Crush Control (22 page)

“A duffel bag for your birthday.” Georgia cringed. “Sometimes I truly believe that guys just need a manual.”

“That'd be a best seller,” Mia said.

Georgia shot her finger into the air. “I'm going to write one!”

“You're not even dating anyone,” I whispered.

“I spend an average of four hours a day watching TV and movies. That's twenty-eight hours a week, fifteen hundred hours of carefully crafted and plotted romance a year. And that's not even including my reading habits.” She pulled out a sheet of paper and began scribbling ideas.

Mrs. Stabile hushed the class and began her lecture. Mia passed a note over to me.
Come over this afternoon?

I nodded.
Sure,
I mouthed, thrilled that we were becoming true friends.

Behind me, Georgia continued to write. I glanced over my shoulder and caught the top line, bold and in caps
: IF GUYS ARE MEMBERS OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM, SURELY THEY CAN BE TRAINED.

When the bell rang at the end of class, we all walked into the hallway. By the lockers, Jake and a few other football players, Hayden and Davis, were talking. Mia flew over to them. As I walked away, I saw her thousand-watt stage smile plastered on. So different from how she'd just been with us.

That afternoon, when Mia and I walked into her house, Mia's mom was decked out in an apple-red T-shirt with big white letters UGA stamped across the chest. Underneath in cursive, it read CHEERLEADING
.
She had on a pair of white cotton shorts and her blond hair was pulled back in a high ponytail.

“Hi, hi, hi!” she sang. “Did Mia tell you the wonderful news? That the University of Georgia coach is coming to scout her this weekend?” She was practically bursting with excitement, but when I glanced over at Mia, her smile looked frozen and forced.

“She did,” I said. “I'm so excited for her.”

Mrs. Palmer smiled at me; then Mia and I walked back into Mia's room. She flopped on her bed, stretching out her petite body into a huge X but still barely spanning the distance across her queen-size mattress. “I need your help again,” she said, staring up at the ceiling.

“Okay,” I said, flopping down next to her. She scooted over and we lay there, side by side.

“I need another session. You've got to help me make it through this next competition.”

I turned and faced her anxiously. “Won't it be easier this time? You've already done the tumbling pass, so you should be more confident—less afraid, right?”

She exhaled loudly then turned to face me too. “Mom went to UGA.”

“So I figured, from the getup,” I said.

Mia sighed. “The glory days. She was, like, the best cheerleader to ever walk the campus. So when she found out the coach was coming to scout me—she freaked. She's sooo happy. And I'm glad, of course, because lately she's, well, she hasn't been happy.”

I raised my eyebrows, unconvinced. Her mom seemed like the poster child for happy.

“No, it's true,” Mia said. “Lately she's all mopey. Sensitive. Not in front of guests, of course, but when it's just us. Dad's been working late and he's been distracted, and she thinks it's about her. I tried to tell her, Dad's a doctor—he has patients and an office to run and it has nothing to do with her, but she doesn't listen.”

The image of the perfect beach photo floated in my mind and I wondered if Mia's mom was sad when they took that picture. If the whole family had mastered the art of the thousand-watt stage smile.

“Anyway, since she found out that the UGA coach was coming, she's been bouncing around all perky and excited, and that puts all kinds of pressure on me to do well. Then, last night, she decided that I need to do her move.”

“What do you mean, ‘her move'?”

“When Mom was at UGA in the early nineties, she created her ‘signature move
.'”
Mia pulled herself up and walked across her room to her laptop resting on the desk. I got up and followed her over. She opened the computer and typed into a search engine. “Mom's move is called ‘walk in heels, stretch, double down
.
' ”

“Sounds . . . interesting.” I leaned over to look at the computer screen.

“There's no video on the Web of her, of course, but here's a clip from
Cheerleader Nation
—that show on Lifetime about the squad trying to win the national championship.” She clicked on a link and a video started. Three girls elevated a fourth up into the air. The girl held her leg up; then the three base girls tossed her high into the air. “See how much height they have to achieve so she can do a double down?” She saw my confusion and explained. “I'll have to spin twice in the air, so they have to toss me really high and
ugh
, it's just . . . scary. Plus, I have to do it perfectly because
IT'S MOM'S MOVE!
I can't screw it up.” Her face went pale.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “It's okay. Calm down.” I reached over and hit the replay button to watch the move again. Mia turned away from the screen.

“Can't you just do the other move? The one that you've practiced?”

She turned back and looked at me with the first sign of tears in her eyes. “But Mom's so happy. I heard her singing in the shower. She hasn't done that in months.”

I wanted to tell Mia that it made no sense that a double flip could completely change someone's outlook on life, but she seemed so desperate. So scared. So in need of my help. So I touched her arm gently and said, “Come on. If we're quiet, we can do the hypnosis right now.”

When I got home from Mia's, I pulled my cell phone out of my backpack. I had three messages from Georgia:

I had four missed calls from Max, with one final message.
Call me
.

So I quickly typed a response to Georgia:
U R insane.
Then I put in a call to Max. He answered on the first ring. I tried to be all casual. “Hey, what's up,” I said, but in my mind I was replaying the box of condoms falling onto the floor and my kiss with Quinton in the hallway. I could feel the heat of embarrassment in my face. I was glad he couldn't see me.

“Hey,” Max said, and I heard a guitar pulsing in the background. Max said something to someone and the tinny vibrations stopped.

“Are you practicing with your band? 'Cause I can call back later.”

“No, no, they're just leaving. 'Bye, man,” he said and I heard what sounded like some hand slapping. “So . . .” He returned to me but then said nothing else.

“So,” I said, and for the first time ever it felt a little awkward between us.

“So, you and Quinton—you're, like, together?”

An involuntary grin spread across my face. Was my plan working ? Was Max jealous? “Yup, I guess we are.”

“How did that happen?”

I tried not to be offended, not to jump to that conclusion that everyone was baffled that Quinton could like me, because Max was my best friend and I had to believe he wouldn't think that. I sat down on the floor of my bedroom and stared at my toes. “I don't know. We're in English class and we've been grouped together a few times.”

He was quiet.

“What?” I asked.

I heard him tap his drumsticks on something, making a fast clickety-clack beat. “I'm just not convinced that he's the right guy for you. I mean, he's nice and everything, but his whole life is football and school, and you can't stand sports.”

“It's not that I can't
stand
sports, it's just something I've never really been involved with or appreciated before.”

“Yeah, but he's all, like, a pretty boy. Like an Abercrombie and Fitch guy.”

“What does
that
mean?”
That I'm not pretty enough to be with him?

He tapped his drumsticks again. “I don't know what I mean. I just think you guys seem mismatched.” He paused. “What about your broken heart? The one you told me about the night you stayed here? I guess you're . . . over him.”

I took a deep breath. No, of course I wasn't over him. But what did it mean if your heart fluttered for two different guys? I heard something outside my window and walked over and peered outside. But Max wasn't there, just some squirrel rustling in the shrubs. “How come you didn't just come over to talk?” I asked, pressing my hand against the slick surface of the window.

“Because for all I know, Quinton is over there, anxiously sorting through your basket of goodies. I can't just show up anymore. This changes everything.”

“Oh.” My finger drew a circle against the pane. “Well, you said Minnie didn't change anything, so Quinton doesn't have to change anything either.”

He was quiet and I realized the circle I was drawing had morphed into a heart. He didn't respond, so I said, “Quinton and I do have a lot in common, actually. But thanks . . . for caring. And nothing has to change between us.”

“Except the rides to school.”

“Well, yeah, I guess that'll change. But that's all.”

“That's all,” he repeated; then we both were quiet again. “Well, I told Trent I'd call him.”

“Okay,” I said, glad that at least he wasn't running to Minnie. “Good night.”

“ 'Bye.”

I put the phone down, staring vacantly at the smeary smudges of hearts on the window. One heart connecting to another and another. Sure, maybe Quinton and I were mismatched, but somehow we still had a spark between us that lit us up like fireflies. Maybe the hypnosis was the kindling that ignited the fire, but the connection between us was real, wasn't it? I imagined it worked the way it helped Mia. She was innately a great athlete—the hypnosis didn't create that; it just maximized her potential by erasing her fear.

So in my mind, the hypnosis had brought Quinton to me, but after that, how we felt about each other was real. The funny thing was, that initially my intention was to spark some jealousy in Max. And it seemed like it had. But unexpectedly, dating Quinton seemed to be everything I never realized I wanted. He listened to me and paid attention to me. He wanted me to be happy. Sure, part of my heart would always be wrapped around Max—after all, he was my first love. But with Quinton, this was what grown-up love felt like, I was sure. It wasn't just fantasies that one day we would end up together—this was real.

Maybe I didn't need Max after all.

Saturday, Quinton picked me up to go to Mia's competition. “Thanks so much,” he said, “for coming to my football game last night.”

“I wouldn't miss it,” I said, buckling my seat belt.

“Some girls think football is boring.” He reached over and took my hand. “I'm just so happy you came.”

Maybe the actual game was boring, I admitted to myself, but the experience wasn't. Being at Quinton's game—as his girlfriend—I felt like the prom queen. Every time Quinton looked my way, I felt myself flush. Every time he made a good pass or a tackle, people smiled at me like I was somehow responsible.

We drove into the crowded student lot now and parked. “Did I tell you that I haven't sleepwalked in a week? You're like a miracle worker.”

“Really? That's amazing!” I crossed my fingers that the hypnosis worked as well for Mia, because she was really stressed about today's competition.