by Sara Ney
“N-no. I promise you I’m not unreliable.”
“You stood me up for our first session. If that’s not unreliable, what do you call it?”
Violet is quiet, pensive. “I’d call it…” She clears her throat. “I’d call it intimidated. I was…afraid to help you.”
Afraid? I snort—actually snort through my nose. “Why?”
“Why?” she echoes.
“Yes, Violet, why. Christ, why would you be afraid to help me? It’s not like I was going to do anything to you.”
Her eyes widen, and she’s trying to remain professional, remain composed, but she’s nervous—I can see it in her eyes. She steels her resolve and straightens in her chair. “W-We got off on the wrong foot, and for that I…I’m sorry.”
“Fine.” I tap my phone to check the time and Snapchat notifications. “Can we make the most of this time we have left? I’m failing bio and need this paper to bring up my grade.”
A curt nod. “Yes, sorry.”
That’s another thing annoying the shit out of me. “Stop saying that.”
“Saying what?”
“Sorry. Stop apologizing for everything, Jesus.”
“Sor—” Violet bites down on her bottom lip, a nervous giggle unintentionally escaping her lips. “Shoot, I-I almost did it again, didn’t I?”
Then.
She smiles.
My eyes, goddamn them, go to those curved glossy lips and rest there as she tries not to grin at me. Brilliant white teeth wink. Big, virginal doe eyes crinkle at the corners.
She’s like a fairytale caricature. Like a pixie.
So endearing it almost makes me want to barf.
I look down at her hands, folded properly on the tabletop, fingers clutching the printer paper—my paper—her nails short and painted a light, pastel lavender. One of the nails has glitter on it. They’re long and delicate fingers, fitting for someone so small, and I have no fucking idea why I’m even looking at them to begin with.
Pale skin. Unblemished.
Unscarred.
Untattooed.
Yet, I can see that those hands are capable, too, as they set the paper down and pluck a pencil off the table. Sturdy hands. Probably really hardworking.
“Just as a warning, I’ll probably say it again,” she confesses sheepishly, as if she can’t help pointing out her flaws. “I do it a lot. I-I don’t think I’ll be able to help myself around yo—”
The pencil in her hand hovers over a sheet of paper with my name and information at the top of it. “Maybe I should get all the sorrys out before we start?”
Get all the sorrys out?
Jesus Christ, who the fuck is this chick?
“Knock yourself out,” I rumble, leaning back in the chair and balancing on the back legs, crossing my arms as Violet takes a deep breath. “Go. Get it out.”
“Sorrysorrysorrysorry,” she expels in one long breath. Then, “Phew! That felt great!”
Even I, hard ass that I am, have to admit that was pretty darn cute; I nearly crack a smile.
Almost.
“Anyway, my apologies for before. I-I’m hoping we can start over.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“All right. Okay. Now that that’s out of the way.” She clears her throat and proceeds, an air of efficiency taking over. She’s more confident. “I guess we should begin. We have”—she glances back at the clock anchored to the wall—“roughly fifty minutes, g-give or take. Unless you want to work late?”
No way in hell am I staying any longer than I have to.
My no comes out sharper than intended.
And just like that, her gusto is gone.
Violet’s lips part, and she emits a quiet, “I understand,” before pushing a lock of hair behind her ears. Her fingers push the paperwork back and forth in front of her, and she folds down the right edge, running her nail along the crease restlessly, picking at it.
“Right. So why don’t you tell me what you’re stuck on and what you need help with.”
Instead of telling her, I flip open a folder, expel my notes and project prospectus I’ve been struggling with, and push it toward her across the smooth surface of the table.
While she’s perusing that, I flip open my textbook.
My index finger trails down the page, stopping at a passage I highlighted with an orange highlighter, the same passage I’ve had to read and reread at least a dozen times because I can’t figure out how I’m supposed to write a paper based on what little information I’ve been finding.
There isn’t adequate information to write an informed paper on my topic, and my grade depends on this essay.
Violet scans the prospectus, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. “Have you chosen your topic?”
“Yup.”
I thumb through the open folder, fish out and hand her another single sheet of notebook paper with handwritten notes. She takes it, reads it, then glances up.
“You’re doing your research paper on this?”
I smirk. “What’s wrong with it?”
She reads from the paper. “‘Th-The biological and genetic, rather than moral, consequences of having a child with y-your first cousin?’” Pause. “Um…” She sits up straight in her chair.
“Clever, isn’t it?” I’m quite pleased with it myself.
Violet flushes. “W-What were your questions about it?”
“I guess I’m having a hard time finding facts to support my topic.”
She hesitates, wrinkles her nose. “Facts like…uh…multifactorial disorders?”
My brows rise, impressed. Apparently, the little stuttering wallflower really does know her shit about biology.
“Multifactorial disorders,” I repeat. “Is that what it’s called when a kid is jacked-up physically from all their parents’ fucking?”
A wince. A blush. “M-more like chromosomal defects, but yeah, I’m assuming that’s what you mean.”
“So how do I put that in writing?”
“Have you googled the topic at all?”
Duh. Does she think I’m a fucking idiot? “Obviously.”
She’s all business now. “What keywords did you use when you searched?”
“Inbreeding, banging cousins, fetal alcohol syndrome.” The words rattle off the tip of my tongue, and judging by the look on her face, she’s not impressed. “What’s that appalled look for? Why is your face all red? Are those not accurate descriptions?”
“Th-Those are terrible keywords.”
“Look, I seriously couldn’t give a shit if someone is banging their cousin—first, second, or third. I just pulled the topic out of my ass for the sake of getting the essay done, and didn’t want to be bored to tears writing it. So can we lose the whole scandalized virgin routine and move things along?”
I tap on the table with the end of my pen.
“Y-You’re absolutely…” Pause. “You’re certain you want to continue researching this subject?” Violet’s hesitation creeps into her voice. Her pale brows are bent, bottom lip jutted out in thought.
“Why? Does the topic make you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Great, ’cause I doubt you have a better suggestion.”
She bites down on her lower lip. “N-not off the top of my head, no, but I’m sure with a little effort, together we could come up with one.”
She looks so hopeful and laughably naïve.
“Together?” For fuck’s sake. “Aren’t you the sweetest?” I scowl because quite honestly, I detest everything about this conversation. Being here with her. Needing a tutor. The thought of collaborating with her?
Petite, mousy, stuttering Violet and me?
No.
Hilarious in its absurdity.
I wouldn’t have chosen her for help in a million fucking years.
I want to get the paper done, not write a love poem to science and biology.
But there is something I’ve been wondering. “So what’s the deal with you and that kid?”<
br />
Her light brows rise. “S-Summer?”
“Do you nanny any other annoying kids that rudely knock shit over in the grocery store?”
Violet stops taking notes long enough to give her dainty, feminine shoulders a shrug. “She wasn’t knocking anything over. She was curious and excited.”
I stare, unconvinced.
She swallows. “I’m not her nanny; I’m her Thursday.”
“Her Thursday. What does that mean?”
“Her mom i-is a student here, so as part of her tuition, Student Services provides a babysitter up to ten hours a week, free of charge, and I-I…”
“Babysit her on Thursdays.”
She nods. “Summer’s parents are part of the assistance program for enrolled students with children. Her dad just finished an internship, and her mom has history and a lab Thursdays, so while she’s in class, I-I hang with Summer.”
“What the hell do you do for three hours with a four-year-old?”
“She’s actually s-seven. Such a sweetie, the little doll face. We do arts and crafts. Do her homework. Go to the park.”
Little sweetie. Doll face.
Christ almighty.
“The park?”
“Yeah, you know—the place with swings, sunshine, and slides? Jungle gyms. Fun stuff? You do know what fun is, don’t you?”
I narrow my eyes—is she mocking me?
I wouldn’t have pegged the waif as sarcastic or snarky, but looks are often deceiving. Suddenly latching onto a topic she’s passionate about, she prattles on and on about the goddamn park like I give a shit.
“There’s a really nice park down on State, right near the admin building, almost between campus and the downtown—”
I cut her off, impatient. “I’m not paying to hear about the location of the local park. I’m paying you to help me with biology.”
She flushes, just like I expect her to. “Right. S—”
Sorry.
She catches herself just in time.
Zeke
How I found myself at the park the next day—Thursday to be exact—I have no damn idea. I guess it had something to do with not having a single place to bring this freaking kid, the one I’ve been saddled with for the next few weeks.
Meeting at the Big Brothers Center, his ass is parked in a chair when I first walk in, chatting with some lady behind the desk like they’ve done it a hundred times.
All conversation stops when I shove through the door. I step up to the counter, fill out the paperwork attached to the clipboard, and catch the eye of the gray-haired receptionist behind the desk.
She rolls toward me in the desk chair, giving me the stink eye behind her thick purple glasses.
“You’re late, and your little buddy has been waiting for eight minutes.”
What is she, the volunteer police? Eight minutes is hardly a big deal.
I give her a one-shoulder shrug. “I had class.”
“Try to be on time from now on or you’ll get written up.” She snatches the clipboard out of my hand, glances down at my scribbled responses, then asks, “And where will you and Kyle be spending your two hours today?”
Who the hell is Kyle? “Who’s Kyle?”
The woman—Nancy, according to her nametag—tilts her head, bobbing her chin toward the back wall. The boy in the chair sits, feet dangling—he can’t be more than ten or eleven years old—glaring from underneath the wide brim of an Oakland A’s baseball cap.
I have to spend the next two hours with this kid?
Shit.
I try not to grimace, but fail.
“Well? I need an answer.” She winks at the kid on the bench, even as her fingers hover above the keyboard on her desk, ready and waiting to input the location of my play date with my new Little Brother. “Where will you be taking Kyle?”
“Where?”
“Yes, Mr. Daniels.” She annunciates impatiently. “Where will you be and what will you be doing with your little? Which activities?” She speaks carefully like I’m slow to understand. “We need to know specific information because of liability.”
Nancy purses her lips and folds her arms. “This information was in the informational packet you signed off on when admitted to the program—reluctantly I might add. Now, you signed a release form stating you’d read the rules and regulations for our organization. Is that ringing any bells, Mr. Daniels?”
Right, I did do that.
Clearly I didn’t fucking read any of it.
“I guess we’ll…” I look up into the mirror above Nancy, scowling when I catch a reflection of the little bastard, Kyle, rolling his eyes behind my back. “Is there a park nearby we can walk to so I don’t have to put him in my truck? The one on…State Street.”
“Oh boy,” Nancy mutters, affronted. She collects herself. “Greenfield Community Park, or Central County National?” Nancy’s hands are back, hovering above the keyboard.
“There’s a park called Central County National? Sounds like a prison,” I deadpan.
“Well Mr. Daniels, there are a number of parks in the area, and those are two of them. If you’re looking for a prison”—she looks me up and down again with pinched lips—“the nearest one is forty minutes north.”
“Seven parks,” interjects a smaller, youthful voice helpfully. “There are seven parks in the entire city.”
“Right. Yeah. I’ll take the Greenfield Community Park option, I guess.”
“On State?” The older woman types it out. “Just to be clear.”
Goddammit Nancy, who the hell cares?
“Sureeeee.”
Nancy raises her head. “If you’re meeting here, always log in your pick-up and drop-off time on the clipboard. If not, please email or text us your hours. Kyle knows the drill.” She shoots him a smile and a wink. “You make sure to show the new guy the ropes, Kyle.”
Another wink.
Kyle hops off the bench, and off we go.
“Looks like I’m stuck with you kid. Try not to be annoying.”
The grubby kid in question doesn’t respond.
Instead, he’s busy moving farther toward the edge of the sidewalk to avoid me, putting as much distance between us as humanly possible on our walk to the park near the Big Brothers building. The kid—Kyle—balances on the curbs, walks on the grass, beneath trees, dodging and weaving his way in and out of yards along the way.
His scuffed up black sneakers offer zero tread when he takes another curb, barreling ahead by at least thirty paces like the hounds of hell are nipping at his heels—maybe they are, in the shape of…
Me.
Closing in on Greenfield Community Park, the place Violet mentioned yesterday, I try to rein him in.
“Don’t go running all over place. You should probably get back here.”
He ignores me.
“I’m fucking talking to you, kid.”
“I fucking heard you,” he smarts back, his prepubescent voice cracking with false bravado that doesn’t quite reach his posture. He adjusts the brim of his hat so he can ogle me better.
According to his file, Kyle Fowler is a fourth-grade latchkey kid who spends most of his time at the community center while his mom works. According to his file, he’s quiet, respectful, and shows an aptitude for sports, his favorite being soccer.
Soccer? Gimme a break.
But according to my observations, Kyle Fowler is a wiseass punk with a chip on his shoulder bigger than mine and a foul mouth to go along with it.
I narrow my eyes. “Hey, watch your mouth.”
He doesn’t even blink. “You watch your mouth. I’m eleven.”
I stop walking to cross my arms over my chest. “Look, if we’re going to be stuck together for the next few months, the least we can do is try to get along.”
To my own ears, I sound as disgruntled about it as he does.
His reply is one of loathing, followed by a grunt when he climbs onto the wooden picnic table and turns his back. “I don’t need to get along wit
h you, jerk. I got myself.” He stabs a forefinger into his boney chest.
“Listen you little shit—”
He cuts me off. “I’m going to tell my mom you spent the entire time cussing at me, and then they’re going to kick you out of the program.” He flips me the bird.
“I swear to God, kid, if you don’t knock it off I’m going to—”
“You’re going to what? Tattle?”
My nostrils flare. What the hell is this kid’s problem? “Why are you in this program if you hate it so much? How fucked up is it at your house?”
“I never said I hated it and it’s none of your damn business.” Kyle pauses before directing another glare my way. His small jaded eyes cast judgment at me over his shoulder. “I know why you’re doing this. Someone is making you.”
“Whatever.” I check my phone for the time. “We have to kill an hour and forty-five minutes before I can take you back, so what do you want to do?”
He turns toward me, rolling his eyes from behind the lenses of his glasses. “Not sit in this lame park. Why did you bring me here? There ain’t shit to do. Parks are for babies.”
“I’m not taking some sloppy kid for a ride in my truck, so deal with it.”
“I’m not dirty.”
“Yeah right. I don’t know where those hands have been.”
Am I mistaking it, or did his shoulders slump? “My last big brother at least fed me when I was hungry.”
“Do I look like I care if you’re hungry?”
“No. You look like a giant butthole.”
“That’s because I am a giant butthole.” Jesus Christ, did I just call myself a butthole? How low toward this kid’s level am I going to sink?
I run a palm down my face and mentally count to five to regain patience.
As I’m doing that, Kyle pushes off the table and stalks toward the swings, dragging his tennis shoes through the rough wood chips. Instead of sitting in a swing, he grabs one by the seat and shoves it hard, sending it sailing through the air. The chains clang and hit the metal pole, creating an irritating echo in the otherwise quiet park.
“Knock that shit off,” I call from my perch on the picnic table, irritated. “You’re disrupting the peace.”