Page 46 of Through Quick and Quinn
As always, there’s serenity in the surrender. I’ll have to see how this plays out, but I have a feeling I’ll be keeping my guard up. Who knows? This might not even go anywhere. She’ll probably never text again anyway.
All good.
…Q
Quick:
Forward Motion
Typically, as the flowers began to bloom and the critters awakened from hibernation to revel in the warmer temperatures, my self-loathing tendency to isolate intensified.
But not that year.
I felt lighter that year. Happier. And less guilty for being happy, too. Connecting with someone was part of it, sure, but it was also Quinn. It was the essence of her. Her attitude towards life, her acceptance, her forgiveness, her authenticity, her goodness. I envied all of it, and as the season of spring kicked off, I realized that somewhere along the line, subconsciously, I was emulating her. Not only that, but I was better off for it.
I decided to switch to the conscious, and by the end of March, I committed myself to taking the difficult month of April head on. When I shared this pledge with Quinn, she reacted exactly as I knew she would. Every single thing she said was a statement of support, emphasized by that adorable exclamation point.
After all her bursts of encouragement, she finally settled down enough to hit me with the one simple yet profound question that I hadn’t even considered. “So how are you going to accomplish this goal?” She giggled as she witnessed my expression change, gleaning that the actionable details had not quite been determined yet. She patted my hand and told me that not only did she know I would figure it out, but that I would be successful, too. I couldn’t help but grin. She really did have a way of making me feel strong and deserving.
I contemplated the question over the course of a couple days and created a short list. As brief as it was, though, I recognized that it was a tall order, given my track record over the last five years, as well as my family’s.
I will not miss a day of school in April.
I will talk to Dad about Mom’s self-medicating habit.
I will ask Dad if he could spend more time at home.
I tried to start that spring with the idea that I deserve happiness, that I needed to forgive myself, that maybe I don’t need to be punished forever. Perhaps it was because I was approaching adulthood that I realized I couldn’t live like this forever. Geoffrey wouldn’t have wanted me to. He would have wanted me to make something of myself and to be happy, and the patterns I had been existing in for a half-decade did not lend to a fulfilling life.
My friendship with Quinn made me feel like I had the strength to move forward, but even more so, like I had a reason to.
Quinn:
A Break
The knowledge that Quick’s brother, Geoffrey, was kidnapped at an amusement park haunted me. Endless questions relentlessly invaded my mind at the most unexpected times and often paralyzed me. I figured the only way to release myself from this plague was to satiate my questions with answers. I was desperate to understand, mainly because I was desperate to help. Nonetheless, I should have known better than to insert myself into a healing journey without being invited to do so.
Out of respect for my friend, I never once did an internet search on his family. I never looked for a newspaper article, a missing person’s report, or anything of the sort. That was how I justified my research; I told myself that I was simply investigating the facts regarding kidnapping, like I would any other topic. I conveniently ignored the truth of our original no-no list, and before I knew it, I leapt into a rabbit hole larger than any hole I had ever happened upon before. It was impossible to crawl out of, and once it had taken hold, it completely consumed me.
Spring Break came a bit early that year, and I spent it almost entirely online. I searched in secret, a largely considerable clue that I was venturing into the land of betrayal. Quick had no idea I was learning about the millions of children who go missing every single year, almost a million in our country alone. Granted, different sources reported varying statistics, but no matter where I looked, the numbers were appalling. What was even more horrifying, and beyond comprehension, was what I was unearthing regarding the evils of child trafficking. It was impossible to “unknow” things, and I found myself wishing I could, especially when restful sleep evaded me night after night.
My tried-and-true techniques for settling my mind became ineffective. No amount of crystal healing or guided meditations, kundalini mantras or chakra work helped me to release the toxic energy I absorbed when I was forced to acknowledge that such reprehensible evil existed. Additionally, I was being deceitful by neglecting to inform Quick of my dig. My body was physically unable to handle my choice to live unauthentically.
I knew it was only a matter of time before it all came to the surface.
Quick and I were alone in Mr. Erickson’s classroom on a Thursday afternoon, snacking on celery and peanut butter while simultaneously working on our latest REED project. We chose to delve into the world of symbolism, from the intricate design on famous cookies to well-known app logos, and a host of things in between.
Grabbing another slathered stalk of celery, Quick had a moment of contemplation before devouring what was apparently one of his favorite foods on the planet. “I feel so bad for people who are allergic to peanut butter. Seriously, it’s delicious,” he uttered with his mouth full. “What percentage of people do you think are missing out on this delectable source of pure joy?”
“Delectable source of pure joy, huh?” I snickered. “I’ll look it up. What’s your guess?” I asked as my fingers clicked the keyboard on their way to the answers.
He guessed five percent at the exact time that I reacted to what I was seeing on the screen. “Woah, that’s it? At first glance, it looks like only one or two percent of Americans. Hold on, let me—” I was so engrossed in the statistics on my screen that I didn’t even notice Quick walked over and was standing right next to me.
“What in the hell is that?” The edge to Quick’s voice sent chills all the way down my spine. What occurred next seemingly happened in slow motion. I looked up at his livid expression, saw his pointer finger, and tracked it back to my screen. Back to the tabs in the background. Back to the phrase, “child trafficking.” I dropped my head in shame, speechless and remorseful.
“Have you been researching kidnapping, Quinn?” His tone was accusatory and impatient. “Quinn! What’s with all the trafficking tabs? I thought we agreed to—Quinn, it was your idea not to! You were the one who—I can’t believe this!” He was unmistakably livid, and rightfully so.
“I was thinking if I understood it better, maybe I could help. Maybe it would help if—”
