’s the deal? People only need solid advice on the weekends and Tuesdays?

I shred the rest of the paper into pieces fit for a hamster cage. At least that’s what Grace says as she gathers them to save for her best friend, Amy. The pair of

Reviews for Swoon at Your Own Risk

[thehidingspot · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

SWOON AT YOUR OWN RISK is a perfect warm weather read, filled with cute boys and a feisty heroine. I wasn't sure if I would really connect with or like Polly, but I was a bit attached to her by the end of the novel. She was spunky, sarcastic, and witty! She begins the novel confused and prickly, but she really grows throughout the novel. She reminds me, in ways, of Veronica Mars: tough as nails, but really just a marshmallow on the inside.I'm all for fluffy beach reads, so characterizing Swoon as such wouldn't really be insulting in my mind, but I must say that this novel is on a higher level than most beach reads. It has the cute boys and predictable love story, but Polly has more depth than many female leads in fluffy novels. The fact that Polly's main issue was the fear of being without at boyfriend and that she was constantly adopting the hobby of her current beau was extremely realistic - which made it even funnier and Polly all the more easy to relate to.And oh my gosh: Xander. He was so unbelievably adorable. It was definitely obvious from the beginning of the novel that Xander is the perfect guy for Polly but in her confused and boy phobic state there would be a bit of a journey to her realization of this fact. I loved the tension and buildup to this point. Xander definitely joins the ranks of my favorite book boys! (Yay!)I will definitely be reading MY BIG NOSE AND OTHER NATURAL DISASTERS, Salter's debut novel, sometime soon! I think I've found a new author to add to my favorites.

[girlonamission · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Polly has a lot of Daddy issues in this book. She's looking for the attention her father doesn't give her from teenage boys. When Polly doesn't have a boyfriend she feels empty. Every time she gets a boyfriend she becomes who she thinks they want her to be. Whatever they're into, suddenly she's into. This leaves her doing many activities just to impress them. In turn, she loses herself and is only defined by who she's dating at the moment.Unforunately I know a couple girls like this. Unsurprisingly, the relationships don't work out for Polly, resulting in a lot of ex boyfriends floating around. She gets to the point where she swears off all men in general. In doing this she's overlooking the one guy who's been aound the whole time and into what makes Polly....Polly. Will it be too late to still give this one a chance?I'd say this one is worth a read. The whole book I found myself screaming at Polly to give this guy Xander a chance. It was a little frustrating when she just keeps resisting him when she know she wants him too. My question is why deny yourself something that you deserve??

[ylin20621 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I loved Salter’s debut novel, My Big Nose and Other Natural Disasters, I kid you not. I bawled like a 5 year-old for some reason. I had a huge grin on my face that my mom had to stop and ask why I was happy. When I find a novel that good I stalk the author. Seriously I’m like a rabid dog that will not let go until the owner of said leg dies…or something (preferably the something).Swoon at Your Own Risk doesn’t deliver the initial love I had. My expectation bar was high, but the jump was just a few notches down from the clear. I think for me the hardest part to read was Polly herself. She was just so easily persuaded. I felt too frustrated to even enjoy the novel completely. I wish her internal mind somehow connects to her external mouth, which eventually does happen….Swoon at Your Own Risk plays of childhood friends grown apart but grew extremely hot somewhere in between those years. Yes prepare for some swooning of your own ladies. Okay I’m not going to bore with all those needless details; I liked the book, but didn’t love it. There were chapters I gobbled up like a chocolate and some I had to waddle through like thick molasses. Some characters I yearned for more and others I learned to appreciate with a few that I would have been fine to never have read.

[cinnleigh · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Ahhh...summer romance. What joy. Wait, what am I saying? Summer romance rarely ends well, especially when you can't decide who to be romantic about! SWOON AT YOUR OWN RISK by Sydney Salter was a very cute and quite funny read. Following Polly (aka Pollywog) through her summer adventures in romance, this book gives us a cute tale that is both funny and at times a bit moving as well. Part of what makes this book such a good read is the format it's written in. From the first person point-of-view, it's very easy to follow Polly and see the sorts of shenanigans she gets herself into. From the first page, the reader gets hooked in her descriptions and inner turmoil. Whether she's staring at Sawyer, thinking about any of her other ex-boyfriends, or pondering the mysterious Xander, Polly's mind give us some vivid and colorful detail. Have you ever had that experience where you read a story and think, "You know, it would be awesome to have these characters as friends." That was how I felt about SWOON AT YOUR OWN RISK. Polly was quirky and at times could probably be a cruddy friend, but you could tell she always cared. She's a character that you want to follow; one that makes your heart pull for her. The plot of SWOON AT YOUR OWN RISK was robust and easy to follow. Polly has sworn off all boys after her latest disastrous relationship. With the unfortunate issue of having already accepted a summer job at the water park with the newest Ex as her boss, Polly's summer is looking to be pretty lame. Fortunately, being at a water park in the middle of a hot summer has its advantages. When Polly catches sight of Xander Cooper, shirtless and looking pretty stinking hot, her confusion flashes into overdrive. Wasn't this the same nerdy kid she went to elementary school with? Well, people change, and Polly is about to find out just how much. If I were headed to the beach right now and had to pick one book that I could take with me, I would take SWOON AT YOUR OWN RISK. I dub this the perfect summer read, right up there with Twenty Boy Summer by Sarah Ockler. It was funny, lighthearted, at times pretty emotional, and Salter really did an amazing job developing the main characters. Over time we get to peel back the layers of Polly and figure out who she really is. It's pretty amusing that Polly learns right along with us and this makes for some cute moments. This is the first book by Sydney Salter I have read, but I can tell you that she has gained a new fan. As soon as I can sneak away with the plastic, I'll be grabbing her other books. Her writing style is clear, her characters are engaging, and overall she creates a story that sticks in the mind and has you turning back to read the book again as soon as you've finished it.

[peaceloveandpat_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Since this is an ARC, I decided not to say anything about the plot but to just reflect on what I read :), well ok I will not divulge too much info.I absolutely love this book. The first two chapters wasn't all that and I got worried that I might give this a low rating but then grandma shows up, and then Polly she started enumerating her pathetic attempt into finding herslef in dating the wrong guys, and then another situation and then another and the next thing I know, I am reading quite profusely. It is not gag inducing sickly sweet and corny. No not at all. Do not let the title fool you. Despite Polly's poor relationship choices and flaws, I adore her. I like how she uses all the big words making all of her ex-ex-ex-ex-ex's really look dumb and insignificant. She have a lot of spirit despite the daddy issues, a barely there mom and a sexagenarian for a grandma who writes love advice. Polly reminds me of some part of me growing up, she find it hard to open up about her feelings (shoot I still do), finds it hard to say no to people and forgets the presence a best friend when a new boyfriend comes around (guilty! guilty!). Her wit and sacrasm is a very cackling combination. The secondary characters are a hoot too. Sonnet and her gossip blog about current hook ups and break ups which mostly got mentions of Polly's name. Grandma Swoon who flirts and acts like a teenager. And oh my gosh, Xander Cooper, his mysterious skater boy demeanor is just too perfect as a YA fictional boyfriend.Oh and the tension between him and Polly, too cute and innocent. Overall Swoon At Your Own Risk is a story about finding oneself, love, risk, family and friendship. Watch out for laugh out loud moments, unforgettable memories and scenes that will make you swoon.