Good for You (3 page)

Chapter 5

REID

Wow, that was a dickhead thing to say. For someone so minimal y impressed by celebrity proximity, she’s been cool enough. Right up to that laundry list of corrupt activities in which, truth be told, I do engage. Stil , Jesus. Superior much?

I stand to go inside when conversations taper off and people go back to whatever they were doing before break.

Those stil outside are stealing glances at me as I throw the plate and utensils away, finish the bottle of water and toss it into the recycling container.

“Mr. Alexander,” someone says—that Roberta woman.

“How’s it going so far?”

“Awesome.”

“Oh, good.” She smiles, oblivious to my sarcastic tone.

“Dorcas is one of our best volunteers. We’re real y proud of her; maybe she’l even teach you some new tricks!”

“Uh-huh,” I answer, smiling at her while my brain processes—
Dorcas
? Who the hel names a kid
Dorcas
?

And by the way, lady, the day a little prude named Dorcas teaches me a new trick is the day I’l be finding a nice tal teaches me a new trick is the day I’l be finding a nice tal building to leap off of.

I go back to the room we were painting to find her with earbuds in her ears, an ancient model iPod clipped to her shorts, the wire threaded under her shirt. She’s gathered the equipment she used to paint the ceiling this morning.

Pausing the music without removing the earbuds, she says,

“You know what to do in here; I’m going next door to start on the ceiling, unless you need me here to supervise you.” I bite back half a dozen forward answers. “I think I can handle it.”

She nods shortly.

As she gets to the door, I add, “Oh and
Dorcas
, I’l need you to sign my sheet for the court before I go.” Her shoulders stiffen, but she continues out of the room, her ears lit like a flare. I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing. Getting on her nerves is just too easy.

By 3:00, I’ve finished the room. Dori shows up at 3:01

with a pen in her hand. As she glances around, checking my work, I pul the form from my back pocket and hand it to her. Except for a couple of blue swipes on the ceiling above the first wal (turns out she was right about not getting too close with the rol er), it looks pretty good. Without commenting, she signs the form—
Dorcas Cantrell
—and hands it back.

I thank her, thinking she’d love nothing more than to turn around and leave without replying, but she doesn’t risk it after my earlier chiding. “I’l see you tomorrow,” she says.

Her lyrical voice gives me a smal jolt, but she’s already leaving the room.

My driver is waiting at the curb. He starts at the sight of me, sweaty and speckled in blue paint. I’m sure he’s imagining what my clothes wil do to those leather seats, but he says nothing beyond, “Good afternoon, Mr.

Alexander,” as he opens the back door and waits for me to get in.

One day down, nineteen to go.

*** *** ***

Dori

Dad picks me up a couple of hours after Reid leaves.

Pul ing into traffic, he drums lightly on the steering wheel.

The trek home requires some freeway time, and he’s got the classical station on to de-stress. Bach’s
Concerto for
Two Violins
fil s the car. I lean my head back and close my eyes, grateful I don’t have to drive. I hate driving on LA freeways. Mom says it brings out the devil in me. The way people drive on 110, I don’t think I’m alone.

“So, how’d today go?” Dad is so obvious when fishing for information. Just the fact that he waited a few minutes into the drive to ask tel s me he’s working to sound offhand.

What do I say? That Reid is as spoiled and arrogant as I thought, stubborn but teachable, and more beautiful than any guy has a right to be?

“Fine.” I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice.

“My dear, I’ve seen you wrangle two dozen munchkins into a chorus of little angels.” He pats my knee. “I doubt this wil be more difficult than that.”

“The little angels were scared of me, Dad.” He laughs. “The kids always love you, Dori.”

“Love and fear, Dad—that’s the key to motivation. Love and fear.”

110 is a parking lot during rush hour. We’re barely moving; I could
walk
faster. Literal y. I crack an eye open.

The windshield view is the back of a semi, and we’re blocked on either side by other, also stationary cars.

“Are you planning on applying that tactic to Mr.

Alexander?”

I bristle at my dad cal ing him that. And someone like me wil never inspire either love or fear in someone like Reid. “I can’t imagine how I’d be able to get him to do anything he decides he isn’t going to do.”

He frowns. “Did he refuse to work today?”

Thinking about the shocked look on Reid’s face when I told him the room needed a second coat of paint, I stifle a laugh. “No, he painted
one
room—with my assistance.” I set up the bathroom to do the tiling tomorrow. Reid seemed capable of painting without guidance by the end of the day, so maybe he won’t need constant monitoring.

“I guess that’s something—if he actual y
worked
, instead of pul ing a prima donna act.”

Eyes closed, I rol my head back and forth to stretch the kinks out of my neck after spending the day painting ceilings. “I had to sign some sort of court document at the end of the day, verifying he was there and doing actual labor. I guess he’d be in trouble if he didn’t
perform
the community service.”

The concerto swel s, and neither of us speaks for several minutes. Music, to both of us, is the purest expression of emotion. When it’s inspired, it leaves tears in my eyes, leaves me breathless. For me, there’s nothing better than singing and knowing I’ve affected someone that same way.

“So, what’s on the agenda tonight—partying til the wee hours? Drag racing on the strip? Hot date?” My father laughs at his little joke. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it—to him, I’m an incorrigible good girl. I may be the only girl in the history of California whose father encourages her to stay out later with friends.

“Sure—al of the above. Don’t wait up.”

“So are you stil seeing—” he snaps his fingers twice.

“Nick?”

“That’s the one.”

“We were never real y a thing, Dad.”

Nick is a guy from school who’s known for his civic-minded volunteer efforts. In other words, he’s a male
me
.

Everyone’s been trying to push us together since he transferred in during junior year. We’ve been out a few times and stil hang out occasional y. He’s nice enough, and certainly good-looking enough, but I can go for days without thinking about him. So I do.

“Is he aware of this?”

“Dad, sheesh.” I’m amused by the fact that my father is interested in my love life. Or lack thereof. “We get along fine. He’s nice. Fun. Easy to talk to.” Everything Reid isn’t.

Why
am I thinking of
him
?

“Ouch,” Dad says, wincing. “No chemistry, huh?”

“What?”

“Nice, fun, easy to talk to—sounds like you’re talking about me!” He glances over his right shoulder to change lanes, winking at me in the process.

“I could do worse than someone like you, Dad,” I laugh.

He pretends to admire himself in the rearview mirror, waggling his eyebrows. “True. There’s no hurry, though.”

“Definitely not.”

I’m eighteen, so he’s right—there’s no hurry. I don’t tel him how much I
want
that sort of connection—a relationship like he and Mom share. The trust and respect between them is plain to see, but I know that under the surface, their relationship simmers with passion. I don’t tel him how much I worry it wil never happen for me. I don’t tel him how some days, I feel as though everything I do is an attempt to be worthy of being loved like that.

Chapter 6

REID

Mom meets me at the door with a drink in her hand. “Reid!” Plucking at the shirt, her eyes widen and her mouth screws up. Dropping the fabric like it’s covered in manure instead of paint, she rubs her fingers together.

“It’s just paint, Mom. And it’s dry.” I pul the shirt over my head and keep walking towards the curving marble staircase.

“Did you get any on the wal s?” Clearly, a smartass temperament is genetic, and I was dealt a double dose.

“Yeah, I actual y did. I’m gonna take a shower—when’s dinner?” I cal down when I hit the second landing.

“Immaculada should have it on the table by seven.”

“I think I’l nap, too. I’m going out later, and I’m dead tired.”

I don’t wait for an answer. If Dad isn’t going to be home

—he usual y isn’t—I have no idea how she’l spend the evening, besides having another cocktail or three.

***

“I stil can’t believe you destroyed your 911, man.” John downshifts his Jaguar XJ to take a curve. “It sucks ass, seriously.”

My one week old Porsche 911 GT2 RS was sweet. I don’t even remember getting into it that night. Guess I should be glad I hadn’t taken anyone home from that club—

the whole right side was crushed in.

Man,
that’s
a more sobering thought than I want to be having tonight.

“Gonna replace it?”

“No point right now—my license is suspended for six months anyway.” Six months.
Damn
. The judge didn’t even count the time from the accident to my court date against it

—he started the sentence from the court date, leaving five months, two weeks and four days to go.

John frowns, confused. “So?”

I should know better than to expect my best friend to get why I won’t be driving on a suspended license. He has no concept of consequences. He’s the luckiest bastard I hang out with—he never gets caught doing anything. It’s bizarre.

Not to mention unfair as hel .

“I’ve gotta lay low for a bit. First getting busted at that party, and now this DUI and community service crap.”

“But they dropped the charges on the weed, right?”

“Yeah. But standing there in front of a judge, you can’t help feeling like he knows everything you’ve ever done.”

“Whoa.” John is one of those guys who frequently comes across as stoned off his ass. He’s brighter than he seems

—unless he’s actual y stoned, in which case he’s practical y brain dead.

We’re heading into the Hil s for a party some girl is having. John says she’s an heiress who’s struggling to make it as an actress in Hol ywood. The houses we’re passing on the way are as posh as my parents’ place.

Yeah, she’s real y struggling.

“So about this party—any decent prospects for hookups?” I want nothing more than to get total y wasted, grab some hot, legal y-aged, equal y wasted girl and find a room. No brown hair, no brown eyes. No supervision, direction or advice. No sarcasm. No
talking
.

“Yeah, man. Ample possibilities.”

“Sweet.” I’m thinking a tal , leggy, blue-eyed blonde with huge tits.

This is LA—I can’t throw a rock and
not
hit one of those.

*** *** ***

Dori

Day three has
not
gone as I’d envisioned it. Of course, neither did day two.

First, he showed up an hour late and hungover. He thought he was hiding it (with sunglasses—real y?), but just because I’m personal y naïve when it comes to getting drunk or doing drugs doesn’t mean I don’t know it when I see it. The neighborhoods where I work are rife with the ways and means people use to cope through their disappointing lives—and those coping mechanisms sometimes include substances that don’t do any more than mask the real problems and valid issues.

Frankly, his slightly bloodshot eyes and lack of energy—

coupled with the tardiness and an even more contrary coupled with the tardiness and an even more contrary attitude than the previous day—almost pushed me over the edge. I wanted to bundle him right back into the backseat of his fancy car and send him home. I’m supposed to be above such reactions. Some social worker I’l make, if I can’t keep a more even keel. I’l have clients with bigger personality limitations than he’s got, as difficult as that is to imagine at the moment.

He was a walking safety liability. There was no way I could leave him alone with a paint rol er, not to mention what paint fumes might do to him in his already taxed physical condition. Anything with tools, especial y power tools, was out. The only task I could imagine assigning to him was helping to lay sod in the back yard. I thought I was doing him a favor—he could wear the sunglasses and be out in the fresh air (such as it is—this is LA, after al ), and he wasn’t going to put a nail through his hand.

Of course, depositing him outside meant I had to abandon the tiling I’d planned to do so I could paint, because
somebody
had to do it before the carpet arrives.

Determined to get back to work, I left him outside with Frank, who’s in charge of landscaping.

When I came out to check on him just before lunch, hoping he hadn’t given Frank any trouble, he was standing in the middle of the half-sodded yard, shirtless, leaning on a tamping tool and chatting up a cute girl in cut-offs and a pink tank top. Judging by the cooler at her feet, she was supposed to be passing out bottles of water. When she turned, I saw that she was Gabriel e Diego, the daughter of the people who would soon own this house—and into whose rental house Reid had crashed his car.

Her family of five was living in a motel room because of him, and she was smiling up at him like he could crash into her house any old time, no big deal.

When she spotted me standing on the porch slab, she touched his arm and said something that made him turn.

Our eyes locked. Without severing that connection, he took a long swal ow from the water bottle, leaned close to her and spoke. At the sound of their laughter, my patience snapped. I stomped back inside and finished painting a second coat of pink on Gabriel e’s bedroom wal s and a coat of primer on the boys’ room without stopping for lunch or a break. By the time Dad arrived to pick me up, the muscles in my back were screaming for mercy. Reid must have gotten Frank to sign his sheet, because I hadn’t seen him again until this morning.

We finished the master bed and bath wal s today, not speaking beyond obligatory Q & A. He sat with Gabriel e at lunch, which made me uneasy. As I scrawl my name on the line marking the completion of his third day, I say, “You’re not here to socialize, you’re here to assist with construction of the Diegos’ house, and possibly become more communal y aware.”

He gapes before making a remark about my (f-word) humanitarianism and how
he
doesn’t need a savior and if he did, it wouldn’t be me.

Instead of biting my tongue, I tel him I wouldn’t give him a glass of water if his hair was on fire, nor does he ever have to worry about me trying to
save
him because I learned years ago that some people aren’t worth the effort.

“What—so according to you, someone like me isn’t worthy of redemption?” He smirks at such a preposterous notion.

I turn away from his smug expression and begin sweeping arches of thinset onto the shower wal with a trowel. “I don’t believe in wasting my time on hopeless cases.”

He laughs. “What about me constitutes hopeless?” I don’t bother to look at him. “What
doesn’t
constitute hopeless?” I press a tile into the corner, add a spacer, pick up the next tile and line it up faultlessly level with the first one. “From your language to your lack of morals to your inability to consider anyone’s needs or hardships but your own—honestly, what is there of any value to anyone?

Besides to yourself, I mean.”

“ I ’ m
here
, in this shithole gangbanger barrio, volunteering to do manual labor—”

“Volunteering? Manual labor? Real y?” I scoff, ignoring his elitist estimation of the respectable blue col ar neighborhood. “First, you’re here by court order, and second, you don’t do as much by lunch as the rest of us do before you arrive. You’re done for the day the exact moment your plea bargain agreement specifies, or before, if you get distracted by something, or some
one
.” He’s actual y worked harder than I’d expected him to, but his superior attitude just makes my usual unbiased judgment fly out the window.

“Ah, so I noticed an attractive girl.
That’s
your problem?

Jealous?”

I sputter and shake my head. “
No
, far from it. You disgust me.”

He laughs. “Disgust? That’s a little strong—”

“No. Trust me, it’s real y not strong enough. If you’l excuse me, I have actual constructive things to do—”

“What in al of your
altruistic
training authorizes you to differentiate between hopeless and salvageable?” he asks, ignoring my attempt to dismiss him. Something about his choice of words and his deadly calm tone makes me look up as he towers over me.

I stand slowly. He’s at least eight inches tal er and we’re not two feet apart in the smal space, but this boy doesn’t scare me. I see right through his arrogant indignation, so accustomed to getting what he wants that denial is incomprehensible. In al honesty there might be something worthwhile in there, but it doesn’t matter because he’l never acknowledge its existence. I’m calm, because now I know why I felt such a wave of melancholy when I met him.

“Like you said—you don’t want saving, Reid. That makes any effort pointless, assuming I planned to bother trying—which I do
not
.” My voice is as composed as his, but my anger has fal en away while his stil radiates from him like heat waves off of pavement.

“Mr. Alexander, your car is here,” Roberta says from the doorway.

“Thanks,” he says without turning.

I squat down and dip into the thinset again, smear another glob on the wal and begin to smooth it out. Hyper-aware of the fact that he’s stil next to me, I refuse to acknowledge him further. He can stand there until his legs col apse for al I care.

“So you only rescue those who fit into your preordained notions of worth? Doesn’t seem like much of a victory.

Seems discriminatory and hypocritical, in fact.” He turns and walks out, the front door slamming a moment later.

So ends day three. Holy Moses, this is going to be tougher than I thought.

I didn’t mean to let it get to this point, I honestly didn’t.

Like driving in freeway traffic, Reid just brings out the devil in me.

Tomorrow, we’l prime the baseboards, doors, and bathroom cabinets. I’d like to finish tiling the master bath, but it’s foolish to perform tasks that require a steady hand when angry. The tile needs to be perfectly level, not a crooked mess. I take a deep breath, and then another. I have an hour or two until Dad gets here—plenty of time to push Reid from my mind and get a good start on this shower.

Except for a nagging insinuation, one I’m not even sure he’s aware of having made. I cal ed him a hopeless case, and he cal ed me a hypocrite for writing him off as someone not worth saving—right after tel ing me he doesn’t
need
saving.

I don’t like having to modify my position once I’ve chosen one, but that doesn’t make me incapable of doing so. So I can’t help wondering—was he merely set on winning a verbal battle, or did Reid Alexander just tel me he wants to be rescued from himself?