He said friends again as if even entertaining the thought of me as anything romantic had never entered his mind. Never entered his realm of possibility.
I tried to disguise my crestfallen face. It wasn’t that I wanted to date him necessarily. I mean, I understood the improbability of it. But still, maybe there was a small piece of me that hoped this hypnotism gig was letting people view me in a whole new light. But no, here I was again, just the friend.
“Well, all right,” Quinton’s mother conceded. “But leave the door open just a crack.”
“No problem,” Quinton said, and he took off, climbing the long staircase two stairs at a time.
Quinton’s room was exactly as I’d imagined it: neat, masculine, preppy. His bookshelves were lined with both academic and athletic trophies and awards. On one side of his desk, a collection of college brochures and applications was organized into piles marked dream schools, possible football scholarships, possible academic scholarships, apply early admission, and safety schools. In the center of his desk there was a card, all pink and flowery, lying next to an unmarked envelope. I wondered if, after all his insistence of no dating during the school year and his Willow’s just a friend talk, maybe it was because he had a girlfriend. So I crafted a distraction.
“Hey, maybe you should pull out your copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in case your mom walks by.”
“Good thinking.” He bent down to look in his bag.
Quickly, I cracked open the card and inside I saw a handwritten note: To the best Mom in the world. Happy Birthday.
I tapped the card shut just as he rose up from his book bag. He placed the book on his plaid bedspread and climbed on the bed next to it. “Ready?” he asked.
I stood there for a moment, still a little awed by his sweet card. I looked at him all gorgeous and perfect. He was smart and athletic but kind and respectful. No wonder Max felt threatened. Five minutes with this guy and the whole world paled in comparison. If only I could make Quinton want to date me, Max would go out of his mind with jealousy. I began the hypnosis induction and within minutes, Quinton was under. I began making suggestions about controlling his sleep, controlling his actions. I watched him, breathing so deeply, the muscles in his chest expanding and contracting with every inhale and exhale.
If only he could see me as more than a friend, then Max might be able to do the same.
I caught a glimpse of A Midsummer Night’s Dream lying on the bed next to him, and his mother’s words rang in my ear: Love can make you do crazy things.
I thought about the magical flower in Shakespeare’s play and the miraculous love spell that made Lysander immediately fall in love with Helena.
And as Quinton sat there all relaxed and susceptible and under my control, I got an idea.
15
Thursday morning I walked around the school hallways like a jittery windup toy, like when Mom drinks one too many cups of coffee and decides to suddenly clean out the junk drawer. I couldn’t focus. The only thing that ran through my head was: Did I really do it? And, more importantly: Will it work?
It started with just a few words: You will see me, Willow Grey, in a new light. You will see me as beautiful and enticing. But then the more I looked at Quinton’s gorgeous face, the way his lips formed the perfect little bow at the top, well, I might have gotten a little carried away.
You will be mesmerized by my charm.
You will want to date me.
You will treat me like the most special girlfriend in the world.
Then I probably went a touch overboard.
You will want to pamper me and shower me with romance.
You will think I’m sexy and alluring, but you will be chivalrous and never ever pressure me in any way.
In other words, you will treat me like a goddess of love.
Okay, I know, but come on, can you blame me? The situation just lent itself to so many possibilities.
I walked into English class and sat next to Mia and Georgia. Quinton walked in, but he was talking to some guy as he passed me so our eyes never met. I couldn’t get a good read on him.
Mrs. Stabile talked about hidden symbolism in literature when Georgia nudged me in the shoulder. I leaned back and she whispered into my hair.
“Quinton is like, totally staring at you.”
“Really?” I asked softly. “Like how?”
She thought for a minute. “Sort of like in the movie Juno when Jennifer Garner’s character Vanessa holds the little baby boy in her arms and her face is plastered with that I can’t believe I’ve just met you and already I love you this much look.”
I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw him, pressed forward on his desk with an eager look of curiosity and intrigue, almost like he was seeing me for the first time.
You will see me in a new light.
I got a flutter in my stomach. Could it be working already? This fast? The remaining thirty minutes of class dragged like a snail in sand until finally the bell rang. I took my time gathering my books in hopes of meeting up with Quinton at the door.
Mia came over. “Guess who called my house last night?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Coach Graham. She called to say the University of Georgia’s head cheerleading coach is coming to our next competition to look at our team, and specifically me about a possible scholarship!” She squealed and looked like she was ready to bust into a back handspring right there if only the desks weren’t in the way.
Quinton ambled over to our little circle. Mia, Georgia, and I all turned in his direction.
“Hey,” he said to all of us, but he was looking right at me.
Georgia dug her elbow into my side and looked like she was going to implode. I inconspicuously shoved her away and walked alongside Quinton.
When Georgia and Mia had fallen a little distance behind us, Quinton touched my arm and said, “Thank you so much for coming over yesterday. I slept so well last night. No sleepwalking, and no weird dreams.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “I’m so glad.”
“You know, it’s weird,” he said. “I feel different this morning. Like something has . . . changed.”
Small tingles pulsed inside me. “Well, maybe it’s because you finally got a good night’s sleep .” We stopped at the end of the hall.
“Maybe,” he said. “You know, in this light, your eyes—wow—they don’t just look like keyholes, they look like . . . portals . . . to your soul.” He shook his head, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t know what just made me say that.”
“Well, don’t say something nice and then apologize for it.” I said, beaming. No one had ever said anything like that to me before. The warning bell rang for our next class.
“I’ve gotta run,” he said. “But I was thinking that maybe Friday I could take you out.” His cheeks flushed scarlet. “Like as a thank-you for the hypnosis.”
I didn’t remind him that he’d already thanked me. I just said, “That sounds really nice,” and turned and ran to class before he could change his mind.
I didn’t tell Max about my upcoming date. Even though he was the inspiration for the love spell, for some strange reason, I kept quiet. Maybe I just wanted to really see if Quinton’s interest was going to manifest beyond a thank-you date. Because even though I was in love with Max, a big part of me was really excited to be going out with Quinton.
Either way, during the car ride home Friday afternoon, I was uncharacteristically quiet. I listened to Max complain about a physics quiz that made no sense and I nodded enthusiastically when he told me they’d found a new bass player for their band.
“Mom’s going to let us practice in the garage. A real garage band—isn’t that funny?”
“I’d like to hear you guys play,” I said.
“Really?” Max asked. He smiled at me then looked back at the road. “Well, let us work out the kinks first. Maybe next week.”
“You got it.” I slid out of the car, told him to have a great weekend an
d that I’d text him tomorrow. Then I ran into the house, eager to primp before my first date with Quinton.
Quinton arrived at 7 p.m. sharp, looking gorgeous in a striped polo and khaki shorts. As he walked into the foyer, I noticed that his hair had a little bit of gel in it, so while it still had that disheveled look, it was a more structured mess. And my insides flipped to think that he actually prepped for me.
From the corner of the family room, Oompa eyed Quinton with suspicion. His ears pointed and his little squished nose twitched around. Slowly he crept in Quinton’s direction, circling around his legs, and for a moment I thought he was going to lift his leg and pee on the carpet surrounding Quinton, marking his territory, saying, Willow belongs to me, buddy. But instead, Oompa sprang up in one bouncing swoop and attached himself to Quinton’s leg and began humping just like at the park, showing his alpha-dog status.
Here we go again.
Mom ran from the kitchen, mortified. She started swatting at Oompa. “Get down! What is wrong with you?” she scolded.
But Oompa hung on.
I laughed, partly due to nerves and partly because it was funny, but Quinton finally got a desperate look on his face. “Sing, Willow, please.”
I no longer thought this was about Oompa being homesick, but I indulged them with Cher. “What am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for you? Well I can’t do that. And there’s no turning back.” How appropriate, I thought. Maybe I should call up Max and sing it to him. Let him know another guy was interested.
Oompa jumped down and retreated toward my bedroom. Mom stood by Quinton, looking baffled. “That dog is so bizarre,” she said.
Quinton and I said good-bye and walked out toward his car. He opened the door for me, and once inside, I saw a large wicker picnic basket nestled on the floorboard of the backseat. “Are you taking me on a picnic?” I asked as he backed the car out of the driveway.
“Not just a picnic: I’m taking you to Screen on the Green.” He waited for a reaction but I didn’t know what Screen on the Green was. When he realized my ignorance, rather than making me feel stupid, he explained. “In downtown Atlanta, every summer they have a huge movie screen in Piedmont Park that plays movies on Saturday nights. So, here in Worthington, we decided to do our own version. We drape a huge white sheet across the Recreation Department building in Poplinger Park and the whole town votes on what movies to show. Tonight they’re playing The Notebook.”
“That is so neat,” I said and wondered if I had mentioned in passing how much Mom and I loved romance movies.
“I’ve never seen The Notebook,” he said. “Have you?”
I nodded.
“Oh.” He fizzled.
“No, no, I LOVE The Notebook! I can’t wait to see it on a giant sheet screen and point out all my favorite parts to you.”
He brightened a bit and drove into the entrance of the park. He slowed the car down at the basketball court, the site of our very first encounter weeks before. Our minds must both have simultaneously played out the scene of Oompa bolting out of the bushes and attacking his leg, because Quinton and I both burst out laughing.
He looked over at me and smiled his crooked smile. “I had to get stitches on my back, you know.”
“Oh my God, are you serious?” I gasped.
“No.” He laughed. “But you’re gullible.”
I playfully swatted him. “That was mean.” But it wasn’t. It was the perfect way to ease first-date jitters.
He drove around a bit then found an open parking spot. He reached back and got the picnic basket off the floor. Then he popped the trunk and took out a thick red blanket. Together we walked toward the wide-open green lawn, where families and dates were collecting on blankets with similar baskets and having picnic dinners before the movie began.
Quinton spread out the blanket next to an oak tree so we could use the thick trunk as a backrest. He opened the picnic basket and pulled out clear plastic plates and plastic forks. Inside a small cooler was an assortment of drinks, and he leaned the tub in my direction, letting me choose. He peeled open aluminum foil packages and examined the contents in a way that made me suspect his mom had put together the dinner, but I didn’t care. Because the sun was setting and the huge white sheet was now illuminated with the soft incandescent glow of the movie projector, and the Sprite I was drinking was just as fizzy and bubbly as my mood.
From a huge set of oversize speakers, the first bursts of audio filled the warm night air. Around us, fellow picnickers grew quiet, just chewing and snacking on their food as the movie began to play. Quinton and I leaned back against the grainy bark of the tree, propped our ham-and-cheese sandwiches in our laps, and shared a bag of barbecue chips. He smiled at me and I smiled back. I leaned closer to him and said, “Look, watch, this is important.”
And as Noah and Allie found love on the screen, Quinton draped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close into him. And even though it was September, the air was still thick with the humidity of summer, and for a fraction of a second I thought how our body heat stifled the air around us. But then an unexpected gentle breeze blew through the park like a reprieve, wrinkling the faces on the giant cloth movie screen, making everyone chuckle.
It felt fabulous. I felt fabulous. Surprised, actually, at how quickly I felt swept off my feet by Quinton. Sure, I knew he was gorgeous and smart and funny. And I hoped going out with him would make Max jealous. But I never really thought about how much I might genuinely enjoy being with him. I had a sudden feeling that everything I wanted in moving back to Worthington was about to come true. Like all I had to do was dream—and all my wishes could be granted, just like that.
16
Saturday morning, Mom was sprawled out on the carpet in tight spandex shorts and a lime-green T-shirt, following the yoga instructor on TV. My exercise consisted of stretching my facial muscles into a smile every time I thought about Quinton and our date. My phone rang and I saw it was Quinton. I worked my cheek muscles again as I answered.
“I was thinking,” he said, and it felt so intimate to just skip the awkward introduction. “If you didn’t know about Worthington’s Screen on the Green, you probably don’t know much else about our town now. It’s been like, what, ten years since you lived here, right?”
“Nine,” I answered.
“Why don’t you let me show you around?”
“Okay, that sounds great.” We agreed upon a pickup time and I headed to my bedroom to get changed. Mom sprang off the ground and followed me. She flopped on the carpet, stretching her calves as I held up two different tops. She pointed to the daisy yellow Roxy tank top.
“Really?” I asked, wanting to make sure I looked my best. I held it up to my chest. “It doesn’t make me look like a banana?”
“No! Yellow is a happy color. Wear it.”
“Okay.” I hung the other shirt back in the closet.
“So, tell me more about this Quinton,” Mom said. “How did you meet? Is he in any of your classes?”
I sat down on the floor next to her and told her the story of our accidental meeting in the park thanks to Oompa.
Mom tipped her head back and let out a hearty laugh. “Well, that’s memorable,” she said, and I loved how it felt between us. Just so easy and open, like the companionship of giggling friends rather than mother and daughter. And I wished Grandma could see this connection between us—something to be proud of Mom for.
When Quinton showed up, he drove us the six miles from my house into downtown Worthington. Friendship Plaza—a parklike area in between all the downtown shops and cafés, was filled with benches and manicured flower gardens. As we walked next to the old metal slats of railroad tracks, Quinton pointed. “Every spring in the center of town, there’s an event called Bark in the Park—it’s kind of like our very laid-back version of the Westminster Dog Show. People bring their dogs to perform tricks and the judges hand out prizes to the cutest puppy, the smartest dog.” He laughed. “You should bring that crazy dog of you
rs. He may not win any prizes, but I think he’ll entertain everyone for sure.”
I laughed and loved how easy it was to be with him. It was like he was just confident that everyone liked him. He didn’t have to worry or be nervous or try to impress me. “So much has changed since I lived here,” I said.
“Yeah,” Quinton agreed. “It’s changed a lot even since I moved here in seventh grade. When my parents first told me we were moving from Atlanta to Worthington, I was like, where? You’re taking me to some hick town?” He laughed. “But it’s built up a lot. There’s actually a bunch of cool places to eat and hang out. It’s a pretty nice place to live.”
Even nicer that you’re here, I thought. I followed him into Mike’s Bikes, a small shop nestled between a jewelry store and a children’s clothing boutique. He walked up to the gray-haired man at the counter and asked to rent bikes for the day.
“Sure thing,” the counterman said, disappearing into a back room for a moment. He emerged wheeling two bikes toward us, with two helmets dangling from his hand. At the sight of the ten-speeds, my stomach turned into a flutter of nerves. When was the last time I rode a bike? Many years ago, when Mom dated this mountain-bike enthusiast and she dragged me along on some ride down a sandy desert trail. I’d wobbled behind her the whole time. This is going to be a disaster, I thought. I’m going to humiliate myself, and Quinton is never going to take me out again.
But as I watched Quinton hold the heavy glass door for me, smiling with a look of genuine happiness, I remembered something. Inside Quinton’s mind, a soft, quiet voice was urging him to like me. To see me in a new light. To want to date me. And all at once, I relaxed. If this hypnotic love spell is really working, I could ride this bike straight into a pile of mud and Quinton would probably think it was adorable. Hopefully.
I swung my leg up and over the hard bike seat and climbed aboard with a newfound relaxation. We rode side by side through the small historical part of downtown, weaving our way through an old residential neighborhood filled with elegant pillared mansions that had been restored to house local businesses. Quinton called back to me, “Careful up ahead!” The sidewalk erupted into hills and valleys due to the two-hundred-year-old tree roots sprouting up and splitting open the cement. We bumped over them, laughing as our bikes wobbled. He stopped at a four-way stop.
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