Parent Night rehearsals with the kids wil have to wait until next week. My Habitat for Humanity project has a more pressing deadline thanks to the self-centered, egocentric moron who drove his stupid sports car into the living room of our future family’s rental place. I don’t get people like him
—people who think of no one, ever, but themselves. They just take up space on the planet, never contributing anything worthwhile.
He’s the reverse of someone like my dad—Pastor Doug to the parishioners of our church and the surrounding neighborhood. Dad would tel me that God wouldn’t be pleased about my biases concerning Reid Alexander.
God has a purpose, even for him, Dad would say.
Yeah, right.
Ugh, there I go again.
I’l be spending the next several days straight working on the Habitat house. Luckily, we have much of it done.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t include the A/C, and it’s already hot and hazy. Much of Los Angeles lives without central air; I shouldn’t complain. I have a comfortable home, even if it’s not chock-ful of luxury items like big-screen televisions and rooms of furniture where everything matches. Mom knows her way around with a paint brush, and she’s amazing at using saris bought at the bazaar as colorful window coverings and table cloths, or plants to cover a stain on the carpet or a crack in the plaster wal s.
I’ve got a few more things to get turned into UC Berkeley before I start next fal : AP exam results, graduation certificate, housing deposit. Almost everyone who knows me seems puzzled by the fact that I intend to pursue a degree in social work rather than music. I’m often told that I have a beautiful voice, but that would be an impractical career path. I’d rather do something.
Dad’s the only one who real y gets that sentiment. He’s also where I get my voice. Mom and Deborah, my older sister, are absolutely tone-deaf, but they have useful natural sister, are absolutely tone-deaf, but they have useful natural and applied skil s. Mom’s an obstetrical nurse specializing in low-cost prenatal care, and Deb recently began her hospital residency in Indiana—she’s going to be a pediatrician. Dad and I just had to be more creative about finding our ways to contribute.
This summer, like the last several years, I’m working the summer program our church offers for the poverty-stricken neighborhoods nearby. The van picks the kids up in the morning, enabling their parents to go to work without worrying about what to do with them. The kids stay al day, which means we have to come up with lots of activities. The swimming pool was Mom’s idea. Some members of the church finance committee balked at instal ing something so lavish, but Mom convinced them we could use it for VBS, family days and monthly baptisms.
Dad says Mom could talk the Devil into baking Christmas cookies.
“…Amen,” Dad says, and I open my eyes, banishing thoughts of Satan wearing an apron and icing reindeer.
“Dori, your dad has some news that might interest you.” Mom hands me the bowl of mashed potatoes, and they’re both watching me closely. Weird.
Dad clears his throat. “You got a cal just before you got home. I guess Roberta doesn’t have your cel number.” Roberta, my project leader at Habitat, doesn’t get that people can be easily reached on the phone they carry around with them. Her cel phone is always in her bag and off, because she believes the battery wil run down if she leaves it on, and then it wouldn’t be at the ready in case she gets mugged and needs it. I’ve never asked her how she plans to hold the bad guy off while her phone boots up.
“There’s a new volunteer starting tomorrow, and she wants you to help him acclimate, show him the ropes.” My brow furrows. While we appreciate volunteers, this isn’t exactly huge or unusual news, plus my parents are being downright odd. “Okay. No problem.” Waiting for the punch line, I pass the potatoes to Dad. “Is it someone with electrical experience, I hope?”
“Er, I doubt that.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I final y say, “Dad, spit it out.”
Dad isn’t meeting my eyes, unusual y cryptic. “Wel , this volunteer may be someone you know. Not know, exactly.
But know of.”
Good grief, I’m way too tired for this. “Am I supposed to guess who it is?” I sigh. “Is it someone from church?
Someone from school?”
“It’s Reid Alexander,” Mom blurts out, unable to contain herself any longer.
“What ? ”
Dad tries the logical spin. “Apparently working to get the house ready sooner for the Diegos was part of his plea bargain.”
Oh, no. No, no, no. This is not happening. “Wait. So he’s not even actual y a volunteer, then—he’l be on site under court-ordered coercion?” They cannot expect me to babysit that self-absorbed, womanizing, probable alcoholic.
“Roberta said that since you’re about his age, she was hoping you could… er…”
“Babysit him.” I scowl. “Please tel me it’s only for a day or two.”
Dad shrugs and starts to eat. “You’l need to ask Roberta that. I’m just the messenger.”
I close my eyes for a moment, imagining the absurdity of Reid Alexander on site, the wasted time accumulating hourly. I’d planned to tile the master bath’s shower tomorrow. No way I could trust him to help with that—tiling is pretty much skil ed labor, and while I’ve done it enough to be proficient, he’s probably never touched a trowel in his life.
“Why me?” I hear his answer in my head before he says it.
“Don’t know, honey. But there’s a reason for everything.” Dad pats my hand. “We’l just have to wait patiently to see what it is.”