Good for You (10 page)

Chapter 20

REID

Just before I left yesterday, Darlene told me that I’ve been assigned to Dori for the next couple of days to help finish out the closets and pantry.

“I assume that means Gabriel e is off Tuesday and Wednesday?”

Her answer was her best squinty stare, while Frank, sauntering up behind us to wash his hands, wasn’t as restrained. “Son, you should take some lessons in when to keep your thoughts to yourself. See, women are always saying that they want honesty and communication, but that’s just because they don’t know al the jackass stuff we guys think about on a regular basis. A more intel igent fel a, like myself, knows to keep the mystery alive by knowing when to shut up.”

“Humph,” Darlene said, smirking.

***

Dori is removing six-foot-long boards from the supply storage unit when I arrive with her latte. Though less surprised than she was yesterday, she’s stil guarded. I drag the tips of my fingers over hers as I hand it to her. She glances at me as I feign interest in the trel is Frank is instal ing on the opposite side of the yard.

“So…these boards need to be painted before we put in the shelving, right?” When I look at her, she sets her cup on a stack of jagged shale stones and turns back to unloading the boards.

“Um, yeah.”

This morning, she’s wearing a white t-shirt that would fit a linebacker, the back of which is emblazoned with what I assume is the name of her church and the VBS theme:
In
His Hands
. On the front is a child’s drawing of the globe covered in blue and green splotches. On the il ogical y green Arctic Circle are stick-figure kids of every color (including purple). The earth levitates just above two huge hands.

I hand her my coffee. “Hold this, and let me do that.” I grab a stack of boards. “Where are we going with these?”

“First, we have to trim them down to size. I already did the measurements.” She pul s a slip of paper from her back pocket, grabs her latte and leads me to the circular saw.

As I carry the remainder of the boards over, she measures and marks them, flips the switch on the saw and begins cutting. The process looks simple enough, and after a few minutes, I’m not content to stand and watch, so I ask her to show me how to do it.

We cut the first two boards together. The sensation of her palms on the back of my hands, guiding them firmly, is like a pulsing current. I feel almost high, standing close enough to inhale her subtle, familiar scent, coupled with running boards through a whirring saw that could lop off my hand in a split second of inattention. The adrenaline junkie in me is fired up.

While I cut the last few boards alone, my ears adjusting to the shril whine as the blade chews through the wood, she sands the rough edges on the finished products. A portion of the ground and the fence has been tarped where we’re doing the painting. She takes several of the smal er boards and I fol ow with the larger ones. “Lean them there; we’re spray-painting them.”

“Sounds fun.” She glances at me, unsure if I’m being sarcastic. I turn back to get the rest, letting her guess.

Keeping the mystery alive, as Frank would say.

Dori takes up the paint sprayer and quickly coats the first board with even strokes, leaving a smooth white surface. She hands me the sprayer. “Start towards the top and go slowly, side to side.” I aim it at the board and press the trigger just as she’s saying, “Back up first!” I basical y blast it with paint al in one spot, so it looks like shit—and bonus, since I’m holding it too near the flat surface—Dori and I end up with a rebound scatter of paint everywhere except where the goggles and particle masks cover our eyes and mouths. She blinks at me behind paint-misted goggles. There’s paint in her hair, on her shirt, and misted over every inch of visible skin.

“Oops.” My voice is muffled by the mask. I’m expecting anger or at least irritation, but she looks at my face and bursts out laughing and then so do I and soon we’ve caught the attention of everyone, including the photogs in the surrounding yards.

Shaking her head, she pul s her particle mask down and it hangs around her neck. “You have to learn everything the hard way, don’t you?”

I shrug. “I prefer to cal it learning by experience.” She laughs again and rol s her eyes, “Ooooh, wel in that case, far be it from me to interrupt your learning processes.

Next time, please warn me to wear head-to-toe plastic sheeting while you’re learning.” She uses air quotes around
learning
.

“Yes, boss.” I take a giant step back and so does she as I raise the sprayer. And then she takes another, pul ing on her mask while I mumble, “Funny girl,” through mine.

When I’m done, we stand surveying the boards, sipping our coffee drinks, masks around our necks, goggles pushed to our foreheads. She looks at me and smirks at my hair, which is sticking straight up behind the goggles. I push them back so they sit more like sunglasses on top of my head and point at her shirt. “So what’s the story with this VBS gig? Roberta said you were in charge of some musical program, and that’s why you disappeared last week.”

She watches me over the lid of her cup. “It’s just a few songs for the kindergarten class. For Parents’ Night.”

“You’re directing them?” At her nod, I say, “I know nothing about kids that age, except that I was one. Or so I hear.” She smiles, and I become aware of the freckles that were protected from paint mist by her mask and goggles.

Scattered across the bridge of her nose, they’re actual y kind of cute. “You go to this church regularly? I’ve never real y been; my parents aren’t big on religion.” Her smile weakens and her gaze skitters away and back. “Yeah, I do.” She swal ows another sip. “My dad’s the pastor.”

Whoa. I didn’t expect that. “Ah. So how much of that VBS job is you volunteering and how much is you
being
volunteered?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, I love teaching the kids to sing. It’s the most rewarding thing I do.” Her eyes slide away again.

“I thought attempting to rehabilitate
me
was your favorite thing.” I hadn’t expected to make her blush, but her ears color under the paint.

*** *** ***

Dori

I can’t respond to that comment, of course—a comment made more awkward by our previous argument about whether or not he needed or wanted rehabilitating, and whether or not I’d consider him worthy of the task. He’s either forgiven me for those heated words, or he’s forgotten them.

I think he seldom forgets anything.

We finish painting the first coat on the boards, and at lunch Reid’s frat boy groupies join us. There are four of them clustered around him today. I consider sitting with Roberta, Darlene and Frank, but they’re huddled together discussing grandchildren and real estate taxes and for discussing grandchildren and real estate taxes and for some reason, I just want to feel eighteen today.

“So what’s it like, being
you
at some party? I bet you score al the chicks,” a guy named Javier is asking Reid, who makes room for me on the edge of the patio.

“I can’t complain,” he answers, his eyes hitting mine for a split second.

Javier leans closer. “Do any of them ever put up any fight? Turn you down?”

Reid laughs. “Yeah, sure.”

“But not like, often,” another guy, Kyle, says.

Reid shrugs. “I guess not.”

I’m rethinking my desire to be an eighteen-year-old girl
and
my decision to sit with this particular group of boys when the one on my opposite side offers his hand, “Hi, I’m Trevor.”

I shake his hand. “Dori.”

He leans forward, speaking in a low voice. “Ignore them

—they’re a bunch of morons with
no
manners.” I take a bite of my sandwich rather than reply, curious about whatever inappropriate thing Kyle is asking Reid. (I swear I just heard the word
boobs
.) Trevor clears his throat, blocking out whatever Kyle is saying. “So are you a celebrity, too?”

“Uh,
no
.”

“Oh, okay. I just noticed you seem… acquainted…” he inclines his head towards Reid.

“Oh. No.” I wave a dismissive hand. “We’ve just been working together since he’s been here. So, what are you studying? UCLA, right?”

“Yeah. Applied mathematics.” He removes his glasses and rubs a smear from a lens with his shirttail. “What about you?”

“I’l be starting at Berkeley in the fal . Social work.” His eyebrows rise. “Berkeley? Cool.” He chuckles a little. “Social work, eh?” I bristle, having endured appal ed reactions about my chosen major from everyone from my maternal grandparents to classmates. He puts the glasses on and says, “I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I was just thinking how everyone is always horrified at my major, like it’s so difficult and al , but I hear ‘social work’ and think
that
sounds hard.”

I nod. “My sister just finished her medical degree, so pretty much everything pales in comparison to that.” He puffs his cheeks and blows air out. “Oh, man, yeah.

My roommate’s pre-dental, and he studies nonstop—some nights I go to bed and he’s studying and I get up and he’s studying. So does your sister practice nearby?”

“She just started her residency. In Indiana.”

“Cool.”

Javier and another groupie high-five each other, and Javier says, “
Dude
,
yes
,” to Reid. “I want to be you
so bad
.” I glance at Reid, who’s smiling and shaking his head.

Whatever he’s just admitted to, I’m sure I don’t want to know.

“So why social work?” Trevor gestures to the house. “I take it you’re one of the regulars here, so you must know what a chal enging field you’re going into.” I nod. “I’m not starry-eyed about it. My dad’s a pastor and my mom is an obstetrical nurse working with mostly low-income women, so I guess I have some built-in feelings of obligation to do what I can for my community. Lots of people who plan to go into social work talk about al the people they’re going to help… but more often you save one person while losing nine. It could be a real y discouraging field if you’re not realistic about the odds.” He nods. “Sounds like you’ve considered every angle. I think the world needs more people like you.” I turn to grab my drink and hide my self-conscious smile.

“Thanks. So, why applied mathematics?”

He smiles, a smal dimple appearing on the right side.

“Wel , I’m
really
good at math.”

The remainder of lunch ticks away while we discuss col ege courses, dorm life and going Greek, which I’m certain is
not
for me, though he insists I’d be perfect for a sorority leadership spot. “Scholarly types are needed, too.

Trust me—I
am
one of those.”

As we get up to throw our trash away and get back to work, he says, “It was nice to meet you, Dori. Good luck at Berkeley, and, you know, saving ten percent of the world.” He winks at me before signaling to his frat brothers to fol ow him inside.

I’m seldom so blatantly flirted with. Except for Reid, when he’s entertaining himself by torturing me. Which doesn’t count.

Chapter 21

REID

I learned more about Dori in fifteen minutes of eavesdropping on her conversation with the math geek than I’ve found out about her the whole time we’ve been working together. Not only is her father is a pastor, but her sister is a
doctor
, her mother is a
nurse
working with low-income pregnant women, and Dori intends to become a
social worker
. She must have been bred to this service-to-society mentality from birth. She’s like the reverse of me.

For about two seconds I want to go home and hug my parents.

Then Dori’s ears did their pink transformation. Up to that point, I’d just been observing that Trevor guy flirting with her.

It was humorous until her ears started glowing. Shit. Now I’m territorial over making her
ears
change color? What the hel .

After tossing my trash, I scan the yard for Dori and spot her walking in a tight circle, talking on her cel . I grab a couple of water bottles and head over to the shelving boards, which need a second coat of paint.

“No, I mean, of course I stil want to see you.” Her voice carries the few feet between us. “Can we not do this now?” She stops her circular pacing. “No, there’s nothing you’re doing wrong.”

She’s silent for another couple of minutes, restarting her pacing after glancing at me. I busy myself setting up the paint sprayer, pretending I can’t hear her.

“Nick, I don’t know if I’m even capable…” Eyes tightly closed, she makes a fist and bumps herself in the forehead three times. “I don’t know why. There’s obviously something wrong with me. Something missing.” Opening her eyes, she swipes the back of her hand across her cheek. She’s breaking up with the guy? It’s like a gruesome col ision. I can’t look away.

“We’re going to different col eges, and you’l find someone who’l be everything you want and deserve. I’m just… not that girl. I never have been.” She searches her empty pockets, looking for a tissue, I think. She turns to go into the house, and I can’t fol ow without being
really
damned obvious.

When she comes back out, I’m painting the boards. Her eyes are red, but not repulsively so. “Oh,” she says, smiling, though barely. “You got started already. Thanks.” I shrug one shoulder. “No problem.” I turn the motor off on the sprayer and examine her for a couple of seconds.

“Wanna talk about it?” I ask. She shakes her head, and I nod, hand her the water bottle. “What’s next, boss?” She swal ows half the bottle of water, and then says,

“Did you know that ‘boss’ is what guys in jail cal the guards and deputies?”

As a matter of fact I do know that, but I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise. “You don’t say.” She rol s her eyes, sighing, her smile growing wider.

“Why don’t you finish painting, you reprobate, and I’l go inside and start getting the closets ready to be shelved.” I turn the sprayer back on. “I’ve been cal ed worse, you know.”

She laughs, which is incongruous with her tear-stained face but somehow attractive at the same time. “You don’t say,” she mocks, and I have to laugh.

*** *** ***

Dori

“I have a question,” he says, just before we leave for the day.

We’re moving the painted boards inside so we can start instal ing the shelves in the morning. I know him wel enough by now to know he’l insist on using the dril tomorrow—

something I understand. The first time Dad agreed to let me wield a power tool, I jumped up and down. Reid’s not as enthusiastic as that… but he’s close.

“Yeah?”

“Why social work and not music?”

This is far afield from the subject of power tools, so my brain has to redirect. “What?”

“You told Trevor you’re going to Berkeley, right?” he asks, and I nod. “So, why, with your voice, are you studying social work instead of music?”

While I thought he was doing nothing more than regaling the others with corrupt Hol ywood tales, he was listening to my conversation with Trevor. Before I can compose an answer, he adds, “Seems like a waste of time.”
What?
“Is that how you feel about this project, after three weeks of working here? Can’t you see that these families
need
what we do for them?”

He holds his hands up. “Yeah, sure. But you seem to feel some guilt complex for being born smarter, or having a better life. And you’re planning to spend your life beating your head against a wal trying to help people who don’t bother to help themselves.”

I do feel accountable for my blessings—but he seems to feel nothing but entitlement. “These people didn’t do anything to
deserve
being born into poverty, any more than I
deserved
to be born into a family that can afford to give me food, decent health care, or an education.” He stacks the final board against the others. “Why does it have to be about deserving something? So it’s luck of the draw, and granted, their hand sucks. I mean sure, there are things you can do—and here you are, doing them. But there’s only so much. Why live your life feeling guilty?”

“It isn’t guilt—it’s a social conscience.” I try to suppress my defensiveness. “I can’t just stand by and do
nothing
.

Because my life
is
easy in comparison, and that isn’t fair.”

“Don’t, you know, fly off the handle or anything—but doesn’t the fact that you think it isn’t fair make you distrustful of the idea of a ‘higher power’ orchestrating everything?”

“No.” His eyebrows rise at my quick reply, and I can’t let him know how close to my doubts he’s come. “Because people like my Dad exist. Because faith is part of who I am, and a measure of faith is being wil ing to do what’s needed.

I just want to make a difference. I have to believe I have a purpose. Maybe you don’t understand that, but that’s how I feel.”

He’s quiet for a minute, and I’m thinking I’ve wasted my breath and gotten worked up for nothing. “You’re right, I don’t understand,” he says. He tilts his head like Esther does when I talk to her and I use words outside of her canine experience. “Your principles seem real, though.

Usual y there’s something deceptive about people who throw words like
faith
around. Like they’re using it to mask ulterior motives or baser desires…” He smiles a wicked little smile and my heart flips over. “The sorts of values I
do
understand.”