“It’s a secret,” he said. He drove down the interstate, passing the exit for the mall and passing the next three exits as well. We eased into the afternoon traffic as we drove closer toward Atlanta and I felt a mix of excitement and agitation. I had never had a surprise birthday party or spontaneous road trip before, but at the same time, I had to get home for my plans with Max.
I kind of felt kidnapped.
We drove into downtown traffic and Quinton pulled off at an exit and eased into the entrance to the Atlanta Botanical Garden.
“I’ve never been here before,” I said. “Actually, I’ve never been to any botanical garden before.”
“Me neither,” Quinton said as he paid for our tickets. “But when you told me how much you liked irises, I thought, what would be better than a visit here?” He squared his shoulders with pride.
“That’s so nice of you,” I said and tried to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. I mean, yeah, I like irises, they’re pretty, but it’s not like they’re my favorite thing in the whole world. But I looked over at him strutting down the walkway and reminded myself that he didn’t know that. He was just being attentive and creative. He was being a good boyfriend. The boyfriend I’d hypnotized him to be.
We walked on the Canopy Walk and let the leaves from the treetops dangle on our shoulders. We sat in front of the waterfalls in the Cascades Garden and let the rushing water fill our ears. We held hands and talked easily. As we walked among the lush, green shrubbery, I glanced at my watch. “We should probably head back,” I said. “You need to be at the football field in less than an hour, and Max is supposed to pick me up at six.”
But Quinton was barely listening. He had his nose buried in a map of the gardens. “I think the Japanese Garden is up here to the left.”
I looked at my watch again. “Quinton, I really think we need to go. What if we hit traffic? Won’t your coach be mad if you’re late?”
“Rush hour’s not too bad on a Friday,” he said. “It says the Japanese Garden has irises in the spring—I’m not sure they’d still be blooming in late September.”
Oh, for God’s sake—I just saw a bunch of irises in my locker last week! But he was walking faster, on a mission. He looked possessed.
“Fine,” I said, feeling bad. He was just being thoughtful. I sprinted to catch up with him. “We’ll go to the Japanese Garden. But we should only stay for a few minutes.”
Ahead we saw the entrance and speed-walked past the strolling visitors. The exhibit was small but beautiful, with a glistening pond surrounded by meticulously sculpted trees.
“Damn,” Quinton said. “I don’t see any irises.”
“It’s okay,” I said and turned to leave, but he just stood there next to an old Japanese lantern, swinging his head to and fro as if a collection of purple blooms were hiding from us under a tree or bush. “Come on, we need to go,” I persisted. The peaceful Japanese Garden did nothing to calm my accelerating heart as I saw a text appear from Max. Everywhere I looked, I saw the rigid bamboo fence framing the garden, holding us captive, and I felt a little breathless, trapped. “Come on. We need to go,” I repeated.
“Oh, I just feel bad about the irises.”
“It’s not a big deal. It was fun anyway.”
“It is a big deal,” he said as I pulled him through the garden and toward the parking lot. “I want to do special things for you. To treat you like a goddess.”
Oh no. Those words sound awfully familiar. “Look, Quinton, you are an awesome boyfriend. But you don’t have to go so . . . overboard. I like you no matter what. Plus, we can’t just abandon our lives to look at some irises. We both have things we need to get back for.” I was getting desperate.
As he opened the car door, a funny look washed over his face. “Oh, crap,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re right. I forgot. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I reached over and buckled my seat belt.
“No,” he said, staring at the dashboard. “It’s not. I don’t forget stuff. Ever. That’s not me. Mom says I’m a human calendar. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.”
A wave of guilt swept over me. Could it be an effect of the hypnosis ? “Just go.” I pointed to the steering wheel and he cranked the car. We flew out of the parking lot and drove approximately ten yards—into the biggest traffic jam I’d ever seen.
“Damn,” Quinton mumbled.
I looked at my watch. Max would be showing up at my house in thirty minutes. I quickly texted him: Running late. Can you give me an extra twenty minutes?
Sure, Max texted back.
But forty-five minutes later we had advanced about fifteen miles north into the suburbs but still a good twenty miles from Worthington. Quinton’s phone rang nonstop. First it was Jake, then Davis, then Hayden wondering where he was. Then, as we were still inching along the highway, his coach called, irate and unforgiving.
“I’m sitting out tonight,” he told me after he clicked off his phone.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said tightly.
But I knew it wasn’t. Football meant everything to Quinton, and that’s when I started to get a sinking feeling in my gut that maybe my little love spell was more powerful than I realized.
When I got home, I called Max but he didn’t answer. I texted him frantically but he didn’t respond. “Crap, crap, crap,” I said and threw my phone on the floor.
Mom walked out of her bedroom with a robe on and her hair wet, fresh out of a shower. “Where’ve you been?” she asked, curious, not accusatory. “Max was here.” She looked at the clock above the TV. “About an hour ago. He waited for you. Said you had plans.”
I sighed. “We were supposed to go to a concert. Was he mad?”
Mom twisted her mouth. “He wasn’t happy.”
“Shoot,” I mumbled and sat on the couch.
“Were you with Quinton? Because his mom called here looking for him. She said he was late for a game.”
I didn’t answer, just leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I could feel Mom’s brain spinning. “No, Mom, not even a kiss, today, okay? We were just looking at some stupid flowers.”
Mom sat down next to me and I opened my eyes. “Remember when you were worried that Max was going to forget about you because he had Minnie?” she asked.
I put my hand over my eyes to hide my guilt. “I know. I screwed up.”
Mom put her arm around me. “Everyone screws up. Just apologize. And mean it. He’s your friend, and true friends are forgiving.”
I nodded and felt a small prick of tears, worried that maybe my guilt ran deeper. What if there were consequences to mind control that I hadn’t thought about? What if it wasn’t all good?
21
Saturday, Quinton was climbing bleachers and running laps in full pads in the brutal afternoon sun as punishment for his Friday escapades. I spent the day trying to get in touch with Max to apologize but he wouldn’t pick up my calls or answer my texts. The only good thing that happened was when Grandma called and invited me to lunch on Sunday at the Village Porch in town. The next day, when I pulled Mom’s car into the packed parking lot, I saw the Sunday church crowd all dressed up in skirts and blouses, and I glanced down at my vintage wash jeans and American Eagle raglan T-shirt and wondered if Grandma would frown in disapproval the way she always criticized Mom’s clothing choices.
But she didn’t. When she saw me walk in, she stood up and waved me over to her small square table, her silver charm bracelet clinking with the shake of her arm. She was beaming.
I crossed the crowded restaurant to sit with her.
“I ordered you a ginger ale,” she said with a smile. “I noticed that’s what you drank at my house last week.” She slid an envelope across the table.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking it in my hands.
“Open it,” she said.
I slid my finger under the sealed flap and opened the envelope pulling out two shiny tickets. “Th
e Nutcracker?” I asked, a little breathless. “You remembered.” The last time we visited, so many years ago, Grandma and I had decided we were going to see The Nutcracker at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta. She said she’d pay for the airfare for me to fly back and for the show tickets. I just needed to show up. But that was the year Grandma and Mom had their huge blowup and the holidays slid by, both of us knowing dreams of The Nutcracker were just that—dreams.
“Of course I remember,” Grandma said.
I slid the tickets into the envelope safely and handed them back to Grandma. She tucked them inside her clutch.
Grandma folded her hands in her lap. She leaned in a little toward me. “So,” she said. “I’ve heard a little gossip around town.”
My hands started to sweat. I thought about Grandma at Mia’s competition and panicked at the thought of my hypnosis. I hadn’t exactly kept that a secret. But no, Grandma was smiling, showing her perfectly aligned teeth, as creamy white as her pearls.
“I heard”—she cocked her head slightly and pointed her manicured finger at me—“that you are dating a young man. A Mister Quinton Dillinger the Third, to be exact.”
“Oh,” I said, startled, laughing a little with relief. “Yes, I am.”
“I was at Jordan Paul Salon on Thursday and Margaret Williams told me Quinton’s mother mentioned it at the tennis club. She said Quinton was just smitten and that you—you were wonderful. She said you came over to help him with his Shakespeare report and that you were so smart.” She folded her hands again and straightened her posture. “I knew you’d have a gift for literature. Just like I always did.”
The waitress came over and placed our plates of quiche and toast on the white tablecloth. When she left, Grandma reached over and patted my hand. “I’m so proud of you,” she said; then she picked up her fork and pierced the fluffy quiche.
As I buttered my toast, I couldn’t help but think I didn’t do anything.
A refined couple about my grandparents’ age walked over. They were dressed up in their Sunday church clothes. Grandma got up, kissed each of their cheeks, and chatted about some charity event at the church. “Lorraine,” Grandma said, “I would like to introduce my granddaughter. This is Willow.”
I stood up and shook their hands.
“She’s dating the oldest Dillinger boy, Quinton,” Grandma said, beaming.
“Oh?” Lorraine raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Judge Dillinger’s grandson?”
“Indeed,” Grandma said, and Lorraine and her husband nodded their approval. They chatted for another minute about silent auction items while I sat there and smiled uncomfortably. Eventually they hugged and the couple left. Grandma sat back down, smiling at me. “Quinton’s grandfather and your granddaddy worked very closely together for many, many years. The Dillingers are a fine family, Willow. Fine. I’m so proud of you,” she repeated.
And as I sat there and ate another bite of my quiche, I knew I should just move on and enjoy this time with my grandmother. It was all the things I’d dreamed about—an actual lunch date, tickets to the ballet. But I couldn’t stop rehashing all the times Mom said she could never earn Grandma’s pride. What had I done, exactly, to earn her approval? “Why are you proud of me?” I asked tentatively.
“Because, darling . . .” Grandma set her fork and knife neatly on her plate. “You’re dating the right kind of boy. A good boy. Nowadays, with the stories you hear on the news with teenagers getting into all kinds of trouble with naked pictures on their cell phones and promiscuity, I’m just proud that you had the good sense to select someone like Quinton.”
I released the grip on my napkin and breathed. I was about to tell her the story of the irises and the necklace, but then Grandma’s face fell.
“Your mother,” she said, reaching up to clench her strand of pearls. “Sometimes I think she brought home her boyfriends just to get a rise out of me—I swear I think she did. Some of the boys she dated . . . ugh.” She visibly flinched.
“Well, one of those boyfriends was my father,” I said very softly, very slowly, trying so hard not to get angry. Grandma said she wanted a relationship with me, I reminded myself. She wanted to know the details. I didn’t want to screw that up. I waited for her to apologize, for her to say of course she didn’t mean my father. But she didn’t. She slid two twenties out of her wallet and placed them on the black folder next to the check, then stood up.
“Willow,” she said, “really, it doesn’t matter about the mistakes your mother has made, because somehow you’ve managed to turn out just perfect, with a good head on your shoulders and a strong sense of responsibility. I know what a good student you are. Principal Bigham’s wife is a member of the League, you know. I know you’re good friends with Dr. Palmer’s daughter, Mia. I know that you’re making good choices and are a good person and that is why I’m so proud of you.”
Was I making good choices? I felt my throat go dry.
I wanted to stand up, look Grandma in the eye, and say that everyone makes mistakes, not just Mom but me, too. And just because Mom did things differently from Grandma didn’t mean the things she did were wrong. But the words stuck in my throat. Because I didn’t want any more fights. I didn’t want any more judgment. And I definitely didn’t want to hear that certain things were unforgivable, because what would Grandma say if she knew the real reason Quinton was dating me?
Grandma had bought tickets to The Nutcracker because she wanted a relationship with me, and maybe it wasn’t as perfect as a family photo on the beach, but still, it was something, and I couldn’t risk losing it.
It should have been enough. All the nice things that Grandma said should have been enough to allow me to overlook her jab at Mom. But still, the entire ride home from the restaurant I re-scripted our conversation to a version where I was gutsier. Not so afraid of losing something I barely had a hold of. In my playbook, I told Grandma that she should give Mom some credit because she raised me as a single parent and if Grandma was so proud of how I turned out, then she should be proud of Mom for how she parented me. The quiche and toast and two glasses of ginger ale sat thickly in my stomach, and I couldn’t help feeling guilty, because only in my head was I brave enough to say these things.
When I got home, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table with her checkbook open and an envelope and letter in front of her. “How was lunch?” she asked.
“Good.” I smiled, not wanting to say too much for fear I’d explode and spill everything. “What’s that?” I pointed at the letter.
Mom made a disgruntled face. “It’s a letter from the neighborhood association. Did you know they send you a monthly bill? Homeowner’s Association dues just to live here? That’s ridiculous. Like I’m not paying a mortgage already.”
I sat down and picked up the letter.
“They say it covers road maintenance, upkeep of the clubhouse and activity room. I haven’t used the clubhouse or activity room.” She gave me a look like, So why should I have to pay?
I glanced over the letter. “Didn’t they mention the dues when you bought the house?”
She exhaled in defeat. “I don’t know, maybe? I’ve never bought a house before. I had to sign a bazillion things.” She shook her head. “I guess it’s just another thing I’ve screwed up.”
I thought about a lifetime of Grandma’s criticism. I leaned over and put my arm around her. “You didn’t screw anything up, Mom. Look, I have some money stashed away from birthdays that you could use.”
“Oh my God, no, I’m not taking your money, Willow.” She leaned into my arm, and for a second it felt like I was the mom and she was the kid.“Thanks, but I’ll manage.”
“You always do,” I said and felt tears prick at my eyes.
Mom pulled back and saw my glistening eyes. “What’s wrong with you? Are you PMSing?”
We both laughed and I flung the letter at her playfully. “Go pay those dues, then.” I went into my bedroom and called Quinton. I wasn’t intending to, but before I knew it, I was
talking to him about my lunch with Grandma, explaining to him that I felt so torn between wanting a relationship with her and loyalty to my mother. When I was done rambling, Quinton spoke in a soft, comforting voice.
“It must be so tough for you,” he said. “To be caught in the middle like that. Sometimes I’m just completely mesmerized by you—by how strong you are. How resilient. I really respect how you won’t take sides but see the best in each of them. You are wonderful. Beautiful. No matter what is happening in your life, I want you to know I’ll always be there to support you.”
I sighed a little, because even though everything Quinton was saying was nice, it felt so canned. I didn’t feel like hearing about how great I was. I wanted someone to hash out the situation with me. His constant affirmations were smothering me rather than comforting me.
But I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I thanked him for being so supportive, and hung up. I sat on my bed and stared at my phone. I really wanted to call Max. Max would understand. He had endured years of his grandparents’ disapproval of his father. I remembered the hurt in Max’s voice as he described their arguments to me. Max would know what to say.
I scrolled down my list of contacts, but when I found his name, I hesitated. I knew he wouldn’t answer. So I put my phone down and reached into my backpack for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, hoping to distract my spinning mind.
22
Monday morning when Quinton picked me up he seemed really pleased. He wore a small smile of contentment the entire time he drove us to school, and I wondered if there was going to be another vase of flowers in my locker. Or maybe he’s just satisfied with his comforting skills from our phone conversation. But when we walked into school, people kept looking at me with these bizarre expressions. I checked to make sure I had indeed put clothes on this morning; then I whipped out a compact to see if I had anything on my face, but all was clean.
Crush Control Page 18
