“You’re directing them?” At her nod, I say, “I know nothing about kids that age, except that I was one. Or so I hear.” She smiles, and I become aware of the freckles that were protected from paint mist by her mask and goggles.
Scattered across the bridge of her nose, they’re actual y kind of cute. “You go to this church regularly? I’ve never real y been; my parents aren’t big on religion.” Her smile weakens and her gaze skitters away and back. “Yeah, I do.” She swal ows another sip. “My dad’s the pastor.”
Whoa. I didn’t expect that. “Ah. So how much of that VBS job is you volunteering and how much is you being volunteered?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, I love teaching the kids to sing. It’s the most rewarding thing I do.” Her eyes slide away again.
“I thought attempting to rehabilitate me was your favorite thing.” I hadn’t expected to make her blush, but her ears color under the paint.
*** *** ***
Dori
I can’t respond to that comment, of course—a comment made more awkward by our previous argument about whether or not he needed or wanted rehabilitating, and whether or not I’d consider him worthy of the task. He’s either forgiven me for those heated words, or he’s forgotten them.
I think he seldom forgets anything.
We finish painting the first coat on the boards, and at lunch Reid’s frat boy groupies join us. There are four of them clustered around him today. I consider sitting with Roberta, Darlene and Frank, but they’re huddled together discussing grandchildren and real estate taxes and for discussing grandchildren and real estate taxes and for some reason, I just want to feel eighteen today.
“So what’s it like, being you at some party? I bet you score al the chicks,” a guy named Javier is asking Reid, who makes room for me on the edge of the patio.
“I can’t complain,” he answers, his eyes hitting mine for a split second.
Javier leans closer. “Do any of them ever put up any fight? Turn you down?”
Reid laughs. “Yeah, sure.”
“But not like, often,” another guy, Kyle, says.
Reid shrugs. “I guess not.”
I’m rethinking my desire to be an eighteen-year-old girl and my decision to sit with this particular group of boys when the one on my opposite side offers his hand, “Hi, I’m Trevor.”
I shake his hand. “Dori.”
He leans forward, speaking in a low voice. “Ignore them
—they’re a bunch of morons with no manners.” I take a bite of my sandwich rather than reply, curious about whatever inappropriate thing Kyle is asking Reid. (I swear I just heard the word boobs.) Trevor clears his throat, blocking out whatever Kyle is saying. “So are you a celebrity, too?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh, okay. I just noticed you seem… acquainted…” he inclines his head towards Reid.
“Oh. No.” I wave a dismissive hand. “We’ve just been working together since he’s been here. So, what are you studying? UCLA, right?”
“Yeah. Applied mathematics.” He removes his glasses and rubs a smear from a lens with his shirttail. “What about you?”
“I’l be starting at Berkeley in the fal . Social work.” His eyebrows rise. “Berkeley? Cool.” He chuckles a little. “Social work, eh?” I bristle, having endured appal ed reactions about my chosen major from everyone from my maternal grandparents to classmates. He puts the glasses on and says, “I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I was just thinking how everyone is always horrified at my major, like it’s so difficult and al , but I hear ‘social work’ and think that sounds hard.”
I nod. “My sister just finished her medical degree, so pretty much everything pales in comparison to that.” He puffs his cheeks and blows air out. “Oh, man, yeah.
My roommate’s pre-dental, and he studies nonstop—some nights I go to bed and he’s studying and I get up and he’s studying. So does your sister practice nearby?”
“She just started her residency. In Indiana.”
“Cool.”
Javier and another groupie high-five each other, and Javier says, “Dude, yes,” to Reid. “I want to be you so bad.” I glance at Reid, who’s smiling and shaking his head.
Whatever he’s just admitted to, I’m sure I don’t want to know.
“So why social work?” Trevor gestures to the house. “I take it you’re one of the regulars here, so you must know what a chal enging field you’re going into.” I nod. “I’m not starry-eyed about it. My dad’s a pastor and my mom is an obstetrical nurse working with mostly low-income women, so I guess I have some built-in feelings of obligation to do what I can for my community. Lots of people who plan to go into social work talk about al the people they’re going to help… but more often you save one person while losing nine. It could be a real y discouraging field if you’re not realistic about the odds.” He nods. “Sounds like you’ve considered every angle. I think the world needs more people like you.” I turn to grab my drink and hide my self-conscious smile.
“Thanks. So, why applied mathematics?”
He smiles, a smal dimple appearing on the right side.
“Wel , I’m really good at math.”
The remainder of lunch ticks away while we discuss col ege courses, dorm life and going Greek, which I’m certain is not for me, though he insists I’d be perfect for a sorority leadership spot. “Scholarly types are needed, too.