Crush Control (8 page)

Then he said too bad he lived so far away or he'd give her a job. He pulled out a card and handed it to her, saying, “If you ever move east, give me a call
.
” And when she looked at the card, the NORTHWEST ATLANTA HEADACHE CLINIC was located, unbelievably, twenty minutes away from her hometown of Worthington, Georgia.

Two weeks later, Grandpa had a stroke. Grandma called, and for the first time in five years she spoke to Mom. She told her that Grandpa was asking for us.
That's too many coincidences,
Mom said,
too many signs pointing us back to Georgia
. Mom was a big believer in signs. And suddenly we were packing our bags, leaving our show, changing our life like it was the most natural direction for us to take.

So what I couldn't understand was . . . if she was ready to quit Vegas and reconcile with her parents, why was she still wearing the purple shoes? And why had we not gone to see Grandma and Grandpa yet?

“Willow,” Mom said softly. “Change has more to do with what's happening inside the heart than with what someone's wearing on her feet.”

A lump formed in my throat. I knew she was right, but what did that leave for me and my transformation? If change happened within, how could I control the way Max viewed me?

I sighed a little too loudly as I rummaged through a box for a colander.

Mom poured the hard macaroni noodles into the boiling water and stirred it with a knife because we hadn't unpacked the wooden spoons yet. “What?” Mom asked. “Why the dramatic exhale?” She pulled out a package of hot dogs from the fridge. “Shoot, I forgot to buy buns.”

I tried to change my expression to mask how devastated I was. “Max has a girlfriend,” I said, shrugging a little. “I guess I just thought we'd be . . .”

“Together all the time,” Mom finished for me. “Like before?”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded. “But now it's like he has to divide his time between me and
Minnie
.”

“Minnie?” Mom screwed up her face. “What kind of name is that?”

“I know, right? Hello Minnie Mouse.”

“Does she have big ears?” Mom asked, smiling devilishly.

I laughed, and I loved her for indulging me instead of scolding me for being petty. “No,” I said. “Her ears are small, inconspicuous. Perfect.”

“What's she like?” Mom asked.

“She's fresh, not showy . . . She seemed . . . nice.”

“Ah,” Mom nodded, draining the noodles. “You like her. Well, I would expect Max to have good taste.”

I didn't answer, because how could I like someone who'd stomped on my dreams? But I had only met her for a few minutes. I held onto the hope that she had flaws. Major ones.

Mom turned and looked at me with the steam wafting around her dark hair. “Listen, Willow, take it from me: Girlfriends and boyfriends come and go. The good times had with them are easily forgotten. But best friends stay in your heart forever.” She put her hand over her heart and smiled. “Minnie will never replace that special bond you two have.” She poured the noodles back in the pot and added the butter, milk, and cheese. “And Max is a good guy. He'll make time for you.”

But would it be enough? Could I go back in my mind to thinking of Max as just a friend?

After we ate our macaroni and cheese and hot dogs, I retreated to my bedroom, cracked open my history book, and settled into the chapter on Korea. I heard a crash at my window, the sound of something solid pelting the glass pane. I froze in my seat. I sat perfectly still as my heart ticked a little faster. Again, a smack shook the window. With a tingle of nerves, I slid off my seat and eased over toward the window. Cautiously I took the long cord of the blinds and slowly pulled it up, one lever at a time. And there was Max with his hands pressed against the clear pane of the window.

I tried not to smile and instead threw on a quick expression of surprise. “What are you doing?” I unlocked the window and pulled it up.

“Where the heck were you?” he asked as he negotiated his way through the window like this was completely normal behavior.

“Um, I do have a front door.”

Max looked at me like I was clueless. “It's almost 10 p.m.”

“So.”

“So doesn't your mom . . .”

“No,” I said, taken aback for a minute because Max should know that my mom wouldn't care. I never had curfews—our lifestyle didn't roll that way.

“Oh,” he said, and his face told me that obviously Minnie's mom did care. I shook the image of him crawling through her window from my mind.

Max pulled the screen down behind him then sat on my bed, taking in my newly decorated room.

“What?” I asked, following his eyes.

“It's more . . . pink than I would have thought.”

I looked at the rose-colored bedspread and the framed pictures of pink and purple irises.

“You just don't seem like a pink kind of girl.”

I wasn't entirely sure what to make of that. Did he not think of me as a
girl
, just a buddy? Or was it that, of course I'm a girl, just not the frilly variety? But before I could press for details he interrupted my thoughts.

“I waited by your locker for twenty minutes. I was late to teach karate and the six-year-olds were restless. I tried to call you and text you like a billion times and you never answered. Then I had drum lessons and dinner and all day I was worried that you were like, stuck at school or worse, took the bus and had to ride with all the underclassmen.”

“I walked.” I sat back on my bed. “No big deal.”

“Walked? It's like a hundred degrees.” His face contorted. “Why?”

“Well, I don't know, we hadn't nailed down any plans and I thought maybe you'd be driving Minnie.” I tried not to sound so juvenile. So hurt. So transparent.

“When have we ever
nailed down plans
? I've talked to you every day for the last seventeen years and suddenly we have to
nail down plans
?”

“Well, I didn't know,” I said sounding defensive. “I mean, your car's not exactly huge, and with all the crap in the backseat—what if Minnie needed a ride?”

“Minnie has a car,” he said, the edges of his lips curling into the beginning of a smile. “Are you jealous, Willow Grey?”

“What? No!” I sprang up off the bed as if standing made me more believable. “Like you're going to boot a seventeen-year friendship ? Please!” I faked confidence. “I wasn't
jealous
—just, you know, surprised. Why didn't you tell me you were dating her?”

He shrugged. “I've talked to you about Minnie.”

“Yeah, but anytime you talked about her it never sounded like you were a couple. You always made her sound like a little bit of a ditz.”

He smiled. “She
is
a little bit of a ditz. Reminds me of when we used to watch
I Love Lucy
reruns with your mom, remember that? Minnie's kind of dingbatty sometimes. Naive.” You could tell by the way he talked he thought it was cute. Endearing. My heart plummeted. Because if ever there was a word that didn't describe me, it was
ditz
. I wasn't beautiful. I wasn't enticing, intriguing, sexy, or sultry but I did have a decent amount of brains, and I was not flaky or ditzy or dingbatty at all. I liked to be in control of situations as best I could. That's how Mom convinced the stage manager to let me be her assistant at such a young age. I was responsible. Dependable. If Max thought ditzy was cute, well, what future could we have?

“What kind of name is Minnie, anyway?” I didn't mean to sound so judgmental. After all, my name was Willow, and that wasn't exactly normal.

“She's named after her grandmother!” he said protectively. “Minta—it's Greek. Her parents own that little Greek restaurant in town—the Olive Tavern. I'll take you there next weekend. The food is amazing.”

Max taking me to his girlfriend's parents' restaurant? It was too painful.

Suddenly Max stood up, crossed the beige carpet of my new room, and pulled me into a tight hug. “God, it's so good to have you here,” he said.

I smelled the fresh soap fragrance on his neck—clean and wonderful.

He pulled back and looked at me. “There are just so many things I can't wait to show you.”

And as he wrapped his arms tightly around me, I let myself dream and hope that maybe Minnie was around only because I hadn't been. And that once he started showing me all the things that were important to him, he'd realize that Minnie was no longer necessary because now I was here and that was all he wanted.

A tall girl with mahogany hair hovered next to Mia's desk at the start of English class the next day. As the students all bustled around, taking out notebooks and gossiping, Mia and the dark-haired girl discussed the cheerleading fund-raiser they were in charge of. They both wore the tight white T-shirts that said SAVE THE TA-TAS
.
These were the shirts they were selling to raise money for breast cancer awareness. Mia had a calculator out and was tabulating their current profits.

“Even after the proceeds that go to the breast cancer society,” Mia said, “we should still have enough profits to buy new uniforms.”

“Uh-huh,” the mahogany-haired girl said, sounding bored.

Mia continued to tap the calculator buttons.

“So,” Mahogany-Haired Girl said. “Riley is refusing to cheer at next week's competition unless we change the music.”

Mia snapped her head up from her calculator and running tally. “Why?”

“Apparently”—Mahogany-Haired Girl rolled her eyes—“she's taking a stand against any musician whose lyrics are violent or disparaging to women. You know,
ho
,
bitch
,
slut
. . .”

Mia held up her hand to stop the girl. She reached down into her backpack and pulled out another notebook and a four-color pen. She flipped open the notebook to the red tab marked CHEERLEADING and clicked her pen to red. I watched with fascination as she began to write in perfect block letters.

“Okay,” Mia said, unaware of my curious stare. “Let's come up with a list of politically correct musicians and songs we can use.” She began to construct a bullet-point list.

Mrs. Stabile rose from behind her desk. “Let's get started. Sadie?” she called over to Mahogany-Haired Girl. “What are you doing in this class?”

“Sorry.” Sadie smiled. “Just conducting a little business.” She waved good-bye to Mia and darted out of the classroom.

Mia clicked her pen over to blue, shut her extracurricular activities notebook, and returned to her English notes.

Mrs. Stabile announced that she was dividing us into groups to discuss different topics from
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. She began sectioning off the class. Slowly she worked her way toward the far left of the room, where I was sitting. She pointed her chubby finger at Mia, Georgia, and me. “You three,” she said, “can compile a one-page report on the images of love and marriage in the play versus how they've evolved through history.”

Mia quickly jotted down the assignment in blue block letters. We stood up and turned our desks so we faced one another. Georgia rummaged through her backpack for her copy of
A Midsummer Night's Dream.
Mia already had her copy out on the desk. Several Post-it notes stuck out from the pages, with words like
characterization
and
key plot point
and
symbolism
marked.

I looked up and caught Mia eyeing me. “Um, I . . .” I stammered because it wasn't like I could say to the queen bee,
Wow, I really admire you.
Didn't she hear that on a regular basis? For different reasons, I'm sure, but still. “Uh, I'm just a little panicked,” I improvised, “because I've never read
A Midsummer's Night Dream
and it seems like I'm going to be pretty behind.” At least that was true.

Georgia popped up from her backpack and tossed her book onto the desk. It was dog-eared and wrinkled and looked like she had spilled some nail polish on the cover. “I can bring you up to speed,” she offered.

“That'd be great,” I said. “Do you mind?” I found myself asking for Mia's permission. She just sort of commanded the room that way.

“No, of course not,” she said and folded her hands on top of the desk. She seemed interested to hear Georgia's explanation.

Georgia began her summary. “Hermia loves Lysander but her wicked father insists that she marry Demetrius.” Georgia pulled out a sheet of white lined paper and began to diagram the love triangle. “Hey, do you mind if I borrow that?” She reached for Mia's pen and began to color code the diagram. “So Hermia and Lysander escape to the woods, but Demetrius follows because he totally digs Hermia. Then Helena follows Demetrius into the woods because she totally digs
him
. It's a complicated mess.” And from the circles and arrows on the page, I could see it was.

“That was good,” Mia said, her arms propped on the desk, totally immersed in the description. She looked over at Georgia's mangled book, perhaps a little surprised that someone could fully comprehend a reading assignment without detailed notes. “But then in the woods,” Mia added, “a fairy uses the juice from a magical flower to put a love spell on Lysander to make him fall in love with Helena.”

“A love spell?” I asked, intrigued.

They nodded in unison.

Just then, the classroom door opened and in walked Quinton, all flushed and glowing like he'd just ridden a wave to class. “Sorry I'm late,” he said, handing the teacher a note.

Mrs. Stabile glanced down at the paper then scanned the classroom. She pointed over at our group. “Join them; they only have three.”