by Kai Strand
Mr. Whitman stares at the picture again and I stare at him, wondering what stories I’ll have to share when I’m his age. Which stories I might not be so eager to share. I look at the picture. Gladys was long gone before I met Mr. Whitman, but I know I would have loved her. Because I love her husband.
“You need anything, sir? Before I go help clean up?”
He blinks his attention to me and for a second, I think he’s going to say he’s surprised to find me here tonight. But he doesn’t. “No thanks, Lola. I’ve got a full belly and an overflowing heart. There isn’t much more a man can ask for.”
I smile, though I just want to cry. This man has a way of showing me how simple it is to have everything you want. You just have to choose the right things. I stand and then lean down to give him a slightly better hug than before. I feel him pat my arm, so I know he’s with me this time, and I feel a little better leaving him on his own.
“Thanks for the story, Mr. Whitman.”
“Thanks for dinner, Lola.”
Chapter 2
I love the feel of wind streaming through my hair. So much so that I leave it loose as I drive with the convertible top down, even though I know I’ll have to work through the snarls later. Much later though. Since I’m about to do some physical labor, I’ll just tie it up in a messy bun when I get there.
Ah, Saturday. I love my Saturday volunteer gig best of all.
“Is that car ever dirty, Lola?” Hank asks as I leap over the open trench where they’ve run all the electrical from the house to the road. I glance back toward my BMW, parallel-parked and gleaming in the watery sunshine. I got it a year and a half ago, for my sixteenth birthday, but I still love the heck out it.
“Not if I can help it, Hank. The blue isn’t nearly as sexy when it’s all dusty.” I strap a tool belt on and sign my name on the clipboard. “What are we working on today?”
“Caulking.” Hank looks away, but not before I see his smile.
I groan, dramatically. “Again? How much caulk can one house need?”
“A lot.”
Hank is called away by one of his actual employees. Not that he treats us volunteers any different than the paid people. Actually, I think he might treat us a little better. Of all the places I volunteer—community kitchen, teen transitional housing, book mobile, to name a few—Hank is by far my favorite boss to work with. He’s exactly what I want to be when I grow up. The perfect balance of professional and compassionate.
I swap out my tool belt for an apron and grab the supplies I’ll need. An image of my mother, frowning—no, glowering—fills my mind.
When I grow up. That’s a laugh. According to my mom that’s in six months and eighteen days. Personally, I hope I don’t have to grow up for a few more years. Twenty-two sounds like a good age to officially grow up. But eighteen? That seems way too young.
I pull my hair through a ponytail holder, twirl it into a bun, and wrap the elastic around it a couple of times. I feel lumps where the hair should be smooth and strands sticking out in all directions, but it won’t end up in the caulking, so I leave it alone. I scan the volunteers to see who showed up today.
Regular Jan sees me and waves. “Hey there Lola. You here to help with forms?”
The “Regulars” are a group of retired men and women who volunteer Monday through Wednesday of each week. The only reason they’re here on a Saturday is because they love to set the forms for the concrete footings.
I shake my head. “Hank’s got me on caulking. I must have done something to tick him off.”
Regular Larry straightens. “Where’s he at? I’ll talk to him.”
“Nah, that’s okay, Lare. You know I don’t really like going home smelling like that oil-soaked wood. I’ll stick to caulking.”
I wave as I head toward the home I’ll be working on. This house is being built for a single mom and her two kids. The mom, Talia, is a new hero of mine. She’s a nurse. Works nights. But she’s been here more hours than the non-profit’s home buying plan requires of her, working all the way up until she has to leave to shower for work. I have no idea how she does it. I hope to someday be the head of a non-profit that helps people like Talia realize their dreams. Though my powerhouse mother makes a degree in social work sound like I’ll be digging latrines, which if it’s for impoverished people I’m all for doing.
Hank is now around the north side of the house talking to a man and a boy who looks to be about my age. The man seems very official somehow. Maybe it’s the way he’s standing, with his feet shoulder width apart, his back ramrod straight, thick arms crossed over his chest. He’s sporting a crew cut that emphasizes his strong jaw. He looks a bit like a Stretch Armstrong doll, like if Hank and I each grabbed an arm we could taffy-pull all those thick muscles until his arms were long and thin and able to wrap around Talia’s house. The grim line his lips form when he isn’t talking, the flex of muscle in his jaw, his shifting eyes that take in everything around the job site, all warn me not to eavesdrop, so I slow my approach.
The boy has caramel brown hair that hangs into his eyes. He’s in a t-shirt even though the air is still crisp, especially on the shady north side of the house. His arms are pretty thin. I’m cold just looking at him even though he appears unaffected. He’s tall. Taller than Hank, but his hunched posture almost camouflages it. It’s like he’s a turtle hiding in a shell. He isn’t slouching, just inward somehow. He nods at something Stretch Armstrong says without turning to look at the man. Maybe he’s being scolded or lectured. I reconsider eavesdropping.
Hank sees me and smiles. He raises his voice, so I can hear him. “Perfect. I can pair you with Lola. She’s a longtime volunteer and knows the ropes.”
Oh splat. Now I have to meet them. I want to glare at Hank for saddling me with Stretch Armstrong for the day, but instead I just nod and smile pleasantly as I join their group.
“Lola, this is Dave and Rodney.”
I turn to Dave—Stretch Armstrong—to shake his hand and I have to school my reaction when I see the embroidery on his polo shirt. LINDSEY COUNTY JUVENILE DEPARTMENT. Dave squints at me and then glares at Rodney.
I turn to the kid next and offer my hand. He all but sighs when he digs his out of his front pocket. “Good to meet you, Rodney.”
He reluctantly raises his gaze to meet mine and my smile is suddenly genuine. What yummy eyes he has. They’re the same color as his hair, which strikes me as unusual. The caramel color is light as far as eye shade is concerned. Warm. Glowing. Ringed with black. A toffee colored starburst adds the most compelling depth. Wow. I could spend hours staring at this boy’s eyes…if they didn’t look so hostile.
I look away to discover Dave studying me. “I’m not sure—”
“I’ll be here if there are any questions.” Hank interrupts, which I consider extremely brave. “But Lola knows her stuff. How many homes have you helped us build, Lola?”
“Six now.” I can’t help the pride that swells inside me. It must show on my face because a corner of Rodney’s mouth twists and an eyebrow raises and lowers so quickly I think I might have imagined it. As heat flares in my chest, my shoes become intriguing. I notice that Rodney’s have small holes on either side where the toes bend.
“I’ll be back this afternoon to pick you up,” Dave tells Rodney. “Don’t leave this site.”
“He’ll be fine, Dave.” Hank’s familiarity with Stretch Armstrong almost makes me more comfortable around the guy. Almost. “Lola, why don’t you get Rodney suited up. You two will have the entire north wall.”
Rodney looks at me with a panicked expression.
I laugh. “Don’t worry. It’s not Hazmat or anything. Today you’ll just need gloves and an apron.”
His expression goes blank again as he follows reluctantly.
In the supply shed I throw an apron at him, then I hold a pair of gloves out. “See if these fit.”
He takes them from me, his movements careful like he’s afraid to spook me by moving too fast.
The guy couldn’t look less enthused if he tried. With the work gloves on, he’s forced to keep his hands out of his pockets, but the way his arms hang listlessly at his sides as he trudges behind me makes me think of Droopy Dog.
This is going to be a long day.
Chapter 3
“You look hot! Kinda girl-in-charge hot.”
I’m wading through students milling in the halls before school. Cyn, my BFF, is leaning against the beam where we meet each morning. I execute my best runway model turn and then continue toward her with my hips jutting forward and a haughty expression, eating up Cyn’s rare compliment. Being best friends with the school’s fashion guru doesn’t even score me extra fashion respect. She takes her title very seriously.
“Thanks. I have a speech contest today. My speech is on community activism and it’s really important that I look professional. Too many people think only hippies and tree huggers volunteer.”
“Gawd. I love the pin striping on that pencil skirt. Dang it’s sexy as hell, all while shouting, You report to me.” Cyn eyes my ensemble critically. “Lola, I’m totally impressed with this outfit. Did your mom help you put it together?”
“Sheesh, I’m not completely fashion challenged, you know.” We walk into history together and the teacher raises his eyebrows at me as I hand him the pass telling him I have to leave class early for the contest and he nods in understanding. Jeez. Maybe I am that fashion challenged.
“I guess I’ve never seen these stellar results from you before.” Cyn says as we take our seats. “The robin’s egg blue cami is phenom with your complexion and hair, adding the perfect amount of softness to the professionalism. That tailored blouse with flirty cap sleeves in I’m-so-innocent white is blowing my mind with its perfectly conflicting messages. The side knotted ponytail. And those eff-me pumps! Just wow. Knowing how good you are at giving speeches and seeing how you will look delivering it, I think our community will see a spike in volunteers after today.”
“Thanks, Cyn.” I key the class assignment into the agenda on my tablet and give Mr. Addler the thumbs up when he points to it and arches his brows in my direction. The man’s a wonder. He can carry on entire conversations with his dexterous brow.
“Party at Eddie’s Saturday. Did you hear?” Cyn whispers, as Mr. Addler starts his lesson.
I wrinkle my nose at her. Eddie and I have a history. I avoid him.
She rolls her eyes and glances at Mr. Addler. “Jerome Bennett will be there.” But she said his name like the football announcer: Jeh Rohhhhme BEhnneeeeett
I trap my bottom lip with my teeth and Cyn grins.
Rome Bennett was God’s gift to Lindsey Prep. He graduated last year and now goes to college. I’ve had a crush on him since second grade. I’m surprised he’s going to be home so soon.
As if she can read my mind, which she probably can, Cyn explains, “His sister has some big recital this weekend.”
Mr. Addler wanders to our side of the room while he lectures. He squints at us and we both stare back innocently. I glance at the clock and see that I still have about fifteen minutes before I have to leave. When he paces back to the other side of the class, I lean sideways and whisper. “I can’t miss the opportunity to stare at Rome for a whole evening.”
Cyn’s smile splits wide. “I know, right?”
***
The halls of Canton High, the school hosting the speech contest, could be mistaken for any other public high school in the country. Lined with dented and nicked lockers painted the garish colors of purple and gold, which seem to scream, “School pride!” Haphazardly taped flyers advertise clubs hoping to recruit new members, the first dance of the year, and yearbooks for sale. The smell of cafeteria food mixes with floor cleaner and body odor threatening to make my already nervous stomach revolt.
Seven other Lindsey Prep students and I follow Miss Bell, our speech advisor, into the school auditorium. I’m surprised by how big it is, even though I know Canton is the largest high school in the county. I’m also pleasantly surprised by how plush it is. The school itself is old, so they must have recently renovated the auditorium. The seats are covered in soft material in a lovely shade of eggplant. I can’t help but run my hand over the back of one as we walk toward the front of the room.
There are two tiers of seating and I notice padlocked chain link gates closing off the stairs on both sides of the room leading up to the second-tier balcony seats. Something about the gates and the fact that they have to have them strikes me as very public school. I try to stop the judgmental thought from forming but fail.
There are upwards of two hundred students and teachers scattered throughout the stadium seating at the front of the room. The group looks miniscule in the oversized auditorium, which I estimate must seat fifteen hundred.
As we take our seats, a man cautiously approaches the microphone on stage. His hesitancy makes me smile. He obviously isn’t part of the speech program. After tapping the live mike with a finger and making us cover our ears, he introduces himself as the principal of Canton High and welcomes everybody to his school. Then he introduces a school counselor who outlines the rules of where we can go on campus and who we should check in and out with if we need assistance finding our event.
I scan the schedule I’ve pulled up on my tablet. My speech is in this auditorium, but the individual competitions are scattered all over the school. Extemporaneous is in the “Chem Lab.” And, distraction alert! Poetry is listed in “Stairwell, B Hall.” I haven’t had to give a speech in such challenging conditions yet and hope I never will.
The counselor hands the microphone to a speech teacher who gives us the rules of the regional speech competition as well as a bonus “Speak For Yourself” contest. Though it’s early in the season, we have the unusual opportunity to earn the right to advance to a statewide competition. The special contest is being sponsored by a national non-profit organization that advocates youth activism. I’d love to add the accomplishment to my college applications, which I really do need to start sending out soon.
Last year when I was preparing my list of extra curricular activities, awards, and recognitions, I realized that my resume was too heavily weighted with volunteerism. I needed accomplishments that didn’t stem from my volunteer work, so I quickly added the speech class to my schedule, hoping to add some recognitions or awards throughout the year. I hadn’t been aware of this additional opportunity until the beginning of the school year. A win today would be a double boon to my resume and maybe appease my parents a bit. Since, according to them, being able to give a good speech is more important than, say, providing temporary shelter to a family who lost everything in a fire.
By the time they finally start the competition I’m already working on my history homework.
When we break for lunch, Darnell, another Lindsey Prep student, and I line up together in the sandwich line. After we get and pay for our food, we grab an empty table for the other LP students and adults, who are in the longer hot lunch line.
“You did good,” I say to Darnell as I slather mayonnaise on my roast beef and cheddar sandwich. He holds out his hand when he sees me removing the tomato and I shudder as I give him the two mushy slices.
“I lost,” Darnell says around a mouthful of corned beef and rye bread. A spot of mustard glows on his lip and I point to the same spot on mine. His tongue darts out to swipe the mustard away and I cringe at the bits of chewed food clinging to it. He bites off half the pickle spear while his mouth is still overflowing with the bite of sandwich and I look across the cafeteria at the slow moving line.
Debate teams kicked off the day’s events in the auditorium and Darnell is a debater.
“Of course you lost. You were advocating for a cashless economy, but you made strong arguments. I was actually able to picture the online barter system you described. Maybe at State,
you can add a travel option, a solution for those who travel on business and pleasure. I think that was the biggest hole in your plan.”
When Darnell grins I’m happy to see his perfectly white teeth are food free.
“There’s no way I’m going to that state thing, Lola. But thanks for the input and the vote of confidence.”
I shrug. “You’re good. Very charismatic.” I’m not lying. Darnell could sell sand in the desert. I think it’s his bright eyes and sparkling smile—when it isn’t littered with chewed up food, at least. Or maybe the way he cocks his head and leans forward so that even if you are one of a thousand people listening to him, you feel like he’s talking to you alone. Dang it, I should have practiced that. “But you’ll review your video and see I’m right.”
He laughs. “My favorite part of the competition. Getting to analyze my performance.”
Miss Bell makes us watch the video of our speech and fill out a form saying what we did well and why. As well as what and how we need to improve. It sucks doing it, but it’s really effective when it’s time to give the next speech.
“Your speech after lunch?” His mouth is full again, so I don’t look at him when I nod.
“I have a couple of hours to kill though.”
“You look amazing today.”
Startled, I look at him even though I know he’s still making his way through too big a bite. He isn’t looking at me. Light pink colors his dark cheeks and his eyes manage to look even brighter offset by the blush.
When I see his eyes start to lift, mine drop to the sandwich I hold. “Thanks.”
We’re rescued from our hecka-awkward moment by the arrival of two girls and a chaperone. The chaperone wrinkles her nose at her tray as she slides onto her seat. “When did lunches get so healthy? I was hoping for good ole greasy pizza.”
A spirited conversation on the evolution of school lunch takes us through half of our limited eating time, new people adding their two cents as the table fills. I’ve never been a fan of hot lunch, so I have nothing to add to the conversation.