Page 16 of Enemy Crush
Well, yes it was true that I had plenty of clothes and shoes but that was beside the point. I’d never had to budget, to go without. That concept was alien to me.
“Well, what about Dad?” I had a sudden brainwave. “Surely he can give me an allowance.”
“Your father lost his business,” she said. “He’s struggling too.”
“But he has his new job,” I exclaimed.
“Yes, but he’s paying rent on his apartment and has utilities to pay,” Mom said. “Quinn, I’m lucky I owned Ambrose Manor before I married Dad, but I still have property taxes to pay. As it is, we’re now relying on the salon to keep us afloat. Which is why I’m working as much as I can.”
I pondered this, the gravity of our circumstances kicking in. “But why didn’t Dad tell me about losing his business?”
Mom shook her head in a somewhat patronizing way. “We didn’t want to worry you and cause you stress.”
I took immediate offense. “You didn’t think I could handle it?”
“Quinny, darling.” Her gaze roamed around my pale pink walls, the rows of Squishmallows, the collection of Baby Yodas, Barbie dolls and Marvel figures, my bookshelf, the princess canopy over my bed and the teddybear and unicorn from childhood perched on my extensive nest of pillows. There was no denying that smug expression on her face.
I bounced off of my bed with a gasp. “You don’t think I can handle it, do you?” I cried out. “You think I’m a baby.”
“Shhhh,” Mom hushed in an even more sanctimonious tone. “We just wanted to protect you.”
“Protect me? From what?” I scoffed in outrage, my cheeks flushing with heat.
“Quinn,” Mom soothed as if talking to a child, “your father and I wanted to save you from all the drama for as long as we could. There was no need for you to worry.”
“You just said it before, that I’m nearly 18. I’m almost an adult. But you still treat me like I’m a little kid, like I’m soft.”
“That’s not true,” Mom said. “We were just trying to protect you.”
“Yeah, soft!”
“Quinn, this is our mess, not yours. It’s humiliating enough as it is. Our investments went bad, we had a horrendous tax bill to pay and Dad’s company folded. Dad and I didn’t want it affecting you.”
“What do you mean? Of course it affects me! You’ve taken me out of Brizendine, away from all my friends! I should be on camp now. But no. Instead I have no car, have to ride the bus to school, yet you get to keep your Mercedes!”
“Quinn...” Mom’s lips contorted, “we wanted...”
“I’m not stupid,” I hissed and stormed out of my own room. At the front door, I impulsively grabbed my rain jacket from the coat stand. There was no chance of rain but the evening air had cooled down.
I wasn’t sure where I was going, knowing only that I had to clear my head. I skipped off down the driveway, zipping my jacket and putting my hood up, trying to create distance between me and my mother. It was total chaos inside my brain, and yet I wasn’t sure what I was upset about. There was anger and frustration over the lack of trust from my parents to confide in me and treat me like a young adult, yet also despair over how dire our finances truly were. Like, seriously, we didn’t have money foroneSquishmallow?
A glance across at the Trask house showed the trash bin inside the gate and the garage door closed. I hurried past, guilt-ridden over the bin and hoping it hadn’t been damaged. I broke into a jog, thankful I was still wearing my soccer training gear, though my sneakers weren’t exactly made for running. At the corner of Ambrose Lane, I turned in the opposite direction the school bus went, away from town. The houses were more spread out and there was less traffic.
How had everything become such a mess? And where were my friends when I needed them? I’d still not heard from Celeste or Naomi. But then, could we still be friends? Would I fit in with them anymore? If I didn’t have my own car, how could I visit them on the weekends, or if we went out, how could I afford to pay? And if I invited them over, would I be serving them bread and water?
Lost in my depressing thoughts, I startled when a big dog came bounding toward me. It was followed by a shout, which I presumed was the dog’s name as it suddenly stopped. Quickened footsteps approached and a figure came into view.
Seriously?
Yep, it seemed I truly was cursed—Miller Trask came to an abrupt halt in front of me.
He reprimanded the dog—had I correctly heard him call it Hamish?—and then panted, “Sorry about that.”
But that was before he recognized me, and his tone immediately turned to surprise. “Quinn?”
The sight of Miller wearing running shorts unexpectedly caused a surge in my heart rate, but with the dog sniffing around me, I froze like a statue, unsure if it was about to leap up and attack me. We’d never had a pet and my instinct was to remain still and show that I was no threat. Celeste’s family had a little fluffy dog, Lulu, but she was ankle height.
“Hamish.” Miller once again called his dog who acknowledged his master briefly before continuing to weave his way around my legs. “He won’t hurt you,” Miller assured, almost with kindness. But with a click of his tongue, he said, “Come on, boy.”
