Bright Before Sunrise

Cross Pointe Key Club

 

100% Participation Award

 

2013–2014

 

Club President: Brighton Waterford

 

Club Advisor: Mr. Donnelly

 

Making the world better, one day at a time.

 

“I’ve got a lot riding on this. Principal Jencks and I made a bet, you know.”

 

“You did?” I ask.

 

“If you pull this off, I win—and my schedule next year will have a coveted end-of-the-day prep period. If we don’t get a hundred percent student participation, I lose. And then I’m in charge of coordinating the halftime bake sales at all the football games. Please don’t make me lose. I can’t cook.”

 

“I’m trying.” I want to tell him I don’t need the added pressure. That I’ll make all the cookies, cupcakes, sugary whatevers he needs next fall, but I can’t do this.

 

“I know you are.” His face softens into affection; he’s never made it a secret that I’m one of his favorite students. It’s a blessing that often feels as heavy as a burden—especially now, when I want to make him happy but can’t. “You remind me so much of your dad—and if Ethan were still alive, he’d be so proud of you for doing this.”

 

I’m used to people comparing us, and I know Mr. Donnelly went to school with Dad, so it shouldn’t surprise me, but I’m unprepared, caught off-guard, and a soft “I hope so” escapes my lips.

 

“Of course he would. I’m sure I’ve already told you all this: how he was a couple grades above me, but he knew everyone, and everyone wanted to be his friend. He was such a leader—like you—I think if he’d wanted us to dye our hair green instead of raising money for starving Ethiopians or Mexican earthquake survivors, we would’ve done it. You couldn’t listen to him and not get caught up in his enthusiasm. There’s so much of him in you. You are his legacy.”

 

I suck my bottom lip and refuse to let myself blink. If I don’t shut my lids, then my eyes are just glistening. It’s not the same as crying. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to hear that. Or how much it would hurt.

 

It’s not that I don’t want to answer, thank him. It’s that I can’t.

 

After several weighty seconds, Mr. Donnelly nudges a box of tissues in my direction and clears his throat. “So, have you had any luck with our little situation?”

 

I twist a tissue in my fingers while I take some steadying breaths. I doubt Jonah Prentiss would appreciate being referred to as a “little situation”—or maybe he wouldn’t care, just like he didn’t care about harbor seals, drinking water in Africa, litter along the highway, or any of the other causes I’ve invited him to help out with.

 

“He’s busy on Sunday. Sorry.”

 

Mr. Donnelly sighs and slides the catalog another inch or two closer to me. “It’s always hard when new students move into town; they don’t understand the Cross Pointe philosophy of giving back to the community. If Brighton Waterford can’t convince him to participate, that says it all. Some people are takers, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

 

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.

 

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