“Levi…you run this place.” It’s a statement, made purely out of awe and some disbelief.
“Yeah.” He says it in an unassuming way, like he doesn’t want that kind of attention. (I love him a little bit for it.) While I’m mooning over him like an idiot, Levi jumps off the counter. “Want to tour the back? It’s just two rooms.”
“You don’t even have to ask,” I answer.
Levi unlocks the door by the office window. The hallway behind it leads to a dead end with a door on either side. The left door leads to the office I saw through the window in the lobby, but I only get a quick peek in. “Sorry it’s so disorganized right now,” he says. I brush him off, catching sight of glitter on the round table at the back. I start to mention it, but Levi’s already across the hall, opening the other door.
“This is where we have interviews.” Levi turns on the light, and I step into a small, simply-furnished room. It has a desk in one corner, and a chair and love seat and coffee table in the other. To the left is a slightly open door that leads to what I think might be a bathroom.
There isn’t much to take in, but I take it in anyway. “The Dreams-Come-True Room?”
He laughs. (He has so much laughter.) “Yeah, I suppose it is. I like that name.” He sits on the arm of the chair, hands pressed flat between his thighs.
“So, how many volunteers do you have?” I’m bursting with questions, but this is the first out of my mouth.
“There are six, for now. Missy, Albert, Nikita, Suhani, Clary-Jane, and Elle. You saw Elle last night, yeah?”
I smile, recalling her Hannibal t-shirt and blue hair. “She’s adorable.”
He smirks. “Don’t let her hear you saying that. She’ll throw a fit.”
“Good to know.”
“Clary-Jane is the oldest volunteer, so she’s who I go to when I can’t conduct an interview or if something goes wrong. She takes care of things like a pro.” He looks up at the ceiling, as if going over a list in his head. “Elle usually runs errands, organizes events, and talks to sponsors. She’s tough and quick and…well, mostly professional.
“Then there’s Missy, our front desk receptionist on most days. Her mom, Gabriela Alvarez, has always been a huge TCP supporter, which is great, but I think she really wants Missy to volunteer here because of her insane shopping problem. Just wait till you see her shoes.” He makes a face like he swallowed something sour.
I laugh. “Are they that bad?”
“Ugh.” Levi shakes his head. “They’re horrendously bejeweled and expensive.”
“Wait…her mom…you mean Gabriela Alvarez, the news anchor?”
“The one and only.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So you’re on first name basis with a celebrity, huh?”
Levi’s gives me a mischievous grin. “If I told you some of the people who have sent checks to TCP, you wouldn’t believe me.” Then he cocks his head. “You can sit down if you want.”
I don’t want to sit. I’m bursting with energy—this place is buzzing with it—but Levi is offering, and he’s lovely, so I sit anyway.
Levi makes himself comfortable across from me. “Nikita and Suhani are here because their parents are monthly sponsors. They really love our community.” He chuckles. “I dare you to ask them about their birthdays.”
“Are they twins?”
“Just ask,” he repeats. “And lastly, we have Albert, the youngest volunteer we’ve ever had—age fifteen. He’s a good kid. His family moved here from Germany a year ago, and while he’s adapting really well, they want him getting some cultural and language lessons after school. Oh, and, he’s obsessed with throwing glitter at rude people, so let me warn you to never be rude.”
“He likes…to throw…glitter?” I ask in disbelief. But now my question is answered—that must be where all the glitter comes from.
“Yes. I know. It might be the wildest thing you’ve ever heard. He says he thinks it will change attitudes, like it’s a social experiment.”
My laugh comes out as a cackle. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Trust me, I know. But just wait till you get a mouthful of glitter. Then it’ll be obnoxious.” He takes out his phone; I catch a glimpse of the numbers twelve and seven. Levi gives a small laugh, his eyes drifting back up to my face. “You know, this might sound crazy since it’s midnight and all…but would you like to get donuts with me?”
The rest of our conversation goes a little something like this:
“But…it’s midnight.” (That’s me.)
“So?” (Levi appears to be confused.)
“Is anything open?” (I am also confused.)
“Peterson’s is open twenty-four hours.” (He says it like I should know what this is.)
“I don’t know what Peterson’s is…” (I sputter a little, but only because he’s pretty.)
“Bee! That’s an atrocity!” (He grabs my hand.)
Which is how I end up in a very short line of midnight-snackers in front of a street corner donut shop with outdoor seating only. The store is lined with windows full of fluffy pastries, and we have to order through windows outside, like getting tickets at a movie theater. The whole street is wafting with the sugary-sweet smell of icing and sprinkles.
Levi looks down at me and says, very seriously, “Pick, and I’m buying.”
“No, Levi—”
He gives me a fake stern look. “I won’t have it.”
I match his expression with equal determination. “I don’t want you to pay.”
“I’m going first so I can just tell them to put your order on my dime.”
I glare.
He glares right back. “It’s one dollar, Bee. One dollar.”
I sputter. “Fine. Fine. Surprise me.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Stubborn, but I like your style. I’ll order you my favorite. You have to try it, but you don’t have to like it.” Then he leans to whisper, “But trust me—you will like it.”
I wave him off. “Okay,” I laugh. But no matter how distracting the frosting-and-pastry smell is, my mind is still on The Color Project. I put my hands out, palms up, and exclaim, “I just…can’t believe you do all of this. Wait—how old are you?” (I’m totally not asking for my own benefit.)
“Nineteen,” he says simply.
I laugh. (It’s an incredulous laugh.) “You run a charity at nineteen. It’s so…noble.”
“Nah.” He looks embarrassed, hands tucked into his pocket. “Not really. I love it so it doesn’t count.”
“Oh, believe me, it does.”
He looks like he wants to change the subject, so I let him. His expression is thoughtful but teasing as he says, “Now it’s my turn to ask you a question.”
Oh no. I must look funny because he laughs.
“Don’t be afraid,” he comforts. “I just wanted to make sure… Your name: Is it just the letter ‘B’, or is it B-E-E?”
I smile in relief. “B-E-E.”
“Is it short for something?”
“No,” I say, a little too fast. I almost answered yes, but how could I betray my own principles? The lie, however, sits in my mouth like vinegar. I clear my throat.
He calls me on it instantly. “Liar.”
“What?” I gape at him.
“You blushed. You cleared your throat. You even glanced around like someone was following you. You are definitely lying.”
I groan in embarrassment.