CHAPTER 30
REID
“So, think you’l do more volunteering after this?” Frank asks as we lay out a recent donation of decorative pavers from the patio to the back gate.
“After my court-ordered penalty is complete, you mean?” The flagstone slabs vary in size. Making a pathway of them consists of what Frank terms puzzle-piecing and I cal guesswork. Frank is usual y easygoing, but when it comes to stone placement, he’d give Dori a run for her perfectionism money. Dammit, I don’t want to think about her. I glare at the cloudless blue sky, removing one glove and using the bottom of my t-shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. LA is enjoying another summer heat wave, and since the saplings we’ve planted amount to tal sticks with very little foliage, there’s zero shade in this yard.
“Dori’s not here, you know,” Frank says.
My eyes snap to his. “What?”
He takes a generous few gulps from his water bottle.
“You may be here under court order, but you could have been a bastard about it, could’ve given a lot less effort than you have. As far as I’m concerned, you’re volunteer enough to go by the title. I’d be happy to have you back.” This echoes what Dori said the night before last. And clearly, I can’t stop thinking of her. “Thanks, Frank. That means a lot coming from you.”
“Yep.”
Frank dislikes compliments, no matter how vague. Last week, Dori whispered, “Watch this,” after making me promise not to react, and then she told Frank that he looked very handsome in teal. He glanced down at his teal linen shirt and blushed, mumbling something resembling,
“Mmmph,” before bul eting to the other side of the patio.
Dori turned back to me with the naughtiest look ever on her face. With effort, we suppressed our laughter as I fought to disregard the desire to pul her onto my lap and kiss her.
Shit. Stop thinking about her already. I’m almost out of here. This day and one more.
“Volunteering for real—I don’t know. It’s possible,” I tel him, recal ing my conversation with Larry a few weeks ago about doing manual labor charity work, when I retorted something along the lines of no way in hell. Wow. I’m a grade-A dick.
Tomorrow is my last day at the Diego house, and George cal ed last night to let me know that production has moved the dates up on my Vancouver project. I’l be on location in three weeks—the day before Dori returns from Ecuador. I have less than a month to beef up and pack on the last five pounds of the twenty I promised to add in order to land the role. George warned me that the director and some of the production team were against hiring me because they wanted the character to be older and bigger, but the guys financing the film wanted my name in the credits. Money talks, but if I screw this up, I could depreciate my future value and seriously lessen the chances of anyone giving me another shot at a film like this one.
To that end, Olaf has promised to kil me starting this weekend. Awesome. If nothing else, maybe I’l be able to get some sleep after he shreds me every day. I tossed and turned so much last night that I found myself up at 4 a.m.
Googling Vancouver’s weather, popular attractions and hot night spots… and then Quito’s weather, topography, possible safety issues and time zone (two hours ahead of LA and Vancouver, which are the same).
I’ve got to get this girl out of my head. I need time and distance, and I’m about to get both. Despite how she responded to me physical y, despite this insistent pul towards her that I’m trying (and failing) to brush aside, she knows and I know that we would never work. Everything about us is different—every damned thing. I’ve never given a shit about that before. I’ve never thought about that before. When you’re hooking up with a girl, al that matters is what she looks like and how fast and hard she’l put out.
Who cares about her past, her beliefs, her aspirations.
Who cares if she has kind eyes or endless patience or the ability to put the needs of everyone on the goddamned planet ahead of her own.
***
We’re not a mile away from the house when we pass Gabriel e on the side of the road, standing in front of her piece of crap Cutlass—smoke pouring from under the hood and hazards flashing. Some guy in a truck has pul ed over in front of her car. He looks about twenty-five and I don’t recognize him. “Hey Luis, pul a U-turn, man. I know that girl back there.”
Gabriel e’s eyes widen when she sees the Mercedes pul up behind her car. As I exit, the guy standing next to her glares at me with undisguised loathing. He’s dressed and tattooed like a gangbanger, which doesn’t preclude him from knowing her, but I suspect he’s a complete stranger who only stopped to help a hot girl into his car. “Car trouble?” I say, ignoring him.
“Yeah. It does this every month or so, no biggie.” She shrugs, noticeably embarrassed. This car isn’t just a late model, it’s ancient. Unlike one of my dad’s cars—a pristine 1968 Mercedes 280S—this Olds Cutlass, at least a decade younger, hasn’t been wel -cared for. There are rust spots in the doors and sidewal s, the headliner is hanging down like curtain swags, and the tires are too bald to be remotely safe. The fact that it’s not running isn’t much of a shock.
“So… is your mom or dad coming to get you? Or a friend?” I ask. Her would-be rescuer stands there regarding me icily, and I’m al kinds of glad Luis is in the car behind us.
“They aren’t answering their phones. They don’t always
“They aren’t answering their phones. They don’t always get reception at work…” She shrugs.
“C’mon then. I’l give you a ride home.”
She grins ear-to-ear, but then her smile falters. “Um, I promised my little brothers I’d pick them up early from daycare and take them for ice cream. I guess… they can just stay ’til Mama or Papa picks them up...”
“Ice cream sounds good after today. If you guys don’t mind being stuck in the car with me. I’m sweaty as hel .”
“You know this pendejo?” Ah, so her roadside companion speaks—if only to cal me an a*shole.
One hand on her hip, Gabriel e answers him in Spanish, which I understand just wel enough to know I’d better steer her to the car before she gets bitch-slapped. “Thanks for stopping, man,” I tel him while taking Gabriel e by the arm and quickly directing her into the back seat.
An hour later, her car’s been towed and we’ve got the twins in the car. Since they’re nine, they’re way more impressed that they can make faces through the dark-tinted windows that other drivers can’t see than the fact that I’m a movie star. They’re also awed by the fact that I’ve got a guy to drive me around wherever I want to go; their sister better comprehends the way I miss my own wheels.
Gabriel e directs Luis to an ice cream shop in her old neighborhood and the boys go into raptures when I tel them to get whatever they want. I don’t think the words get whatever you want have ever been uttered to them before. It takes them a ful ten minutes of discussion to decide what to get, and since we’re the only customers, the woman behind the counter takes the break to watch entertainment news on a tiny television by the register. One of the commentators says my name and I feign inattentiveness as the clerk glances between me and my image on the tiny screen. Final y she stares at me, mouth slightly ajar and eyebrows elevated to the level of her pink visor, and I smile at her. When we leave, she’s grabbing up her cel and taking photos of our retreating backsides.
Luis raises an eyebrow when we exit, the boys with what looks like quart-sized cartons each, and Gabriel e and I each holding an overloaded cone. “Dinner is official y spoiled,” I tel her as one of her brothers cal s shotgun and the other squeezes between us in the back seat. “Your mother is going to kil me.”
Gabriel e smiles prettily. “No, she won’t. Mama likes you.”
“Oh?” I’m taken by surprise, even though Mrs. Diego thanked me for working on the house just a couple of days ago. I mean Jesus, I ran into her house with my car. “Must be my infamous charm and good looks.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “She says you’re a hard worker. That’s the only thing that ever impresses Mama.”
*** *** ***
Dori
I was in line for airport security at 7:00 a.m. for the flight to Miami, and from there, I caught my connection to Quito. I’ve made this trip twice before—each of the past two summers
—but having experience in LA-to-Quito travel doesn’t make the thirteen-hour trip feel any shorter. It’s almost midnight by the time I get settled into the women’s dormitory, and I’l probably be lucky to get five hours of sleep before it’s time to get up.
There’s always a lot to be done. Children in Quito are sent into the city in droves to beg or shine shoes to help support their families. My first year here, we refurbished a school and organized learning activities with children whose parents spared them from a few days of work. I asked one group of little boys whether they attended school during the regular school year. Al of them said no, but some had siblings who did. When I asked why some of their siblings were al owed to go and they weren’t, one replied, “My sister is smart, so she goes to school and we work.” It broke my heart. These kids were exceedingly bright, but they were al resigned to the impression that they weren’t.
In some ways, returning last year was even more depressing. We’d made an impact that first year I volunteered, and returning a year later to find nothing improved made me want to scream with frustration. I’d never ful y understood my parents and Deb when they talked about social progress in terms of two steps up, one step back—sometimes two. Deflated, I cal ed Deb in San Diego, where she was doing a summer research internship before her last year of med school.
“Dori, smal gains are stil gains. Sweeping changes occur over time. They’re hardly noticeable while they’re occurring. Think about the difference thirty, forty, or a hundred years have made in things like race relations, animal testing, or recognition of addiction as a disease.” Her rational words calmed me, but couldn’t stop the whine that seeped into my voice. “It’s not fair.” She chuckled softly. “I know, sweetie. But the world doesn’t operate on fairness. You know that as wel as I do.” Talking to Deb can be like having your hand held while you swal ow nasty-tasting medicine or get a shot. She can’t make the bad stuff go away, but she makes it easier to take. “If you want to make a difference eventual y, you just keep on.”
I heeded her advice then and over the past year, and here I am in Ecuador for a third time, more prepared for the conditions I’l find and ready to tackle them.
Using this time to overcome the reckless feelings I’ve developed for Reid is something else I have to do. I vow to return to LA in a more rational frame of mind, because over the past 48 hours I’ve done little but recal abstracts of him like a series of film clips: His disdain the morning I met him.
His sarcasm and charm, and the unsettling way they combined to make him impossible to ignore. The pride on his face when he finished the shelves. The surprise in his eyes when he blurted out the truth about his parents over dinner. The gentleness of his kiss.
Once I get through customs, I’m met by Ana Diaz, a missionary who resides here year-round, trying to reach and educate as many Ecuadorian kids as possible.
“Welcome back, Dori,” she says, hugging me.
By 1:00 a.m., I’m staring at the bottom of the bunk above By 1:00 a.m., I’m staring at the bottom of the bunk above me, restless and awake, surrounded by the soft, slumbering breaths of the women I’l meet tomorrow. I could blame my sleeplessness on the cold—the nighttime temps in Quito are around fifty degrees year-round—but I’m not dense enough to think a bit of a chil would keep me from sleeping after this exhausting day.
The truth is, I’m sufficiently warm, recal ing Reid’s fingers playing through my hair, holding my face and trailing down my bare arms, his mouth on mine. The sensations that warm me are the same delicious sensations responsible for my insomnia, but my mind refuses to meditate on something else, anything else. For tonight, I surrender, my hands restless under blankets softened and worn from use.
Tomorrow wil be soon enough to begin erasing him.