Crush Control Read Online Free PDF Page B

yeah,” he said unconvincingly. “He must have.”
    Max and I looked at the box full of fat, adorable terriers and back at the squished runt. “You know what?” Max said suddenly. “I’ll buy him. How much is he?”
    College Guy waved his hand in the air. “Nah, man, you take him. No charge. Enjoy.”
    Max let me hold the squirmy dog as he walked our two bikes to his house, where he went inside and begged his mom to let him keep the puppy. She agreed. Max loved that puppy. He took him everywhere with him.
    Two weeks later, when Mom and I loaded up the car, ready to take off for Vegas, Max came over and handed me the dog. “I want you to take him,” he said. “I named him Oompa.” Max sniffled. It was unclear whether he was emotional about giving up the dog or me moving. Maybe both. “I think he kind of looks like the Oompa-Loompas from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory .”
    For the next eight years, every time I looked at Oompa’s squishedup face or petted his round belly, I remembered Max. I knew that there was a boy who could find the runt of the litter, look past its imperfect façade, and still find a reason to love.
    Oompa hadn’t seen Max since our last visit five years ago, but I guess he never forget who rescued him.
    Max continued to cradle Oompa in his arms and sat down on the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Where’s the TV?” he asked, swiveling his head around.
    â€œOh, the TV’s still in the box.” I pointed over toward a large flat box near the wall. “I haven’t hooked anything up yet. You know Mom’s not good with all those wires and cables and five different remotes so I have to do it. But I’ve been trying to fix my stereo. It broke in the moving truck.”
    Max looked over at the stereo on the kitchen table, with the front end cracked open and wires poking out. He got up and put Oompa down on the couch. Oompa let out a loud, wet phrumph . Max walked over to the table and began to fiddle with the wires.
    I leaned over his shoulder. “Yeah, I tried that.”
    â€œHmm,” he grunted and used the pliers to yank at something else.
    I had heard that familiar hmm many times on the phone while Max tightened wires on his guitar or examined his truck engine. It was different, though, to see the facial expression that accompanied it—the slight furrow of his forehead, the small wrinkle of concentration between his brows. It startled me to think there were pieces of him that were unknown to me.
    I sat down next to him, smelling the clean smell of soap on his skin, wondering what else I didn’t know. When he told me I was incredible and beautiful back in eighth grade, did he mean beautiful as a sister? Incredible as a friend? Or were his feelings the same as mine? The lingering stare and silence on the porch felt like an impending kiss but could I have misunderstood? Could all the romantic tension I felt lurking beneath the surface of our late-night conversations just have been a misinterpretation stemming from my own desires?
    Max plugged the cord into the wall and pressed the power button. The stereo remained quiet. “Sorry.” He shrugged. “I think it’s a goner.”
    I nodded. “That’s what I figured.”
    He walked over to the large box against the wall and unpacked the flat-screen TV. He picked it up and placed it on the media console. He plugged cords into the wall and hit buttons on the remote to power everything up. “At least this is working.” He smiled as the TV scrolled through the channels, linking the remote appropriately. He looked over at me and smiled, squaring his shoulders with pride.
    â€œThanks,” I said. “So, you weren’t lying about your handyman capabilities.” I tried to lift my voice a notch and adopt a flirtatious tone. “You know, we could use—”
    â€œUh-oh,” Max said,