Crush Control (26 page)

It should have been enough. All the nice things that Grandma said should have been enough to allow me to overlook her jab at Mom. But still, the entire ride home from the restaurant I re-scripted our conversation to a version where I was gutsier. Not so afraid of losing something I barely had a hold of. In my playbook, I told Grandma that she should give Mom some credit because she raised me as a single parent and if Grandma was so proud of how I turned out, then she should be proud of Mom for how she parented me. The quiche and toast and two glasses of ginger ale sat thickly in my stomach, and I couldn't help feeling guilty, because only in my head was I brave enough to say these things.

When I got home, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table with her checkbook open and an envelope and letter in front of her. “How was lunch?” she asked.

“Good.” I smiled, not wanting to say too much for fear I'd explode and spill everything. “What's that?” I pointed at the letter.

Mom made a disgruntled face. “It's a letter from the neighborhood association. Did you know they send you a monthly bill? Homeowner's Association dues just to live here? That's ridiculous. Like I'm not paying a mortgage already.”

I sat down and picked up the letter.

“They say it covers road maintenance, upkeep of the clubhouse and activity room. I haven't used the clubhouse or activity room.” She gave me a look like,
So why should I have to pay?

I glanced over the letter. “Didn't they mention the dues when you bought the house?”

She exhaled in defeat. “I don't know, maybe? I've never bought a house before. I had to sign a bazillion things.” She shook her head. “I guess it's just another thing I've screwed up.”

I thought about a lifetime of Grandma's criticism. I leaned over and put my arm around her. “You didn't screw anything up, Mom. Look, I have some money stashed away from birthdays that you could use.”

“Oh my God, no, I'm not taking your money, Willow.” She leaned into my arm, and for a second it felt like I was the mom and she was the kid.“Thanks, but I'll manage.”

“You always do,” I said and felt tears prick at my eyes.

Mom pulled back and saw my glistening eyes. “What's wrong with you? Are you PMSing?”

We both laughed and I flung the letter at her playfully. “Go pay those dues, then.” I went into my bedroom and called Quinton. I wasn't intending to, but before I knew it, I was talking to him about my lunch with Grandma, explaining to him that I felt so torn between wanting a relationship with her and loyalty to my mother. When I was done rambling, Quinton spoke in a soft, comforting voice.

“It must be so tough for you,” he said. “To be caught in the middle like that. Sometimes I'm just completely mesmerized by you—by how strong you are. How resilient. I really respect how you won't take sides but see the best in each of them. You are wonderful. Beautiful. No matter what is happening in your life, I want you to know I'll always be there to support you.”

I sighed a little, because even though everything Quinton was saying was nice, it felt so canned. I didn't feel like hearing about how great I was. I wanted someone to hash out the situation with me. His constant affirmations were smothering me rather than comforting me.

But I didn't want to seem ungrateful, so I thanked him for being so supportive, and hung up. I sat on my bed and stared at my phone. I really wanted to call Max. Max would understand. He had endured years of his grandparents' disapproval of his father. I remembered the hurt in Max's voice as he described their arguments to me. Max would know what to say.

I scrolled down my list of contacts, but when I found his name, I hesitated. I knew he wouldn't answer. So I put my phone down and reached into my backpack for
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, hoping to distract my spinning mind.

Monday morning when Quinton picked me up he seemed really pleased. He wore a small smile of contentment the entire time he drove us to school, and I wondered if there was going to be another vase of flowers in my locker.
Or maybe he's just satisfied with his comforting skills from our phone conversation.
But when we walked into school, people kept looking at me with these bizarre expressions. I checked to make sure I had indeed put clothes on this morning; then I whipped out a compact to see if I had anything on my face, but all was clean.

“What's going on?” I asked Quinton, but he didn't answer, just kept on smiling that little smile he'd had all morning.

We passed a group of freshmen and one of the girls looked at me and said, “I
liked
you!”

“Huh?” I questioned, but she was already halfway down the hall. We reached my locker and there was no huge floral arrangement, no helium balloons. Quinton kissed me good-bye and I grabbed my books, utterly confused. As I walked toward my first class, Georgia came up to me.

“You saw, right?” she said cryptically.

“No. What's going on?” I had a swell of both anxiety and irritation.

“Quinton created a fan page for you on Facebook.”

“WHAT?” I shrieked.

“A fan page—like you're a fan of Zac Efron or a fan of the Jonas Brothers
.
Your page is Be a Fan of My Awesome Girlfriend, Willow Grey
.
”

All the blood in my body rushed into my face. I pulled out my cell phone and logged onto Facebook. Georgia grabbed my sleeve and pulled me into the bathroom to shield me from having a public meltdown. Immediately my screen filled with an image of my face, zoomed in close and red-eye reduced.
Willow Grey is my girlfriend,
the description of the group read.
And she is a goddess of love.
A brick landed in my stomach.
She is beautiful and special and sexy and alluring.
Oh my God. Those were
my words.
The words I had planted in his head! There were several more pictures—pictures I never even realized he had taken of me with his phone.

“Look, you have 247 fans already!” Georgia said.

“He called me a goddess of love!” I shrieked. “On the Internet! Where everyone in the world can see! Oh my God, this is humiliating. How could he not think this would be humiliating?”

“Maybe he thought you'd like the attention?” Georgia suggested.

I thought about all those times I stood behind the curtains and wished I could be front and center like Mom. When I hypnotized Quinton, I thought being pampered and showered with overt gestures of love would make me feel special. And at first, they did. But everything was escalating so fast, now it just felt out of control.

“I really like Quinton. He's so nice, and come on, he's so hot, but I just think there's a basic problem in our relationship.” I wanted to tell her the problem was that my love spell was spinning out of control, but I couldn't. So instead I said, “He lays it on really thick, and publically, too. Like the announcement and the love songs at the party? And the constant handholding and all the gifts? And now this. I know some people might really like that, the public displays of affection, but for me, well, sometimes it's a little suffocating.”

Georgia's eyes widened. “Are you saying you're going to break up with Quinton?”

“I don't know,” I said truthfully. “I don't know what to do.”

In third-period English class, Georgia and I discussed the Facebook situation again. Mia walked over and sat down. She pulled out her notebook then leaned over toward our conversation. “I heard about the fan page,” she said.

“Ugh,” I grumbled.

“What?” Mia asked.

“Yeah, she's pretty pissed about it,” Georgia said.

“Pissed?” Mia look confused. “Really? Why? He's just trying to be romantic.”

I was tempted to tell Mia that this romance was one big fabrication that was spinning so outside the realms of my intention that it scared me. But I didn't, because Quinton walked into the classroom.

He smiled a cocky grin in my direction that told me he was clueless as to my reaction. He came over to my desk. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said in that same lilting voice he used every time he was quoting my love spell back at me.

“Quinton,” I grunted through gritted teeth, “please do not post things about me—about us—online.”

“You don't like the fan page?” he asked, clearly mystified.

The whole class was listening. I wished he'd lower his voice.

“No,” I whispered. “It's totally humiliating. Totally embarrassing. I feel . . . violated.”

“I. Am. So. Sorry,” he gasped. His eyes were wide with concern. “I had no idea you'd feel humiliated. Embarrassed. Violated.” He spouted my words back to me. He pushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes. “I only did it to show the world how great you are. Because you are. Great.” He leaned his hands on my desk and angled himself toward me. “Please forgive me.”

The entire English class was holding their breath. Even Mrs. Stabile seemed curious, her pen suspended in midair, waiting, like everyone was waiting, for my answer.

I gave a small, quick smile. “Of course I'll forgive you.” Because what other choice did I have? Everyone breathed a collective sigh.

Quinton smiled his gorgeous smile and retreated to his desk in the back of the room. As the class returned to normal, I held onto the sliver of hope that maybe this was all that was needed—a little upheaval. Maybe Quinton needed to hear me say what was too much to put a mental stop sign in front of the subconscious commands that drove his actions. And maybe it would bring us back to the way it was in the beginning, when things felt fizzy and full of potential.

On the drive home, Quinton apologized again and I told him it was fine, he didn't need to rehash it. As long as he deleted the fan page we would never have to talk about it again. He was quiet, remorseful, for the remainder of the drive. And I thought maybe the subject was closed. But when we pulled up my driveway, a small smile crept across his face and I caught a glimpse of what looked like a purple velvet carpet on our front porch. I walked up the steps and saw purple petals artfully scattered across the porch spelling out SORRY.

“I had to call every florist in town,” Quinton said, “to get enough irises.”

I stared at the petal message. “When did you do this?” I reached up to pull the delicate chain away from my neck. The locket suddenly felt heavy, weighing down on my neck.

“I skipped calculus and physics.”

“You skipped calculus and physics?” He never skipped class. “What are you doing? You're in the running for an academic scholarship. You're already in hot water with football. You can't throw away your academics, too, just to go pluck flower petals!”

“But they're for you.” Just then, as if on cue, Quinton's phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw it was Coach Hammond. He answered it and I could hear the yelling from the other end of the phone. “Yes, sir,” Quinton said. “I'll be right there.” He clicked off his phone. He looked down at his watch. He shook his head and a look of concern crossed his face. “I've gotta go,” he said suddenly. “I'm late for practice.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Maybe,” he said seriously. Then his face changed abruptly back to smitten. “But if I am, it's totally worth it just to spend these few minutes with you. To repair whatever little problem we had today. Because I never want you to be mad at me. You're so special to me. I can't stop thinking about you.” He came over, took my face in his hands, and kissed me. It was perfect—just the right amount of passion and pressure. His hands were soft and strong. But here's the problem: It didn't feel amazing. Not this time. It didn't even feel that good. It felt suffocating, like that damn necklace was pulling me down and his lips were blocking my air. Really, I just wanted him to leave.

Quinton finally pulled away and looked at me with deep, penetrating eyes. “It's like someone carved out a section of my brain and planted you in there.” He laughed a little.

I forced a laugh, too, and waved my hand through the air, like,
What a preposterous idea!
Then that familiar lead brick landed smack in the pit of my gut once again.

By Wednesday afternoon, Max still hadn't called me back. I saw him once on Tuesday afternoon. He was walking by himself down the hallway. I tried to smile at him and he didn't frown or turn away; he just sort of looked sad and walked right past me.

I sat on the couch after school, trying to work on my English report, but couldn't stop thinking about Quinton and the web I'd spun. I pushed my notebook aside and grabbed the laptop. I stared at the Google homepage, not sure exactly what even to search for.
When hypnosis goes wrong . . . How to undo hypnosis . . .
Finally, a link popped up that looked promising:
How to remove a posthypnotic suggestion.
I clicked on it. I skimmed through the text, getting fearful when it said that hypnotic suggestions could be lifelong if not undone. A flutter of panic swept through me, but then I read something else:
Simply re-induct and de-suggest.
In other words, if I could get Quinton back under hypnosis, I could influence his mind back to normal.