Georgia Boys

08. in which we address the country club boys

Most of my day is spent experimenting and berry picking and mashing different ingredients together while coming up with the recipe for the upcoming competition. I still have time, don't get me wrong, but I would rather not waste a minute.

My ideas are still gestating in my mind and they haven't yet become whole and independent. Still, I enjoy coming up with new ideas, and building up on the inspiration I received from my day out with Quincy. 

Sometimes, Quincy Denton isn't completely annoying and useless. And sometimes, he does actually make good company. I have no plans on telling him this, however. I work at my craft for the entirety of the day.

I find my eyes flicking over to the doors more often than not. Each time I glance up, I half-expect to see a boy with dyed locs and starry eyes come striding in, and I don't. The feeling I get after noting his absence for most of the day can't necessarily be called disappointment, but it does venture dangerously close to the idea.

I suppose I'd consider myself a creature of habit. I like familiarity, and so I guess that extends to the familiarity of Quincy Denton who is absent almost the entirety of the day. I'm taking one of my experiments out of the oven and placing it on a stove when my day is interrupted by the boy I may or may not have been seeking. 

"Hey," he's tugging at his necklace with one hand, reaching over to grab a piece of my trial cake with the other. It's nothing special, just a berry cobbler. I haven't even put icing on it or any of the like. It's purely a test. Nonetheless, I slap his hand away.

"Where is your decorum?" I ask. I don't smile, although a smile wants to slide onto my lips. 

Quincy shrugs, extended hand returning to the counter. His fingers drum and I find myself cutting a slice for him. There's something wrong with me today. I must be feeling ill.

Quincy thinks so too, because once he accepts the slice, he squints up at me from where he's seated on the stool. "You feeling alright?" His eyebrows knit together in concern.

"My parents won't be back until the weekend," I shrug. "I don't have anyone else to feed, so I guess you'll do."

Quincy laughs.

"Were you working on your family's recipe today?" I ask. I'm not sure why I ask. I avoid his gaze as I pipe icing onto the cobbler. 

Quincy eyes me strangely but shakes his head. "Nah. I was skating."

"How do y'all ever get a recipe done in time?" I ask. I squeeze too hard on the piping bag. Some icing spills onto the edge of the dish. Quincy steals a dollop of it and ignores my glare. 

"My parents are bigger on it than I am, I guess," Quincy plays with his locs. "They sit me down like a week before the contest so we can come up with something. My mom usually does. Her and Dad lead the execution and then I play the role of the doting assistant."

My eyes narrow. "You don't like baking? Pastries?"

Quincy scrunches his face up. "I like to see people do it. I like to see you do it. You're all focused and pissy, but it's cool. And I like to eat those goods."

"Didn't notice."

He plows on. "But making it? My parents' thing. Not particularly mine. I adore being in a bakery but I'm no master baker. I'm good at it. Not as good as you, and not half as passionate."

I blink at him. "But you're passionate about everything."

Quincy's lips tip upward. "Now who told you that?"

"It's you." I say, as if that explanation is suffice evidence.

Quincy squints at me. "I feel like you have all these ideas about who I am in your head but not all of them are accurate. First of all, it's all shocking to you that I like the wild because I'm a skater or whatever. Secondly, you thought that I'd be some sort of urbanite because I like to skate. I'm not a fan of boxes. Tell me you know that at least."