“Sure.” He glanced around the room. “You have an FWM grove?”
“Not exactly. I’m the head of the Grove Council. Thank you so much for volunteering. We’re all very excited to have you aboard. Fresh blood and all that. We were afraid we’d lose you to the Boy Scouts, but we didn’t and we’re thrilled.”
She guided him over to one of the empty chairs and started introducing him to everyone. He nodded and put names with faces, then took his seat.
Even as he settled in his chair, he felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. Something was wrong. Denise’s mention of the Boy Scouts had confused him. Why would there be the FWM to help young men grow up when they could join the Boy Scouts instead? Was Fool’s Gold really big enough to support both organizations? Or had he misunderstood what the mayor had been telling him?
Denise took her place at the head of the table and started passing out thick notebooks. As she placed one in front of him, Angel was painfully aware of the fact that not only was it pink but the lettering across the front proclaimed the motto of the FWM.
Growing Our Girls into Capable Young Women.
He swore silently. Girls? He couldn’t take care of a grove of girls. He’d never had a daughter, and what he knew about women wasn’t exactly helpful to anyone.
Denise walked back to the head of the table and faced the group. “Thank you all for coming today. As you know, Marjorie has run the Grove Council for several years now and has done an excellent job.”
Angel saw Mayor Marsha’s assistant sitting near the front of the table. She waved when her name was mentioned. While she was still obviously upset, she wasn’t currently crying, which Angel appreciated.
“With her moving to Portland, there was an opening on the council,” Denise continued. “All three of my girls were once members of FWM.” She smiled. “Although it was a long time ago, I still remember their excitement as they grew from Acorns to Mighty Oaks. FWM was a positive influence on them in so many ways. So when I was asked to take over Marjorie’s position on the council, I said yes.”
Everyone applauded. Angel joined in. To be honest, it didn’t matter who was in charge. Not when he’d just learned he was going to be responsible for girls. What happened to the teenaged boys? That he could handle.
“Angel, you’re going to be starting with our newest girls,” Denise said with a smile. “You can figure it out together. I think that always works best. While your commitment is year to year, I hope we can count on you to stay with your grove until they, too, are Mighty Oaks.”
All the women in the room were staring at him, nodding and mostly smiling. A few looked doubtful, which made sense. He was doubtful, too. Or screwed. It kind of depended on how he looked at things.
Denise went through the rest of the “growing season.” The other groves had started in September. Only his would have a short season to get them used to the program. She mentioned a few all-grove events, then answered questions.
Angel tuned out the conversation and reached for the notebook. The pink notebook. He flipped it open and scanned the table of contents. There were sections on each level of the FWM along with subheadings.
He read the mission statement, then discovered that the Future Warriors of the Máa-zib marked their progress by earning small wooden beads after studying different areas of life. Some lessons were practical like learning knots and reading maps. Some were related to community. His girls were expected to take on a short-term civic project. There were also beads for family and friendship.
He kept turning pages and saw there were girlie activities like face painting. He wondered if there was a bead for style and if he could get Taryn to be a guest speaker.
He could do this, he told himself. Maybe just for the couple of months required for this season. Then he would explain to Denise and the mayor that he wasn’t an FWM kind of guy. No way he could take his grove through—
He turned the page and came to a stop. He swore silently, then began to look for an exit. Holy shit. There was a bead for the feminine cycle. What had the mayor been thinking when she’d suggested this was where he should volunteer? Was the old woman starting to lose her marbles? He couldn’t talk to a bunch of—he checked which year that happened in and did the math—ten-year-olds about menstruation.
He carefully closed the notebook and stayed in his seat. When the meeting broke up, he headed directly for Denise. He waited until the other women had left, then faced Ford’s mother.
“I can’t do this,” he said, putting his notebook down in front of her. “I’m not the right person for the job.”
She surprised him by smiling. “Done in by the feminine cycle?”