Page 29 of Enemy Crush
Mom had grown up in Ambrose Manor, an only child doted on by her parents. After high school, she went to cosmetology school and then to Paris in France to do further training. She loved it and it’s where she met Dad. He’d been there visiting his grandparents and they’d had a whirlwind romance. But Mom’s mother suffered a stroke, and she came home immediately. My Grandma never recovered and passed away several weeks later. Mom moved back home to be with her father, both of them heartbroken. Soon after, Dad returned from France, missing Mom so much that he moved to Pine Ridge to be close to her, and they eventually got engaged and married. It made me wonder how my parents could have fallen so deeply in love and then have it turn around so that they couldn’t even speak a civil sentence to one another or be in the same room together.
I scooted out of her bedroom, then returned to get the laundry basket. I couldn’t let Mom know I’d seen what she was doing. I took my hamper downstairs, feeling sick to my stomach. Missing out on the soccer team now seemed like a minor matter,perhaps even a blessing. At least there would be no soccer fees to pay.
Jamming my clothes into the machine, I tossed in a laundry pod and closed the lid. It took several attempts at pushing the various buttons before I heard the washer roar into action, but again there was a degree of satisfaction knowing I was doing my fair share of the chores.
When Mom arrived home, I was sitting in the living room doing my homework, the television on for background noise. I heard her stop in the kitchen before she came into the room.
“Hi,” I said, holding my breath as I waited for her to ask about the soccer team.
“Hi, I just picked up some groceries,” she said with a huff as if she had gone above and beyond the call of duty.
“Oh.” I jumped up from the chair. “I’ll put them away.”
“Oh. Thanks,” she said, looking surprised at my offer.
“You know, if you want me to pick up the groceries next time, I can do it,” I said. “And, um, I put the dishwasher on and did my laundry.”
Mom’s eyebrows rose like she was mildly impressed, but she said, “There’s a drying rack in the laundry closet, you can hang your clothes on that instead of using the dryer.”
“But isn’t the dryer quicker?”
“The dryer uses electricity,” Mom stated. “We’re trying to cut costs, remember?” She noticed her folded laundry and picked it up. “Turn off lights if you’re not using them. Does the tv really need to be on? Every bit adds up, you know.”
“What? So now we’re living in the dark ages?” I said, trying to lighten the moment, but knowing she was deadly serious.
“Just conserve power and water wherever you can. And take shorter showers. It all helps, Quinn,” she answered abruptly, devoid of any sense of humor.
“I’m not on the soccer team,” I blurted, heart pounding in my ears as an excuse flowed from my mouth. “It costs $100 for the training session on Saturday, plus there are fees, so I’m not playing.” I inwardly congratulated myself for such inspired thinking—money issues were such a valid reason and would save my humiliation.
“Oh?” Mom frowned. “I thought you trialed.”
“I did,” I said, “but...but I’m not that keen on playing, and I guess I’m going to be busy around here. I went out to the shed to look at the lawn mower thingy that Mr. Jones used.”
“Oh,” Mom said, her frown deepening. “I don’t want you to miss out on any school activities, Quinn. I’ll find the money for the soccer team if you want to play.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay. Besides, it’s not the same without Celeste and Naomi.”
Mom was silent for a moment, and then her voice came out raspy. “I’m sorry I had to take you out of Brizendine,” she said. “I know it’s tough, but we’ll find a way to get through this.” She sighed as she wearily hoisted the laundry basket onto her hip.
MRS. BURBANK’S OFFICEwas situated down the end of a long hallway. My feet were moving in a slow shuffle, daring my brain to order them to turn around. Inquiring about the Spud Harvest was a crazy idea, right? I mean, what did I know about potatoes or farming or...working, for that matter? It was only this week I’d learned to sweep, load a dishwasher and hang out laundry. Did I really think I could pick or pack potatoes?
But the lure of that money was strong, so strong. Mom was selling her handbags—what next, her shoes, the clothes off her back? Times were tough and in tough times, people had to step up.
I could sign up for a two week harvest.
It was hardly courageous, but it felt like the bravest thing I was about to do.
But it wasn’t only the money aspect. Another girl had said something mean on the bus today. Lindsay had been at soccer trials and made the varsity team.
“She must be a complete loser because she couldn’t even make the team. EvenSadie Hillmade the team.” She’d turned around to tell the kids in the seats behind her, voice booming like a foghorn. She’d tried to engage eye contact with me, three rows back, but I’d sipped on my water bottle when she howled with laughter. I wanted to be swallowed up then.
Other kids, who didn’t even know me, joined in with how pathetic I must be and there was another jibe about coming from a prep school and having a rich mommy. I turned my music up high and kept my eyes down, but it hurt, my chest tightening at the attack. Little did they know my mother was selling her belongings to keep a house over our head. And it struck me then why Mom hadn’t sold her car. By driving her Mercedes, everyone still thought we had money.
Mrs. Burbank, a short woman with long honey blonde hair was standing behind her desk handing a boy a box of crayons. On seeing me, she gestured that I should come inside.
“Thank you Bradley,” she said, dismissing the boy with a warm nod. “Can’t wait to see your work.”
I waited until Bradley had totally left the room before timidly asking, “Mrs. Burbank?”
