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.”
“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 business bursting 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, POTATOES and 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.
But now my crush had substance. It wasn’t just based on her looks—Quinn was kind and caring and generous and hardworking.
And now she was showing me how strong she was and that was somehow contradictory to all those things I’d assumed about her.
With her ballerina hair, designer clothes, gold jewelry, makeup and fake fingernails, I’d decided she was a precocious, stuck-up brat, but with her hair tied up in a ponytail under a cap, her skin natural and glowing from physical labor, and dirt under her real fingernails, I preferred this version.
She made my heart beat faster, my stomach flutter and my brain scramble.
And I really, really wanted to get to know her better.
But after our next short break, I was called over to drive a truck.
It was probably my favorite job, driving the truck alongside the harvester.
The harvester dug up the potatoes which were directly loaded onto the truck.
When full, we’d drive the truck back to the yard and unload them onto the conveyer belt.
But today, I’d rather have bagged potatoes, stayed next to Quinn, even if we only talked potatoes.
Yeah, I could never tire of hearing her talk about the size, the shape, the vast quantity of them.
As I climbed out of the truck, another day done, Mrs. Hamlin approached me.
“Hey, Miller, I need a favor for tomorrow,” she said.
“Sure. Anything,” I said, willing to please the boss.
“Can you help out at the Farmers Market tomorrow morning? Tony’s working the harvester, so Shayla will need someone to do the heavy lifting and help set up. You keen? It will need an earlier start, though. We need to be at Pine Ridge by seven.”
“Ah, um...” I stalled, not loving the idea of such an early start but knowing it would be foolish to refuse. The Hamlins had given me work over summer and I appreciated it. “I don’t have to work the stand, do I?”
Mrs. Hamlin, her skin tanned and lined from working outdoors, mock gasped. “What? Let me guess, you don’t do retail?”
I shrugged. Actually, there was a fear of dealing with people, but did she expect me to make sales, take cash, talk to customers? I’d never done that before, had no inclination to do so. That’s what I told her.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Hamlin said, patting me on the back. “Clarissa will be helping out too. You can hang out in the background.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, not entirely thrilled at this change.
I’d much prefer to work on the farm but I didn’t want to let the Hamlins down.
Shayla was the Hamlin’s adult daughter and she and her husband, Tony ran the Farmer’s Market stall, but being pregnant I guessed she couldn’t do too much physical stuff now. Her baby bump was pretty big.
The next morning was chaotic because I set my alarm thinking I could get ready in five minutes.
I was meeting Shayla in town for the ride over to Pine Ridge, leaving my motorbike parked outside the grocery store.
Shayla was already waiting in the Hamlin Farms truck, loaded up with potatoes and other vegetables.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, opening the passenger door and throwing in my helmet and backpack.
“No worries,” Shayla said. “I just got here. Besides, we’re waiting for Quinn.”
“Quinn?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “I thought Clarissa was coming.”
“Last minute change of plan,” Shayla said. “She couldn’t make it and thankfully Quinn agreed. Do you know Quinn? She’s on her way.”
A shiver ran down my spine and I wasn’t sure whether to announce that Quinn was my neighbor, but at that moment a car came speeding along the street, pulling up to a sudden stop. Quinn got out of the Mercedes, which didn’t wait around, and dashed toward the truck.
And then she slowed. Because she saw me. But you would’ve thought she was standing in front of Freddy Krueger.
“Y...you...?” she stuttered, “you’re helping?”