24
When Mom and I got home from dinner, I took Oompa for a walk to try and clear my head. I walked down the street and turned into the pillared entrance of Poplinger Park. Overhead spotlights lit up the tennis courts to the right, and smaller solar lights hid underneath bushes and plants, lighting up the walking trails. I took the leash off Oompa, picked him up in my arms, and sat down to swing.
“I have really made a mess of things,” I said into his spiky fur. He snorted his agreement. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I reached for it, and when I saw it was Max, I frantically pressed the talk button, accidentally dropping Oompa off my lap. He landed with a thud on my pinkie toe. “Owww!” I hollered then, and, although it really wasn’t that painful, I just exploded into tears, all the anxiety leaking out of me in blubbering sobs.
“Geez,” Max said on the phone. “I admit I gave you the freeze-out, but I was just upset that you bagged on me for the concert. But I’m over it, so stop crying. I’m sorry.”
But I couldn’t stop crying, which was weird because I typically wasn’t the emotional one. Usually it was me rolling my eyes as Mom wept at a Gerber commercial. And Max knew that I was normally pretty levelheaded. I think it freaked him out.
“Where are you?” he asked.
I squeaked out, “The park.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Ten minutes later I had managed to wipe the snot from my nose and smudges of makeup from under my eyes. Max’s truck rumbled into the parking lot adjacent to the swings. His headlights shone brightly on me and Oompa, and I hid my face behind my hands. A minute later he was over on the swing next to me, and I was glad to be enveloped in the evening darkness. Oompa jumped off my lap and onto Max’s. Max scratched his ear, kicked into the dirt, and started to swing. He didn’t say anything, but having him there, my best friend, was the comfort I needed.
I took a breath, looked over at him. “I just had a fight with my mom,” I said, not knowing how else to explain the tears. “I mean, of course I’m upset by your freeze-out.” I smiled. “But”—I looked down—“that wasn’t really why I was crying.”
“Are you okay? Is everything with your Mom okay?”
I nodded. I looked back over at him, and the spotlights cast light and shadows on his face and shone little puddles of light onto his hair. “I’m sorry about the concert. I didn’t mean to blow you off. It was just—”
“You don’t need to explain,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m sure Quinton wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of us going out.”
I turned in my swing to face him more, the chains twisting above me. “No, that wasn’t it.”
“Really? ’Cause Minnie wasn’t too happy about us going.”
“She wasn’t?” The chains began to unwind, spinning me in the opposite direction. I laughed a little, not meaning to sound so happy at Minnie’s jealousy.
“I wound up taking her instead of you,” he said flatly.
“Oh well, I guess that made her happy.”
He looked down at Oompa, whispered something in his ear. Then he straightened back up. “It was fine. I mean, she went and sat through it but she just wanted to be there so you weren’t. She didn’t have fun. We didn’t have fun—not the way you and I would have.” He stopped swinging and just looked at me. My heart thumped. “Minnie and I are pretty different,” he said. “I like action. I like karate and playing my drums. I like music and concerts and doing stuff in the outdoors, and Minnie—she never wants to try anything new. She wants to lounge around and bask in the sun. I just sit there all antsy like, come on!”
“But she’s so sweet,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.
“Yeah, she is sweet and she’s a great person but I don’t know, it’s not . . .” He paused, not moving his eyes from mine. “It’s not like when I’m with you.”
My palms felt slick against the chain ropes of the swing. Something was happening between us. For a moment it was silent, only the background chorus of the crickets chirping and the tree frogs croaking filling the air. Max used the toe of his foot to inch his swing closer to mine; then he reached over and grabbed my chain and inched me closer. He started to lean in my direction, and my heart was convulsing now, because I was almost positive that Max was going to kiss me.
Then Oompa sprung up off of Max’s lap and his back claws pierced Max’s thigh.
Oompa rocketed through the air and ran toward the walking trail nestled in the trees. My heart stopped its frantic beat and plummeted to a screeching halt, because Oompa had run right up to Quinton, who was walking toward us with a huge smile plastered on his face.
“I knew you’d be here!” Quinton called. “I went to your house and your mom said you’d taken a walk, and I just knew you’d come to the site of our first encounter and our special date.”
Max wiggled off the swing.
Quinton walked closer, and he had a wild look in his eyes, like he didn’t even see Max—all his attention was focused solely on me. He got down on one knee like he was ready to propose. “Facebook devotion is too public for you, okay, I accept that. So here . . .” He reached into his pocket, and for a very scary second I thought he was going to pull out a ring. But he didn’t. Instead, he brought out a pile of colorful construction paper cut into rectangles and stapled together to form a booklet. “It’s a coupon book of love,” Quinton announced proudly. “If you’re in the mood for a massage . . .” He flipped through the pages and flashed a picture of a stick figure man rubbing a stick figure lady’s shoulders. “Here’s your coupon! In the mood for a candlelight picnic?” He flipped through and found the appropriate coupon. “Here you go!”
Max looked at Quinton and then back at me. A look I couldn’t identify passed over his face. He got off the swing and began walking toward his truck.
I jumped up. “Please don’t go, Max.”
“I . . . I shouldn’t have come,” Max said, turning around to face me. “You’ve got Quinton. He should be the one comforting you.”
“Wait,” I said. “Max . . . I . . . you . . .” I wanted to say the missing word. Max, I want you. Or Max, I love you. I’ve always loved you. But Quinton came up behind me. He flipped through his coupon book for more evidence of his devotion.
“If you’re trying to tell me that you need a little alone time,” Quinton said as I continued to walk away from him toward Max. “I’ve made a coupon for that too!”
Max got in his truck, started the engine.
“Max!” I yelled.
He rolled down the window. “He’s your boyfriend, Willow. So either go to him or . . . change that.” He rolled his window up and drove away.
What? What was he saying? If I broke up with Quinton . . . ?
Quinton walked around to face me. “You’re so sexy in this light,” he said. “Sexy and alluring.”
I put my hands on his shoulders and squared him to look me in the eye. “I swear to God, I’m not, Quinton.” I said. “I’m not sexy. I’m not alluring. You are not mesmerized by me.” I tried desperately to undo the mind control.
“Of course you are.” He beamed. “And I am! You’re my goddess of love!” He leaned over to kiss me, but I stopped him.
“Look,” I said. “I think we need to cool things down a little. Maybe take a break.”
“Take a break?” Quinton shook his head. “No, I could never stop loving you! It’s like you’re etched into my brain!” He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed the very last ounce of hope out of me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to reason with him. What if I’d screwed him up forever—just like Mom had said?
The next morning, Quinton showed up to pick me up for school, all chipper and mushy like he never heard a word of my attempted break-up. After leaving the park, Max hadn’t answered his phone or any of my texts. I had tossed and turned all night. So this morning, I had zero energy to even care that Quinton hadn’t heard me. I climbed into his car and let him go on believing everything was hunky-dory, because what other choice did
I have? It was like talking to a brick wall. But I knew somehow I would have to get inside Quinton’s head and fix this mess I’d made. And I needed help.
I cornered Georgia in English class and whispered, “I have a problem. A top secret, major problem. Do you think you can help?”
Georgia blossomed at the idea of drama in real life, not just on her TV screen. “I would love to,” she said. “Your house or mine?”
I thought about Georgia’s hovering mom. At least my mom wouldn’t be home until after work. “Mine,” I said.
“I’ll be there.” She clasped her hands in excitement.
I told Quinton he didn’t need to drive me home and I met Georgia in the parking lot. We were buckling our seat belts in Georgia’s lemon-yellow VW Bug when Georgia said, “Okay, spill. I’m dying to know what’s going on.”
So I took a deep breath and told her everything. She was frozen with shock and intrigue. For once she was speechless. “And here’s the thing,” I continued. “I think Max actually might like me. Like me, like me. I think he wanted to kiss me. But he won’t make a move as long as he thinks Quinton and I are dating. And I can’t seem to break up with Quinton because he’s so enchanted from the hypnosis.” I explained how the conventional method to stop a hypnotic suggestion required me to get him back under hypnosis—something I couldn’t do since he no longer was sleepwalking.
Georgia was wide-eyed and fascinated. She parked in my driveway and turned the car off. “Well,” she finally said, “let’s go find a way to re-hypnotize the guy.” Then she got out and confidently strode toward my front door.
An hour later, all thirteen of Mom’s textbooks were stacked on my bed. “I think the handshake method is your best bet,” Georgia said, referring to the rapid-induction method, which stated that you could re-hypnotize someone with a quick jerky handshake. It only worked on people who had been successfully hypnotized before.
“How’s that going to work?” I argued. “We’ve kind of moved past handshakes.”
Georgia reached for one of the textbooks again. The she abruptly put the book down. “Wait,” she said. “Do you have a video of your mom’s show?”
“Our show,” I automatically said. “Yes. Why?”
“Because, hello, have him watch it. Maybe listening to your mom hypnotize the volunteers will hypnotize him.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea,” I said. “I’d have to really set the mood, make sure there’s no distractions. Maybe find Mom’s CD of ocean waves and play it softly in the background. Oh no, wait, my stereo is broken.”
“You could dim the lights,” Georgia suggested. “Have soft candlelight.”
I went into the living room and rifled through our DVDs until I found it. “It could work,” I said, suddenly reenergized.
“And if it doesn’t work,” Georgia said, “resort to the handshake. Pop in a horror movie and hold hands. At a scary moment suddenly jump and jerk his hand.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. A plan and a backup plan. I was feeling good.
Georgia smiled and together we went in search of candles. I felt certain that if I could get Quinton back under my control, I could fix this giant mess I had created.
Friday morning when Quinton picked me up I casually suggested, “Hey, want to come over Saturday night and just hang out? Watch a video or something?”
“Sounds great,” he said.
The trickier part was convincing Mom to leave the house. But as luck would have it, Friday afternoon, when Mom came home from work, she told me a few of the ladies from work were going out to celebrate the receptionist, Brenda’s, fiftieth birthday.
“Why don’t you come?” she asked. “We can have some fun.”
I felt bad. I had just the other day spouted that Mom and I weren’t having any fun and clearly she had listened. She was trying. But I had a much more important agenda. Once I fixed Quinton, I’d have plenty of time for Mom.
“Sorry.” I shrugged. “I already promised Quinton I’d hang out. Plus, it’s not like I know your work friends.”
She smiled weakly. “Okay, no problem.” But as she spoke, she put on her big stage smile—something I’d never seen her use for me before.
Saturday night, five vanilla-scented candles burned on the end table next to the couch. I couldn’t play the melodic sounds of crashing waves because of my broken stereo, so instead, I plugged in the box fan and let its soft hum serve as our spellbinding background noise. The lights were turned down low.
When Quinton walked in, he surveyed the scene, and a crooked grin spread across his face. Oh God. He probably thought he was getting lucky.
Trust me, I thought. Fixing your mind will be way better than sex, I promise you.
“So,” I said, “I was thinking maybe I’d play the video of Mom’s and my hypnosis show from Vegas. I mean, it’s a . . . part of my past I’d really like to let you see.” Geez, I sounded just as cheesy as he did.
“Okay, sure,” Quinton said, plopping on the couch and adjusting the pillows. Clearly he thought this was all code for Let’s get it on.
I slid the DVD into the player and pressed play. Oompa appeared from my bedroom. He eyed Quinton stretched out on the couch. Oompa waddled over and sniffed around at Quinton’s leg. Then, for the first time, he didn’t jump and attach himself. He just snorted one loud snort then lay down next to my feet. It was like Oompa knew Quinton was no longer a threat—that my affections had waned. I reached down and scratched his ears. I sat close to Quinton but didn’t touch him. I didn’t want anything to distract him from the hypnosis.
On-screen, Mom appeared. She pulled fifteen volunteers from the audience. Slowly she began the hypnotic induction, using her low, sexy voice. I watched Quinton’s face. It was softly illuminated by the orange flickering glow of the burning candles. The shadows below his cheekbones angled his features, making him look older, more mature. Sexier.
Oh, I thought miserably. If only you had liked me without the mind control.
Mom’s sultry voice droned, flat and mesmerizing. Surely this will work, I thought encouragingly. Quinton seemed drowsy.
Then suddenly, Quinton laughed. “Do you see what’s happening here?” he said, pointing down at Oompa.
On the floor at my feet, Oompa’s head had flopped to the side. His pointy ears rested back against his head and his tongue hung out.
Oh, for God’s sake.
Quinton laughed harder, clearly not the least bit hypnotized.
I clapped my hands together in one sharp smack. “Oompa!” His head snapped up. He looked at me, blinked his eyes two times, then lumbered across the living room in a zigzag fashion and headed back to my bedroom.
“That is one crazy dog,” Quinton said.
I scrambled over to the DVD player and ejected the disc. Time for plan B. “Uh, have you ever seen The Blair Witch Project? It’s such a great movie.” Total lie. I hate scary movies. I had to borrow it from Georgia.
Quinton nodded. “Yeah, it’s awesome.”
“Want to watch it?”
“Sure.”
I slid the new disc into the player. I returned to the couch and took Quinton’s hand. He smiled down at me. The first preview started. I wrestled my way out of our interlocking grip and grabbed the remote. “Come on, come on,” I said as I fast-forwarded through the coming attractions. “Okay, there.” I put the remote down and snuggled into him. I took his hand in mine and replayed in my mind the text I had read. The handshake needed to be quick and abrupt, with a jerky flick of the wrist. Okay. I can do this. I have to do this.
Suddenly the creepy music began to play—the telltale sign of impending horror. I held his hand tightly. The music got louder. On-screen, a girl screamed.
Quick as I could, I yelled. “AAAAAAHHHHHH!” I yanked his hand and wrenched his wrist as hard as possible.
“Shit!” Quinton gasped, pulling his hand away from my grip. His elbow flailed out in the sudden movement, colliding with one of the five burning candles on the end table.
“Oh no,” I screamed as one of the candles toppled off the table and fell onto the ground. The circulating fan blew the flames just enough for them to ignite the edges of the glossy People magazine stashed next to the couch
“Shiiiiiiit,” Quinton yelled. Definitely. Not. Hypnotized.
I stood up, panicked, as People continued to burn. What to do? I ran toward the kitchen to get water. I grabbed the first container I saw—Mom’s coffee mug—and filled it up from the tap. I darted back into the living room to find Quinton, shirtless, patting out the flames with his Worthington High Football T-shirt. I set the coffee mug down on the coffee table and slumped in exhaustion.
Quinton stood up, holding the charred T-shirt in his hand. If I wasn’t so dejected, I might have noticed his rock-solid chest and abs. As he turned, I saw a tiny little scar on the small of his back. Evidence of our very first encounter, when things were just silly and embarrassing. Before all the madness took over.
Above us, the fire alarm began to sound. Shriek. Shriek. Shriek.
“What a night,” Quinton groaned.
He only knew the half of it.
Quinton got a chair to climb up and disengage the alarm. With each pulsating blast of the siren, I felt the clock ticking, warning me, that if I didn’t fix Quinton’s head soon, things would only get worse.
25
Sunday morning I stared up at the loose wires dangling down from the dismantled fire alarm. I wished it were as easy to break whatever connections were misfiring in Quinton’s brain. Wires I could deal with, but Quinton’s brain was turning out to be an incomprehensible challenge. I called Georgia and replayed the night’s disaster.
“We’ll figure something out,” she said.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived at my doorstep holding a small plastic bag. She handed it to me. Inside was a wad of tangled necklaces. “You work on those and I’ll search for ideas. Where’s your computer?”
I brought the laptop from my bedroom and set it up on the kitchen table. “I’ve searched for everything,” I said, but Georgia sat down and started typing with determination.
Crush Control Page 20
