Color Blind

by Sobel, Sheila;

  She continued, “The locals aren’t really big on change, everyone has their favorites. Of course the tourists expect the famous centuries-old standbys to be here when they come to town. They want to be able to tell the folks back home all about where and what they ate while visiting New Orleans,” said Kate, washing down the last bite of pizza with a little more wine.

  “Where do you like to go? Like if you’re on a date or something?” I asked.

  “It depends on the date. Sometimes, say for a casual movie date, a couple of Lucky Dogs on the way and some popcorn at the theater will suffice. Maybe a quick stop at the Red Fish Grill or the Acme Oyster House for a plate of oysters afterwards. For something a little more romantic, there are quite a few restaurants with exquisite courtyards and, for the most part, they are all walking distance from here,” said Kate, yawning deeply.

  “More wine?” I asked, holding the bottle up, ready to pour.

  Kate tipped her empty glass towards me, then looked at the half-empty bottle and said, “No thanks. I’ve had enough, I should keep my wits about me.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, what?”

  “Why do you need to keep your wits about you? Why do you always need to be in control? Don’t you ever loosen up?”

  Kate hesitated, narrowed her eyes, frosted her tone, and said, “Those are all very good questions, April. None are any of your business. Well, on second thought, maybe one question is your business. I need to keep my wits about me because I don’t know what crazy-assed thing you’ll do next.”

  Ooops! Just when things were going so well. She was relaxed and distracted, then Boom, I blew it.

  I put the bottle down, lowered my eyes, and said, “Point taken.” I began to stack the dishes and hoped that was the end of it, but knew it wouldn’t be.

  “So, April, now that you’ve effectively killed my buzz and any hope of nodding off to dreamland in the next twenty minutes, let’s talk about you and your day. Tell me about your job search. How did it go? Did you find anything yet?”

  Well, here we go, exactly what I was trying to avoid: heavy conversation. I just can’t get out of my own way, no matter what I do. Unbelievable. I finished stacking the dishes, rinsed them in the sink, and loaded them into the dishwasher.

  I got the cork from the counter, took it over to the bottle, and asked once more, “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I corked the bottle and sat back down at the table.

  “I did as you asked. I read through every ad for part-time jobs. I found one that might work out and circled it so we could talk about it. I left the newspaper on your desk, should I go get it?” I asked, rising to escape.

  “Not now.”

  I settled back into my chair. “I’ll look again tomorrow after the paper gets here. I don’t have any job experience, so it’s kinda hard.”

  I told her about the different job openings listed in the classifieds. She laughed at some of them, but, like me, was horrified by the ad for the smokers aged ten to sixteen.

  “Okay. Anything else to report?” she asked.

  “Yeah! I found a bunch of stuff on goats as pets—excuse me, companion animals. I printed out what I thought you might think was pertinent, organized it, and left the information on your desk. I also found a law I believe answers a lot of the questions we had about keeping goats as pets. Last thing, I left you the phone numbers for the landscaping company and the local vets who have goat patients.”

  Kate said, “Thank you for that. I’ve been thinking about BG. Even though I think a goat would be a charming and interesting pet, one that would suit you to a “T” since you’re as stubborn as one, I came to the conclusion she’d still be better off with other goats. She can stay here until I can get her settled elsewhere. I’ll call the landscaper tomorrow to see what I can work out.”

  “I suppose you’re right. She looks sort of lonesome out there in your courtyard.” Hoping to plant a seed, I added, “Did you know that people who have pygmy goats as pets let them sleep indoors on their beds like dogs? Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Amazing, yes, but not going to happen here. She goes as soon as I find the right place for her. Maybe you can visit. Or better yet, maybe you can get a job with the landscaping company. It can’t take too much training to be a goat herder.”

  My face fell as hard as a fifty-pound weight dropped from a fifty-foot height.

  Kate laughed, “What’s wrong? Did I get your goat?”

  “Not funny!”

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “No, not really. I rested like the doctor recommended. I napped, surfed the Net for a while, spent time with BG, nothing much else. One thing I did learn today was how much I liked research.”

  I was excited, but stopped talking before I revealed more than I had intended. I wasn’t ready to talk about Marie Laveau yet.

  “Research?” asked Kate. “What kind of research?”

  Oh boy. Think, April, think!

  “Well, um, the research I did on the goats, of course. I really got into it and spent hours reading the different sites. It’s kind of addictive. I especially liked finding the different laws, the statutes, I mean.”

  “Well now, that is interesting. Maybe you inherited something besides your independence from our side of the family. I still keep in touch with the man that bought Dad’s law firm. I could reach out to him if you’d like. An internship might work for you.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I squirmed in my chair like a two-year-old. I was beyond ready to call it a night.

  Kate looked at me, “We still have a few more things to talk about—grief counseling, community service, and school.”

  “School?”

  “Yes, school. It’s the end of June already. School starts middle to end of August. I need to get you registered somewhere soon. I want you to give some thought about where you would like to go. Your mother and I attended a Catholic all-girls school, but you can go to a public school if you like. I’ll check around to see who recommends what. I’ll call Sam tomorrow so he can get your transcripts organized. We’re going to need them.”

  Ugh, I’d forgotten all about school. This day was so not ending well.

  “Okay, I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Now, grief counseling. I’m going to table that until you’re healed up and able to comfortably go out in public. I anticipate your first session will be in about a week, ten days at the most from the way your scratches and bites look.”

  I bristled at the thought. “Really? Grief counseling? I’m perfectly fine, I don’t need anybody. I mean, I don’t need to talk to anybody, especially a stranger.”

  “No doubt we have a difference of opinion on the subject. You need to talk to someone about what’s happened. If you aren’t going to open up to me, your only alternative is to open up to a stranger. It’s your call.”

  “Whatever.” I wrapped my arms tightly around my chest, slid farther down in the chair. My foot tapped wildly. I was anxious to get this unbearable evening over with.

  “I saved the best for last.”

  “Do tell,” I growled.

  “Community service. I’ve chosen something for you, which, in my humble opinion, will benefit you much more than picking up road trash with a spiked pole, like prison trustees do.”

  “What?” I sat up straight, ready to bolt.

  “New Orleans has a few facilities where ‘at-risk’ teens are taught culinary skills. They get equipped to go out into the world and make a way for themselves. You, my dear, are going to volunteer some of your time with them. I’ve already started making arrangements for you.”

  “Seriously? What on earth do I have to offer them? I can’t teach them anything. I don’t know anything!”

  I was on total overload, on the verge of tears.

  Kate replied softly, “April, honey, this isn’t about what you can teach them. This is about what they can teach you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four
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br />   Kate stood, cleared the rest of the table, and said, “Let’s call it a night.”

  She didn’t have to tell me twice. I pushed back from the table.

  “Thanks for dinner. Goodnight.”

  I fled the room. I heard the back door open and knew she was checking on BG one last time before turning in. Back in the safety of my room, I threw myself on the bed and pounded my fists like a child at the height of the “terrible twos.” I felt trapped and alone, and I had accomplished this all by myself. I ached to call Miles. I wanted to hear those soothing Southern tones telling me everything would be all right. I missed my friend terribly and feared I would never be able to make things right again. Sorrow ruled the rest of my evening until I crashed, still face down on the bed.

  I awoke the following morning soaked with sweat and with my face buried in the pillow. Gazing at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I was horrified by the number of pillow wrinkles creasing the ugly scratches and bites; my face looked like a roadmap to Hell. I was a mess, inside and out. I ran the tap until the water was icy cold, then soaked a washcloth and held it to my face. I wasn’t sure it would help, but it certainly felt good. After a five-minute shower, I opened the tube of antibiotic ointment and covered the scratches. I wound my damp curls into a knot, got dressed, and headed to the kitchen. The newspaper was lying on the kitchen table, opened and folded at the classified ads for part-time jobs. How thoughtful . . . not.

  Another note was under the magnet on the fridge:

  Gone for the day, see you tonight. Here are the names of two schools. Please look them up on the Internet, see what you think. We’ll talk about it tonight. Kate. PS, Here is the name of the facility where you’ll be volunteering your time. Check out their website and get familiar. One last thing, please try to make some progress with my scanning project. K. PPS, Stay out of trouble.

  I crumpled up the note, aimed for the trash and made the basket. Score one for me. I poured a glass of juice, sliced an apple, and went outside to have breakfast.

  “Bleat!”

  “Good morning to the sweetest little goat in the whole wide world!” I sat down beside her, gave her an ear snuggle.

  “BG, you are the only good thing to come out of my ill-conceived Voodoo escapade. I’ll be truly sorry to see you go. You’re the only one I can talk to who doesn’t criticize or judge or tell me what to do. You simply listen to me.”

  “Bleat!”

  “Want some apple?”

  “Bleat!”

  BG took the slice and began to crunch; I did the same. I thought about the day ahead.

  Little by little, I began to put things in perspective. I was cheered by the fact I wasn’t in county lockup. That was a very good thing, no question. I was under modified house arrest by Kate, but all in all, at the end of the day, I was pretty darned lucky to have dodged the jail-time bullet. Once again, I said a little prayer of thanks to the universe.

  “Okay, BG, let us review, shall we?

  “Number one, school. I need to finish high school anyway, so really, it’s no big deal to look into the options available. At least Kate’s giving me a choice in this. Could be worse.

  “Number two, community service. Well, yeah, I hated the thought of it, but it wouldn’t kill me. Better to do it now, just get it over with and try to redeem myself with everyone, especially Miles. I need him to understand I’m not some maniac who went completely off the rails. I’d only taken a bit of a side trip.

  “Number three, job. T-B-D.

  “Number four, grief counseling. I need to work out some sort of reasonable angle to get Kate to let that slide. Need a plan.

  “Number five, photo scanning. Kate’s project is definitely doable, no problem. It could be interesting, probably necessary for creating my ancestry tree.

  “Number six, family tree. A little more difficult than originally thought, but still doable. I may need to enlist Kate and Simone to provide some family history to fill in the gaps. I could definitely work that to my advantage; maybe help bring us all together, which is my ultimate goal.

  “This all makes sense to you, right, BG?”

  “Bleat!”

  I finished my breakfast and left fresh water for BG. Back inside, I got the newspaper and a bottle of water and headed upstairs to start my day. My room was, like every other day, stifling, so I moved my laptop and other stuff out to the balcony off Kate’s office and flipped the switch for the outdoor ceiling fan. Among my e-mails was the usual junk and one from Sam, a cc: to me in response to Kate’s request for transcripts. He would handle everything and get the records to her ASAP.

  Next, I pulled up the website for my cell carrier, looked at new phones, found a nice replacement for the one I lost in the swamp, ordered it, and checked it off my mental list of things to do. I’d have a new, no-cost phone by the end of the week. I closed the web page, sat back and gave a moment of silent appreciation to Dad for insisting on loss insurance when he bought the phone for me. That was so typical of him, always looking out for me.

  I perused the paper; nothing much that was new had been added to the classifieds since yesterday. I only needed one job that was the right fit for me. Halfway down the page, I found it! Café Beignet was looking for a counter person/server. That was the place where I bought the cemetery tour ticket and met Miles; it seemed like forever ago now. They didn’t need someone with experience; the ad said they were willing to train “an enthusiastic, energetic, entrepreneur-type person.” This sounds like me, right? And it puts me in close proximity to Miles almost daily! If I have any Voodoo magic in my DNA at all, I would do my best to work it on him. I needed my friend back.

  I ran into Kate’s office and dialed the number, hoping I could set up an interview soon, but not before I could buy some heavy-duty makeup to hide the ugly scratches. The manager answered on the third ring. She said I was the first person to respond to the ad and she appreciated such enthusiasm so early in the morning. By the end of the call, we were both laughing and I was scheduled to meet with her in person the following afternoon. I would be her first interview and, hopefully, the last. I was determined to snag the job.

  I looked at the boxes of photographs on the office floor but decided to leave them for later. What I wanted to do now was go read up on potential high schools for my senior year and get that out of the way. The first school on Kate’s list was a charter school that had forty teachers, eight hundred students, and a student-teacher ratio of 20:1. The student body was 60 percent male, 40 percent female. Advanced Placement participation was at 93 percent and the college readiness index was at 82.6 percent. It listed an enrollment of 54 percent minorities and 28 percent economically disadvantaged. Sounded like a good possibility for me.

  Next up for consideration was the school that Kate and Mom attended. It was private and on the expensive side, but they had financial aid packages. I’d probably qualify, given my circumstances. The school offered flexible schedules and the ability to take college courses, either on nearby campuses or online. They had a number of after-school activities as well: dance, music, and culinary arts. Everyone who graduated went on to obtain some form of higher education, which said quite a bit about their program. The school sounded great, but I was somewhat weirded out by the photographs on their website of the wide-smiled, stiffly posed young ladies wearing short white gloves. Stepford Students. That is so not me.

  I did a quick search of New Orleans schools to see what I could come up with on my own. I found one that sounded really interesting—another charter school with smaller classes where the students could enroll in high school and college classes simultaneously. They offered language immersion classes, which sounded kind of awesome for students who, say, wanted to take their Social Studies class in French, and something called a Transnational Degree Program.

  Now that I’d finished my initial research, I could tick that box on my to-do list. I’d check with Kate before I set up tours of each school. She might need to arrange time off from work to
take me around. We also needed to discuss money for tuition if necessary. I had no money to speak of. Sam was working on settling my dad’s estate. I didn’t know what that involved or if there was any money coming to me. Dad never discussed any of this stuff with me. He probably thought I shouldn’t be burdened by such things.

  Next on my agenda: read up on the place where I’d be doing community service and get familiar with it. After that, I could knock off for a while, have lunch, and then get started with the photo-scanning project. I could definitely stay busy until Kate got home. I found the website for the center where I’d soon be volunteering my time. At-risk teenagers were given an opportunity to learn skills that would help them establish a better direction, a positive career path. These new skills would help them get jobs within the hospitality industry upon graduation. Intrigued by this concept, I searched the Internet further and found a number of on-site interviews with students and graduates. I watched, fascinated, as I learned where and with whom I would soon be spending my time. Their stories were heartfelt, inspiring; they made me a little teary-eyed and somewhat ashamed of my recent reckless behavior.

  After finishing the last video, I could easily understand why this was such a personal issue for Kate. She had been blessed by being born into an upper-class white family. She had the opportunity to attend the Culinary Institute of America and work in New York. She had prospered and wanted to give back to her community. And she did. Kate’s name was among those listed on the website as guest celebrity chefs who volunteered their time. Something else she hadn’t mentioned to me. And now, she had donated my time to them. But, I had to wonder, what am I supposed to do for them? Chop vegetables, man their restaurant’s cash register, mop their floors? Unquestionably, whatever my responsibilities turned out to be, they would be way better than picking up highway trash or some such nonsense.

  Chapter Thirty-Five