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.