Broken Trust

by Jill Williamson

  “Arianna, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I know.”

  “I’m just a dumb jock.”

  “Don’t do that, Spencer. Insulting yourself doesn’t make me feel better.”

  Arianna had never been very impressed by my sarcasm. Fine, I’d have to dig deep. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure we were alone, then elbowed past some ficus branches and sat on the arm of her chair.

  My palms were all sweaty, and I forced myself to say something extra nice before I chickened out. “You’re, uh, actually one of the most beautiful people I know.” Not physically beautiful, but I was trying to build up here. I took a nervous breath. Must. Continue. “You, uh… you care about other people—about everyone. And you’re, like, a perfectionist. Everything you try turns out great. People can trust you and count on you not to let them down. You’re nice and helpful. You’re the best kind of friend.”

  Her eyes widened, filled with tears. Oh, figs. Apparently I couldn’t even compliment a girl and do it right. How much did I suck?

  “You think I’m beautiful?” Her voice was all soft and hopeful.

  Oh. My thoughts flip-flopped entirely. Clearly I’d laid it on too thick. I held up my hands. “I meant that as a friend. I don’t want to date you or anything.”

  Arianna folded her arms. “You’re such an idiot.”

  Huh. Apparently girls were allowed to insult guys as much as they wanted. That was fine. I could take it. I was just glad she was sounding like her old self again. “Yeah, I know.”

  “And I never want to date you. Just so that’s clear.”

  “You cut me deep, Arianna.” But it was a relief to hear her say so.

  “But Grace does.”

  I’m sorry, what? “Grace wants to date you?”

  Another eye roll. “Wants to date you.”

  She may as well have lit my face with a blow torch. Her words got stuck on a hamster wheel in my mind, going round and round, replaying and being testing for validity.

  “You’re blushing,” Arianna said.

  I swallowed. “Guys don’t blush.”

  “Uh, yes, they do. And you are.”

  So I did what any guy would do. I left.

  I mean, I couldn’t go back downstairs! Not with Grace there. Not when I might do something stupid and ask her out. If she said yes, then I’d ruin it. I knew I would. I’d say something dumb that would scar her for life, and it would be over. And I didn’t want to hurt Grace.

  Ever.

  REPORT NUMBER: 10

  REPORT TITLE: I Get Dunked By My Youth Pastor

  SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond

  LOCATION: Grandma Alice’s House, Pilot Point, California, USA

  DATE AND TIME: Thursday, June 14, 7:30 a.m.

  Last night I proved I was a coward, so much so that I didn’t text Grace that night. I actually turned off my phone.

  What was wrong with me? Arianna said that Grace wanted to date me. This was good! This was what I wanted. So why was I being such a tool?

  When I turned my cell on Thursday morning and it sounded an alert for new a message, my chest got all filled with air and hope that Grace might have texted me, wondering where I’d gone last night, giving me an opening to, I don’t know, talk.

  But no. No Grace.

  This text was from Brittney Holmes, Hollywood femme fatale and my pseudo friend.

  Hey, hot stuff. Been thinking about you. How’s the knee? Hope you’re playing ball again. Text me sometime. ♥ Brit

  Well, I wasn’t going to ignore a famous actress, even if she did work for some shady characters.

  I texted back: I’m good. Busy with physical therapy. Knee is getting better. Should be on track to play ball this fall. You got a new movie coming?

  I hit send, then realized it was 7:30 a.m. When Brittney wasn’t on a film shoot, afternoon was her morning. I wouldn’t hear back any time soon.

  ****

  When I arrived at the office, Ron and Anita Sayle were finally in house.

  I’d seen their pictures on the posters I’d made last week, so I recognized them right away. Ron was a wrinkled Christian Bale. Anita looked like Donna Noble, the Tenth Doctor’s companion. She didn’t have a British accent or anything like that, but she was just as bossy. Both wore business attire.

  “Great to meet you, Spencer!” Ron said, all friendly smiles. “Jessica has just raved about your performance.”

  I replied politely. “Yeah, it’s nice to—”

  “We need to have a meeting,” Anita said. “Your office or mine, hon?”

  “Mine,” Ron said, walking away.

  Anita waved at me to follow. “Spencer, come.”

  I shot Jessica a “Please save me from imminent death” stare, but she just grinned and started digging through a stack of papers on her desk.

  I followed Anita, wondering if I was in trouble. Did they know I’d used the lock boxes? Set up the cameras?

  I was the last to enter Ron’s office.

  “Shut the door,” Anita said.

  They knew. I was dead. I pulled the door closed.

  “Sit, sit!” Anita motioned to a fancy beige sofa. I obeyed. Ron sat behind his desk. Anita perched on the front edge of Ron’s desk and crossed nylon-clad legs in front of my eyes.

  I felt like I was in the principal’s office. It had been a while.

  Then Anita smiled, hugely. She had an extra-big mouth. “So, let’s talk real estate, yeah?”

  “I can already tell,” Ron said, “that you have a knack for being an administrative assistant, but being an agent requires people skills.”

  “There is no typical day in real estate,” Anita said. “Every day is different.”

  “You’re going to talk about your jobs?” I asked, totally relieved.

  “Your teacher said you need us to tell you about our profession,” Ron said. “I’m sorry we were out last week, but that’s the business.”

  “We felt it would be best to get this out of the way now,” Anita said. “We’re very busy people. You might not see us both together again the rest of the summer!” She chortled. “Ron? Tell him.”

  “Right. Well, we’re a full-service real estate company. I am a commercial agent. Anita is residential. That allows us to service anyone in need of real estate and really strengthens our platform for future success. There’s no boredom in this job. Every client is different, every property is different. One day I might be out showing properties. Another day I might be prospecting. I’m always meeting new people.”

  “We work from 7:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m., some days,” Anita said.

  “And some days I have a few emails, a few phone calls, then I’m on the golf course.”

  “He’s on the golf course too much, if you ask me,” Anita said.

  Yeah, I hadn’t asked.

  “The point is,” Ron said, “My day is directed by my clients. Whether I’m showing property, whether I’m in a retail space for a listing presentation, or if I’m previewing so I know the market, it all depends on the people who come to me for help.”

  “An agent must learn how to win people’s trust,” Anita said. “When someone calls me, they have a problem I need to solve. They could be going through a divorce, having a baby, getting a new job, or coping with a death in the family. Highs or lows, people need to deal with buying and selling property. I’ve got to be able to relate to them, to absorb their pressure and stress and listen to their needs.”

  This went on and on. And on. When they finally left the building, I felt like they had totally drained my life force. “They’re really … energetic,” I said to Jessica as I fell into the chair at my desk.

  “Oh, I know,” she said. “I get exhausted just talking to them. But you should see them with a client. It’s pretty amazing.”

  I pulled up my computer calendar and counted the days until I’d be done working there.

  Thirty-three.

&n
bsp; Mother pus bucket.

  I threw myself back into my work, and the time zipped by. Right before closing, the door opened, and Kimbal came in.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I work here,” I said. Wasn’t the man still following me everywhere? I hadn’t been paying attention lately. “What are you doing here?”

  “Dave!” Jessica jumped up from her desk, ran around it, and tackled Kimbal like he was her husband who’d been stationed in the Middle East and had just come home.

  “Hey, Jess.” Kimbal slipped his arm around her and kissed her. On the mouth. With tongue.

  My jaw dropped. I twisted around in my chair, bulging eyes locked on my computer screen. A shudder. Gag reflex. So very eww.

  Was this for real? Or was Kimbal investigating this place too?

  I hoped not. For Jessica’s sake. She was a nice lady who worked really hard. She deserved some, you know, happiness in life.

  I just didn’t want to witness it.

  Ever again.

  “I’m leaving early today, Spencer,” Jessica said, all breathy. Another shudder from me. “Can you lock up the way I showed you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I can,” I said, still not looking at them.

  “Okay, thanks. So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. Yes.” I peeked, just a little. Thankfully their backs were to me. They were leaving, walking out the door. Aaaannnnddd… clunk. Door closed. They were gone.

  I sighed, relieved to be alone.

  Kimbal kissing Jessica. It was burned on my brain. So desperately gross.

  I was going to have nightmares.

  I rubbed my face. I needed a distraction. I logged onto the satellite and checked my web cams. They were all working. There was no action. I was going to have to go through a week’s worth of footage, looking for movement. Talk about tedious.

  Wait a minute. Movement on camera twelve. Outside the front windows. A familiar face. Nick. Wearing his gray jumpsuit. I laughed out loud, cackled a bit—still loopy from the trauma of witnessing my uncle and sort-of boss make out. I’d seen Nick on the job the day of the gnomies scavenger hunt, but something about Nick working at all just tickled the funny bone.

  He opened the vending machine and started stocking it. Was this just a summer job? Seemed convenient that Nick was stocking vending machines that his girlfriend had placed on property that I was surveilling. Surveillancing? Surveying?

  On property I was monitoring for suspicious behavior.

  That night I fast-forwarded through the footage for several of the properties and found Nick in eight of sixteen, loading up vending machines that hadn’t been there when I’d installed the cameras.

  I went for a little drive to check the other eight properties. Guess how many had SnackCo vending machines out front? That’s right. All of them.

  One might assume that Nick and I were working the same case. Except that Nick’s OTM was at the Pilot Point Theater Arts, and I’d watched Prière hand him one blue card. Nor more, no less. Which meant Nick’s vending machine job had nothing to do with an assignment from the Mission League.

  Coincidence? I doubted that very much.

  ****

  The icy water rushed over me. A few months ago, my life had forever changed with a simple prayer. It had been more than cliché words uttered in a school bus on the I5 South in the middle of California. I felt different now. I had changed. Deep within my soul. I would never be the same. Didn’t want to be.

  That’s what I’d said to the crowd before Pastor Scott dunked me in Pastor Muren’s swimming pool. Then he helped me stand. The water spilled off me, and a chill gripped my arms. People were clapping, the sound somewhat muted by the water in my ears. Before I could get away, Pastor Scott grabbed me in a hug.

  “So proud of you, Spencer,” he said.

  The words warmed me more than his dry shirt, but I really just wanted to get out of the pool and make my way to the back of the crowd where people would stop staring.

  That didn’t happen as planned. The moment I lifted myself out of the water, Grandma came running up with a towel, a crowd of well-wishers in her wake.

  Mr. S had rescheduled the Edible Plants OST for next week so that everyone could come see me get baptized. It was nice of him, though unnecessary. Shockingly, almost everyone in the Pilot Point Mission League had come. Including Grace. The only one absent was Nick. Besides the Mission League crowd, the other people that came were Kerri, Mary and Martha, Jake, Mr. and Mrs. Daggett, Pastor Muren… even Coach VanBuren and Coach Scott. I wondered who told them.

  They all hugged me, congratulated me. The Daggetts and the Stopplecamps both gave me cards. That’s right. Companies actually made “congrats on your baptism” cards. Who knew?

  Then it was John’s turn to go under, and everyone finally stopped staring at me. I retrieved my bundle of clothing from Grandma and made my way to the back fence. There I rubbed the towel in my hair and watched the pool from over everyone’s heads. John shared about how his parents had abandoned him in Los Angeles when he was ten and he’d gone from foster home to foster home until he ended up in Pilot Point with a family from Cornerstone. The guy’s story choked me up. No wonder he was going last.

  Then it was over. Time for cake. But the cake was on a table on the patio, on the other side of the pool from where I was standing. I didn’t want cake badly enough to walk through that crowd of well-wishers again. I could handle praise for basketball—screaming fans and interviews from reporters—but this was different. I’d had to put myself out there more than I’d ever wanted to. Now I just wanted to hide. But for tall guys like me, hiding was a tricky business. I decided to stay put until the crowd thinned out some.

  Gabe and Lukas spotted me, though, and joined me by the fence.

  “You still giving me your keys?” Lukas asked, finishing off a bit of cake that he’d been holding in his hand.

  “Yeah.” I crouched and fished them out of my jeans pocket. Since Mr. S had rescheduled the Edible Plants OST, Lukas and I were going to work on the banana. It needed a new head gasket, and the part had finally come in. I told Lukas he could drive it to his place and get started since Grandma had told me I had to stay here until the very end. I had no idea what hour that might be.

  Lukas took off, grabbing a second slice of cake on his way out. Not fair. That cake was calling my name.

  “Hey, I’ve got a question for you,” Gabe said.

  “I’m not joining your band.”

  He chuckled. “Not that. I’ve been wanting to invite you to Brothers in Arms. We meet on Tuesday nights at seven.”

  “Your man club? I thought that was only for people who thought like you do.”

  “That was elitist on my part and a mistake,” Gabe said. “Right now it’s just me and Wally. And it might die at the end of the summer since I’ll be in college. But in the meantime, we could use another perspective. Wally and I don’t agree on much.”

  I chuckled. Spending time with Wally… that was never easy. But I missed hanging out with Gabe, and he wouldn’t be around much longer. I’d never wanted to be in his man club, but if it was only for the summer… “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

  “Great,” Gabe said, beaming. “We’re just about to start reading Francis Chan’s Crazy Love, so it’s a good time to come in.”

  “I have to read a book?” I liked fiction, but not… well, not boring books.

  “You’ll love it,” Gabe said.

  “Sure.” I should really start giving people a standard “I’ll think about it” response, and then say no later. I hoped I wouldn’t regret this.

  ****

  An hour later, Grandma dropped me off at Lukas’s house. I found him in his front yard, my car’s engine in pieces.

  “I took it down from the intake manifold,” he said. “Could see it was leaking from there. Now I need to remove the air filter hose. Hand me that flat-head.”

  “Right.” I dug it out of the opened toolbox and handed
it to him. Then I watched. A lot.

  Lukas removed all the vacuum hoses and clips that were attached to it, disconnected a few spark plug wires so he could unbolt the distributor and slide it aside to access other parts.

  All this he told me. I didn’t even know what a distributor was, even after all my mechanic watching. Lukas worked, and I dwelled on Nick and Kimatra and SnackCo vending machines, then on Kimbal and Jessica, and finally on Grace and what I should do now that I knew she liked me.

  I came up with nothing.

  “I always try to leave things as connected as possible,” Lukas said.

  It all looked like a mass of metal and rubber hoses to me. “How do you even know what you’re doing?”

  He shrugged. “It’s like a puzzle. I’ve done it enough that I know where everything goes. For the most part. The next step is to remove the bolts that hold down the top end of the intake manifold. Hand me the socket wrench with a 10mm head.”

  On and on this went. Lukas took off a dozen more bolts and rearranged things until he could take out parts of the car or move them aside. Anything that came out, he had me set on scraps of cardboard on the lawn. I fetched tools when asked and kept parts and bolts together so Lukas could easily put things back.

  It wasn’t a quick job. We took out the heads, cleaned out water and antifreeze, “resurfaced,” and “pressure tested” them. We “torqued” things, “gasket-sealed” things, put the heads and valve covers back on, then put the whole mess back together, one step at a time.

  So, so desperately tedious.

  In the end, Lukas parked the banana beast on an incline and left it running to burn off the water and drain it. Because that’s what you do, apparently.

  Then we blessedly went inside for a break, ate chips and guac for about a half hour, then went back out check on things.

  “So far so good,” Lukas said. “There’s no more smoke. Looks like a successful repair.”

  After that, we cleaned up the mess we’d made outside, then went in and washed the dirt and grime off ourselves. Isabel and her mom arrived with eight pizzas for dinner. The cousins from next door invaded. When the Rodriguez household ate together, it was a party.