Crush Control (5 page)

“Huh,” Mom said. “What about that.”

Max closed his eyes and shook his head a little. “Look, if you're going to drive, especially across the country, you need to know some basic car maintenance.” He pulled out the dipstick, wiped it off with a tissue, replaced it then pulled it out again. “Jesus, Vicki,” he said to my mother. “Please tell me you didn't drive two thousand miles without a decent amount of oil in this car.”

Mom laughed nervously.

He shook his head and took my hand. “Come on, Willow, let's go to the auto-body store.”

I looked down at our clasped fingers, my heart bursting.

Mom looked like she was going to cry. “You've really grown up nicely, Max,” she said.

MOM!
I shot her a look.
Don't embarrass me!

But Max didn't seem to notice. He opened the passenger side door for me. Max drove an old black Ford 150. The paint was chipped in places, and the oversize wheels had mud caked in their treads. But as I climbed inside, I thought,
This truck is a lot like Max: a little messy, hardworking, and powerful.

He climbed into the driver's side and cranked the engine. He reversed down the driveway fast then sped down our quiet road toward town. I had never seen Max drive, and it gave me a thrill to be in the intimate space of his truck. I felt like I knew Max so well—his thoughts, his likes and dislikes—but it had been so many years since I'd been privy to his actual space and all the things he surrounded himself with. I took in the mound of CD cases piled in his back seat, drumsticks, stray papers with music notes scrawled on them, a pair of running shoes, the white top to his karate uniform (but no bottoms in sight). The rugs and fabric seats could have used a good vacuuming and shampoo.

“What?” Max asked, catching me swipe a few crumbs off the center console.

“Nothing,” I said. “Well, maybe we can swing through the car wash after the auto-body store.”

Max snorted and rolled his eyes. “I'm not afraid of a few germs.”

“Germs?” I countered, trying to readopt a flirtatious tone. “You have a biology experiment growing in this cup holder.”

Max laughed and I felt a surge of victory.

“And why is your truck so
loud
?” I continued to tease him. “If you're so handy . . .”

“Hey, I rebuilt this entire engine,” he said defensively. “It may not be perfect, but it's mine.”

A swell of emotion caught inside me.
I may not be perfect either.

Max drove one handed and fast, no surprise to me, using his free hand to spin the dial across the radio stations, searching for the perfect driving music. He stopped on something loud and thumping, turned the volume way up and, rather than gripping the wheel, used that hand to drum out the beat on the console between us. We came to a stop sign and turned right onto Main Street. As he turned the corner, he reached over and lowered the radio volume and smiled. He pointed to the two-hundred-year-old oak tree that shaded the entrance to Poplinger Park.

“Remember how we used to climb up to that top branch?” He pointed up to the treetop, and I resisted the urge to place his hand on the steering wheel, arrange his hands in a safe ten-and-two position. “Remember,” he continued, “how we used to hang upside down from our knees like monkeys?”

I looked up to the thick, curving branches and remembered the days of playing monkeys. And the day we sat in that tree and I tried to hypnotize him.

He laughed and used his hand to search the radio dial again. “Man, we had some laughs.” He turned and looked at me. “You were never afraid to have fun.”

I wondered how I had drifted so far away from that fun-loving girl to where I was now—afraid to take any chances. Afraid to let Max know how I really felt. I had spent too many nights hidden behind the black velvet curtain on Mom's stage.

He started banging out the music rhythm again. He pulled into Larry's Auto Body, kept the car running, and said, “Be right back.”

After he disappeared, I considered opening the glove compartment or sneaking a peek inside his backpack. I had never snooped before, but curiosity overtook me. Did I really know Max as well now as I did when we were young? Before I could act on my impulse, he climbed back into the car and reversed out of the lot at lightning speed. Max tossed the motor oil onto the floorboard of the car and turned the volume of the radio back up.

As we turned off Main Street and sped down Erwin Drive, my stomach knotted. I had to take a chance. This was my new life. My reinvention. If I kept hiding behind the curtain, another ten years could pass me by and I'd never get my chance to shine. So I took a deep breath and steadied my voice. “So,” I said, casually running my hand through my frizzy hair. “Do you want to catch a matinee tomorrow?”
Boom, boom,
my heart raced.

“Don't you need to unpack?” he asked, turning his head to look at me, and even though I could have gazed into his soft eyes for an eternity, I kind of wanted him to watch where he was driving.

“Um, pothole,” I said, pointing ahead of us.

He veered around it. “You start school on Monday, right?” he asked. “Don't you kind of need things . . . out of their boxes?”

I was about to suggest that he could come over and help me unpack, but before I could, he shrugged. “I've got plans,” he said. “Sorry. I thought you'd be totally swamped.”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, trying not to look hurt.
Did we ever spend a day apart when we were kids?
For a moment I panicked that I wasn't so important to him anymore. But then he pulled into our driveway and proceeded to take out a long metal toolbox from his backseat, fished out an old dirty rag, and propped himself under my mom's car for hours. I sat on the hot, black driveway and ate a banana, peanut butter, and honey sandwich while he worked. This was Max's way of telling me he cared, right?

When he wriggled his way back to a sitting position, dirt sprinkled over his olive face, he pointed at me. “You're not driving this car to school until we get a few more parts.”

I shook my head. “Mom's taking the car to her new job. I'll ride the bus.”

His eyes widened. “Seniors don't ride the bus.” He wiped his hands on his shorts. “I'll pick you up. Monday morning at 7:45 a.m.”

I reached over and wiped a black smudge of motor oil off his cheek. And standing there in the sweltering heat, in the driveway of my new home, it felt intimate and special—like he was taking me under his wing and caring for me.

He smiled. “Don't be late.”

I smiled back. “I'll be ready and waiting for you.”
Like I have been for years.

My bed was hidden under piles of clothes neatly laid out in color-coordinated ensembles. I looked at the khaki cotton skirt and lavender short-sleeve sweater set. I had been told purple was a good color for me—that it brought out a rosy flush in my skin. But staring at it now strewn across my bed, the whole outfit seemed so dull. I reached over and put on the black shorts with a black and white striped top. I stared in the mirror. Blah. How could I be who I wanted to be—dazzling and memorable—with a wardrobe of forgettable clothes?

I got an idea. I crept across the living room and tapped softly on Mom's door. I stuck my head in. “Mom?” I called, hearing the soft drum of the shower from her bathroom. “Mom, it's 7:30 a.m. You better hurry up.”

“I know, I know,” she answered, turning off the faucet. “I'm not used to early mornings. Willow?” she called from behind the bathroom door.

“Yeah?” I answered as I peered into her closet.

“Will you turn on the coffee pot, hon?”

“Already did,” I answered, snatching her tall black leather boots.

“Thanks,” she said.

I raced out of her room before she could see me with them. Not that she wouldn't let me wear them—she would—but I didn't want to explain my sudden interest in her wardrobe.

Back in my room, I pulled the soft high-heeled boots up, zipping them over my calves. I closed my door and modeled them in front of my full-length mirror. I put my hand on my hip and walked across the carpet. “Well, hi Max,” I practiced with a smile. I had to show Max I was still fun and a little wild.

Under my desk, Oompa groaned and shook his head.

“What?” I asked the dog. “Do I look that ridiculous? Is it so impossible to think I could be sexy?” I turned back to the mirror, cocked my hip, and winked at my reflection. I turned on the heel and promptly crashed onto the carpet.

Oompa looked at me apologetically, then buried his nose.

“Fine,” I muttered, unzipping the boots and stashing them under my bed. I would return them later. I left the black shorts on but changed the top to my lavender short-sleeve V-neck and matching button-up cardigan. I stood in front of the mirror and unbuttoned the top two buttons.
There, I'll show a little skin. A little cleavage.

I looked in the mirror. I hated that no amount of make-up could fix my unfixable eyes. It was so unfair. One of my friends in Vegas, Becca, had terrible acne. But one trip to the dermatologist, a prescription cream and suddenly her skin was transformed. I begged the eye doctor for some magic fix. But no, my eyes were destined to stay the way they were. Imperfect.

I looked at my hair, all frizzy and mangled. Well, at least hair was pliable. I attempted one more squirt of hair spray to tame my hair with little success. I couldn't understand what was happening to it—my hair had never given me this much trouble. It was never glamorous. It was a very average dishwater blonde, shoulder length and straight. Becca always said it could be pretty—an asset, even—with just a few highlights. But I was a little freaked out about the idea of someone putting chemicals and foils on my head. What if they messed up? What if they miscalculated the amount of bleach? So I left it alone. But now, with this sudden dose of humidity, it was like the strands were refusing to hang down my back. They acted like they'd ingested some helium and were levitating ever so slightly into the air—just enough to give my hair a strange poofy triangle shape.

I sighed and pulled it back into a low ponytail. This would have to do.

The car horn beeped at exactly 7:45 a.m., but it wasn't like I couldn't hear the engine rumbling up the street five minutes before. I hopped down the porch steps and got into the passenger's side.

“You look nice,” Max said.

“Thanks,” I said, suddenly nervous again. I swiped my hand over the seat, but the crumbs were gone. I wondered if Max had cleaned up for me. A jittery, tingly feeling of excitement coursed through me and I felt my cheeks flush. I looked over at him while he drove, spotting the little unexpected details that emerged over the years we had been physically separated—the way he had lost his baby fat and now his body looked so much leaner; the way his face was so much more angular. The way a dark shadow of stubble sprouted around his jawline and under his nose.

I wondered what evidence of womanhood he noticed about me. The curve of my hips? The angle of my cheekbones? The emergence of breasts that were not as voluptuous as the full C cup Mom had but still decent? I suddenly felt too exposed. I nervously reached up and re-buttoned my top two sweater buttons, glad I'd decided against the boots.

Max pulled into the student parking lot and I followed him over a footbridge that crossed a bubbling stream and into my new high school. He paused in front of the glass window of the principal's office and indicated with a thrust of his chin that I needed to go inside.

The secretary greeted me with pleasantries, handed me a class schedule, a locker number, a map of the school, and pamphlets on the school's policy for attendance, dress code, and behavior. When I emerged from the office five minutes later, Max was still waiting for me, drumming his fingers to a fast beat against the wall. He was talking to some guy who wore a white T-shirt with a flaming guitar painted across the chest.

“Willow,” Max said as I approached. He paused his fingerdrumming. “Do you remember Trent? I know it's been a long time.”

“Hi,” I said.

Trent nodded at me. “Hey. Max talks a lot about you.”

My insides fluttered. “Max tells me you're the best guitar player around.”

Trent smiled. “Damn right.” He laughed.

Max rolled his eyes.

Trent nodded at me. “Later,” he said then turned to Max. “Four thirty p.m. at my house, okay? Will you tell Conner?”

Max nodded. “Will do.”

Trent disappeared down the hallway.

Max and I began to walk. The hall was more crowded now, with students headed to their lockers. Occasionally I would recognize a face from so many years ago, but there were so many new people I didn't know—kids from several different schools that had merged into this one high school. I felt a flutter of excitement. I was the new girl.

Max stopped in front of a tall metal locker and spun the combination. “Where's your locker?” he asked, and I told him the number. “Oh, that's just right down there.” He pointed down the long hallway. He grabbed a few books then kicked the metal door shut with his foot. He turned like he was ready to escort me when a tall, curvy girl with thick, shiny black hair came up to us.

“Hi,” she said to Max a little breathlessly. She had plump lips with no lipstick, just a smear of clear gloss.

“Hey, you,” Max said, smiling at her. He reached over and took her hand. My heart froze.
Why is Max holding this girl's hand?
“This is Minnie,” he said. “My girlfriend.”

What?
My breath caught.