“This is my favorite road,” Quinton said, pointing to the right down Tree Line Drive. On either side of the road, the sidewalks were lined with full, green-leafed trees. “In the spring, these dogwoods all suddenly bloom overnight. Like one day they’re little green buds and the next morning—boom, the whole street is full of white flowers. It’s like waking up to a first winter’s snow.” His cheeks pricked with a flush of embarrassment. “Sorry, that was cheesy. What’s wrong with me? Maybe it’s all that Shakespeare we’re reading.”
“No, that was beautiful. I love flowers!”
“Yeah? What’s your favorite?”
“Purple irises,” I answered without hesitation.
He smiled broadly. “Somehow I knew it wouldn’t be the rose. Nothing conventional about you.” He grinned at me in a way that made me look away. “I’d love to live in one of these old houses.” He pointed down his favorite road, then started pedaling, turning to the right.
I followed him and imagined us, years from now, living at number 423, the two-story home painted cream with black shutters, and long trails of ivy spilling from the window boxes. We would sit on the black rocking chairs, a large glass pitcher of sweet tea resting on the table between us, our two teenage boys, both miniature versions of Quinton, collecting their football gear and bounding down the front steps.
And that’s when I knew something had changed. On Wednesday afternoon, planting the seeds of love in Quinton’s mind had more to do with Max than anything else. But now I was beginning to wonder—was I falling for Quinton?
When we returned to Mike’s Bikes, windblown and sweaty, the door of the neighboring Worthington Diamond Center opened. Georgia walked out. “Willow? Is that you?”
I pulled off the neon pink helmet. “Hi!”
Georgia’s eyes bulged out of the sockets as she looked from Quinton to me. “Quick,” she said, grabbing my elbow, “come inside and help me with something.”
“Go on,” Quinton said. “I’ll return the bikes and be over in a minute.”
Georgia and I disappeared inside the jewelry store. “Oh. My. God. Are you on a date with Quinton Dillinger?!”
I nodded, bursting with pride.
“What did you do? Where did you go? Did he kiss you? Hold your hand? Ask for another date?”
“Today we went bike riding. Last night we went to Screen on the Green.”
“LAST NIGHT?! You went out LAST NIGHT and you didn’t call me?!”
“I was going to tell you today.” My cheeks ached from all the smiling. “He didn’t try to kiss me but he did put his arm around me last night, and today . . . well, not much physical contact is possible when you’re on a bike.”
Georgia nodded, thinking as she sat down in front of a clearglassed counter, a long gold chain twisted into a knotted mess in front of her.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Oh, when my mom bought this store there was a ton of old inventory lying in a box in the back room. Mom put me to work untangling them. Fun, huh?”
“ANY WORK IS HONORABLE WORK, GEORGIA,” her mother’s familiar voice boomed from some unseen location.
Georgia rolled her eyes. “How does she always do that?”
“Here, let me see.” I sat down next to her and examined the knots. I took a pen from the desk behind her and used the tip to separate the center of the huge tangle and began to work the twisting chain apart.
“He’s thinking long term,” Georgia said as I worked the necklace. “Screen on the Green, bike ride through town—these are thoughtful, planned-out events. He’s wooing you!”
I felt a tingle as I remembered the flash of my future life with Quinton. But what about Max?
A bell above the glass door dinged as Quinton walked through. “What are you doing?”
“She just fixed a necklace for me!” Georgia squealed as I delicately pulled the last knot apart and dangled the straight gold chain on my finger.
“Beautiful and talented.” Quinton patted me on the shoulder, and I blushed. Georgia’s eyes went wide.
“It really is a beautiful necklace,” I said, handing it over to Georgia. “I love the charm.” Attached to the delicate gold chain was a small locket with the word remember engraved in cursive. I opened it. There was an open slot just waiting for a picture to go inside.
Quinton and I walked toward the door, but Georgia scurried after us. “Wait! Let me take your picture!” She whipped her cell phone out and Quinton draped his arm around me. She snapped two shots. “Perfect!” she said. “It’s important to document special events.” She leaned in and whispered to me, “I’ll pull this picture out five years from now at your engagement party.”
“Ssh!” I giggled, shaking my head, and caught up with Quinton at the door.
When I got home, I was dying to tell Mom about my date. “Mom?” I called as I opened her bedroom door. She acted all flustered as I walked in, like she was hiding something under her covers. She was dressed in conservative black pants and a black top, her hair pulled back into a sleek, simple ponytail. “Are you . . . going somewhere ?” I asked.
“Oh, um, I just got home.”
Home from where? There was a time when I always knew where she was and she always knew where I was. How had that slowly changed without either of us really noticing it?
She pulled her hair out of the ponytail and it cascaded down into perfect sheets of glossiness—there was no crinkle mark left from the rubber band, like there always was in my hair. She slid out of her clothes and put on her yoga pants and lime-green top from the morning. “So,” she said. “You’re all glowing and flushed. You’ve got that look. The look of love.” She sat on her bed and patted for me to sit next to her.
“He’s perfect, Mom,” I said dreamily. I told her all about our day. “He’s smart and funny and so thoughtful.” The more I went on and on about Quinton, the more Mom’s face transformed from excited to nervous. Her eyebrows slanted slightly into a little V, giving her the look of a principal disciplining a wayward student.
“What?” I asked her, fearful that she had somehow figured out my secret. Like to the world someone as ideal as Quinton would never fall for someone as average as me. Did she know I’d used hypnosis?
“I know how you’re feeling, and I know it’s new and exciting and every touch makes you feel like you’re going to explode. . . .”
“Oh my God, Mom, please.”
“No, Willow, look, we need to have this talk.”
“I swear to God, we don’t.”
“Guys this age have one thing on their mind.”
I had to force myself not to smile, because in this case, since I had controlled Quinton’s mind, I had specifically stated that he would not be a typical teenage horndog. He would be kind and considerate of my timing and pacing. After all, I was embarrassingly inexperienced in the physical department. I could only imagine that someone as gorgeous as Quinton was not.
“I’d love to preach abstinence, but I’m not so naive.”
“Moooooooom,” I whined.
“You cannot get pregnant,” she said adamantly. “I’m not saying I regret getting pregnant at sixteen, because you were the best thing that ever happened to me. You know that. But it wasn’t easy. And you’re so smart, Willow; you have so many options with your life. I don’t want to see you restrict your life because you have a baby on your hip. . . .”
“MOM! He hasn’t even kissed me.”
“Oh,” she said, looking startled. Then her face eased into a smile. Her eyes got glassy. “Of course he hasn’t. God, you’re such a good girl, Willow.” She reached over and wrestled me into a hug. “You’re smart and you’re cautious and you’re all the things I’m not.”
I pulled out of her viselike grip. “You’re smart, Mom.”
She ignored me and yanked me close again. “Still,” she said into my ear. “Maybe we should get you a prescription for the Pill. Just in case.”
“Mom!” I pushed her away. “Not. Even. A. Kiss.”
“Not even a kiss,” she repeated, laughing like a crazy person. She hugged me again, harder, tighter, smothering me. “I love you so much.”
“Geez.” I tossed her aside, onto the bed.
She flopped on her back and giggled in a fit of laughter and relief, and I tried to suppress all the guilty feelings I had about lying to her.
17
Monday morning, when I walked into the kitchen to grab a Pop-Tart before school, I saw a shiny new wicker basket propped on the counter. Inside were not fresh homemade muffins or even bakery-fresh bagels—rather, the white-painted basket was stuffed with boxes of Trojan condoms, a list of three different gynecologists in town, and four pages, printed off the Internet, on how to say no to peer pressure when dating. I was irritated. Why does she have to be so blatant in everything she does? I mean, it’s hard enough that her clothes are so flashy, why does she have to bring attention to me, too?
Just then I heard a knock at the door. Hmm, that’s weird. I didn’t hear Max’s truck. I opened the door and saw Quinton.
“Morning,” he said.
“Wow, I wasn’t expecting you!”
“Thought you could use a ride.”
There was a rustling from the family room; then Oompa came barreling across the carpet and jumped onto Quinton’s leg.
“Whoa,” Quinton said. “Could you please get this dog a girlfriend or a boyfriend or even just a Playboy?”
From outside, I heard the familiar rumble of Max’s truck speeding up the driveway. Uh-oh.
“Oompa, down!” I clapped my hands loudly. But Oompa kept going.
Quinton reached down and tried to pry him off, but Oompa just started licking his hands. Quinton made a face and wiped them on his jeans. I breathed an inward sigh of relief that, thanks to the powers of hypnosis, even this couldn’t make Quinton stop liking me. It was very freeing, really.
“Um, hey.” Max walked up beside Quinton in the doorway, eyeing Oompa with suspicion. He moved through the threshold into the family room, just feet away from the kitchen counter. Crap. My new boyfriend. A humping dog. A basket stuffed with sex paraphernalia. Max is going to think he walked in on some weird orgy.
I tried to back casually toward the kitchen counter to block his view without drawing too much attention to myself, but suddenly Oompa barked, making Quinton flail backwards and knock into me. I swung my arms backward for balance—right into the white wicker basket, which fell sideways. A square blue box toppled out and skidded across the counter. TODAY’S SPONGE—The Vaginal Contraceptive Sponge—the reversible, over-the-counter, barrier method of birth control!
Oh sweet Jesus.
I heard a muffled laugh from Max.
“Um, help!” Quinton called, still trying to disengage from my dog.
“Oompa!” Mom’s shrill cry startled all of us. She clapped her hands sharply and Oompa hopped down obediently, snorting a little. He walked over and rubbed his square head against Max’s leg, looking more like a purring cat than a dog.
“Hey,” Quinton said, pointing at Max. “How come he doesn’t get the leg hump?” He shook his head. “I need to change my cologne.”
“Um, Oompa is just a little senile,” I stammered and hastily tossed a dish towel onto the basket, but the shift in weight made the entire thing tumble on its side again. Two boxes of Trojans skidded across the counter and fell onto the tiled kitchen floor. The stack of white papers fluttered through the air and landed at Max’s feet.
Oh. My. God.
I dropped to my knees and quickly gathered the sheets into a messy stack.
Max squatted down beside me and picked up the two Trojan boxes. He turned to me. “For you,” he whispered, arching his eyebrows. “Or no, wait, I guess I should give them to Quinton.”
“Shut up, Max,” I said and shoved the boxes inside the silverware drawer. I shot a look at Mom. Hello? Humiliating enough?
She shrugged, silently motioning to the two guys standing in our house. How was I supposed to know they’d show up? her face said.
“Um, guys?” Quinton stood motionless, his cheeks matching the color of the red roses plastered across the You and Your Virginity pamphlet. Which had landed right at his feet. “Sorry to interrupt.” He looked at me. “Did you . . .” Quinton glanced quickly over at Max and then back at me. “Did you already have a ride? Because I can just meet you at school—”
“No, no,” I said, standing up. “I want to ride with you.” I glanced at Max, feeling simultaneously guilty and annoyed. “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll see you at school.”
The smug look fell off of Max’s face. “Oh, okay,” he said, sounding both shocked and maybe a little hurt. He glanced at Quinton then fixed me with a long, intense stare. “See you at school.” He passed Quinton on his way out, patting him on the back.
Once inside the car, Quinton started to laugh. “Dude,” he said to me. “First the dog, then the basket . . . I’m beginning to think you’re like one of those naughty librarian types.”
“Huh?” I asked, sort of afraid of what he was going to say.
“You know—prim on the outside but secretly you’re like . . .” Suddenly, a blank look crossed his face. He reached over and turned down Sports Center. “I respect you, Willow,” he said, his voice sounding very far away. “I want to be considerate of your timing and pacing. I don’t want to be some typical horndog.”
I sat very still.
He shook his head. “God,” he groaned. “Sometimes I don’t know why I say the things I do.” He leaned over and turned the radio back up.
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s cute. I’m glad you say those things.” I reached over and took his hand. He held it tightly, and grinned.
“God, Willow,” he said. “You really are special.”
We rode the rest of the way in silence.
When we got to school, Quinton held my hand as we walked across the parking lot. It felt amazing to be physically attached not just to a boyfriend, but to Quinton. People noticed, whispering and commenting the minute we passed. He continued to escort me down the long hallway toward my locker. When I told him that it was okay, he needed to get to his locker before the homeroom bell rang, he shook his head no and said he wanted to stay with me and watch me open my locker.
I thought that was odd, but when I dialed my three-digit combination and pulled the door open, inside there was a beautiful bouquet of towering purple irises. I gasped. No one had ever sent me flowers before. I reached over and hugged him. “Thank you!”
“Did you know that the iris is the flower of the Greek goddess Iris, who is the messenger of love?” He gave me a sheepish look. “I had to look up what an iris was because I didn’t know.”
I bit my lower lip to stop it from trembling because that was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.
He leaned down but then stopped. “I want to kiss you. Is it okay if I kiss you?” he whispered.
I nodded yes and he bent over and gently kissed my lips. When I fluttered my eyes open, he was smiling.
I looked back at the deep violet petals and felt a surge of emotion. I felt so special. He had listened to me. I tried to ignore the fact that he was only doing it because I’d hypnotized him to. Maybe he’s really falling for me, after all?
The bell rang. Quinton squeezed my hand. “See you later.”
“Thanks again,” I said. I shut the metal door, leaving the vibrantly colored flowers behind, but I took the feelings along with me, nestled deep in my heart. And as I turned to walk in the opposite direction, I saw Max, standing alone by the water fountain, watching me. I tried to wave, but he quickly walked away.
“He gave you flowers! That’s so romantic!” Mia gushed in English class. She sighed. “Guess the last time Jake gave me flowers.”
“Your birthday.” Georgia craned her neck from her desk into our conversation.
“No,” Mia said, a little sadly.
“Valentine’s Day,” Georgia tried again.
“No.” Mia shook he
r head, the sadness morphing into something like anger.
Georgia scrunched her face up. “Christmas?” She raised her voice hesitantly, aware that nine months was an awfully long time ago.
“Jake has never given me flowers.”
Georgia gasped like this was truly horrific news. And I was surprised that Mia was letting down her facade to us—showing us the imperfections in her perfect relationship. I had yet to see her do that elsewhere. It made me feel important.
“Well,” I said, “maybe he doesn’t know you like them?”
Mia shook her head again. “Last fall we walked by the Flower Pot and I made a huge deal about how much I loved the smell of fresh flowers. Then, a few months later, when he didn’t pick up on the hint and we were heading into February, I casually told him how sure, I loved roses like the rest of the world, but I really preferred white roses—not red or pink. February 14 arrived and the fool gave me chocolate-covered cherries. And I hate cherries.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure what to say. “I hate cherries too.”
“And for my birthday? He gave me a duffel bag. A duffel bag! And I had hinted for like weeks that I really wanted these pretty earrings I saw in a jewelry store window. He just doesn’t listen to me,” Mia said. “You’re lucky.”
“A duffel bag for your birthday.” Georgia cringed. “Sometimes I truly believe that guys just need a manual.”
“That’d be a best seller,” Mia said.
Georgia shot her finger into the air. “I’m going to write one!”
“You’re not even dating anyone,” I whispered.
“I spend an average of four hours a day watching TV and movies. That’s twenty-eight hours a week, fifteen hundred hours of carefully crafted and plotted romance a year. And that’s not even including my reading habits.” She pulled out a sheet of paper and began scribbling ideas.
Crush Control Page 15
