Chapter 23
QUINN
“Igot asked to play for the varsity soccer team,” I said to Mom once we were in the car, driving home.
She’d been busy with clients right up until closing and I’d helped with wiping counters, cleaning mirrors and sweeping the floor, so there hadn’t been time to talk.
“Coach McLean wants me to play tomorrow.”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to play this season,” Mom said.
Mom nodded, her eyes focused on the road. “Everything all right at school?”
I knew that she was referring to the gossip. “Yeah,” I said, “no one said anything. What about you?”
Mom’s lips pressed into a hard line.
“What happened?” I prompted.
Mom exhaled heavily. “Just an unpleasant phone call from Celeste’s mother.”
“What’d she say?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mom said, shaking her head, a sad look in her eyes.
“But I must say it’s an eye opener about how people treat you when you’re broke.
Isn’t it ironic? No investments, no savings, no more vacations abroad, no more designer clothes, no Country Club membership.
” She laughed out loud. “And no friends ”
“We have our house though, right?” I whispered.
Mom’s lower lip trembled as she nodded. “Yes, we have our home. And I have my business. And we have each other, so that’s all that matters?” She didn’t sound convinced.
“It is,” I affirmed. “And now I’ve got the market job and I’m in the soccer team and I.
..I got invited to the Homecoming Dance.
” I watched Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, Miller asked me and he did it in the coolest way.” I told her the full story, of Joel beating the drum and Miller’s friends all holding a placard with the question spelled out.
“Sounds fun,” Mom said, trying hard to sound enthusiastic. She’d spent years hating our neighbors so I guessed it would take time to adjust to this new situation. And she’d been through a lot so I needed to give her some grace.
“Miller’s nice, Mom.”
“I’m gathering that’s his shirt you’re wearing,” she said, a wry smile flirting on her lips.
I’d actually forgotten I was still wearing it. Miller’s shirt was so soft and comfy, it was like having his arms around me all day. “They take flannel day very seriously at Snow Ridge High,” I joked.
She finally cracked a full smile and blew out a long breath. “I’m happy you’re fitting in, Quinn, I’m really proud of you,” Mom said, “And maybe we can get you a new dress for Homecoming?”
“Are you crazy?” I said. “I don’t need new clothes. I have a whole closet full.”
And we both laughed.
Miller texted after dinner and asked if I wanted to take Hamish out for a run. I jumped at the chance, needing to stretch my legs before tomorrow’s game. I met Miller down at my gate and we set out on the route that he usually took.
“Are you ready for tomorrow? It’s Bring Anything But A Backpack Day,” he said.
“What does that even mean?” I said.
“Duh, exactly what it is,” Miller spelled out slowly. “Take your books in anything but a backpack.”
“I use a tote bag anyway,” I teased.
“Mase is taking a bucket.”
“What are you taking then?”
“Probably my helmet.”
“Not very imaginative.”
“More imaginative than a tote bag,” he quipped.
“I’ll have to think about,” I said, looking forward to the challenge of coming up with something creative.
We didn’t run the whole route, stopping to give Hamish a break from his leash as he sniffed around. That’s when Miller took my hand.
“It’s sweaty,” I joked, so he let go, wiped my hand on his shirt and held it again.
“Better?”
“Ha ha,” I said dryly, but I loved how funny he was. “Hey, do you have a potato crate?” The idea just popped into my head.
“What?”
“A potato crate? For my anything-but-a-backpack day. I could take my books in a potato crate. I could decorate it.”
“I don’t have one,” Miller said, “but I know where we could get one.”
“At the farm?”
“We’d have to go now.”
“I can borrow Mom’s car.”
“I can borrow Dad’s truck,” Miller said, “somehow I don’t think your Mom would want a potato crate in her car.”
“Good point,” I conceded.
We raced back home and while Miller grabbed his Dad’s key, I texted Mom that we had an errand to run. On the way to the farm, my phone pinged. I ignored it at first, sure it wasn’t important. But seconds later, there was another, then another.
“Sorry, thought my phone was on silent,” I said, pulling it out of my purse to check it.
I gasped as I scrolled through the notifications.
Someone had videoed Miller’s Hoco Proposal and I’d been tagged in it and now my old Brizendine Prep friends had seen it.
The comments section turned toxic fast and not just aimed at me, but Miller too.
Celeste had written, “Omg, I’m so sorry Quinn, from designer to flannel, sucks to be you.”
And there were others:
Omg you actually wear flannel in public?
How adorably rustic.
Did you borrow the flannels from his dad or yours?
“What is it?” Miller asked.
“You really wanna know?” I asked, feeling worse for him than me. I’d accepted that Celeste and Naomi were no longer my friends, but I hated that they judged Miller when they didn’t even know him.
I read them out to Miller and he said, “I’m flattered they’ve got time to comment on our lives and why the heck are they so dang uptight about flannel shirts?”
We laughed about it and when we got to the farm, the Hamlins were more than happy to lend us a couple of crates (potatoes included) and okay with me painting them, which was another brilliant idea that came to me.
“Will you help me paint them? I’ll do one for you. We can be potato twins. Wear our Hamlin Farms tees and caps? And flannels of course.”
“Whoa, you’re really getting into the spirit of Homecoming now,” Miller mocked.
“Embracing my new rustic side,” I said. “What do you say? Twins or nah?”
“I’m up for it,” Miller said, “but I don’t know about helping paint it. I still don’t think your mom is a fan of me.”
“She’s mellowing,” I said, bright with optimism. “She even suggested I buy a new dress for the dance. A dress we can’t really afford.”
“You don’t need to buy something new and fancy,” Miller said, lifting the crates from the back of the truck. “You know my favorite version of you is old jeans, flannel shirt, wild hair and dirt on your nose,” he said as he bopped my nose.
“And sweaty?” I bounced back, bopping his nose.
He sniffed in an exaggerated way, then scrunched his face up. I punched his bicep and he wrapped me in his arms, holding me hostage. I didn’t fight it.
His chin rested on the top of my head and I leaned into him.
There was this feeling that I was his completely and I didn’t want to let go.
Being in Miller’s arms was my favorite place and Miller Trask was fast becoming my favorite person.
NOBODY BLINKED AN EYE to see us in our matching Spud Harvest clothes and carrying potato crates.
Miller had chosen to keep his crate natural, while I’d spray painted mine gold and glued sparkles and glitter over it.
Mom had suggested spray painting a few potatoes gold too and they’d turned out amazing.
It was somewhat surprising when some kids asked if they were real.
And crazily enough, I’d been nominated for one of the awards in the creative section.
It was won by a boy who rolled around a tractor tire like it was his mobile locker, and silliest went to a girl who pushed a baby stroller around full of books and stuffed toys.
I was actually jealous of that one, wishing I’d thought to bring my Squishmallows.
Elise won the funnest award for her giant paper-mache donut which was filled with mini donuts she handed out.
One kid pushed around his friend in a wheelbarrow, and one boy carried a birdcage complete with a budgie and books in it.
Kids really put in a lot of effort, and I couldn’t help but think it was more fun than Brizendine.
I remembered back to Wacky Hat day last year, where no one wore anything wacky.
It was all floral headpieces and silk fascinators, fedoras and vintage golf caps.
No one actually dared to look wacky. Just stylish, elegant, refined.
I think I liked the Snow Ridge High way better.
After school, it was a dash to the locker room, potato crate in tow. Because I hadn’t kicked a soccer ball for weeks, I wanted to get a decent warmup and run through some drills. Livvy joined me, intent of telling me of the 4-4-2- formation and the game plays they’d been working on.
I wasn’t expecting to be in the starting lineup, but Coach put me out there and from the first whistle blow, my adrenaline surged.
The crowd was close and noisy compared to Brizendine games where spectators sat primly in the stands, and I quickly spotted Miller, Mason, Brayden and Elise on the sidelines.
I almost teared up when Mason waved his homemade sign saying, “Go Quinn!” It was the sweetest thing.
But there was no time for sentimentality when I had a point to prove.
I wanted to show Coach that she’d been wrong about me, that I was a team player.
For all of the 4-4-2 formation that Coach talked about, the Sonics lacked structure.
Players were everywhere—or nowhere. I found myself constantly tracking back to play defense when the center backs went missing.
At the end of the first half, the game was scoreless and Coach treated this like a victory.
Usually they’d be down several goals by now.
With an electrolyte drink and a few gummy bears for an energy boost and a wave to Miller, I was pumped to get back out there.
The pace of the game slowed as players fatigued, but my legs were relatively fresh and with a lunge, I managed to steal the ball away from a Timbervue defender.
Without hesitation, I made a break, staying wide and sprinting down the sideline.
With no one in front of me, I kept going, shouts echoing from all around, “Go, go! All the way!”