Page 49 of Enemy Crush
But now my crush had substance. It wasn’t just based on her looks—Quinn was kind and caring and generous and hardworking. And now she was showing me how strong she was and that was somehow contradictory to all those things I’d assumed about her. With her ballerina hair, designer clothes,gold jewelry, makeup and fake fingernails, I’d decided she was a precocious, stuck-up brat, but with her hair tied up in a ponytail under a cap, her skin natural and glowing from physical labor, and dirt under her real fingernails, I preferred this version. She made my heart beat faster, my stomach flutter and my brain scramble. And I really, really wanted to get to know her better.
But after our next short break, I was called over to drive a truck. It was probably my favorite job, driving the truck alongside the harvester. The harvester dug up the potatoes which were directly loaded onto the truck. When full, we’d drive the truck back to the yard and unload them onto the conveyer belt. But today, I’d rather have bagged potatoes, stayed next to Quinn, even if we only talked potatoes. Yeah, I could never tire of hearing her talk about the size, the shape, the vast quantity of them.
As I climbed out of the truck, another day done, Mrs. Hamlin approached me.
“Hey, Miller, I need a favor for tomorrow,” she said.
“Sure. Anything,” I said, willing to please the boss.
“Can you help out at the Farmers Market tomorrow morning? Tony’s working the harvester, so Shayla will need someone to do the heavy lifting and help set up. You keen? It will need an earlier start, though. We need to be at Pine Ridge by seven.”
“Ah, um...” I stalled, not loving the idea of such an early start but knowing it would be foolish to refuse. The Hamlins had given me work over summer and I appreciated it. “I don’t have to work the stand, do I?”
Mrs. Hamlin, her skin tanned and lined from working outdoors, mock gasped. “What? Let me guess, you don’t do retail?”
I shrugged. Actually, there was a fear of dealing with people, but did she expect me to make sales, take cash, talk tocustomers? I’d never done that before, had no inclination to do so. That’s what I told her.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Hamlin said, patting me on the back. “Clarissa will be helping out too. You can hang out in the background.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, not entirely thrilled at this change. I’d much prefer to work on the farm but I didn’t want to let the Hamlins down. Shayla was the Hamlin’s adult daughter and she and her husband, Tony ran the Farmer’s Market stall, but being pregnant I guessed she couldn’t do too much physical stuff now. Her baby bump was pretty big.
The next morning was chaotic because I set my alarm thinking I could get ready in five minutes. I was meeting Shayla in town for the ride over to Pine Ridge, leaving my motorbike parked outside the grocery store. Shayla was already waiting in the Hamlin Farms truck, loaded up with potatoes and other vegetables.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, opening the passenger door and throwing in my helmet and backpack.
“No worries,” Shayla said. “I just got here. Besides, we’re waiting for Quinn.”
“Quinn?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “I thought Clarissa was coming.”
“Last minute change of plan,” Shayla said. “She couldn’t make it and thankfully Quinn agreed. Do you know Quinn? She’s on her way.”
A shiver ran down my spine and I wasn’t sure whether to announce that Quinn was my neighbor, but at that moment a car came speeding along the street, pulling up to a sudden stop. Quinn got out of the Mercedes, which didn’t wait around, and dashed toward the truck.
And then she slowed. Because she saw me. But you would’ve thought she was standing in front of Freddy Krueger.
“Y...you...?” she stuttered, “you’re helping?”
I nodded. Well, it’s all I could do really. She was so close to me and I could see the blue of her eyes, wide and confused, or it might have been mild terror, and the smell around her was all sweet and fragrant, and her hair was loose and free and wild like she’d just gotten out of bed—and I kinda liked it. Oh, her ballerina prep-school vibe got me as well, but this version of Quinn had me stupider than usual.
“Okay, you two, jump in! We gotta be on our way,” Shayla called from the driver’s seat.
I realized we’d be sitting side by side, and moved back to let her in first. She stepped up and I turned away and took a second to compose myself. Sitting next to Quinn for the thirty minute ride to Pine Ridge, that was a dream and a nightmare rolled into one, one I hadn’t prepared for. And having Shayla right there with us wasn’t going to make it easier. I’d probably say totally crazy stuff.
Shayla was talking about her baby, possibly due any minute by the size of her belly—but surely not. I mean, she wouldn’t be driving to Pine Ridge if the baby was about to come, would she? I tried to focus on the passing scenery and not listen because I definitely could not contribute anything tothatconversation. And the last thing I wanted to do was embarrass myself by saying something stupid. But Quinn seemed pretty relaxed, asking questions about baby names and stuff.
With her pale pink colored sweater brushing against my hoodie, I was hyper aware of our closeness. But while I sat in a dumbstruck state, my brain was frantic, picking out all my flaws and insecurities. Whereas Quinn was dressed in jeans, her holes were fashionable and deliberate, as opposed to mine which were due to legitimate wear and tear. Ireallyregretted wearing them now, but Mrs. Hamlin had said I’d be doing the lifting and not dealing with customers and Quinn wasn’t supposed to be here.Not to mention, the early alarm meant I hadn’t sprayed on any cologne, combed my hair or even looked at my face in the mirror. What if a pimple had erupted overnight, sitting beneath my nose or on my nose, white and full of pus ready to explode? I brought a casual hand up to my chin, rough with a few bristles (of course I hadn’t run the razor over it) and I ventured higher, pretending to scratch an itch and then swiping across my forehead like I had an attack of poison ivy. But phew, no bumps or lesions that I could feel.
Quinn’s head moved slightly, her blue eyes stealing a sideways glance. Geez, I was probably giving offfungal infectionvibes. I quickly placed my hand down on my knee just as she half-smiled and adjusted her shoulder so we no longer touched.
‘Loser!’my brain told me. For the rest of the journey, I tried not to listen to Shayla go on about a birthing plan, whatever that was.
I’d never been to a Farmers Market before—it was hardly Dad’s idea of an outing—but I had this preconceived idea of particular types of people who preferred to shop straight from the food source rather than the grocery store and weren’t opposed to paying higher prices for it. I expected women in floaty skirts carrying baskets of fresh produce and hipsters in Crocs with their biodegradable coffee cups. I had a feeling I’d be totally out of place.
But I was wrong. The Farmers Market was a place for everyone, young families and old people with walking frames and everyone in between, all wanting to support local suppliers, sample new products, reduce their carbon footprint, eat healthier and enjoy the community atmosphere.
After setting up the stand, there were a busy couple of hours where Shayla and Quinn served the customers and I restocked the potato bags which were selling like proverbial hotcakes. When the early rush died down, Shayla bounced on her toes anddeclared, “I gotta use the restroom! You guys be okay for a few minutes?”
I tried to close my ears as she mentioned the baby and her bladder or some such thing.
