She laughs, which is incongruous with her tear-stained face but somehow attractive at the same time. “You don’t say,” she mocks, and I have to laugh.
*** *** ***
Dori
“I have a question,” he says, just before we leave for the day.
We’re moving the painted boards inside so we can start instal ing the shelves in the morning. I know him wel enough by now to know he’l insist on using the dril tomorrow—
something I understand. The first time Dad agreed to let me wield a power tool, I jumped up and down. Reid’s not as enthusiastic as that… but he’s close.
“Yeah?”
“Why social work and not music?”
This is far afield from the subject of power tools, so my brain has to redirect. “What?”
“You told Trevor you’re going to Berkeley, right?” he asks, and I nod. “So, why, with your voice, are you studying social work instead of music?”
While I thought he was doing nothing more than regaling the others with corrupt Hol ywood tales, he was listening to my conversation with Trevor. Before I can compose an answer, he adds, “Seems like a waste of time.” What? “Is that how you feel about this project, after three weeks of working here? Can’t you see that these families need what we do for them?”
He holds his hands up. “Yeah, sure. But you seem to feel some guilt complex for being born smarter, or having a better life. And you’re planning to spend your life beating your head against a wal trying to help people who don’t bother to help themselves.”
I do feel accountable for my blessings—but he seems to feel nothing but entitlement. “These people didn’t do anything to deserve being born into poverty, any more than I deserved to be born into a family that can afford to give me food, decent health care, or an education.” He stacks the final board against the others. “Why does it have to be about deserving something? So it’s luck of the draw, and granted, their hand sucks. I mean sure, there are things you can do—and here you are, doing them. But there’s only so much. Why live your life feeling guilty?”
“It isn’t guilt—it’s a social conscience.” I try to suppress my defensiveness. “I can’t just stand by and do nothing.
Because my life is easy in comparison, and that isn’t fair.”
“Don’t, you know, fly off the handle or anything—but doesn’t the fact that you think it isn’t fair make you distrustful of the idea of a ‘higher power’ orchestrating everything?”
“No.” His eyebrows rise at my quick reply, and I can’t let him know how close to my doubts he’s come. “Because people like my Dad exist. Because faith is part of who I am, and a measure of faith is being wil ing to do what’s needed.
I just want to make a difference. I have to believe I have a purpose. Maybe you don’t understand that, but that’s how I feel.”
He’s quiet for a minute, and I’m thinking I’ve wasted my breath and gotten worked up for nothing. “You’re right, I don’t understand,” he says. He tilts his head like Esther does when I talk to her and I use words outside of her canine experience. “Your principles seem real, though.
Usual y there’s something deceptive about people who throw words like faith around. Like they’re using it to mask ulterior motives or baser desires…” He smiles a wicked little smile and my heart flips over. “The sorts of values I do understand.”
Chapter 22
REID
The camaraderie lasted al morning. We ate lunch separately— she sat with Roberta, and I sat with Frank, Darlene and Gabriel e —but I don’t think that’s what changed her mood. She was on the phone again after lunch, and though she was standing too far away for me to hear anything specific, her tone was on edge. She’s been bitchy since she hung up.
She’s instal ing brackets in the closets, and I’m adding the shelves and bolting them in. Since we’re working on the same closets at the same time, we’re almost on top of each other. The third time she criticizes something I’m not doing perfectly and then takes over and does it herself, I can’t take any more of this shit.
“Look, just because you had a grisly breakup yesterday doesn’t mean you can take it out on me today. I wasn’t responsible for it.”
She glares at me. “What. Are. You. Talking about.”
“The phone cal yesterday? The crying?”
Her mouth drops open and snaps closed. “Were you listening to me?”
We’re standing inside a closet having this conversation, and the harsh resonance of our voices ricochets around and through us, unable to ful y escape the confines of the space. “You were outside, in public, talking on your phone.
It’s not like I fucking wiretapped you.” Her jaw sets. “First, you shouldn’t have been listening to what was clearly a private conversation. And second, there was nothing to break up. We just agreed to never actual y start… whatever we might… flippin’ flapjacks. It’s none of your darned business.”
Once I start laughing I can’t stop. “Flipping what?” Where the hel does she get these things?
“If you were capable of doing any of this without assistance, it would be a joy to leave you to it,” she says, glaring.
“Oh, please. This isn’t rocket science. It’s screwing a bunch of boards to a wal . Big fucking deal.” Side note: I love how much it bothers her when I say fuck. She winces every time, like she’s being jabbed with a needle.