Crush Control

by Jennifer Jabaley

“That’s amazing!” I said.

  “Yo, kangaroo, you’re making me dizzy,” Georgia said, returning from the bar with an overflowing cup.

  Max gave a small oh well sigh and his words—whatever they were—remained unsaid. “Congratulations, Mia,” he said, then walked toward Trent and Conner over by the TV.

  “I can’t believe Quinton’s playing all love songs for you tonight,” Mia said. “That is so romantic. ” She gazed across the room to where Jake was playing beer pong. He tossed his Ping-Pong ball through the air, crashing it smack into Davis, another football player standing on the opposite side of the table.

  “Score!” Jake screamed.

  Mia sighed. “Jake would never do that.”

  “Um, are we noticing Max at four o’clock?” Georgia whispered.

  “What?” I swung my head and saw Max looking our way. Quickly he turned back toward Trent and Conner.

  “He can’t stop watching you,” Georgia whispered. “I think we have a Ron and Hermione situation going on here.”

  “Huh?” Mia asked.

  “Harry Potter,” Georgia explained. “Ron and Hermione. Friends who can’t stand seeing each other with anyone else.”

  “So?” Mia furrowed her brow, confused.

  “Jealousy,” Georgia explained. “Seeing Willow with Quinton is making Max realize what he’s lost.”

  I looked over at Max’s back. Could it be true? I thought about our phone conversation. “You know,” I whispered, and Mia and Georgia huddled closer. “He told me he wasn’t convinced Quinton was right for me.”

  “Ha-ha!” Georgia pointed at me.

  “That’s crazy—Quinton is perfect for you,” Mia said. “He listens to you, does romantic things for you . . .”

  “Max is jealous,” Georgia said confidently.

  “Why should he be jealous? He has perky Minnie with her little skirts and her flaky baklava.” All three of us looked over at Max, and perhaps he felt our laser beam stares, because he turned to face us. He had his hands on his hips, one thumb hooked through a belt loop.

  “Look at him!” Georgia whispered fiercely. “Look at his body language! He’s in a classic cowboy stance. All he needs is a ten-gallon hat and a lasso! He’s trying to demonstrate his manliness to you!”

  “Hush.” I laughed. “He is not.” Is he?

  Max quickly looked away.

  “Uh-huh.” Georgia nodded. “Totally jealous.”

  “Who cares about Max,” Mia said. “You have Quinton and he’s so into you!” We all looked away from Max toward Quinton, who was talking to Hayden. He caught my eye and smiled. Overhead B.o.B. sang “Nothin’ on You,” and Quinton lip-synched, “They got nothing on you, baby. Nothing on you.”

  “Aww.” Mia sighed. “To have a guy like you that much . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s amazing,” I said and it was. Quinton was thoughtful and romantic and kind. I smiled and tried to squash the little tiny voice that wondered what Max had been about to say to me.

  Sunday morning Mom asked me how Quinton’s party was. I told her about it and asked what she did while I was gone.

  “Oh, you know, not much,” she answered.

  “Is it boring here for you?” I asked, because it was the longest I’d ever seen my mom without a date or a party to attend. She hadn’t even brought any friends to the house, which was so unusual. All along I had suspected Mom’s insistence on a more quiet and conventional life had everything to do with getting back in Grandma and Grandpa’s good graces, but when that didn’t pan out, I assumed she’d revert back to her nightlife. But no, she hadn’t gone out all weekend, and here she was curled up on a Sunday morning with a textbook instead of a romantic comedy.

  “Boring?” Mom asked. “Not exactly. I mean, life is different.” She laughed. “But not in a bad way.”

  I nodded. “Well, that’s good. Do you want to go to the mall today?” I asked, picking up her empty coffee mug off the floor and putting it in the sink.

  “Oh, actually, hon, I have something I need to do today. Sorry.” She winced a little. “I know we haven’t had much fun lately, but rain check?”

  “Sure,” I said. “No big deal.” But it was a big deal. Because she didn’t tell me what she would rather be doing instead of hanging out with me. And it gave me the strangest feeling—like Mom was hiding something from me. Then I thought about all the hypnosis I’d done and I got a heavy brick feeling in my gut, because, for the first time ever, there was a fissure in our solid foundation.

  I looked back at her with her nose buried in some book and then I turned and walked into my bedroom. I pulled out my cell phone and stared at it. I wanted to call Quinton, but my mind kept wandering to Grandma at the cheerleading competition. When we had our routine Sunday chat, neither of us brought up what happened at our reconciliation gone wrong. It’s like we both wanted to pretend that everything was okay—that we could still fix things. Had I imagined Grandma showing up at the competition? Before I could chicken out, I dialed the numbers.

  She answered on the third ring sounding a little breathless, like maybe she’d just run in from tending to her roses.

  “Grandma?” I asked tentatively.

  “Willow?” I heard the sound of fabric crinkling like she was pulling off her gardening gloves. “Sorry dear, let me get settled. Okay. Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “It’s good to hear yours too,” I said, and then it was quiet, like we both were tentative. “Um, was that you at my school yesterday?” My heart was speeding double time. Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe I was completely bonkers—that my mind was creating what I wanted to see.

  “Yes,” she said, and I felt my shoulders relax. I hadn’t realized how tense they had become.

  “Willow, do you think you could sneak away for the afternoon? Maybe join me here for some lunch?”

  “Yes,” I answered quickly, not even considering how I’d get there if Mom was using the car. I knew I’d find a way. We said we’d see each other in an hour and hung up the phone.

  When I walked out of my bedroom, Mom had left a small note on the table. Be back later. I glanced out the window and saw that the car was gone. I was debating my options when my phone rang.

  “Did you have fun at the party last night?” Quinton asked as soon as I picked up.

  “I did.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I flushed with warmth. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “Is it too much if I want to see you again today?”

  “Actually, could you do me a favor?” I asked if he could drive me over to Grandma’s. I was worried that he would think I was inviting him to meet my grandmother and I didn’t want to have to explain my crazy family situation but he made no assumptions.

  “No problem,” he said. “Then just call me back when you need a pickup.”

  My heart swelled, because truly, I couldn’t have invented a better boyfriend. Even if I’d sort of invented this one.

  He showed up twenty minutes later. When he walked in and saw that we were alone he pulled me close and kissed me passionately. It was soft and soulful—much more passionate than at school. My entire body felt warm and tingly and perfect . . . until Oompa ambushed us.

  Quinton just laughed good-naturedly. “Seriously, I need to change my cologne.”

  I plucked the dog off his leg and we went out to his car. “Look in the glove box,” he said as he pulled out of the driveway.

  I opened it up and inside I found a small gold-wrapped box. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Open it,” he said.

  I directed him to turn onto Magnolia Lane, then peeled the gold foil off and saw a white and black sticker on the box: THE WORTHINGTON DIAMOND CENTER. Inside the velvet-lined box was the delicate gold chain with the locket that I’d admired at Georgia’s mom’s store. The tiny engraving, remember, glittered up at me. “Oh wow,” I exclaimed. “This is so thoughtful. You didn’t have to do this.” I looped the neckla
ce around my neck and clasped it.

  “I saw how much you liked it,” he said as we pulled up the long winding driveway to my grandparents’ house.

  “Thank you,” I said, “for this, for the ride, for just being so wonderful.”

  He stopped the car by the walkway to the front door.

  I leaned over and gave him a kiss. “I don’t deserve you,” I said.

  He smiled. “Call me when you’re done.”

  “Okay.” I walked away from the car. On instinct, I looked back over my shoulder and saw Quinton looking at me. I raised a hand and waved. He waved back. Then I walked toward the huge double doors and rang the bell.

  Grandma answered, dressed in her Bermuda shorts, a button-down shirt, and a large sun hat propped on her head. “Willow, I’m so pleased you’ve come.” She opened the door and I followed her all the way into the kitchen, where a small circular table was set for lunch for two. A vase was filled with orange gerbera daisies she obviously had plucked straight from her garden. The formal china was in the china cabinet. Instead the place settings were light beige and casual, and I loved that all the stiffness of our living room get-together weeks ago had been rethought. This felt right—the way a grandmother and granddaughter should have lunch. Grandma took her hat off and opened the fridge.

  I sat down and Grandma brought over a platter of croissants and a bowl filled with fresh chicken salad. “I didn’t know if you liked grapes in your chicken salad. Well . . .” Grandma hesitated slightly. “It’s been years since we’ve actually had a meal together.”

  “I like grapes.” I said, excited to have a home-cooked meal.

  “Good.” She placed the platter on the table between us “That’s what I want, Willow,” she continued. “I want to know the details. All the little things you can’t learn from just a phone call.”

  A lump formed in the back of my throat. I tried to swallow back the tears, not letting her see how much it meant to me.

  She smiled, and when she shut the refrigerator door I saw an old sheet of yellow construction paper, curling and frayed at the edges, taped up to the stainless steel. It was a picture I had drawn years ago of me and Grandma out in the pasture, petting Grandma’s horse. On the bottom, in the scratchy penmanship of a six-year-old, I had written, I love you. Beneath it Grandma had written in blue ballpoint pen, I love you too.

  “What I want to tell you,” Grandma said, “is that, while of course I wish last Friday went better, sometimes your mother can be . . .” She paused, closed her eyes for a minute. She reopened them. “Regardless of my problems with your mother, they shouldn’t . . .” She took a deep breath, like she was searching for the right word. “. . . interfere with our relationship. You live just miles from me now. Miles.” She smiled and reached across to squeeze my hand. “We can do all the things we talked about—have lunches, go shopping. I can teach you to garden!”

  I nodded and picked at the chicken salad. I should have felt happy, but deep down I was disappointed. Because even if Grandma and I did all those things—lunches and shopping and gardening—it still made me sad that Mom wouldn’t be a part of it. Then I heard Mom’s voice in my head, saying: Sure, she’ll spend time with you as long as you’re doing things she deems acceptable. But what about the things I wanted to do? Did Grandma want to know the real me, or did she only want to mold me into her perfect granddaughter? Suddenly, I was beginning to realize how Mom must have felt.

  “How’s Grandpa doing?” I asked, changing the subject.

  Grandma smiled. “Better, it seems. He’s walking with his cane now.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” I said and wished he wasn’t sleeping. I wanted to see him regaining his strength so I could erase the last image I saw of him, weak and suffering, from my mind.

  When we’d finished lunch and I was stacking the plates in the dishwasher, I caught her smiling at me.

  “What?” I asked, self-conscious.

  “Nothing.” She waved a hand. But I saw her looking at the dishes neatly arranged in the bottom bin with satisfaction on her face.

  For a fraction of a second I had a wild impulse to rearrange all the dishes and make an unorganized mess. Why? I questioned. To test Grandma? To see if she’d still accept me? Still want to spend time with me?

  Grandma looked over at me with a genuine smile. “Shall we sit outside on the porch?” she asked.

  I clicked the dishwasher door closed and pushed away my insecurities. “Sure.”

  We walked out onto the back veranda and sat on the wicker swing. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a metal tin.

  “Tulip bulbs.” She stopped the swing. “Come on, let’s go plant them.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  For the rest of the afternoon, she taught me how to garden. It was quiet, just the sound of us scooping dirt and patting the soil. The rhythm of our work, so in sync and methodical, was peaceful. Calming. I looked over at Grandma. She took her sun hat off and wiped her hair away from her eyes with the back of her hands.

  Sure, it was an activity that she picked—her hobby, her passion. And I knew the way she dictated the activity—not even asking if I was interested—would have irritated Mom. But the truth was everything about it—the silent companionship, the cool dirt beneath my knees, the satisfaction of nestling each tulip bulb into its own little cave—it was perfect. And I loved it.

  20

  Monday morning, Quinton drove me to school again. Since Max and I didn’t have any classes together, I didn’t see him all day. It was weird. I never realized his absence so much before. I mean, of course I loved how Quinton was at my locker between every class, but I found myself accidentally looking for Max, too. So after school, I decided to send Max a text.

  Except he called me first.

  “So, I have a question for you,” Max said.

  “Okay, shoot.” I turned the TV to mute.

  “I know your natural preference is for cheesy, dentist office love songs, but I’ve been working really hard to provide you with a solid musical education. But now that you’re riding with Quinton, I’m concerned you’re falling behind on your studies.”

  I laughed. “Quinton listens to ESPN.”

  “As I suspected,” he said. “So listen, I want to take you to see this new up-and-coming band Friday night down at the Tabernacle in Atlanta. I think they’re going to be the next big thing. It’ll be fun . . . if Quinton doesn’t mind.”

  “Why would Quinton mind?”

  “Because you’ll miss his football game.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I went to his last one. Plus, I feel like I never get to see my best friend anymore!”

  “I know,” he agreed. “I hope you can go. It’ll be fun.”

  “Is Minnie going?” I asked, suddenly wondering if this was a friends activity or possibly more than friends. I thought back to the way he looked at me at Quinton’s party.

  “Nah, she doesn’t like concerts. She hates the crowds and the noise.”

  Hmm, I thought as we hung up. No Minnie. Just me and Max . . .

  I suddenly felt a twinge of disloyalty toward Quinton. So I dialed his number.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he said brightly, and I started to laugh. Then I realized he was being serious.

  I casually mentioned going out with Max Friday night. “You know Max and I have been friends since we were really little,” I explained.

  “I know,” Quinton said. “And of course it’s okay. I totally trust in you and the strength of our relationship.” His voice sounded weird and robotic as he said it, and it gave me a funny feeling.

  “Cool,” I said. I was happy that he was so amiable, but “strength of our relationship”? We had been dating for two weeks!

  “I want you to be happy and fulfilled,” he continued, “and I understand that I might not be able to fill every need that you have.”

  “Um, okay,” I said, and for a moment I panicked that he could hear my thoughts about Max from a few minutes ago—that he knew I w
as excited about going to the concert alone with him.

  Quinton continued. “I was doing a little research on successful courtship because I want to shower you with special moments and I was surprised to read that one of the nicest things you can do for your mate is give them space. Creative space, fun space, emotional space . . .” He sounded like he was reading off a cue card or something. What was he talking about?

  “Ooookaaay,” I said tentatively. He sounded more like Dr. Phil than Quinton.

  “So, go with Max this Friday. Take the space you need! I want to shower you with special moments,” he repeated. “Even if one of those moments is not with me.”

  “Um, all right,” I said. “Thanks.”

  It was quiet for a minute. My head was all fuzzy. Why was Quinton acting so weird? Could he sense that my heart was torn? I decided to change the subject. “So how was football practice today?”

  “Man, Coach busted our balls today. He made us run bleachers . . .” He went on, sounding like the normal Quinton again.

  His words kept playing over in my head. I want to shower you with special moments. My stomach lurched—because suddenly I was pretty certain this had nothing to do with Max. I realized I had planted very similar words inside his head just two and a half weeks ago.

  All week Quinton was affectionate and attentive, driving me to school each day, holding my hand as we walked down the halls and sending me notes in English class that broke the boredom and made me laugh. So any worry I had encountered on Monday afternoon floated away like the bunch of pink balloons Quinton tied to my locker Friday afternoon.

  “You are so thoughtful!” I gushed as we watched the helium lift the last balloon out of sight.

  “As a kid I always loved letting balloons fly up past the clouds,” Quinton said as he opened his car door for me.

  As we exited the student parking lot, he turned right instead of left toward my home, but I didn’t think too much of it. Maybe he had to stop off at the weight room to get something for his football game that night. But then he drove right past the gym.

  “Quinton?” I asked, but he just smiled, turned on his blinker, and pulled onto Interstate 75 heading south. “Where are we going?”