Crush Control (20 page)

“That is so neat,” I said and wondered if I had mentioned in passing how much Mom and I loved romance movies.

“I've never seen
The Notebook
,” he said. “Have you?”

I nodded.

“Oh.” He fizzled.

“No, no, I LOVE
The Notebook
! I can't wait to see it on a giant sheet screen and point out all my favorite parts to you.”

He brightened a bit and drove into the entrance of the park. He slowed the car down at the basketball court, the site of our very first encounter weeks before. Our minds must both have simultaneously played out the scene of Oompa bolting out of the bushes and attacking his leg, because Quinton and I both burst out laughing.

He looked over at me and smiled his crooked smile. “I had to get stitches on my back, you know.”

“Oh my God, are you serious?” I gasped.

“No.” He laughed. “But you're gullible.”

I playfully swatted him. “That was mean.”
But it wasn't. It was the perfect way to ease first-date jitters.

He drove around a bit then found an open parking spot. He reached back and got the picnic basket off the floor. Then he popped the trunk and took out a thick red blanket. Together we walked toward the wide-open green lawn, where families and dates were collecting on blankets with similar baskets and having picnic dinners before the movie began.

Quinton spread out the blanket next to an oak tree so we could use the thick trunk as a backrest. He opened the picnic basket and pulled out clear plastic plates and plastic forks. Inside a small cooler was an assortment of drinks, and he leaned the tub in my direction, letting me choose. He peeled open aluminum foil packages and examined the contents in a way that made me suspect his mom had put together the dinner, but I didn't care. Because the sun was setting and the huge white sheet was now illuminated with the soft incandescent glow of the movie projector, and the Sprite I was drinking was just as fizzy and bubbly as my mood.

From a huge set of oversize speakers, the first bursts of audio filled the warm night air. Around us, fellow picnickers grew quiet, just chewing and snacking on their food as the movie began to play. Quinton and I leaned back against the grainy bark of the tree, propped our ham-and-cheese sandwiches in our laps, and shared a bag of barbecue chips. He smiled at me and I smiled back. I leaned closer to him and said, “Look, watch, this is important.”

And as Noah and Allie found love on the screen, Quinton draped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close into him. And even though it was September, the air was still thick with the humidity of summer, and for a fraction of a second I thought how our body heat stifled the air around us. But then an unexpected gentle breeze blew through the park like a reprieve, wrinkling the faces on the giant cloth movie screen, making everyone chuckle.

It felt fabulous. I felt fabulous. Surprised, actually, at how quickly I felt swept off my feet by Quinton. Sure, I knew he was gorgeous and smart and funny. And I hoped going out with him would make Max jealous. But I never really thought about how much I might genuinely enjoy being with him. I had a sudden feeling that everything I wanted in moving back to Worthington was about to come true. Like all I had to do was dream—and all my wishes could be granted, just like that.

Saturday morning, Mom was sprawled out on the carpet in tight spandex shorts and a lime-green T-shirt, following the yoga instructor on TV. My exercise consisted of stretching my facial muscles into a smile every time I thought about Quinton and our date. My phone rang and I saw it was Quinton. I worked my cheek muscles again as I answered.

“I was thinking,” he said, and it felt so intimate to just skip the awkward introduction. “If you didn't know about Worthington's Screen on the Green, you probably don't know much else about our town now. It's been like, what, ten years since you lived here, right?”

“Nine,” I answered.

“Why don't you let me show you around?”

“Okay, that sounds great.” We agreed upon a pickup time and I headed to my bedroom to get changed. Mom sprang off the ground and followed me. She flopped on the carpet, stretching her calves as I held up two different tops. She pointed to the daisy yellow Roxy tank top.

“Really?” I asked, wanting to make sure I looked my best. I held it up to my chest. “It doesn't make me look like a banana?”

“No! Yellow is a happy color. Wear it.”

“Okay.” I hung the other shirt back in the closet.

“So, tell me more about this Quinton,” Mom said. “How did you meet? Is he in any of your classes?”

I sat down on the floor next to her and told her the story of our accidental meeting in the park thanks to Oompa.

Mom tipped her head back and let out a hearty laugh. “Well, that's memorable,” she said, and I loved how it felt between us. Just so easy and open, like the companionship of giggling friends rather than mother and daughter. And I wished Grandma could see this connection between us—something to be proud of Mom for.

When Quinton showed up, he drove us the six miles from my house into downtown Worthington. Friendship Plaza—a parklike area in between all the downtown shops and cafés, was filled with benches and manicured flower gardens. As we walked next to the old metal slats of railroad tracks, Quinton pointed. “Every spring in the center of town, there's an event called Bark in the Park—it's kind of like our very laid-back version of the Westminster Dog Show. People bring their dogs to perform tricks and the judges hand out prizes to the cutest puppy, the smartest dog.” He laughed. “You should bring that crazy dog of yours. He may not win any prizes, but I think he'll entertain everyone for sure.”

I laughed and loved how easy it was to be with him. It was like he was just confident that everyone liked him. He didn't have to worry or be nervous or try to impress me. “So much has changed since I lived here,” I said.

“Yeah,” Quinton agreed. “It's changed a lot even since I moved here in seventh grade. When my parents first told me we were moving from Atlanta to Worthington, I was like, where? You're taking me to some hick town?” He laughed. “But it's built up a lot. There's actually a bunch of cool places to eat and hang out. It's a pretty nice place to live.”

Even nicer that you're here,
I thought. I followed him into Mike's Bikes, a small shop nestled between a jewelry store and a children's clothing boutique. He walked up to the gray-haired man at the counter and asked to rent bikes for the day.

“Sure thing,” the counterman said, disappearing into a back room for a moment. He emerged wheeling two bikes toward us, with two helmets dangling from his hand. At the sight of the ten-speeds, my stomach turned into a flutter of nerves. When was the last time I rode a bike? Many years ago, when Mom dated this mountain-bike enthusiast and she dragged me along on some ride down a sandy desert trail. I'd wobbled behind her the whole time.
This is going to be a disaster,
I thought.
I'm going to humiliate myself, and Quinton is never going to take me out again.

But as I watched Quinton hold the heavy glass door for me, smiling with a look of genuine happiness, I remembered something. Inside Quinton's mind, a soft, quiet voice was urging him to like me. To see me in a new light. To want to date me. And all at once, I relaxed.
If this hypnotic love spell is really working, I could ride this bike straight into a pile of mud and Quinton would probably think it was adorable. Hopefully.

I swung my leg up and over the hard bike seat and climbed aboard with a newfound relaxation. We rode side by side through the small historical part of downtown, weaving our way through an old residential neighborhood filled with elegant pillared mansions that had been restored to house local businesses. Quinton called back to me, “Careful up ahead!” The sidewalk erupted into hills and valleys due to the two-hundred-year-old tree roots sprouting up and splitting open the cement. We bumped over them, laughing as our bikes wobbled. He stopped at a four-way stop.

“This is my favorite road,” Quinton said, pointing to the right down Tree Line Drive. On either side of the road, the sidewalks were lined with full, green-leafed trees. “In the spring, these dogwoods all suddenly bloom overnight. Like one day they're little green buds and the next morning—boom, the whole street is full of white flowers. It's like waking up to a first winter's snow.” His cheeks pricked with a flush of embarrassment. “Sorry, that was cheesy. What's wrong with me? Maybe it's all that Shakespeare we're reading.”

“No, that was beautiful. I love flowers!”

“Yeah? What's your favorite?”

“Purple irises,” I answered without hesitation.

He smiled broadly. “Somehow I knew it wouldn't be the rose. Nothing conventional about you.” He grinned at me in a way that made me look away. “I'd love to live in one of these old houses.” He pointed down his favorite road, then started pedaling, turning to the right.

I followed him and imagined us, years from now, living at number 423, the two-story home painted cream with black shutters, and long trails of ivy spilling from the window boxes. We would sit on the black rocking chairs, a large glass pitcher of sweet tea resting on the table between us, our two teenage boys, both miniature versions of Quinton, collecting their football gear and bounding down the front steps.

And that's when I knew something had changed. On Wednesday afternoon, planting the seeds of love in Quinton's mind had more to do with Max than anything else. But now I was beginning to wonder—
was I falling for Quinton
?

When we returned to Mike's Bikes, windblown and sweaty, the door of the neighboring Worthington Diamond Center opened. Georgia walked out. “Willow? Is that you?”

I pulled off the neon pink helmet. “Hi!”

Georgia's eyes bulged out of the sockets as she looked from Quinton to me. “Quick,” she said, grabbing my elbow, “come inside and help me with something.”

“Go on,” Quinton said. “I'll return the bikes and be over in a minute.”

Georgia and I disappeared inside the jewelry store. “Oh. My. God. Are you on a
date
with Quinton Dillinger?!”

I nodded, bursting with pride.

“What did you do? Where did you go? Did he kiss you? Hold your hand? Ask for another date?”

“Today we went bike riding. Last night we went to Screen on the Green.”

“LAST NIGHT?! You went out LAST NIGHT and you didn't call me?!”

“I was going to tell you today.” My cheeks ached from all the smiling. “He didn't try to kiss me but he did put his arm around me last night, and today . . . well, not much physical contact is possible when you're on a bike.”

Georgia nodded, thinking as she sat down in front of a clearglassed counter, a long gold chain twisted into a knotted mess in front of her.

“What's that?” I asked.

“Oh, when my mom bought this store there was a ton of old inventory lying in a box in the back room. Mom put me to work untangling them. Fun, huh?”

“ANY WORK IS HONORABLE WORK, GEORGIA,” her mother's familiar voice boomed from some unseen location.

Georgia rolled her eyes. “How does she always do that?”

“Here, let me see.” I sat down next to her and examined the knots. I took a pen from the desk behind her and used the tip to separate the center of the huge tangle and began to work the twisting chain apart.

“He's thinking long term,” Georgia said as I worked the necklace. “Screen on the Green, bike ride through town—these are thoughtful, planned-out events. He's wooing you!”

I felt a tingle as I remembered the flash of my future life with Quinton. But what about Max?

A bell above the glass door dinged as Quinton walked through. “What are you doing?”

“She just fixed a necklace for me!” Georgia squealed as I delicately pulled the last knot apart and dangled the straight gold chain on my finger.

“Beautiful
and
talented.” Quinton patted me on the shoulder, and I blushed. Georgia's eyes went wide.

“It really is a beautiful necklace,” I said, handing it over to Georgia. “I love the charm.” Attached to the delicate gold chain was a small locket with the word
remember
engraved in cursive. I opened it. There was an open slot just waiting for a picture to go inside.

Quinton and I walked toward the door, but Georgia scurried after us. “Wait! Let me take your picture!” She whipped her cell phone out and Quinton draped his arm around me. She snapped two shots. “Perfect!” she said. “It's important to document special events.” She leaned in and whispered to me, “I'll pull this picture out five years from now at your engagement party.”

“Ssh!” I giggled, shaking my head, and caught up with Quinton at the door.