For a moment I’m relieved. There is nothing I can do. Jonah is just a taker. There are no magic words I can use to persuade him to volunteer. The whole situation has gotten overhyped and out of hand.
Mr. Donnelly continues, “You know, maybe if I talked to him … It’s not too late: we could get him to commit to tutoring someone during finals or we could stretch the rules a little and get him to sign up for a summer service project after he graduates. Maybe if I tell him how much it means to you. We could even talk to him togeth—”
I shake my head so emphatically that Mr. Donnelly stops midword.
“No. Really. You don’t need to.”
The last thing that would work is Mr. Donnelly cornering Jonah and telling him to do it for me.
If I could just figure Jonah out: who he is, what he likes, why he refuses to play by the same social rules as everyone else.
“We’ve worked so hard on this all year—I’d just hate to see all that effort go unacknowledged if you fail.”
I flinch at the words “you fail.”
He smiles reassuringly. “And I’d really hate to have to figure out how to turn on my oven.”
“I’ll try, but …”
I look down at the catalog again. Mr. Donnelly spins the picture so it’s facing me.
“Don’t give up hope just yet. There are still a few days until that ordering deadline.” He taps the photo. “I have faith in you. I still think we’ll be ordering this, and the Waterford volunteerism legacy will continue. Your dad wouldn’t give up, and you won’t either.”
I stammer a thank-you and leave the room. I want to give up.
But I can’t.
My father’s the only one who’s ever done this: gotten the whole school to volunteer. And Mr. Donnelly’s right: Dad never would’ve given up on 100 percent; he never would’ve given up on Jonah.
I spin the ring on my finger—I have no idea how I’ll change Jonah’s mind, but I won’t disappoint Mr. Donnelly. I won’t fail my dad.
The hallways are nearly deserted, and I’m grateful. I’m itchy in my skin, fidgety in ways I haven’t been since I was little and Mom lectured me about standing still. I need to keep moving, keep making progress toward home. Take a few minutes in my room, maybe even climb into bed and pull the covers over my head.
But Amelia’s Land Rover is still in the parking space next to my car: the Audi Roadster my sister, Evy, picked for her sixteenth birthday four years ago. I hate how conspicuous it is—like a bright red jelly bean. I open my door and climb in, lowering my window when Amelia opens her passenger door to talk. Peter’s behind the wheel. He calls his greeting across her and turns down the radio.
“You didn’t have to wait for me,” I say, but I’m touched that she did. She shrugs this off and asks, “What time is the memorial tomorrow?”
“One.” It’s that squeaky voice from English class.
Twenty-one hours and fifty-six minutes from now. Not enough time to prepare.
“Want me to come over before?”
I wish I could get out of the car and hug her, but I can’t without crying. If Amelia sees a single tear, she’ll never let me leave. And my mom needs me. “Thanks, but that’s okay—I’ll see you at the church.”
She ducks under the shoulder strap of her seat belt to lay her head on Peter’s shoulder. “If you change your mind, call me. And call me later.”
“Sure. Have fun tonight.”
But her attention’s on Peter now.
I watch them for a minute before I raise my window and put the car in reverse. It only takes six minutes to drive home; I still might have fifteenish minutes to decompress if Mom’s running at all late.
After eight minutes of impatient stop signs and pausing to let joggers, dog walkers, and baby strollers cross at every corner, I pull into the driveway and hit my garage door remote. Mom is waiting at the top of the stairs. She’s still in a gray pencil skirt and white-collared blouse, but she looks rumpled. Her sleeves are rolled up, and wisps of dark hair have escaped from her bobby pins. So much for fifteen minutes. Or even five.
I want to turn around and retreat to my car, to make up an excuse and go get the mail—anything to create just a minute of me time. Instead I notice her nervous energy, the way she’s half reaching for me, as if she’s going to pull me up the last step and into the kitchen. I take a deep breath, close the space for a quick hug, and manage a calm voice: “You’re home early.”
She laces her fingers together and looks down at the toes of her pumps. “I took a half day. It was too hard to focus. I keep thinking about tomorrow. I need everything to be perfect for your father.”
I look beyond her shoes to the mess she’s already created in the foyer: her coat slung over the banister, a coffee mug on the antique bureau, her purse on one stair, her briefcase on another, and her keys—for some reason—on the floor.
“How about we stay home? I’ll make tea and you can change out of your work clothes.”