Page 45 of Enemy Crush
“Good grief,” Mom scoffed, kicking off her matching Prada shoes. “No, I haven’t been at brunch all day. I had to go to Virginia Graham’s house for a private appointment.”
“For hair?”
“Yes. She’s got a heart condition and doesn’t get out much. So she was willing to pay me to go to her house. And what a beautiful house it is too. Up on Pinebrush Hill. Gorgeous sweeping views.”
“Nice,” I mumbled.
“She wants a regular appointment,” Mom said. “Seems no one wants to drive out that way. It’s up a long and windy road. But she’s willing to pay. And we can certainly do with the money.”
A rush of adrenaline surged through me as I sensed the opportune time to tell Mom about the Potato Harvest.
“Talking about money,” I said, “I signed up for a school project. It’s a Snow Ridge High tradition to work at a potato farm, so I thought I’d join. You know, blend in like a local. And the bonus is you get paid.”
“Potato farm?” It sounded like being broke hadn’t dented Mom’s snobbery as her voice lilted. “They still do that?”
“What? You know about the Spud Harvest?”
“They’ve been doing it for years. What do you have to do?”
“I have no idea,” I said, “just that I have to be at school at 7:30. Can you drive me?” And in case she wasn’t keen, I added the clincher. “I need some pocket money of my own.”
“It’s early, but I guess so.” Seemed that earning a paycheck was something that couldn’t be passed up, and a Devereaux participating in manual labor didn’t bother my mother one bit. In fact, she praised me. “It’s good to see you making an effort to fit in. By the way, how are Celeste and Naomi?”
“Yeah, good, super busy,“ I gushed, quickly changing the topic. “Hey, did you see I finished the lawns?”
“I did,” Mom said, glancing around the kitchen. “And...you’ve been cleaning?”
“Yeah, a bit,” I mumbled, guessing that she’d find fault with sticky fingermarks or a missed crumb.
But Mom raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think Jillian paid this much attention to detail.” She emptied the brown paper bag of salad ingredients, corn cobs and bell peppers, saying, “I stopped at the store and picked up some steaks for dinner. It feels like I haven’t cooked in an eternity.”
I couldn’t argue with that—she hadn’t. When she went upstairs to change out of her fancy designer clothes, I finished mopping the floor. The steam mop was actually fun to use and I made a cute video with Squishmallow Nell the Cat attached to the mop handle. But it had been Nightingale the Cow dusting the den that had been my most successful video so far, he’d managed 1947 views with over 200 likes. In the scheme of things, it was nothing, but making them gave me an outlet .
Mom’s cooking was the most wholesome meal I’d eaten in weeks, macro and micro nutrients in good supply. It was a shame I wouldn’t be reporting back for Health and Nutrition class tomorrow. I spent the rest of the evening sorting through my clothes and deciding what was appropriate to wear to a harvest. Mrs. Burbank had recommended old clothes as we were likely to get dusty and dirty. I honestly didn’t have any ‘old’ clothes, but chose a pair of jeans that Brizendine Prep kids would call last season and a black hoodie which might pass as ‘old.’ Paired with my black Converse sneakers, I’d look like every other Snow Ridge High student.
My one concern about working the harvest had to do with not riding the bus. I worried about Mason being vulnerable to the bullies. I could only hope that perhaps Miller would take the bus for a few days, keep an eye on him. But I had an idea anyway.
All Squishmallows came with names and their own little story. Stanley the Panda was a friend you could rely on to support and protect you. Stanley had been practicing karate since he was small and he also wrote poetry, so he seemed like Mason’s perfect match. I had a purse version that Mason could clip to his backpack, but it was too late to take it over now. I’d drop it in his mailbox with a note.
And as I gathered a few essentials for my backpack—a cap, sunglasses, lip balm, mist spray, sunscreen, deodorant, water bottle, wet wipes, I clipped Quigley the Squirrel, a brown and orange Squishmallow, to the strap. Quigley harvested his own farm so he was the most appropriate choice. As I looked over my collection, a wicked thought struck that I should give Austin the Avocado to Miller. The way he went on about avocado toast? Yeah...I giggled to myself.
Because of my early start, Mom had decided to join a stretching class instead of wasting gas by driving back home. She hadn’t exercised in months and the classes at the Rec Center were reasonably priced.
“My back’s been killing me from standing in the salon all day,” she said, “so some stretches should help.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
Since yesterday, we’d been talking to each other without any hostility, a miracle of sorts. Mom had cooked dinner and we’d eaten it together in the dining room. Most of the time she was raving about Mrs. Graham’s wonderful house and her old friends at the fundraiser. Our secret was intact and nobody suspected our dire situation. She was carrying on the ‘work is therapeutic' spiel and being admired for it.
Mom didn’t protest when I asked her to drop me down the block. Perhaps she’d realized that a Mercedes arriving at school would draw unwanted attention and stares. Besides, I had plenty of time, my nerves waking me way before my alarm.
Fewer kids than I’d expected were gathered in the parking lot beside two passenger vans. Mrs. Burbank ticked our names on her clipboard, dividing us between two farms and steering us toward one van or the other. I was handed a cap and a t-shirt with Hamlin Farms in big block letters, no guesses that I was going to Hamlin Farms.
I glanced down the seats, recognizing Ash from Health and Nutrition class in the back row. Three junior girls took up the row in front of him but not wanting to stare too much, I sat on the empty aisle seat in the front row, leaving space between the boy next to the window. He briefly acknowledged me, but went straight back to looking at his phone. I put my backpack on my lap and pulled on the cap. Most had done this already. It seemed a little too big so I rearranged my ponytail and tightened the strap. As I was doing that, Mrs. Burbank poked her face in the door and made an announcement.
“Fantastic, we’re almost all here. Just waiting on one more. Then it’s off to Hamlin Farms we go. Are we all excited?”
The rather subdued response of “Yeahhhhh,” didn’t deter Mrs. Burbank in the least. “Awesome!” she said. “Fabulous!”
