Page 28 of Enemy Crush
Riding down the lane, I powered up my motorbike, the front tire coming off the ground in a wheelie. My anger was probably misdirected, right? Mason wouldn’t purposely hide stuff from me. Surely it had to be Dad.
And yet my resentment festered, my heart burning with betrayal, and at lunchtime, I skipped the quad, joining my friends in the cafeteria. Also, when I’d rampaged out the door, I’d forgotten my lunch bag so I kind of had to if I wanted to eat. I collected a tray and stood in line, totally resisting the urge to check on him. If Mason was secretly in contact with Mom, he was capable of looking after himself and didn’t need me playing the overprotective big brother.
Only when I sat down next to Sienna did it occur to me that Quinn might join us, but it was too late to do anything about it.Except to eat as fast as I could and come up with a reason to get out of there if she did. But only Brayden showed up, Darwin was with his football buddies and Elise had a meeting of some sort. I don’t know why I even worried about Quinn.
After school, I made an impulsive decision to get my hair cut. Joe’s Quick Cuts didn’t require an appointment. You turned up and waited. There were three barbers working the floor and I sat there calculating that it might be a thirty minute wait with the two old men and a guy with a bushy beard before me. Before today, I probably wouldn’t have waited, wanting to get home for Mason as soon as possible, but my mindset had completely flipped. If Mason was hiding stuff about Mom from me, then I felt no obligation to rush home to babysit him. Let him wait.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled. I even gave up my place and let a whiny little boy go before me. His mother thanked me profusely, removing any guilt over Mason being home alone. Not that I needed to feel guilty, heck, he was in high school now.
Holding grudges was something I was good at. After all, I’d held one against Mom for years, also Mrs. Benseman in the school office. Back in freshman year she told me off for not returning a permission slip—which I had—so I’d never forgiven her for that, always giving her a stony glare.
After Joe’s, I headed home, but instead of turning into Ambrose Lane, I impulsively kept going, out past the farms, through the countryside.
There was a lot going on in my head and I could have just asked Mason the simple question,“Did Mom send you a birthday card?”
But maybe I was too scared of the answer.
It was a weird thing, my animosity toward my mother. I barely remembered her, and had vowed never to forgive her or give her a second chance—and yet deep down, the envelope hadignited a spark of hope, an unspoken wish that all this time she stillhadbeen reaching out, sending cards and letters and gifts.
It didn’t make any sense; I didn’t want her in my life, I didn’t need her in my life.
The speed and rush of air was exhilarating and I kind of wanted to keep riding, but a half tank of gas and common sense told me it was time to turn back. Slowing down as I approached the edge of town, I could see Quinn Devereaux out running along the side of the road, not far from where I’d seen her with Hamish the other night. My stomach twisted with a strange mix of excitement and curiosity, wondering if Quinn would be running regularly as part of her soccer training. Her legs were distractingly long in her short shorts and she glided along like it was effortless, her ponytail swinging behind her. I jolted as my front tire started to swerve off center.
When I came inside, I didn’t call out to Mason, figuring he’d heard me slam the back door and dump my backpack down on the kitchen floor. I made a sandwich, turned the tv on, threw some balls to Hamish. In frustration, I finally knocked on Mason’s door, ready to confront him.
“You all right?” I shouted quite aggressively, poking my head in the door.
“Just...just fin..finishing my...homework.” Mason’s reply was a soft stutter, which immediately made me feel bad as he turned around from his desk, a bunch of books stacked around him. I scouted the space like a detective, the book that he’d been reading now on his bed next to his backpack and his inhaler, his bookcase orderly, a row of colored pens on his desk.
“Whatcha doing?” I stepped into his room, avoiding the heap of clothes on the floor, needing a few seconds to look around.
“My geography homework,” Mason said, “I have to research—”
But I switched off as he carried on about the Great Lakes, while I scanned the post-it notes above his bed. It was a list of dates and assignments due, all school related. There were definitely no birthday cards displayed, no bunch of letters, nothing new that looked like it was from Mom.
And that was almost worse. That meant he was literally keeping it secret, hiding it in his desk drawer or under his pillow or bed or some place.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, cutting off his chatter as my frustration compounded. Bouncing down onto his bed, I casually picked up his pillow, only to see his pajamas folded beneath it. Annoyed with myself for believing my brother would deliberately keep something from me, I jumped up and headed to the door. It had to be Dad, right?
“Did you just get your hair cut?” Mason asked as I was about to leave.
I swept my hand across the side of my newly trimmed hair. “Yeah,” I snapped, “and you need one too.”
I stood outside the door, highly annoyed with myself. My brother was everything to me so why was I treatinghimlike the enemy?
Chapter 10
QUINN
The waffles were edible. That’s all I could say about them. I was longing for the lesson when Miss Deeley would teach us to cook a meal. A glance at the kitchen sink reminded me that I was supposed to do my share of the chores. It looked like Mom hadn’t stacked her breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. I’d do it with the hope of getting into her good books. Then telling her I hadn’t made the soccer team wouldn’t be so daunting. Mom wasn’t exactly a fan of the sport, but she expected me to excel in everything. If she saw a clean kitchen, who knows, she might be less disappointed.
The dishwasher was already full, but I managed to squeeze in the plates and mugs and find the tablet and turn the machine on. Funny how such a small thing felt like a huge accomplishment. Just like sweeping the porch.
Passing through the living room, I saw the laundry basket full of folded clothes. I could impress Mom by taking it upstairs to her room, and then I’d take my own hamper—which was near overflowing—down to the laundry. If I’d managed to work the dishwasher, surely I could turn on the clothes washer.
Mom’s door was closed and I hitched the basket onto my hip to open it. I walked in to see the bed immaculately made with its floral cover and collection of pillows, but it was a bunch of handbags and purses on the floor that caught my eye. For someone who was usually meticulous, it seemed odd that she’d leave them lying around. Noticing her yellow Chanel clutch,which she adored, and her lilac Versace bowling bag, I crossed the room to look closer. Mom’s bags were her pride and joy and each one had its place on the shelves of her walk-in closet. But next to the wall was a stack of packaging boxes and a bunch of print-outs .
Dumping the laundry basket, I pulled out my phone and googled yellow Chanel clutch on eBay. After a few scrolls and taps, there it was, under the seller name Abelle. Clicking onseller’s other items,twelve more bags were listed, causing my heart to seize—Mom was selling her beloved bags which meant things were getting worse by the day. A few pieces of furniture, sure, but her ownpersonalitems? I hated that for her. That would be like giving up my Squishmallows, something I would find mortifying. Mom really was making sacrifices and doing whatever to keep us afloat.
