Crush Control (27 page)

I put the laptop on the coffee table and picked up the phone.

He answered right away with a lift in his voice. “Hey special girlfriend.”

“Hi,” I said, staring at the instructions on the computer. “I was just thinking, it's been over a month since I did the hypnosis for your sleepwalking and I think maybe it's time for another session. A tuneup ! Really make sure you kick the habit.”

“Not necessary,” he chirped. “You did such a great job the first time around I haven't had a problem since. I'm cured for life!”

“And thanks,” he continued, “because I absolutely hated the idea of walking around doing absurd things I never would do otherwise.”

Guilt, guilt, guilt.
“Okay.” I tried not to sound so deflated. “Well, I better get back to my homework.”

“Hey, I can come over and we can work together.”

“No! Um, no, thanks.” I softened my voice. I yanked the gold chain away from my neck. “Actually, um, Mia is coming over later,” I lied. “But I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Have fun with Mia. Miss you, my goddess.” He hung up.

I reached behind my neck and unclasped the gold chain and put it on the end table beside me. The words on the laptop screamed,
Simply re-induct and de-suggest!
Simple—not so much. I was about to start a new search when my cell phone buzzed that I had a text from Mia.
Hey, can I come over?
My stomach felt queasy, like maybe this mind control had gotten so out of control that all I had to do was mention something and it influenced the behavior of someone I'd hypnotized.

I texted Mia back.
Sure.

Fifteen minutes later, Mia pulled up the driveway and came inside. “Are you working on your oral report?” she asked, seeing the computer in my lap. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“No, it's a welcome interruption. Sit down.” I placed the laptop on the coffee table and clicked off my Google search about hypnosis gone wrong.

Mia sat down. “So the UGA coach contacted Coach Graham.”

“Did you get a scholarship?” I asked excitedly.

“Not yet.” Mia slumped onto the couch next to me. “She requested some video clips of me. I guess to show the athletic director and some other people.”

“Well, it'll happen, I'm sure of it.”

“Coach Graham suggested that I really knock it out of the park next week at districts.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wants me to have a ‘Mia move'—my own signature move.” Mia inhaled sharply. “We decided I should do a triple flip backward in a tucked position.” She twirled her index finger in three loops in the air. Her eyes widened. “It's the most difficult move in artistic tumbling. Here, let me show you.” She reached for my laptop and clicked through a few links and pulled up a video clip of a girl flipping through the air at a national cheerleading competition.

I thought about my hypnotic suggestions to Quinton—my simple intention to make him like me had spiraled into a borderline obsession. What if my hypnosis to erase Mia's fears had turned her into a reckless daredevil? I shook my head. “No, sorry, I don't think we should do any more hypnosis. Look at that Mia. That looks really dangerous. I bet that girl practiced for a really long time. You can't just expect hypnosis to replace good training.”

“But I
know
I can do it!” she insisted, tucking her feet under her legs on the couch. “I'm just afraid, that's all. I've been doing tumbling and gymnastics and cheerleading since I was four, and I know the mechanics of the move—I just need help with the . . . psychology of it.
Please.
” Her light green eyes pleaded. “Everyone is expecting something big from me. My coach, the college recruiters, the squad, my parents. Especially my parents. You don't understand how disappointed my mom will be if I don't get into her alma mater. And my dad? These last three competitions have been the most I've seen him in a year. I don't want to go back to when he's working all the time.” She looked so desperate, hanging on to that pointy apex of the pyramid with only her tiny, muscular arms. I never realized perfection came at such a price.

I looked back and forth from the computer to Mia. “Okay,” I relented. “But this is it. No more. I don't want you to come over next week and beg me to help you do seven flips off the roof of your house or something.”

She bounced up off the couch and clamped her arms around me, surprising me with her strength. “You're the best! The best!”

“Well, come on,” I said. “Let's just go do it now.”

“Yay!” She got up and skipped toward my room. I followed her, but this time I wasn't filled with the pleasure of being needed. Instead that heavy brick settled in my stomach with the fear that maybe I wasn't being helpful at all.

But Mia was all smiles, planted on the beige carpet and leaning up against my bed. So I walked through the motions, putting her under quickly, influencing her mind not to be scared. Thirty minutes later, when we were through, we walked back into the family room and Mom was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, a very serious look on her face.

“Oh, um, hi Mom,” I stammered. “When did you get home?”

“A few minutes ago,” she said, eerily sitting there not doing anything. The TV was not turned on. She wasn't snacking or holding her phone or even thumbing through a textbook. She was just sitting. And staring, listening to the
tick tick tick
of the second hand on the clock across the room. “Hi Mia,” she said.

“Hi Mrs. Grey!”

“Vicki,” Mom corrected.

“Right, Vicki. Good to see you, but I've got to get home, and Willow needs to get back to her English report.” Mia gave me a huge grin. “Thanks,” she said, and I saw Mom scrutinize our exchange.

I closed the door behind her quickly, before she said anything that would reveal our secret to Mom. I breezed through the family room, picking up my laptop in a flash, and scurried into my bedroom. Two minutes later, Mom peeked her head in. She still wasn't smiling.

“What's going on?” she asked. “What were you two doing?” It wasn't a casual question. She was using a tone of voice I had only ever heard her use directed at old boyfriends.

“Nothing,” I said, my heart pumping faster. “Mia and I were just hanging out, talking about Quinton and her boyfriend, Jake. She thinks Jake's not romantic enough, not like Quinton, who's so mushy.” I clamped my mouth shut. Too many unnecessary details. I remembered reading that people who lie or are guilty of something often over-explain with too many details.

Mom narrowed her eyes at me, like maybe she'd read that too. “And why is Quinton so romantic?” she asked, and for a fraction of a second I thought maybe she was thinking about sex again. But then she squinted at me, leaned forward. “Did you
hypnotize
him to be that way?”

“Are you using hypnosis to get a boyfriend? To get him to treat you the way you want to be treated? Because I overheard a few things from your room and I swore I heard the word
hypnosis
. . .”

My whole body felt hot, panicked. Caught. I forced shock. I bristled up. “What? Do you think that's the only way I could get a guy to actually like me? By
forcing
it? Like I'm so undesirable that no guy would ever . . . just . . . like . . . me?” Without planning to, I suddenly was heaving with tears, gulping in air. “Just because I'm not as pretty as you . . .”

“Sshh! No, I'm so sorry.” Mom came over and tried to hug me, but I pushed her away. “Please,” Mom said, and she took my hand. “Of course you can get a boyfriend. I'm sorry to even suggest otherwise. I”—she bit her lip a little—“I don't know . . . I feel this void with you lately. Like you're hiding something from me,” she said, sounding a little desperate.

“What about you?” I turned it around. “Don't blame the void on me. You're all . . . serious and sneaky, like you're the one hiding something. It's different between us because you never have fun anymore.”

“I'm trying to be your mother and not just your friend, okay? I want to set a good example, Willow. I don't want to be the irresponsible parent that can't pay the bills and keeps you out late at night because we're ‘having fun
.
'” She sat down on my desk chair and lowered her voice. “When Grandma called us in Vegas four months ago and told me that Grandpa had a stroke, she said she was afraid Grandpa was going to die and never see me make a decent life for myself. And for you.” She blinked her eyes, then smiled weakly. “So that's what I'm trying to do, okay?”

“Okay,” I said softly.

“And I'm sorry.” She reached out and took my hand. “For accusing you of hypnotizing people.” She laughed a little. “I guess it's just the more I learn about using hypnosis for long-term medical reasons, the more I get scared. It's pretty intricate and amazing—the ability to influence someone's mind and bend their will. I guess I'm just afraid I'm going to screw someone up!” She laughed and my heart plunged. “I didn't mean to put that on you. It has nothing to do with you. It was all me and my fears.”

I gulped.
Screw someone up?

“It's okay,” I said, forgiving her for her accusation when in fact she was correct all along. She knew me so well.

“Want to go out and get some dinner?” Mom asked, sounding more like herself.

“Sure,” I said. “Sounds great.” But there was no way I could eat with the ten-ton brick of apprehension filling up my belly.

When Mom and I got home from dinner, I took Oompa for a walk to try and clear my head. I walked down the street and turned into the pillared entrance of Poplinger Park. Overhead spotlights lit up the tennis courts to the right, and smaller solar lights hid underneath bushes and plants, lighting up the walking trails. I took the leash off Oompa, picked him up in my arms, and sat down to swing.

“I have really made a mess of things,” I said into his spiky fur. He snorted his agreement. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I reached for it, and when I saw it was Max, I frantically pressed the talk button, accidentally dropping Oompa off my lap. He landed with a thud on my pinkie toe. “Owww!” I hollered then, and, although it really wasn't that painful, I just exploded into tears, all the anxiety leaking out of me in blubbering sobs.

“Geez,” Max said on the phone. “I admit I gave you the freeze-out, but I was just upset that you bagged on me for the concert. But I'm over it, so stop crying. I'm sorry.”

But I couldn't stop crying, which was weird because I typically wasn't the emotional one. Usually it was me rolling my eyes as Mom wept at a Gerber commercial. And Max knew that I was normally pretty levelheaded. I think it freaked him out.

“Where are you?” he asked.

I squeaked out, “The park.”

“I'll be right there.”

Ten minutes later I had managed to wipe the snot from my nose and smudges of makeup from under my eyes. Max's truck rumbled into the parking lot adjacent to the swings. His headlights shone brightly on me and Oompa, and I hid my face behind my hands. A minute later he was over on the swing next to me, and I was glad to be enveloped in the evening darkness. Oompa jumped off my lap and onto Max's. Max scratched his ear, kicked into the dirt, and started to swing. He didn't say anything, but having him there, my best friend, was the comfort I needed.

I took a breath, looked over at him. “I just had a fight with my mom,” I said, not knowing how else to explain the tears. “I mean, of course I'm upset by your freeze-out.” I smiled. “But”—I looked down—“that wasn't really why I was crying.”

“Are you okay? Is everything with your Mom okay?”

I nodded. I looked back over at him, and the spotlights cast light and shadows on his face and shone little puddles of light onto his hair. “I'm sorry about the concert. I didn't mean to blow you off. It was just—”

“You don't need to explain,” he said. “It's okay. I'm sure Quinton wasn't too thrilled with the idea of us going out.”

I turned in my swing to face him more, the chains twisting above me. “No, that wasn't it.”

“Really? 'Cause Minnie wasn't too happy about us going.”

“She wasn't?” The chains began to unwind, spinning me in the opposite direction. I laughed a little, not meaning to sound so happy at Minnie's jealousy.

“I wound up taking her instead of you,” he said flatly.

“Oh well, I guess that made her happy.”

He looked down at Oompa, whispered something in his ear. Then he straightened back up. “It was fine. I mean, she went and sat through it but she just wanted to be there so you weren't. She didn't have fun.
We
didn't have fun—not the way you and I would have.” He stopped swinging and just looked at me. My heart thumped. “Minnie and I are pretty different,” he said. “I like action. I like karate and playing my drums. I like music and concerts and doing stuff in the outdoors, and Minnie—she never wants to try anything new. She wants to lounge around and bask in the sun. I just sit there all antsy like,
come on!
”

“But she's so sweet,” I said, because I didn't know what else to say.

“Yeah, she is sweet and she's a great person but I don't know, it's not . . .” He paused, not moving his eyes from mine. “It's not like when I'm with you.”

My palms felt slick against the chain ropes of the swing. Something was happening between us. For a moment it was silent, only the background chorus of the crickets chirping and the tree frogs croaking filling the air. Max used the toe of his foot to inch his swing closer to mine; then he reached over and grabbed my chain and inched me closer. He started to lean in my direction, and my heart was convulsing now, because I was almost positive that Max was going to kiss me.