Crush Control (17 page)

“You know . . .” Mom seemed to perk up a bit. “I've been—”

“I heard you're working at a doctor's office,” Grandma interrupted, sounding pleased. “Word travels.” She winked at me. “It must be so nice to have your life on a regular schedule. No late nights, no shows on the weekends. Your mother can be around to attend any of your functions—cheerleading or tennis, whatever you chose to do. And of course I can be there too.”

“Willow doesn't
play
tennis or cheerlead,” Mom answered, irritating me by interrupting my mental image of Mom and Grandma sitting in the bleachers next to Mia's family. Of course in my mental playbook I've suddenly developed athletic skills.

“Well, I could,” I said. “I've never had the time to.” Mom looked like I'd just slapped her, but Grandma smiled and nodded approvingly.

“So.” She turned toward Mom. “What are you doing at the doctor's office? Filing? Answering phones and making appointments? You know, I heard that you could take an online medical coding class and get certified in under a year. You should look into that, Victoria.”

Mom took a deep breath, closed her eyes momentarily then reopened them. “Actually, I'm using a technique called hypnotherapy to help people with chronic headache pain. And so far it really seems to be working. The patients are excited and seeing changes. I bet I could help Dad. . . .”

Grandma stood up and looked shocked. She lowered her voice. “I thought you gave that—that
hypnosis
up,” she said, looking on the verge of tears. “It's ridiculous.”

“I know you never liked the idea of me doing the shows, but this is different. This is helping people! I have a patient who's had chronic tension headaches for five years and now—”

Grandma sighed. “Just because you moved from the stage to an office doesn't make it any less absurd. How do you think Willow feels when her friends find out about your hocus pocus nonsense?”

“It's not nonsense!” Mom said, raising her voice. “And Willow wouldn't have friends as judgmental as you. You're so rigid and critical that you pushed your only daughter two thousand miles away.”

“I didn't force you to leave.” Grandma said through a clenched jaw. She reached up and anxiously clutched at her pearl necklace.

“You criticized my clothes, my friends, my interests. You wrote an article for the Junior League on what to do when your daughter doesn't live up to your expectations!”

My eyes bulged out. I never knew about that. I nestled down further into the couch and let their jabs volley over the top of me.

“No,” Grandma said, tears filling her eyes. “I asked how to help my daughter make better choices.”

“How was that supposed to make me feel, Mom? I'll tell you: like I wasn't the daughter you really wanted.”

“That's not true!” Grandma cried.

“Why did you always try to control everything I did?” Mom asked. “Why didn't you have faith in me?” She reached over, grabbed my hand, and pulled me up off the couch. “Come on. We're going. Nothing's changed.”

Inside my head I screamed,
No, please, not again. Don't leave.
But I couldn't make my mouth say the words. So I let Mom pull me through the house like a rag doll on a string. As she fumbled with the front door, Grandma took my other hand toward her and I stood there, literally the rope in a tug-of-war.

“You listen to me, Willow,” Grandma said to me, standing so close I could see the golden flecks in her brown eyes. “I don't know what your mother has told you, but it was her decision to leave. I never wanted you to go so far away. Now that you're back, if your mother still chooses to banish us from her life, well, I want you to know that it doesn't have to include you. I'm just a phone call away. Just a short car ride away.” She reached up and touched my cheek. “I want a chance to be your grandmother. A chance to go to your school events. An opportunity to be there for you—not just in cards and phone calls.”

Mom flung the front door open and Grandma released my hand. I didn't know what to do. Part of me wanted to say something to Grandma, to take her up on her offer of a relationship, but the other part of me felt swayed by loyalty to my mom. Just because Mom didn't live her life as carefully constructed as Grandma, it didn't make her a bad person. It didn't make our life a bad life. But, that said, I knew what it felt like to warn Mom about our finances and still watch the credit card get denied.

I followed Mom down the porch steps and into the car without saying a word. I looked over my shoulder once and saw Grandma still standing on the porch, the double doors open behind her.

Mom cranked the ignition and sped down the long driveway, no dreamy lingering stares at the chestnut-colored horse this time.

As we pulled onto the road, Mom shifted into gear, accelerating the car way past the speed limit and mumbling under her breath, “Oh sure, she'll be there for you. As long as it's cheerleading or tennis or something that she approves of.”

I gripped the side of the car door and pulled my seat belt a little tighter. I felt bad for Mom, knowing this was not the reunion scene she'd hoped for. But I felt bad for Grandma and myself, too. Because all my future plans of Sunday afternoon chats on the porch swing with Grandma's sweet iced tea and Scrabble games vanished like the white split-rail fence and green rolling pastures that disappeared in the distance behind us.

Saturday morning I wandered into the family room. Mom was wrapped up on the couch, drinking a cup of coffee and watching
Dirty Dancing
on TNT. Even though she'd seen the movie a thousand times at least, she couldn't peel her eyes away as she motioned toward the kitchen. “There're muffins on the counter,” she said.

I went to the counter and pulled a blueberry muffin from the grocery store bakery box. I wondered if things had gone better last night if we would have been over at Grandma's—maybe sitting out on the veranda for brunch overlooking the grassy fields. But I glanced over and saw Mom, curled into a semi-fetal position, the hurt still visible in her eyes and decided it was okay, I liked blueberry muffins on the couch, too.

“Want to go to a movie today?” Mom asked during a commercial break.

“Oh, actually today I'm going to my friend Mia's cheerleading competition. It's at one.”

“You can take the car,” Mom said, staring vacantly at the TV. “I don't have any plans.”

It was strange. In Vegas, Mom's weekends were filled with dates and activities. But apparently it wasn't as easy to meet available men working at a doctor's office. And now we lived in a quiet neighborhood of families instead of an apartment complex filled with eccentric singles.

“Thanks,” I said. “But Max is picking me up.”

She smiled. “Okay.” She fiddled with the edges of the soft blanket. “Cheerleading competition, eh? Wouldn't Grandma love that?”

I didn't know what to say. I felt somehow disloyal—like there was another thing that Grandma and I had in common. But it wasn't like I could say,
I'm going because I need to see if my hypnosis worked.
Mom would freak if she knew I did that. So I just shrugged. “Yeah, weird, huh? Everyone here is really into school spirit and the sports teams.”

“Well, have fun,” she said with a smile, and we left it at that.

When Max picked me up, he was looking especially good in a black T-shirt with a white Beatles logo ironed across the chest. His blue eyes popped and his black hair had started to grow in. The whole visual just looked perfect.

“Like your shirt,” I said, and he instantly grinned.

“So you
do
know some music outside your Top 40.”

“Come on.” I laughed. “It's the Beatles. Everyone knows the Beatles.”

He gave me a skeptical look. “Hey, all I've ever heard in the background on the phone was Cher.”

“Not my fault.” I smiled. “And that was only in Vegas.”

He nodded and started the truck. “Still, it's nice to know you have some basic knowledge of music legend.” He smiled and I got the sneaking suspicion that he had handpicked that shirt to provoke me. It gave me a total thrill. “So,” he continued. “I have something for you.” He reached into the backseat while barreling down the road, paying no attention to the mailboxes he kept almost skimming. “Here.” He tossed a CD case into my lap and re-gripped the steering wheel.

It was a plain silver CD in a clear plastic case—no labels, no markings. “What's this?” I asked.

He accelerated onto Main Street and cranked the radio. “It's something”—he looked over at the CD in my lap—“I . . . made for you. I thought you might like it.”

He made me a mix CD
, I thought.
Isn't that something you do for someone you're into?
I felt warmth spread through my veins. “Hey,” I said, noticing that we were headed toward school. “Aren't we picking up Minnie?”

“Nah, she has to help her parents at the restaurant for lunch. She'll come later.”

Just me and Max. Alone on a weekend. A mix CD just for me. This had to be more than just friend behavior. A smile engraved itself across my face.

The auditorium was filled with students, teachers, and families, all chatting excitedly with their eyes trained on the large navy blue mats that covered the hard floors. I was surprised by how many nonstudents were there, outfitted in the crimson and gold school colors, but Max informed me that our cheerleading squad was really good. They had advanced to the state finals last year. People were always excited to watch them compete.

Max and I crossed the auditorium. We climbed up the bleachers toward the top seats where Trent and Conner waved to Max. Garage band musicians at a cheerleading competition? There really was school spirit here. I quickly spotted Georgia and flagged her over. Her eyes darted from Max to me; then she raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“He made me a mix CD,” I whispered, as Max said hi to his friends.

“Oh my God. Thoughtfulness, time, and effort. This means something. What kind of songs? Hard-core,
I want to throw you against the wall and rub my hands all over your hot body
? Or soft and mushy,
I want to shower you with delicate kisses on a pink cloud of love
?”

“Sshh!” I giggled. “I don't know. I just got it. There are no song titles and I haven't listened yet. They might just be all
I'm so glad you're my friend
.”

“Ooh, secretive. Like a mystery. Love it!” She rubbed her hands together wickedly; then her face dropped. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” I swung my head around in the direction she was looking, and there she was, all perky and flushed, climbing the bleachers while delicately balancing two large ziplock bags in her hands.

“Hey!” Max said, way too enthusiastically. “You came early.”

Minnie climbed up to our row and worked her way past me, nestling her way right in between me and Max.

Georgia noticed this and shot me a look.

“Carla came early for her shift,” Minnie said to Max. “So I got to leave.” She turned toward me and acted like she was just noticing me—like she hadn't practically plowed me over. “Hi Willow!” She beamed, her hand tightening on Max's arm.

Max erupted into a huge smile. “Is that baklava?”

Minnie held up the two bags. “I made some extra to bring.”

“Minnie is the best baker,” Max said, dipping his hand into the bag and breaking off a piece of the flaky pastry. “Here, try some.” He extended a morsel to me.

I took it. “Thanks,” I said and tried a bite. It was light and sweet, dissolving on my tongue into a burst of sugar.
Minnie is the best baker
, Max said, and I wondered what
best
I was. I didn't really have any spectacular talents. I was just the sideline girl. I always thought I was his best
friend
, but now, watching Max lick his fingers and smile adoringly at Minnie, I feared I was losing even that.

A woman in a crimson and gold jacket and dark bobbed hair tapped the microphone and introduced our team. Booming music thundered through the speaker system and the cheerleading squad ran onto the mat. The crimson skirts swayed to and fro as the team simultaneously did a round-off, handspring, double handspring tumbling pass in perfect unison.

The crowd applauded and cheered. The team parted into two evenly divided sections as pairs of cheerleaders took turns doing flips and tucks together to the pulsating beat of the music. Finally, as the two lines of girls formed a V shape, Mia emerged from the back. There was a pause in the music, a buildup, and from the bleachers I saw a look of panic slide across her face. I stood up and her eyes rose to meet mine high up in the stands. I held my hand in the air, rubbed my thumb and forefinger together. I saw her do the same with her hand, discreetly tucked by her thigh. The music began to pump again. Mia took a breath with a renewed look of confidence, and then she tumbled forward, doing a round-off, a handspring, and the fancy Arabian move she told me about; then she plowed into a front handspring-punch round-off double flip. She landed with a perfect thud and the audience went wild. Several rows below us, I saw a man and woman jump up out of their seat, whistling and yelling Mia's name. I recognized them as her parents from the photos at Mia's house.