Page 38 of Through Quick and Quinn
11:45 a.m.
Ok, yey! See you tomorrow?
11:45 a.m.
yeah, I’ll be at school
11:45 a.m.
Double yey!
Quinn:
My Favorite Question Mark
Over the last week of January and into the first week of February, buried between an exam on trigonometric form of complex numbers in Precalculus and a test on impulse and momentum in Physics class, Quick and I found ourselves submitting both of our REED slideshows to Mr. Erickson and already discussing possibilities for the next round. We wanted to work together on this one, but we were grappling to find the right topic. Quick was leaning more towards what he called the “scams” of fossil fuels and charity organizations, but I wanted to venture more into the world of sacred geometry and the supposed magic of 3-6-9. Not only were we struggling to align our research interests at the time, but our attitudes towards his upcoming birthday were also very much askew. He was dreading it, while I was trying to play it cool and mentally counting down the days.
Finally, February 8th arrived and to say that I was prepared was an absolute understatement. I had planned the picnic of all picnics, and the anticipation made the school day tick by in a painstakingly slow manner. Carrying around a heavy insulated lunchbox all day did not help either. At long last, school let out for the day. Quick knew to meet me on the quad, so I scampered off from my last class to get there before him.
As he drifted over to where I was, he saw me placing paper plates onto the lawn. Using nine plates, I created a large question mark on the grass. After stepping back to assess the shape and situating the final plate just right, I glanced over to see a completely perplexed expression on Quick’s face.
“Happy birthday, Quick! Ok, come sit with me,” I commanded as I plopped down near the curve of the punctuation mark. He was clearly having a clash of sentiments: On one hand, he was perturbed by the whole idea of celebrating his birthday, and on the other, curious as to what I had up my sleeve.
He conceded and took a seat. “What on earth?”
“It’s a question mark!” I blurted out, much more loudly than I meant to.
“Yes, I see that.” There was an edge to Quick’s voice that was unfamiliar to me.
I brought the small cooler out from behind me and opened it. From it, I removed multiple sealed bags, some with cheese, others with cured meats, and the rest with fruits and nuts. “Don’t worry, I washed my hands,” I announced as I began arranging the charcuterie. Once again, I noted in real time how comfortable the two of us were with the quiet. Neither one of us spoke until I was finished. Upon completion, my eyes found his, and I could see that whatever angst he was harboring moments ago had dissipated.
“Wow, thank you, Quinn. This is quite the picnic. You really didn’t need to—” I cut him off. I told him that I knew I didn’t need to. I wanted to. I confessed that I had looked forward to this for weeks and that I couldn’t wait to celebrate him. Bashfully, he thanked me again through blushed cheeks. I could tell he was touched.
“So? Do you get it?” I asked. “Do you understand why the question mark shape?” I was too delighted to wait for his answer. “Because you love the mysteries of life! You’re always asking questions, Quick, and I love that about you.” This time I was the one who flushed crimson. Words always seemed to bolt out of my mouth without permission.
Disrupting a poignant pause, Quick’s stomach growled loudly enough for us both to hear. We belly laughed, allowing the moment to pass. We grabbed toothpicks and started devouring our afternoon snack. While shoveling gouda, salami, and crackers, Quick and I chatted about the pets we always wanted but never had, the great American pastime of garage sales, and how neither one of us ever had the need or the desire to learn to ride a bike. Before we knew it, the charcuterie plates were bare. We ate every last morsel.
“I’m stuffed,” Quick moaned as he clutched his stomach. “That was so good, Quinn. Thank you.” He turned to see me bringing out one last clean plate. “What’s that for? Please tell me there isn’t more food,” he joked.
“I don’t know if you can call this food,” I laughed as I took the can of whipped cream from the cooler. I shook it as hard as I could and then unloaded the entire can in a dome-shaped mound on the plate. He stared at it in disbelief, aware of the task before him.
“There’s no way.” Quick matter-of-factly stated. “I will literally barf, I’m so full.”
I plopped a candle right in the middle of the daunting dollops of dairy. “Suck it up, buttercup. You’ll be fine. But first, I have something…” I reached over to grab an item from my bag and was startled by Quick’s eruptive response.
“You promised no gifts!” Quick’s words were laced with anger.
I slowly brought out the box of tin foil and calmly placed it on the grass in front of me. “Relax, Quick. I kept my word. This isn’t a gift.” His eyes searched mine for forgiveness, and I gave it to him with ease. “This is just your birthday hat. You can’t make a wish without one.” I tore a large segment for each of us and began shaping mine.
Per his usual, it took him a moment to process what I meant, but sure enough, he started chuckling the second he understood. We both got such a kick out of making our tin foil hats, placing them on our heads, and then adjusting one another’s until our conspiracy caps were just right. Ready to sing the birthday song, I sadly realized that I forgot a lighter for the candle. I wanted to kick myself for the mistake, but Quick pointed out that it was probably best I did not bring one onto campus anyway.
Unabashedly, I stood up to sing the entire “Happy Birthday” song to Quick at the top of my lungs, even though there really wasn’t anyone around to hear it except for maybe a couple of teachers who were still on campus grading in their nearby classrooms. “Make a wish!” I exclaimed, realizing in that moment that I knew exactly what Quick’s wish would be. It was the same one he’s been making for the last five or so years.
I plopped back down next to him with two spoons, ready to take on the challenge of whipped cream consumption. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes that seemed to plead, “Do I have to?” Seeing his face of desperation with his eyebrows pathetically slanted and his slow blink of begging was too much for me. I completely lost it and, once again, we found ourselves laughing hysterically together over yet another ridiculous situation.
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to eat it!” I cried, once we found our breath again. “But on one condition.”
“I’m the only one who can put conditions on my birthday, Quinn. No deal,” he winked. My heart skipped a beat, like it was right on cue. He took the candle out of the whipped cream and licked the residue off. “Okay, what do you want?”
