Page 5 of Enemy Crush
“Love you boys,” Dad chirped, gathering up his lunch bag and the old juice bottle that he used as his water bottle. Brushing by me, he squeezed my shoulder and murmured, “You’ll keep an eye on him?”
I nodded, both of us looking over to my brother who was eating at a snail’s pace.
“C’mon, bud,” I said, “finish that bowl, so I can wash it.” I didn’t mind washing the dishes, a chance to watch the window, though there was no sign of Quinn’s sleek black Jeep or Mrs. Devereaux’s fancy Mercedes.
My interest in my neighbor was somewhat contradictory. Dad couldn’t stand the Devereauxs. Mrs. Devereaux was rude and a complete snob, confirmed by the letter we received in the mailbox a day after moving into the house on Ambrose Lane three years ago.
“Dear Neighbor, Ambrose Lane is an illustrious neighborhood and from the look of your vehicle and the quality of the furniture and appliances you moved in yesterday, I am unsure if you will truly feel at home in our quiet and respected street. Also, I noticed the arrival of a large brown dog. If I so much as see the dog running loose or hear any barking or see defecation on the street, I will not hesitate to call the authorities.
Yours, Annabelle Devereaux, Ambrose Manor.”
Dad had read the letter out loud, howled with a mix of both outrage and hilarity and said, “Defecation? Who the heck says defecation? She means dog poop!”
That letter was still attached to our fridge door with alphabet magnets, so I knew that the grudge was very much alive. In the early days, Mrs. Devereaux found something to complain about at every opportunity. If she wasn’t knocking on the door saying the lawn was too long or declaring she’d heard Hamish, our eight year old dog barking, there were notes in our mailbox threatening to call City Hall. Her most recent outburst was just before summer when Dad bought an old 1966 Mustang for us to restore together, and he parked it in our yard. The next day he’d had a visit from the council about an ‘abandoned vehicle’ on our property. To say Dad was riled up was putting it mildly. He’d stormed across to Ambrose Manor ready to give Annabelle Devereaux a piece of his mind. But no one was home, and he came back more infuriated than ever. A couple of days later, we’d cleared out the garage so there was room for the Mustang, which had been our intention all along.
The thing was, for being the enemy, I was intrigued by Quinn Devereaux. I’d only come face-to-face with her a handful of times, usually when she was trailing behind her mother who would come over to complain about a pile of leaves or the direction of the wind or something crazy. But I’d only spoken to her once and that was last summer. Mason and I had been gaming when there had been a knock on the door. To this day, I regret the ten seconds I took to blast the zombies before getting up to answer it, because by the time I got to the front door, Quinn was already leaving. But on hearing it open, she’d stopped and turned around.
“That came to our house,” she said, her eyes dropping to the carton on the doorstep.
“Oh...thanks,” I’d said, a little shocked because I hadn’t expected her to be at the door.
“I don’t know why the driver got it wrong,” she said like it had been my fault they didn’t read the address properly, and for the next few seconds I’d been thunderstruck, lost in her startling blue eyes which were blazing with indignation at the delivery mistake, and...well, that’s when I fell, mesmerized by how pretty she was—glossy dark hair tied up in a ponytail and wearing a sundress showing off her tanned shoulders—yeah, I was a goner.
Well, temporarily.
I’d been quickly brought back to reality with a mind-numbing thud when she stopped at the gate, turned abruptly and said, “Make sure it doesn’t happen again—I don’t have time to be your delivery girl.”
And she’d slammed our rickety gate and stormed off across the lane and jogged down her driveway.
A crush is a weird thing really. Basically liking someone based on looks alone, fantasizing about a potential relationship but knowing there’s absolutely no chance of it becoming reality. Well, that was my situation but on a double whammy—notonly was Quinn in a whole different class with her big house and private school but through association with her obnoxious mother, she, too, was the enemy.
I prodded Mason to clean his teeth and put on his shoes as he seemed to have no concept of time. I stood over him as he packed his pens and notebooks, lunch bag and water bottle. He picked up the book he’d been reading and stuffed that in his backpack.
I was hesitant to say something, but there was a dilemma in wanting my brother to fit in and letting my brother be himself. “Don’t think you’ll need your book. At least, not today.”
“I can read at lunch time?”
“Lunch is only forty minutes. Not enough time to read.”
“On the bus, then?”
“First day, you’ll be too busy making friends,” I said. “Meeting new kids, new classes. And you’ll get so many books that you’ll need all the room. And you can bet I won’t be carrying them for you.”
He reluctantly took it out and put it on the dining table. “Okay.”
“Hey, you gonna take a hoodie?”
“I’m not cold,” he said.
“You sure? Okay,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. I didn’t want Mason to be bullied on his very first day because they’d likely be some jerks who would comment on his skinny arms, but I also didn’t want to draw his attention to it and make him fret. “Let’s go then.”
The bus stop was down the lane and around the corner, a five or six minute walk for us.
“Are you just taking the bus today?” Mason asked.
“I’ll take it for the first week, till you settle in.”
“I’ll be fine,” Mason said.
