Intentions (9 page)

“Greenberg,” I say. “I’m Rachel Greenberg.” I look at Randy.

“Randy, tell Rachel your whole name.”

Randy looks up at me. He is about eight, I’d say, with red hair and freckles, a round face. “I’m Randy Gamez,” he says in a loud voice.

“Randy, why don’t you take Rachel over to the shelf you like and pick out a book for her to read to you? Then you can go sit wherever you want.”

Randy grabs my hand. His feels sweaty, sticky. I look down; it’s really dirty. I want to pull away, but I don’t. The shelf he takes me to is lined with books about cars. He picks one out, seemingly at random, and then takes me over to the beanbag chair shaped like a car.

“You like cars?” I ask him.

“I LOVE cars,” he practically shouts, and grins at me. He hands me the book, and I start to read it to him.

“This is the hood of the car. Open it up. What is inside? The engine!” I look at him, sure he must be bored, but he is riveted. I keep going, reading about pistons and rods and steering wheels, and I kind of zone out as I’m reading. Finally I reach the end:

“And that is how cars go!”

I look at Randy. He looks back at me and smiles. It is a satisfied smile. OK.

I tell him to put this book back and get another one. This time he’s very serious about choosing a new book—he picks one up, looks at it, and puts it carefully back.

Finally, he finds the right one and starts back toward me. For the first time I see his T-shirt. It’s green, has a picture of a cactus and a snake on it, and says,
WILD WEST ADVENTURE. ELIJAH’S BAR MITZVAH. APRIL 10, 2010
. Is Randy Jewish? How can such a poor kid be Jewish?

“I haven’t read this one before!” Randy yells, all excited.

“You noticed!” Mrs. Glick says, looking up from the book she’s reading to Ashley. “I had to get you some new car books, Randy! But let’s use our inside voice, OK?”

Randy nods and sits back down next to me, this time cuddling closer.

I read him a total of five books about cars. I have learned some things about cars I never knew I wanted to learn. I’m relieved when Mrs. Glick says, “Time’s up, everyone. Kids, put your books back. And have a great weekend.”

The other volunteers say good-bye to their kids, most of them with hugs, and leave. But I stay so Mrs. Glick (is
she
Jewish?) can give me the lowdown.

“So, what did you think?”

“Well, I read him all of those books about cars. He seemed to love hearing them, and I think he got what I was reading. I should have asked him some questions.”

“Next time, that’s what you’ll do. He wants to learn to read, but it hasn’t happened yet. His classroom teacher has worked with him, and she wasn’t making any progress, so she asked if we could help, too.”

“What grade is he in?”

“Second.”

“Huh.” I was reading
Harry Potter
in second grade.

“Yeah, and he really should be in third grade—he’s almost nine. But he didn’t quite get to school until he was, I don’t know, six and a half.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, it’s a long story. He’s got—his home life is not so great.”

“That’s an understatement,” says another voice.

I hadn’t realized another adult was still in the room. She’s at a computer.

“Rachel, this is Mrs. Washington. She’s the other reading teacher.”

“Hi,” I say.

“Thanks for working with Randy,” says Mrs. Washington.

“So can you tell me a little about him, or is it secret?”

“It’s not a secret, exactly,” Mrs. Glick says, “but I don’t think you need to know that much.”

“OK,” I say. And then, because I do want to know, I try to sell myself. “My mom is a social worker. She works with foster kids and their families. I kind of know some stuff.”

The two teachers exchange a look, but before they can answer me, I blurt out, “Is Randy Jewish?”

“Randy? No, not that I know of,” Mrs. Glick says. “Why?”

I feel my face get red. “He was wearing a T-shirt from a bar mitzvah.”

“Goodwill,” says Mrs. Washington.

“Actually, that was one of mine, from a family bar mitzvah. I keep a supply here. I gave it to Randy one day when he needed a change of clothes. So let me tell you how we work here.”

Mrs. Glick takes me through the program. The kids who come to the reading lab have all been tested. They don’t have learning disabilities, but they either aren’t reading or are reading below grade level.

“Kids without learning disabilities but with problems reading often get lost in the cracks. That’s why I started this program. Sometimes all it takes is a way to help them crack the code, speaking of cracks.”

“
Speaking
of …,” says Mrs. Washington.

Mrs. Glick frowns.

What? Crack?

“Anyways,” says Mrs. Glick, “with certain kids it’s pairing
visual images with words; with others it’s helping them hear the sounds of the words. And with some it’s a mystery until it happens.”

“Randy’s got no one at home who reads to him,” says Mrs. Washington.

“Probably,” says Mrs. Glick, shooting Mrs. Washington a look. “So it might just be a matter of as much exposure to words as the school can give him. He knows his letters but can’t put them together as words. And then one day, we hope, it will click.”

She shows me around the room, where the different levels of books are, how they are grouped by subject. There are report forms I’ll have to fill out each week.

“It’s a real challenge,” Mrs. Glick says to me as we are saying good-bye. “But when it works, well, that feeling is so amazing—you could tie it up and give it to me as a present any day.”

I nod. I don’t know what to say. I wish I could stay in her haven forever, doing good, repairing the world, not thinking about my own stuff.

“Thanks,” I say to her.

“No, thank
you
,” she says.

“Good-bye!” says Mrs. Washington. “Have a good weekend.”

“I’m going to try,” I tell them.

CHAPTER 13

BAREFOOT AND IN THE KITCHEN

I have not heard from Jake since he left. He warned me, but still. Saturday I wait around for him to call or text. He’s coming home today. I’m not sure what time.

So I wait. And I wait some more.

And I could wait some more but

a girl can make the move and

this is not the old days and

this girl is pretty desperate for some

contact with a nice human being around her own age,

preferably male, preferably Jake.

“I’m going for a bike ride,” I yell to my parents.

They both yell back, “Fine, be careful” at exactly the same time. For some reason that gives me hope.

I pedal fast. It’s drizzling, but I don’t care. I look for hills, going out of my way so I can pump hard going up and glide fast going down, careful to avoid the slick fallen leaves. It feels good to work out. I’m so focused on
moving
that I don’t realize the rain has picked up until it starts pouring buckets. By the time I get to Jake’s house, Sir Walter is making not-happy-at-all squeaks and I am a drowned rat. I take off my helmet.

Helmet hair to end all helmet hair. I ring the bell anyway.

Mrs. Schmidt opens the door. Not Jake. “Rachel, what are you doing riding your bike in the rain like this? Are you OK?”

I nod vigorously. “I’m fine. Is Jake here?”

“He’s still away—at the swim competition.” She looks at her watch. “I have to get him at the bus station in—oh, in about an hour. He’s going to call when he gets in.”

“How did he do? At the meet, I mean?”

She is standing with the door partway open. I am getting wetter by the second, if that’s even possible. I can see why she’s not asking me in. The wind is blowing the rain in on her. I move back to leave.

“He did very well—mostly first places, a few second. He had fun.”

I don’t say anything. What if he’s met another girl? There is a long, awkward pause.

“Do you want to come in and dry off? You can come with me to pick up Jake.” I am embarrassed for Jake to see me like this, and I should say no, but I
am
shivering, and being dry seems like a very good idea.

“Come around the back, if you don’t mind,” she says.

“Of course!” I say.

“I’ll open the garage door, and you can put your bike in there.”

I have never been in Jake’s house before. She leads me to the laundry room. “I’ll bring you a robe. Why don’t you put your clothes in the dryer?”

“Thank you!” She is so sweet. I stand in the laundry room shivering, until she hands me a white terry-cloth robe, the kind they have in fancy hotels.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“Irish Breakfast or Lemon Ginger?”

I sure don’t need caffeine. I’m too jazzed up as it is. “Lemon Ginger. Thank you.”

“Honey?”

“Yes?”

“Um, do you want honey for your tea?”

Erg. “Yes, please,” I say.

I strip off my soaking wet clothes, all of them, even my bra, and throw them in the dryer. I don’t want to shrink my bra, so I put the dryer on delicate.

The robe is soft and cuddly; I wrap it tightly around me and go join Jake’s mom.

While she makes the tea she chatters, tells me they have barely heard from Jake since he’s been gone, that he was so obsessed with the swimming, he hadn’t called them at all. Just a few texts. That’s how he gets, she says, and it makes me feel a little better.

I am warm and cozy in this kitchen. It’s got a cherrywood island in the middle, a floor that matches, covered with a few braided rugs here and there, walls painted a light buttercream, with family pictures hung everywhere. I bet Jake’s parents aren’t fighting; I am sure Dr. Schmidt isn’t sleeping on the couch. I doubt Jake spends his days and nights worried that his parents are going to get divorced.

The only thing is, there is something weird about the photos. In lots of the pictures there are four people: Jake, his parents, and a younger boy who looks a lot like Jake, but not. Something about the way he looks, kind of vague and never really looking at
the camera, makes me think twice and not ask Jake’s mom who he is. Jake has never mentioned a younger brother, and I have never seen one with them.

Mrs. Schmidt asks me a million questions: about school, what subjects I like best (English and history); about where I think I might want to go to college (no idea, but I throw out some names that I have ready for when adults ask—the three Bs, I call them: Barnard, Brown, and Bard; they’re all totally different, that much I know, but she gives them each respectable nods). Then, of course, she asks what I want to do when I grow up (also no idea, but I throw out some possibilities: journalist, social worker, college professor). Finally I manage to ask, “What does Jake want to be? Do you know?”

She shrugs. “He used to want to be a doctor, like his father, but lately he’s been very much into economics; he talks about figuring out a way to abolish third-world debt, that kind of thing. I—I know I’m his mother, but I really think Jake could do anything he put his mind to.”

I nod. “He’s smart,” I say, brilliantly.

“He sure is, and very adult, really.” She shakes her head a little and glances up at the wall. I look where she’s looking. It’s a picture of Jake and the other boy.

Before I can ask anything, she turns to me and says, “Barely cracks a book and still gets all As.”

I thought Jake was one of those people who studied all the time. “Really? What does he do when the rest of us are doing homework?”

“I’m not sure. Reads blogs, I think. Plays chess online. Swims, works out.”

OK, he’s perfect. I know he is.

“He’s not perfect. You should see his room! It’s a disaster area!”

Had I said that aloud, or was she reading my mind? We sit there for a few minutes, kind of awkwardly, and she finally says, “He can be moody, too. I worry about him sometimes, that he doesn’t talk more. I mean, he has some major things he should talk about.…”

It is my opening, but the phone rings.

“Jake? You’re here already? Good. Let me—give me a few minutes; I have to make sure Rachel’s clothes are dry and …”

Oh, I can just imagine what he is saying on the other end of the phone. Rachel? Rachel is there? I smile.

“Yes, Rachel rode her bike over here to see you, and she was soaking wet, so … We’re sitting in the kitchen drinking tea.”

Mrs. Schmidt frowns, shakes her head. I hear Jake’s raised voice, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.

“Yes, I told you, in the kitchen. Jake, I’m sorry, I—” Mrs. Schmidt shoots me a look that I can’t read. She hangs up without saying anything. Walks out of the kitchen into the laundry room.

“Dry enough, I’d say,” she shouts to me. I walk in, take my still very damp clothes from her, and get dressed while she waits in the kitchen. It is disgusting putting these wet clothes back on. I don’t bother with my bra, stuff it in my pocket.

When I walk back into the kitchen, Jake’s mom looks at me, embarrassed, and says uncomfortably, “Jake, uh, said there were a few things he needs to do, uh, on the way home, so if it’s OK, I’ll drop you off first and then pick him up. OK?”

What? What could he have to do that I couldn’t go along with them? Why doesn’t he want to see me?

I look out the window. It’s slowed down a bit. “It’s not raining that much anymore, so seeing as how these clothes are still wet and I’ll get your car all wet, I’ll ride my bike home.”

“No, let me drive you,” she says halfheartedly.

“No, it’s fine, really.” I leave quickly before she can protest anymore.

“Rachel?” she calls after me.

I just wave, smile, grab my bike, and jump on the seat. Everything squishes as I pedal away.

The sky is dark. I pray it doesn’t start to thunder and lightning. I don’t want to be struck by lightning. Or a falling branch. Or a car. I pedal fast.

It starts to rain harder.

I pedal harder. My heart is pounding, not from exertion but from fear.

I can barely see more than a foot in front of me.

At least the cars have their lights on, so I can see
them
. They sure as hell can’t see me.