“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” I let go of his shirt, thwarted. “I can’t go up to the mountains today,” I said. “I’ve got things to do.”
He smiled. “No problem. Rain check?”
I forced a smile. “Okay.” I turned and walked back inside. “Open that box,” I said to Georgia. “Desperate times require desperate measures.”
All night I fidgeted on the couch, waiting for Mom to go to sleep. I crossed and uncrossed my legs.
“Oh look,” Mom said, flipping through the channels. “The Notebook is on.”
“No! Turn it off!” I said a little too sharply.
Mom looked over at me. “Is everything okay? You’re acting strange.”
“I just, um, I’m tired of this movie. I just saw it last month with Quinton in the park, remember?”
“Right,” she said slowly, still looking at me inquisitively. “Is everything all right between you and Quinton? I haven’t heard you talk about him lately.”
I slumped back into the couch.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think maybe he likes me a little more than I like him.”
Mom nodded understandingly. “Feeling smothered?”
I nodded. “Like I can’t breathe. Like this stupid locket he gave me is fifty pounds and dragging me down.”
Mom reached behind my neck and unclasped the necklace. She placed it on the end table next to her mug.
It felt so great to talk to her, like old times. I just wished I could have been honest with her.
Mom put her arm around me. “I think it’s time for you to cut ties,” she suggested. “Move on to greener pastures.”
I sighed. If only it were that easy.
Mom squeezed my arm in sympathy, then got up and went to her bedroom. I waited quietly by her door until her breathing turned slow and rhythmic; then I whipped out my phone and texted Georgia. It’s GO time.
28
I met her on the front porch and we snuck back inside the house, where we mixed fifteen drops each of pine oil, peppermint oil, rosemary oil, and olive oil from the small brown vials into a cup. We dropped the two flat stones into the mixture, careful not to splash ourselves with the banishment potion, as the instructions said the oils were very potent. Then I used the clear plastic gloves provided to lift each stone from the mixture and adhere them to the pronged ends of the long tool. I removed the gloves and scrubbed my hands.
Georgia pulled out two pairs of black yoga pants and two black hoodies. I climbed into them then slipped on the black cap she handed me. I felt like a cat burglar.
“Isn’t wool a little warm for October?” I whispered.
“We need to camouflage.”
I nodded and tucked the ends of my blonde hair up under the cap.
We loaded everything into Georgia’s dad’s truck and drove through the dark night toward Quinton’s house.
“We can’t park in front of his house,” I hissed.
“But the ladder?” Georgia whined. “What are we going to do, carry it a mile?”
I bit my lip and looked around. “Just go a little bit down the road.”
She drove three houses down and parked.
We got out. I stuffed the pronged banishment tool into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie. We quietly shut the truck doors and tiptoed around to the back and extracted the large metal ladder from the flatbed.
“You take the front. I’ll take the back,” I instructed.
We heaved the ladder off the flatbed, gripping each end between our hands. It really wasn’t too heavy, just cumbersome. We darted between Quinton’s house and the neighboring brick colonial, whacking off the tips of a boxwood shrub with the swaying ladder.
“Sorry,” Georgia called quietly.
We turned toward the back of the house and I pointed up to the window at the far left of the second story. We set the ladder down into the grass.
“Okay.” Georgia lifted one end of the silver ladder and I grabbed the other side and we hoisted the opposite end up into the air until it crashed against the brick house with a whack.
“Ssshhh!” Georgia and I yelled at the ladder.
Something bolted from the shrub beside us.
“Ahhh!” I screamed as a squirrel scurried over my foot and climbed the young, spindly tree next to the house.
We swung our heads back and forth in search of Quinton’s family, neighbors, or local policemen, whom we were certain heard the racket. When no one appeared with handcuffs, I pulled the black wool cap further down on my forehead and Georgia copied me. She held the bottom of the ladder as I climbed the rungs slowly, sweating as the top ends scraped loudly against the brick with each movement I made.
Georgia began to climb up the ladder behind me, until we were both near the top, ready to enter the house.
I stood there on the top rung and wondered how it had gotten to this point. A week ago I was crying because I was sent to the principal’s office and now here I was breaking and entering—a felony. Or at the very least, a misdemeanor. I couldn’t believe the turn my life was taking. The whole situation seemed like my hair: The more I tried to fix it, the more of a mess it became. But what could I do? Hair was just hair, but this was Quinton’s mind. And my life. I had to repair the damage I’d done.
To my relief, I saw that the window was open. Keeping one hand on the ladder, I used my other hand to jimmy the screen up. It required more force than I expected, and I heaved with one big push. The screen screeched up and a huge puff of yellow pollen dust shot out from the window ledge and hit me in the face. I immediately coughed and spluttered.
“Ssshh!” Georgia said, and I clamped my fist over my mouth, but my chest kept convulsing.
Inside, Quinton tossed in his bed.
I ducked down, hitting Georgia in the head with my butt. “Sorry,” I gasped between coughs. Finally, I caught my breath and my hacking died down. I looked down at Georgia. “Ready?”
I swung my leg over the windowsill and crawled inside Quinton’s bedroom. It was dark inside, just the neon glow from his digital alarm clock lighting the space. Suddenly a burst of fear shot through me. I can’t do this! What if I get caught? How would I explain myself? I squinted over at his desk and noticed that his stacks of college applications, once so neatly organized, had fallen to the floor. Instead, covering the desk was a sheet of heavy-duty art paper, a palette of watercolor paints, and a paintbrush. I leaned closer and saw that the paper was covered in black lines and numbers—like a paint-by-number set. As I focused my eyes, I realized with horror that the image was me. I put my hand to my mouth. He had sent a photo of me to some company that had created a paint-by-number canvas in my image.
This had to stop. I turned back to Georgia with renewed courage. I pulled the banishment tool from the pocket of my hoodie, and crept quietly over toward his bed.
He looked so peaceful sleeping on his side with his knees pulled up and his hand draped over the top of his plaid bedspread. His perfectly bowed lips were parted just a sliver and his golden brown hair, shimmering in the light of the full moon, was rumpled and cascading over his forehead. He really was beautiful. I glanced around his room—so neat and tidy, all his trophies dusted and arranged according to size. He is such a great guy, I thought. He was the perfect boyfriend—for a short time. Before everything went so horribly wrong. And maybe he would have been in real life, too—if I hadn’t hypnotized him to be something he wasn’t. It’s not fair what I’ve done to him. I need to fix it. To undo my mistakes.
I pressed on the tool, opening the ends of the tongs with the flat stones, and held it up to his head. I opened them more so the space was wide enough to place each stone on his temples like the diagram demonstrated.
Georgia started to giggle. “Sorry!” she whispered. “It just looks funny. Like you’re giving him electric shock therapy.”
“Hand me the metal stick,” I whispered.
Georgia reached into her pocket and produced the long, thin metal p
robe.
I held the tongs with my left hand, making sure to keep the stones on his temples, and used my right hand to bang the metal stick against the handle of the tongs. The entire tool began to vibrate, making a soft humming noise like a tuning fork.
Quinton bolted up in bed like he’d been struck by lightning.
Georgia and I hit the floor like we were bowling pins knocked down. We wormed our way under Quinton’s bed as he jumped out of his covers, searching around his room all disoriented.
“Who’s there?” he asked manically.
“Oooh, he sleeps with no shirt on,” Georgia whispered. “Look at those pecs!”
“Hush!” I elbowed her.
Quinton walked over to the open window and stuck his head out.
Damn, we’re going to get caught! How am I going to explain this?
As he turned around, Georgia and I both saw the banishment tool lying in the middle of the carpet. He was walking right toward it. He was going to trip right over it! Georgia reached up and pulled off her wool cap. She angled back her arm as best she could in the confined space under his bed and whipped the cap across the floor. It flew out from under the bed, skidded across the carpet, and landed on the opposite side of the room.
“Who’s there?” Quinton asked again, walking briskly to the other side of the room.
Without hesitation, Georgia and I slid out from under the bed, crawled hastily on hands and knees across the carpet, picked up the banishment tool, and flung ourselves out the window. Georgia scurried down the ladder. But when I heaved my legs across the windowsill, I missed the swaying top rung, and my leg crashed into the side of the house. I held onto the top edge of the ladder as it started to lean, then slide, then fall, scraping me along the scratchy brick and mortar of the house until I plunged into the spiky leaves of the shrubs. The ladder slammed down into the grass beside me in a racket. Suddenly, the sprinkler system turned on, sending a misty waterfall down on me, as I hovered in the shrubs.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Georgia was by my side.
Above us, Quinton stuck his head out the window. “Who’s there?” he called down.
We stayed hidden in the bushes until he disappeared back inside his room.
Quickly we got up and hoisted the ladder up off the ground. My hip ached, but we had no time to dawdle. So I hobbled as fast as I could, awkwardly clutching my side with one hand and the ladder with the other.
We made it back to the truck, breathless from exertion and relief.
“Holy crap,” Georgia said when we were far enough away to feel like successful fugitives. We both burst into a fit of exhaustion- and anxiety-induced giggles.
Georgia drove quickly across town. In the distance, the first slivers of sunlight were peeking over the horizon.
The next morning Quinton picked me up for school. As I climbed into the car, I noticed it right away: Quinton’s sideburns. They were singed from the banishment tool! I started to panic. He has to know. He knows we were there last night. He thinks I tried to hurt him.
I was stiff. Rigid. Like if I moved even an inch, Quinton was going to snap his head toward me and say, I know everything! I wished he would talk to me. Instead, he had his attention focused on his driving and the damn ESPN announcer on the radio. I could feel the tension in the air. I wasn’t caught by the police, but I was caught by Quinton. And that might have been worse.
He pulled into the student parking lot and parked. He sat in the driver’s seat for a minute and I braced myself. He turned to face me. “I dreamed of you last night,” he said.
“What?” I asked, thinking I heard wrong.
“I dreamed that you were an angel floating around my head and sprinkling me with light beams of love.” He smiled and unbuckled his seat belt. Then he walked into school in a delusional stupor.
As we walked, I texted Georgia. OMG, his sideburns are singed! He has burn marks on his temples!
She texted back. Does he look like Frankenstein?
GEORGIA!
More importantly, she texted, was he at all suspicious about last night? Did he mention anything?
I glanced over at him, happily walking toward his locker with a dopey grin on his face. He said he had a weird dream, that’s all.
Still lovey-dovey? she asked.
Still lovey-dovey, I texted back.
Don’t lose hope.
In English class we began our oral report presentations. First up was Kayleigh Mathews—a quiet girl whose topic was the character Hermia’s idea of love.
When Kayleigh finished, Mrs. Stabile announced that Quinton was up next for his report. He walked to the front of the room looking relaxed and assured. He sat down on the chair at the front of the room but then angled it so it was facing directly toward me. He cleared his throat.
“Let me sing you a love song,” he said without reciting his topic, and I tensed a little. “About what’s in my heart.” He touched his chest with two fingers. “Irises refuse to bloom whenever we’re apart.”
My stomach knotted. What was he talking about?
There was a general murmur of confusion.
“I’ve held others before, but it was never like this,” Quinton’s eyes bored into me. “My thoughts revolve around you in heavenly bliss.”
Mrs. Stabile shuffled through papers on her desk. “Quinton,” she interrupted. “I’m a little confused. Your assignment was to do a character analysis of Puck.” Quinton looked at her blankly, and she sighed. “You know, the quick-witted sprite who sets the play’s events in motion with his magic?”
Quinton just smiled at me, holding his index cards in his hand.
“I’m sorry if you accidentally thought you had a different topic,” Mrs. Stabile said. “Do you think maybe you could just talk off the cuff a bit about Puck’s capricious spirit and humor? Maybe touch on how he is good-hearted but capable of cruel tricks like using the magic flower and love spell to create wild confusion?”
“I’d rather just finish my love poem for Willow,” he said. “It came to me last night in the middle of a bizarre dream—like an electric jolt of inspiration.”
The muffin I ate for breakfast felt heavy in my stomach.
“I have to feel your tender touch. . . .”
“Mr. Dillinger,” Mrs. Stabile said sharply, “I’m willing to give you some leeway here, but no, you may not recite a love poem to Ms. Grey in my classroom. Now speak a little about Puck’s character or I’ll have no choice but to give you a zero.”
But Quinton kept on spouting lines of mushy devotion. Mrs. Stabile shook her head and used her red pen to scratch notes in her book. But what she didn’t realize was that Quinton really should have gotten some credit after all.
Because, sadly, the description of Puck and his cruel tricks sounded an awful lot like me.
29
“It didn’t work,” Georgia said into the phone that was resting on the table between us. “We’ve given it two days and nothing has changed.”
Silver Rain breathed heavily on the other end. “Did you follow the instructions precisely?”
“Precisely!” I cried.
“And you’re absolutely sure you made direct contact?”
“Oh, we’re sure,” I answered. “There are burn marks to prove it.”
“Hmm,” Silver Rain mused. “If banishment didn’t work, I think the answer is a Cut the Mojo love charm.”
“Huh?” Georgia and I both said at the same time.
“You need to create a talisman—that’s a charm made out of dough....”
“How much?” I cut her off. “Because I’m going to be broke by the time this is all through.”
Silver Rain sighed. “Well, since the banishment didn’t work, I’ll give you the recipe and instructions for free. You just need to provide the materials.”
Georgia grabbed a pen and paper and together we took notes as Silver Rain assured us that this would work. She was positive.
I called Quinton and told him I’d be unable to att
end his football game Friday night, but Georgia and I had a pressing matter to take care of. I thought maybe he’d be aggravated, but of course he wasn’t.
“I’ll pick you up Saturday to go to Mia’s competition,” he said cheerily.
“Okay. Good luck,” I said, and we hung up.
Georgia and I mixed the dough recipe using salt, flour, and water. We shaped the dough into a small, charm-size heart then used a knife to carve an X through the center. I held my hands over the dough and recited Silver Rain’s words: “You were once my burning desire. You once lit my heart on fire. I loved you then you see, but the flame is gone: Let me be. But together we stay, friends all the way.” I carved my initials into the back of the charm and placed it on a sheet of aluminum foil. I slid it into the hot oven.
Twenty minutes later Mom walked in. “Yum, what are you baking?”
“Cookies,” I answered, and smiled at Georgia: It had been her idea to slip out to the grocery store to buy some slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookies.
Saturday, when Quinton picked me up, I had the Cut the Mojo charm safely wrapped in tissue and nestled in the pocket of my jeans. Georgia was going to swipe a chain from her mother’s jewelry store long enough to let the charm hang right above his heart. We drove forty-five minutes to the high school where the regional cheerleading competition was held.
When we arrived at the gymnasium, Quinton spotted Jake and Hayden high in the bleachers and climbed up toward them. I saw Hayden sitting next to mousy Sarah. They were laughing and flirting with each other. Well, I thought, at least there was that. With all the mayhem I had created with Quinton, at least I could tell myself I had helped Hayden and Sarah. And I had helped Mia. I hoped God graded on a bell curve where some of the good could cancel out a lot of the bad.
I scanned the bleachers looking for Georgia but my eyes fell on Max. He looked over and saw me. I tentatively waved. He smiled and gave a quick wave back. Then he turned and sat next to Minnie. It made me sad to think that we had crossed the line from friends with potential to barely friends at all.
Crush Control Page 23
