Page 48 of Enemy Crush
“Huh? Stanley?”
“Yeah, they all have names.” Mason handed me a piece of lilac notepaper. In really tidy printing, she’d written, “Hi Mason. This is Stanley the Panda, he’s a Squishmallow. He’s a great friend to have, if things get tough, squeeze him and he’ll protect you. He’s good at karate! And he writes poems too. If you’re feeling blue, he’ll be there for you. Quinn xx”
It took me a few seconds to absorb what I’d read, to comprehend what Quinn had done for him. Of course it was all mumbo-jumbo—like a toy couldn’t protect you, but I asked anyway, “How was the bus today?”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Chloe sat by me after Katie got off.”
“Chloe Fisher?”
Mason smiled. “Yeah. I squeezed Stanley and she switched seats.”
“Ohhhh-kay.” Yeah, that was odd because the twins stuck to each other like glue.
“Stanley’s my protector,” Mason said, squeezing the panda in his hand,
I shot a glance over at Dad, a trace of a smile curling his lips. I guess if a panda could lift Mason’s confidence, I had no businessbursting his bubble. But again, a feeling gnawed away at me—that Quinn was the one helping Mason, making a difference for my little brother.
“That’s really cool,” I said.
“Yep,” Mason said, and picking up his book and still clutching the panda, said, “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, sport,” Dad said, ruffling his hair as he walked by.
“Yeah, ‘night Mase,” I said.
“She’s surprising, that girl,” Dad said, his gaze drilling into me for a little too long.
“Did you walk Hamish?” I said, briskly changing the subject. With the harvest, I’d be finishing late every night, so Dad would take over dog walking duty.
“Sure did,” Dad said, still smirking.
I shoved a mouthful of macaroni into my mouth, eating as fast as I could to avoid Dad’s stupid face.
POTATOES, POTATOESand Quinn were what filled my mind for the next few days. We had a couple of conversations when we saw each other in the van or at breaks—but always about potatoes, how big they were, their peculiar shapes, how many there were.
But it wasn’t until Friday that we got to work side by side on bagging potatoes.
Smaller potatoes were stored in the cellars but bigger potatoes were packed into 50 pound bags and loaded onto a truck to be sold in bulk. And smaller bags of 10 and 20 pounds were headed for the Farmers Market stall that the Hamlin’s worked over in Pine Ridge.
“How’s it going?” I asked casually but noticing everything about her. Hair tied up in a ponytail under the cap, small gold earrings, the Hamlin Farms t-shirt over a pair of faded blue jeans that accentuated her long legs, and black sneakers.
“Good,” she replied.
“First time on bags?”
“Uh huh,” she said, head down, gloved hands already reaching for potatoes.
“You wanna do the 20 pounders?” I asked, trying to be considerate, “And I’ll do the 50s?”
“What? You think I can’t do this?” Quinn glared at me, already filling the large bag.
“What? Oh...no,” I said, feeling heat rise up my neck. “I just meant...”
But Quinn was working quickly, and I mean really quickly. Like it was a race, like she had something to prove. She had her first bag done before me, yet this was my fourth harvest. I showed her how to tape the bag and lifted it off to stack on the trailer. I figured after that first one, she’d change to the smaller bags. I mean, 50 pounds was a considerable weight, especially for a girl. But Quinn was having none of that. She kept filling the 50 pound bags, lifted her own bags and stacked her own bags like she was a secret weightlifter or something. She had no need for me. It was somewhat soul-destroying. Because I wanted to do something for Quinn. She’d done so much for Mason, and I owed her. But also, there was something else. I didn’t just want to be around Quinn because she’d been nice to my brother...no, I was crushing on her more than ever.
