Chapter 10
QUINN
The waffles were edible. That’s all I could say about them.
I was longing for the lesson when Miss Deeley would teach us to cook a meal.
A glance at the kitchen sink reminded me that I was supposed to do my share of the chores.
It looked like Mom hadn’t stacked her breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.
I’d do it with the hope of getting into her good books.
Then telling her I hadn’t made the soccer team wouldn’t be so daunting.
Mom wasn’t exactly a fan of the sport, but she expected me to excel in everything.
If she saw a clean kitchen, who knows, she might be less disappointed.
The dishwasher was already full, but I managed to squeeze in the plates and mugs and find the tablet and turn the machine on. Funny how such a small thing felt like a huge accomplishment. Just like sweeping the porch.
Passing through the living room, I saw the laundry basket full of folded clothes. I could impress Mom by taking it upstairs to her room, and then I’d take my own hamper—which was near overflowing—down to the laundry. If I’d managed to work the dishwasher, surely I could turn on the clothes washer.
Mom’s door was closed and I hitched the basket onto my hip to open it.
I walked in to see the bed immaculately made with its floral cover and collection of pillows, but it was a bunch of handbags and purses on the floor that caught my eye.
For someone who was usually meticulous, it seemed odd that she’d leave them lying around.
Noticing her yellow Chanel clutch, which she adored, and her lilac Versace bowling bag, I crossed the room to look closer.
Mom’s bags were her pride and joy and each one had its place on the shelves of her walk-in closet.
But next to the wall was a stack of packaging boxes and a bunch of print-outs .
Dumping the laundry basket, I pulled out my phone and googled yellow Chanel clutch on eBay.
After a few scrolls and taps, there it was, under the seller name Abelle.
Clicking on seller’s other items, twelve more bags were listed, causing my heart to seize—Mom was selling her beloved bags which meant things were getting worse by the day.
A few pieces of furniture, sure, but her own personal items?
I hated that for her. That would be like giving up my Squishmallows, something I would find mortifying.
Mom really was making sacrifices and doing whatever to keep us afloat.
Mom had grown up in Ambrose Manor, an only child doted on by her parents.
After high school, she went to cosmetology school and then to Paris in France to do further training.
She loved it and it’s where she met Dad.
He’d been there visiting his grandparents and they’d had a whirlwind romance.
But Mom’s mother suffered a stroke, and she came home immediately.
My Grandma never recovered and passed away several weeks later.
Mom moved back home to be with her father, both of them heartbroken.
Soon after, Dad returned from France, missing Mom so much that he moved to Pine Ridge to be close to her, and they eventually got engaged and married.
It made me wonder how my parents could have fallen so deeply in love and then have it turn around so that they couldn’t even speak a civil sentence to one another or be in the same room together.
I scooted out of her bedroom, then returned to get the laundry basket.
I couldn’t let Mom know I’d seen what she was doing.
I took my hamper downstairs, feeling sick to my stomach.
Missing out on the soccer team now seemed like a minor matter, perhaps even a blessing.
At least there would be no soccer fees to pay.
Jamming my clothes into the machine, I tossed in a laundry pod and closed the lid. It took several attempts at pushing the various buttons before I heard the washer roar into action, but again there was a degree of satisfaction knowing I was doing my fair share of the chores.
When Mom arrived home, I was sitting in the living room doing my homework, the television on for background noise. I heard her stop in the kitchen before she came into the room.
“Hi,” I said, holding my breath as I waited for her to ask about the soccer team.
“Hi, I just picked up some groceries,” she said with a huff as if she had gone above and beyond the call of duty.
“Oh.” I jumped up from the chair. “I’ll put them away.”
“Oh. Thanks,” she said, looking surprised at my offer.
“You know, if you want me to pick up the groceries next time, I can do it,” I said. “And, um, I put the dishwasher on and did my laundry.”
Mom’s eyebrows rose like she was mildly impressed, but she said, “There’s a drying rack in the laundry closet, you can hang your clothes on that instead of using the dryer.”
“But isn’t the dryer quicker?”
“The dryer uses electricity,” Mom stated. “We’re trying to cut costs, remember?” She noticed her folded laundry and picked it up. “Turn off lights if you’re not using them. Does the tv really need to be on? Every bit adds up, you know.”
“What? So now we’re living in the dark ages?” I said, trying to lighten the moment, but knowing she was deadly serious.
“Just conserve power and water wherever you can. And take shorter showers. It all helps, Quinn,” she answered abruptly, devoid of any sense of humor.
“I’m not on the soccer team,” I blurted, heart pounding in my ears as an excuse flowed from my mouth.
“It costs $100 for the training session on Saturday, plus there are fees, so I’m not playing.
” I inwardly congratulated myself for such inspired thinking—money issues were such a valid reason and would save my humiliation.
“Oh?” Mom frowned. “I thought you trialed.”
“I did,” I said, “but...but I’m not that keen on playing, and I guess I’m going to be busy around here. I went out to the shed to look at the lawn mower thingy that Mr. Jones used.”
“Oh,” Mom said, her frown deepening. “I don’t want you to miss out on any school activities, Quinn. I’ll find the money for the soccer team if you want to play.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay. Besides, it’s not the same without Celeste and Naomi.”
Mom was silent for a moment, and then her voice came out raspy. “I’m sorry I had to take you out of Brizendine,” she said. “I know it’s tough, but we’ll find a way to get through this.” She sighed as she wearily hoisted the laundry basket onto her hip.
MRS. BURBANK’S OFFICE was situated down the end of a long hallway.
My feet were moving in a slow shuffle, daring my brain to order them to turn around.
Inquiring about the Spud Harvest was a crazy idea, right?
I mean, what did I know about potatoes or farming or.
..working, for that matter? It was only this week I’d learned to sweep, load a dishwasher and hang out laundry.
Did I really think I could pick or pack potatoes?
But the lure of that money was strong, so strong. Mom was selling her handbags—what next, her shoes, the clothes off her back? Times were tough and in tough times, people had to step up.
I could sign up for a two week harvest.
It was hardly courageous, but it felt like the bravest thing I was about to do.
But it wasn’t only the money aspect. Another girl had said something mean on the bus today. Lindsay had been at soccer trials and made the varsity team.
“She must be a complete loser because she couldn’t even make the team.
Even Sadie Hill made the team.” She’d turned around to tell the kids in the seats behind her, voice booming like a foghorn.
She’d tried to engage eye contact with me, three rows back, but I’d sipped on my water bottle when she howled with laughter. I wanted to be swallowed up then.
Other kids, who didn’t even know me, joined in with how pathetic I must be and there was another jibe about coming from a prep school and having a rich mommy.
I turned my music up high and kept my eyes down, but it hurt, my chest tightening at the attack.
Little did they know my mother was selling her belongings to keep a house over our head.
And it struck me then why Mom hadn’t sold her car.
By driving her Mercedes, everyone still thought we had money.
Mrs. Burbank, a short woman with long honey blonde hair was standing behind her desk handing a boy a box of crayons. On seeing me, she gestured that I should come inside.
“Thank you Bradley,” she said, dismissing the boy with a warm nod. “Can’t wait to see your work.”
I waited until Bradley had totally left the room before timidly asking, “Mrs. Burbank?”
“Yes,” she said with a wide smile. “It’s Quinn, isn’t it?”
I dipped my head in surprise that she knew me, considering I didn’t take any art subjects.
“Um, yes,” I murmured.
“Are you here to sign up for the after school Art Club?”
“Um, no.” I shook my head and lowered my voice. “Is this where you sign up for the Potato Harvest?”
Mrs. Burbank’s eyebrows jumped up to her hairline. “Spud Harvest?” she asked as if I’d inquired about a field trip to the moon. “Are you sure?”
I momentarily froze. No, I was definitely not sure. I was probably highly incompetent when it came to harvesting potatoes, but I needed some money and at the present time I’d rather be anywhere but school. Hopefully, mean girls weren’t keen on farm work.
A smile graced Mrs. Burbank’s lips and she stepped forward to close the door. “Why don’t you take a seat, Quinn?”
I panicked. Mrs. Burbank was going to tell me I wasn’t suitable for the Spud Harvest. Like Coach McLean, she’d say I wasn’t a team player. And the Spud Harvest needed team players.
“Thank you,” I said, realizing I had to fake some confidence. “Yes, I’d like to sign up.”
“You’ve transferred from Brizendine Prep, haven’t you?” Mrs. Burbank asked, returning to her side of the desk and sitting opposite me.
I nodded, not quite able to look her in the eye. Maybe Coach had told all the staff that Quinn Devereaux was not a team player and she was about to reject me.
“And you’re interested in the Spud Harvest?”
I nodded again, now worried that it involved filling in a college-like application form and interview.
“How are you settling in here at Snow Ridge High?” Mrs. Burbank asked, picking up a pen.
“Good.” My voice deserted me at the worst moment, coming out in a croak.
Mrs. Burbank waited as I coughed into my hand, my throat parched like I was dying of thirst. Ironic, when a glass of water was all I’d had this morning.
“Um, I thought it would be good to try something different and I heard it’s a Snow Ridge High tradition,” I said, quoting the boys at the bulletin board.
“Oh, absolutely,” Mrs. Burbank said, “yes, of course.” She opened a folder and set a sheet of paper before me. “This explains about the harvest, how it all works. It’s hard work but we have a lot of fun.”
“You do it too?” I asked in surprise.
“Oh yes, this is my sixth year, but it gets harder and harder to recruit every year,” Mrs. Burbank said.
“Kids these days don’t want to put in the effort.
Getting up early and working all day is a big commitment.
But there’s a lot to be gained from it. We have a tremendous partnership with the farm and it builds such a community bond.
Like you said, it’s a tradition and the students who participate really benefit from it.
We work long days but it’s rewarding to know you’re providing a service and contributing to our town’s economy.
And earning your own money.” Her eyes scrunched up like that last comment didn’t apply to me.
“I think it would boost my college applications,” I said, keen to keep the financial aspect out of it.
“Of course,” Mrs. Burbank gushed and continued on about the program at full throttle as I filled in my details on a sign-up form.
I passed it to her, but she gave it back to me.
“Just get your parents to sign the back of it,” she said, “and bring it to me tomorrow. From what I’ve heard, it will be an early harvest this year. ”
I faked a smile as I shoved the form into my bag, my new dilemma how to tell Mom I was working at a potato farm.