Page 47 of Enemy Crush
“Impossible to be bored,” I said with a smile, totally meaning it.
“Really? You’re not sick of potatoes already?” Miller seamlessly slid onto the chair that Mrs. Burbank just vacated.
“Hi,” I said, not exactly sure why he’d chosen to sit next to me when there were more seats further down the table.
“Gotta say you were the last person I expected to see on the harvest,” he said, swigging on a water bottle.
Again, I didn’t know if Miller was saying it to be kind or cruel. All I could do was repeat my automated response, “Just wanted to be a part of the tradition.” And quickly moving on, “Um, what job are you doing?”
“Bagging potatoes. How’s the conveyer belt?”
“It’s good. I like it.”
“You’ll get switched around to other jobs,” Miller said, piling a plate with fries like he’d not eaten for a month. “You won’t have to pick out rocks for two weeks.”
“I honestly don’t mind.”
“It’s been half a day,” he said and his eyes twinkled as if he was...trying to be funny?
“Okay, ask me tomorrow then,” I said, chuckling in return.
But just when I thought he’d loosened up a little and there might have been something in that ponytail moment, he stood.
“Maybe I will,” he said, and taking his plate, he walked away.
My phone pinged and I pulled it out, surprised to see a message from Blanche, which featured wide-eyed and gasping emojis:I heard you’re on the Spud Harvest? Call me tonight.
I made a mental note to do it later, probably she wanted to tell me something about the Art Club.
Chapter 17
MILLER
The first day of harvest flew by, and though my feet and most of the muscles in my body were sore, I couldn’t wait for the next day of work. I was still reeling from the fact that Quinn was doing the Spud Harvest. I mean, of all the unlikely things one would expect to see, this was up there with flying pigs. Potato farm, physical labor, twelve hour days weren’t what I’d envisioned Quinn signing up for, and all in the name of tradition. She’d mentioned that twice, like fitting in at Snow Ridge High was important to her. More than ever, I wondered if I had her wrong.
Well, my perception of Quinn came from her mother. By default, she was the enemy. Snobby, rude, arrogant, like mother like daughter.
“So, how was your day?” Dad asked as I came into the living room, freshly showered with my microwaved dinner of mac and cheese that he’d left for me.
“You’ll never guess who was there,” I said and without giving him or Mason a chance to answer, “Quinn. Quinn is doing the harvest.”
Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding?”
“No. I’m not. And she did good, too.”
“Hmmm,” Dad mused. “She a potato fan?”
I rolled my eyes. “I think she’s trying to blend in with the locals, you know, tryna not look like a snob.”
“I don’t think she’s a snob,” Mason said, leaping up from his seat and darting around to the back of the couch. “Look what she gave me.”
“A baby toy?” I said half mockingly, glancing at the black and white panda hanging from the zipper of his backpack.
“It’s a Squishmallow.”
He held it right in my face, so I squished it, surprised by its softness. “When did she give you this?”
“It was in the mailbox this morning. Stanley will protect me, he knows karate.”
