Armory Street in the heart of Los Angeles makes me squint from the glare of the September sun bouncing off faded concrete. There are no trees, except for a line of impossibly tall palms lining the side of the road. The park across the street and down the hill hogs all the nearby shade with its few clusters of scraggly sycamores. I get out of my new blue hybrid, beeping it locked. I have to keep Dalton safe. Sugar lasted only a few months before I sacrificed her on the altar of stupidity. I pat Dalton’s roof, silently promising to be more vigilant.
My hand still on Dalton, I look up at what appears to be a six story white apartment building. I scan the parking lot and minimal lawn before I see the sign flanking the back door of the ground floor. HEYA: Helping Everyone Young Achieve.
Deep breath.
This is the place. I’ve arrived.
I look down at myself. Jeans, ironed green button-down worn open over a crisp white T. Casual, but clean. Confident, but down to earth. Boy, did my wardrobe raise some eyebrows in class today. Some people looked at me quizzically, as if wondering who I was, and then their eyes would grow huge as they figured it out. Jack even paused in stride to give me a once-over on his way past my seat. Whatever. Like I have time to play dress up. I have something much more important to do today.
I take in another big gulp of air and straighten the cuffs of my shirt. Was green the right choice? I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have any gang affiliations. Plus it sets off the fading purple and yellow forehead bruise, which I’m hoping will make me look tough enough to work in the ‘hood. My stomach roils. Man. What good is six million dollars if you still feel all the icky old feelings? Seriously, nervousness at a job interview? Millionaire-status should at least take care of
that
.
I grit my teeth, try to feel six million dollars strong, and approach the building where HEYA has its headquarters. Well, not headquarters, really, since there are no other quarters. Just the one rec center, and they need me. Not my money, not my fame. They need
me
, Lisa Flyte. I just keep telling myself that as I walk in.
But other voices in my head are louder. My father declaring that I don’t do anything with my life. Keith telling me he can do better. Maggot-Face braying that nobody cares about me now that I’m awake. Mom’s bedside condemnation is loudest of all.
You’re still you
.
But I am going to change. I am. Starting now. I close my eyes and pray that nobody here saw the 10-page color spread in the February issue of
People
.
“Help you?” a voice asks.
My eyes fly open in time to see a young man taking a seat behind the reception desk in the bright lobby. His jeans and T-shirt give me confidence about my own wardrobe, but the Capri pants and jewelry on the young woman standing near the desk freak me out. I stare and swallow like Anna Paquin winning her Oscar. “I’m…I’m Lisa Flyte.”
They stare back at me, then burst out laughing.
“Oh, my God,” the woman says. “You’re never going to believe this!”
“I
told
you,” the young man says to her.
When the young woman catches her breath, she manages to speak. “I thought you were gonna be that Lisa Flyte person from the magazine! The one whose car got crushed by Burger Barn?” More laughter. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s a more common name than I thought.”
She doesn’t recognize me with my size eight body. I’m even a size six when I wear Gap jeans. And my short brown hair with coppery highlights looks nothing like the Vanna White look I was sporting last winter. Plus I’m awake and not drooling.
“Well,” I offer, “there were two Engelbert Humperdincks.” They both stare at me, obviously never having heard of either. Come
on.
The second Engelbert guest-starred on
The Love Boat
and kissed Julie! “And there’re two actresses named Vanessa Williams,” I add.
Their eyes light up.
“Right,” the young man says, nodding.
“I’m Guadalupe,” the young woman says. “Lupe. We spoke on the phone. And this is Julius.”
I smile and nod at both of them.
Guadalupe smiles back. “Let’s go back to Mr. Bennet’s office.”
I follow in her wake, even more nervous than I was a minute ago. Did I just lie to the prospective employers for whom I want to work so badly? I think I did. I know I did.
Not technically, of course. I never said, “I am not the Lisa Flyte who was crushed by Burger Barn.”
But still. It was enough of a lie that when it’s discovered, and of course it will be discovered because I am a terrible liar, I will leave HEYA covered in inky ignominy.
But I can’t leave. I love HEYA already. Its cinderblock walls painted in primary colors pulse with vibrant goodness. They really do. I can feel my bones absorbing it.
Surrounding me on these walls is incredible artwork—paintings, photographs and collages made by students of all ages, according to the nifty little placards under each one. Everyone gets his or her very own placard! No one’s ever given me my very own placard.
Off to each side of me as we wind through the corridors are rooms where I can see and hear kids playing ping pong, goofing off, studying with older volunteers, or reading.
I know I’m in a place where things matter. Where people matter.
We arrive at a small office maybe ten by ten. A large, balding black man in a white shirt and yellow tie sits behind a desk. He looks both doleful and sardonic with a long mustache that curves down to his jowls.
Guadalupe looks to him, then back to me. “Mr. Bennet, Lisa Flyte. Lisa Flyte, Mr. Bennet.”
Introductions complete, she ducks her head as she scurries to lean against the window sill with two young men, both of whom wear jeans. When she notices the looks they all pin her with, she just smiles and shrugs.
Mr. Bennet stands, extending his hand to me. “Ms. Flyte, I’m Mr. Bennet. Lupe, I mean Guadalupe, you’ve met. She’s in charge of Academic Programs. Edgar…” the young Alpha male with his eyebrows slammed together nods. “…oversees Recreational Programs. And Jimmy is in charge of our Outreach Programs.”
“Hey.” The last guy sends me a disarming smile.
I smile back, but bite my bottom lip. Both young men are compact and ruthlessly in shape. I suck in my stomach. Mr. Bennet motions to a chair, and I take a seat. When I do, my eyes fall to the magazine on his desk.
A tattered copy of February’s issue of
People.
I cannot help but stare. I think my mouth drops open. I mean, it’s so unfair. I wish like crazy that I had embarrassing pictures of Guadalupe, Edgar, Jimmy, and Mr. Bennet to even out the playing field.
“I apologize,” Mr. Bennet says, glancing down at the magazine. “Guadalupe got us all thinking that you might be THE Lisa Flyte, come here to save us all.” He chuckles, the regret echoing through.
They just wanted my money.
“I am.” I lift my chin and feel Wolverine-like titanium squaring my shoulders. “Here to save you, that is.”
I feel a sense of moxie whip through me like a minty arctic wind. “I know you’re in financial trouble, and an influx of a couple million dollars is NOT what you need.”
They stop
heh-hehing
.
I think I’ve offended them, so I plow on, before anyone can yell at me. “I’ve read your history. You got a swarm of celebrity donations three years ago when your dot com backer went belly up, and now you’re in trouble again. You need to generate, maintain, and manage a working budget. I can help. I’ve been working in financial offices for over a decade, so I know a thing or two about how to manage money.” Okay, so I had only one management position in my early twenties, and I hated it. Since then, I’ve learned from watching those above me screw up. But the HEYA folks don’t need to be bothered with such sordid details. That’s why I worded my résumé so carefully. “Plus, I’m currently earning my MBA at USC.”
“Yeah, but do you know what it takes to run a center like this?” demands Edgar.
“I know what it takes to survive.”
Oh, my God. Did I just whip back the perfect response? Suddenly I think of Jack and wonder if his courage has rubbed off on me just a tiny bit.
Mr. Bennet’s raised eyebrows tell me he’s somewhat impressed with my gusto. Or maybe he just thinks I’m nuts. “I’ve read the résumé you faxed over this morning, Ms. Flyte, and I can see you have financial experience. But did Guadalupe explain on the phone that we can’t pay anywhere near what you used to get? This job is only fifteen hours a week, at twelve dollars an hour.”
I blink. I’m about to lose my dream job because I made too much money at my middle-of-the-road jobs that had me living paycheck to paycheck as I tried to make rent in West Los Angeles? I'm not here to save them with a check so they're writing me off?
“This isn’t about the paycheck,” I say vehemently, fabricating as I go. “I’ve saved and invested enough over the years to pay for school and rent, so all I really need is enough for food and gas and insurance and stuff like that.”
“Ms. Flyte,” Mr. Bennet begins. “Your enthusiasm
is
impressive…”
“It’s for real,” I insist, trying to stave off the rejection I can feel brewing.
“Is it?” Edgar takes a step forward. “Or is this just some business school project? Do you even understand that this is our
life
?”
I grab the magazine off the desk and hold it up in front of me. “This is
my
life.”
They all stare.
“I’m Lisa Flyte.
The
Lisa Flyte. This is me.”
They all exchange Let’s-Call-the-Psych-Ward looks. But if I have to bring out the big guns to get this job, I will. I will NOT be brushed aside any longer.
“I know it doesn’t look like me,” I say. “But I lost a lot of weight when I was in the coma, and when I got out of the hospital, I cut my hair and dyed it back to its natural color.”
“Uh.…” But Mr. Bennet doesn’t seem to know where to go from there.
“Please,” I say. “Please hear me out.”
“Hear out your story?” This is Jimmy, sounding all eager, as if he’s in for a good sci-fi adventure. “Shoot. We’re listening.”
I quickly take out my wallet. “I can prove it’s me.” I find a picture and hand it to Mr. Bennet. “This is me and my parents at my high school graduation. My parents’ pictures are in the magazine. So is my sister’s.” I hand around the second picture. “This is me about to dump freezing cold water all over Mags as she lays out in the sun.” I
love
this picture. I wish I had ones of her just after I doused her, but my friend Sandy who was taking the pics was laughing so hard that the rest of the shots came out blurry. “Compare them,” I insist. “You’ll see.”
Mr. Bennet, Guadalupe, Edgar and Jimmy all gather into a huddle, holding my pictures up to the ones in the magazine. Then they lift their heads to look at me as though I’ve sprouted wings and a hood ornament.
Thank goodness. They look convinced, which means I won’t have to show them the final picture.
“What’s that picture there?” Edgar notices I’m holding something behind my back.
“It’s nothing,” I say with a chipper look of innocence.
“What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything.” I thrust my hand forward, giving them the picture. “Here. It’s of me and Keith.”
Guadalupe looks at the picture then at me. “Your fiancé! But then…”
“I know, I know,” I say, cutting off any accusations about how I’m STILL not wearing an engagement ring. “He dumped me, okay?”
“When you had all that money?”
Thank you, Edgar. “Turns out the money didn’t matter to him,” I explain. “He just wanted out. Said he could do better.”
Edgar sputters. “Than ten million dollars?”
I take a very deep breath. “Better than me, apparently. The whole time I was in the coma,” I say, willing my eyes not to fill up, “the Media made such a big deal of our love story. It made him wonder what true love like that would really be like.” Good God, why am I telling them this? I need to shut up, before they start wondering what makes me so repulsive.
Guadalupe shakes her head woefully. “He probably had someone else.”
And a cut of the ten mil.
“Is he the one who gave you that bruise?” Jimmy is looking at my forehead.
“No!” I shout. “I mean, Keith isn’t like that. I had to head butt a car thief.”
They all look at me, mouths open, foreheads crinkled.
“Look,” I say. “I almost died in February. It took me a while to get back on my feet, but now that I am, I know I want to do something good and important with this life of mine. I want to help save HEYA.”
“But not with all your money?” Lupe seems skeptical.
“With
your
money.”
“We don’t
have
any,” she tells me.
I smile. “You will. I promise. And you’ll know what to do with it. What do you say?”
“I got the job!”
I let out a screech of triumph, giving Dalton’s steering wheel another hug. “They hired me.
Me.
They hired
me.
”
Tie a yellow ribbon ‘round the old oak tree...
I jab the button on my cell phone that silences the ring. As much as I love that song, my ring tone embarrasses me, even though I picked it and I’m the only one in the car.
It’s Jack. He’s the only one with the number. Jesus. He wants me to test something, and that means he’s invented something. While I was blabbing my most embarrassing secrets in order to land a job, Jack INVENTED something.
I slump back in my seat and answer my cell.
“Jack?”
“Lisa.” Crisp, commanding.
No
Hello
.
No
How are you
?
No
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you
.
“What?” I can be gracious, too.
“Can you test something today?”
Oh, no. What if I end up in the hospital again? “Uh, this afternoon?”
“Can you do it?”
Great. It’s probably something terrifying.
“Lisa?”
“Yes,” I say, sitting up. “I’ll do it. What do you want me to wear?”
“Whatever. We’ll be staying in the office. There are some things I’m working on here that I need your help with.”
“At the office?” I groan, relieved and put out at the same time. “You mean, like, filing? I signed up for harrowing adventures, not some nine-to-five bull.”
“Hey,” he says, almost laughing at my petulance, “you just had a head injury three days ago. How’re you doing by the way?”
“Fine,” I say, slapping into my words and ignoring his actual attempt to be nice. “Now that I get to sleep in my own bed.”
“Where else was I supposed to sleep?” he demands. “You were on the couch.”
It’s true. I fell asleep on the couch Friday night and would not budge. So, Jack slept in my bed, in my big beautiful bed, without me. HE SLEPT IN MY BED WITHOUT ME. Wrapped in the flower-sprigged comforter and leafy sheets that remind me of The Hundred Acre Wood.
Bastard!
After he got up, I went into the bedroom to discover that the covers were still warm from his body. STILL WARM FROM HIS BODY.
“Can you come?” He gets right back to the business at hand, as though sleeping in my bed, in my pajamas, didn’t affect him
at all.
“I can be there in about an hour. Or so.” I have nothing to do right now, and I’m about fifteen minutes from Into the Wild, but I’m not just going to
say
that.
“Fine. So around three?”
Just like that. The guy’s life is so chock full of meaningful activities that waiting to see me is no big deal. He doesn’t even care that I’m making him wait.
“Probably,” I tell him. “But I might get stuck here at HEYA. If I need to be late, I’ll call.” I don’t start until tomorrow, but he doesn’t need that kind of detail.
Pause. “Got it.”
Great. He doesn’t even take the HEYA bait so I can let him know that I’m becoming more significant by the second.
“See you later.” I disconnect quickly, so at least I’m the one to hang up first.
* * * * *
At three-ten, I arrive at Into the Wild. I actually drove home to West L.A. and back to downtown an hour later just so Jack doesn’t think I’m at his beck and call. I had lunch, watched CNN, and changed clothes.
Like I’m going to risk messing up my favorite shirt with buttons. Now I’m wearing jeans and my long-sleeved black T-shirt that says “I”— then there’s a big red heart, then—“Orlando.” It’s a typical tourist shirt that refers to the city in Florida, but Keith’s sister got it for me shortly after we watched
Fellowship of the Ring
for the fourth time.
This time when I pull into the garage at Into the Wild, Jack is waiting for me by the elevator so we can ride up together.
“Haven’t you ever read
Pride and Prejudice
?” I ask as we whir up through the levels of terror. I’m concentrating so hard on staring at Jack that my temples throb. “You said no one would think we’re involved. But all this special attention you’re giving me is going to make people think I’m your special lady friend—not the opposite.”
“No worries,” he says as we step out of the elevator at the top floor. “Everyone can see that your heart belongs to Orlando, not to me.”
Jack is better at this than Keith was. Deflecting conversation, I mean. Keith would use much more clunky humor and make stupid jokes when he didn’t want to answer me or talk about whatever I wanted to talk about. Jack has a much dryer wit.
All the same, if he doesn’t want to concede a point, he won’t. But he should. Didn't he tell me Into the Wild is employee owned? His staff of co-owners isn't going to like him sneaking the Woman in Nothing but a Bra into his office all the time.
When we get to the top floor, I can feel the stares as we step off the elevator. I sense everyone's eyes stabbing into me like a thousand tiny pins as we make our way back to the lair. When Jack finally lets us both in and closes the door behind us, I gulp in air like Wesley and Buttercup just emerging from the Lightning Sand.
“Will you get over yourself?” Jack heads across the room toward one of the cabinets hidden in the oak paneling. “This isn’t a spy movie and nobody thinks you’re Mata Hari.”
“Seriously, Jack. What exactly did you tell them about me?”
“That you’re in my class at USC and we’re working on a project together.” He tosses items on his desk as he fishes them out of the cabinet. “Oh yeah. And that you’re clueless. Come here.”
“You did not!” I work my way across the messy room, stepping over rope, a muddy pair of hiking boots and what looks like a punching bag. I reach the edge of his desk. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Maybe I did.”
He walks up to me, stops, then puts his hands on my face. My lips part in surprise. I’m confused and embarrassed about being confused, all at once. He’s touching my face and…my lips…and…he puts his thumbs in my mouth?
“Yeah,” he says, letting me go. “I think this’ll work.”
What just happened?
He crosses to the gigantic windowsill behind his desk, where I notice a hot plate sitting next to the coffee maker. He flicks on the coils, grabs a small beat up pot from his desk and heads to a water cooler in the corner of the room.
“What are you doing?” I press my fingers to my lips. A warm buzz like the kind from a refrigerator hums all through my face and mouth where Jack touched me.
He goes back to the windowsill, puts the pot now filled with water on the hot plate and turns to me. “What were you doing at HEYA?”
No preamble or pleasantries. This makes me wonder whether Jack lacks social skills or simply chooses not to use them with me.
“I work there,” I toss back.
“As what?”
He asks this as though he’s sure I’m nothing more than a mascot who wears a big rubber head. “I cook the books,” I tell him.
Pause. “Since when?” No inflection to indicate whether he is surprised, pleased, disgusted, ambivalent, or concerned.
“What is this? An interrogation?”
“Since Connecticut?” he asks.
Just like that, he asks me about Connecticut. Like he knows
anything
about me. “What do you know about Connecticut?”
“It was just a question.”
“Connecticut is no longer part of the equation.”
“What equation?”
“
My
equation.” I growl this with such fierceness I can feel the foam bubble up at the back of my teeth.
“So, is it a job or volunteer?”
I look down to the hot plate and the pot of water.
“What are we doing?” I ask, gesturing toward all the stuff he’s gathered. “Shouldn’t I be doing something?”
“We’re waiting for the water to boil,” he explains. “Is it a job or volunteer?”
I notice the way Jack’s throat ripples underneath the tanned skin of his neck when he talks, so I decide not to be affronted by his questioning.
“A job.”
“You’re a multimillionaire drawing a salary from a ghetto rec center?”
He delivers this question with the unmistakable sting of judgment.
Jerk.
“I’m going to do something important with my millions. Something big. And HEYA needs a plan, not another infusion of cash.”
“So you work at HEYA to hone your financial skills?”
“Are you seriously giving me a hard time for working there?” I huff out a snort. “Of course you are. You just want to accuse me of Machiavellian motives about everything and be done with it.”
“I—”
“Well! Let me just set you straight, buddy. I saw this job posted on the net and I went in and got it because I wanted to do something to help, something good. So just you watch, Jack. I’m going to save the center and then all of you will have to shut up and give me a standing ovation.”
“Lisa—”
“The water’s boiling. What do we do now?”
Jack doesn’t answer right away.
“I’m here to do a job,” I remind him. “Remember? Talking about ourselves isn’t part of the deal.”
Jack looks at me for a few seconds. “I’m making you a mouth guard,” he finally says.
I raise my eyebrows, considering. Really, though, I’m trying to get back to focusing on gear-testing. “Why?” I ask. “What are you going to do to me that I need a mouth guard?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Nothing today, anyway. But I think it makes good beginner gear.”
“But you can’t invent a mouth guard,” I argue. “Mouth guards already exist.”
“I’m thinking of a different kind. I’ve got a few ideas to make it less intrusive. I don’t know quite how, exactly, which is why I need you, to try some things out.”
Jack takes hunk of clear, Jell-O-like plastic off his desk and drops it into the pot. “Once that softens up, you’ll mold it to your mouth. Then, I’ll make some adjustments as we go.”
Before I can say anything, like
Mold it to my mout
h?
That hunk of hard lard
? He’s back at the water cooler, filling a pail. He puts the full pail on his desk then turns to me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready for what?” I ask back.
He picks up tongs from his desk. “I’m going to take this out of the water and put it in your mouth. Then—”
“What?!”
“Then you bite down hard, sucking out all the water you can. After a few seconds, take it out and put it into this bucket of water so the mold can solidify.”
I just look at him standing there, holding the tongs.
“Ready?” He's all no-nonsense.
Holy icky-thing-in-my-mouth, Batman! Did I actually agree to this? “How is this supposed to make me braver?”
“It won’t,” he concedes. “It’s meant to protect you while you’re finding your courage. Now open wide.”
I open my mouth.
Jack fishes the plastic out of the boiling water, shakes off the excess water, and—
AAAG!
It’s hot!
It tastes like plastic!
AND he shoves it in so far it hits the back of my throat and I feel myself gag!
“Bite down,” he instructs.
“Nnnnn!”
“Bite down!”
I bite down hard into the hot, soft plastic, giving myself a mutant ice cream headache.
“Suck out as much water as you can,” he orders.
It tastes disgusting, but I do it because the intense sucking eases my impulse to wretch.
“Okay,” Jack says after about a century. “Good. Now take it out and put it in—”
I spit it into the bucket. “Ack!” I swipe my sleeve across my mouth. “Yuck! Jeez! Arg!”
Jack just watches as I stand there panting and salivating. When I look up at him, he says, “Ready?”
“For what?”
“We have to do another one.”
“No!” I cry. “I did everything you said!”
“I know. But we’ll need more than one to work on, so we may as well mold them all at once.”
“Are you serious?”
“Are you scared?”
I pin him with such a stern stare he looks away. It was a low blow and he knows it. “It
tastes
awful,” I explain, enunciating viciously.
“I’m going to do one, too, this time,” he offers.
“You better, Goddamnit.”
* * * * *
“Awwckg.” I swallow again, and then clench the mouth guard between my teeth.
Jack keeps saying he’s “adjusting” it every time he takes it out of my mouth, cleans it off, and starts working on it. But when he sticks it back in my mouth, it never feels any different.
Well, hardly any different.
“I on’t ink iss is oing ooh wook,” I try to tell him through the mouth guard.
“We’re getting there.”
“I ant eben alk!”
The stupid mouth guard is molded all along the inside of my teeth and along the roof of my mouth, curving around the bottom edges of my teeth, anchored in at my back molars.
“I think if I shave a little off the roof plate and the back…”
I take it out and drop it in the bucket. “Can we just take a break from the mouth guard for a sec? I need a Coke or something to get rid of this plastic taste.”
He goes to a small fridge concealed in the oak paneling. In one smooth motion, he takes out a bottle of Coke and tosses it to me. I watch it sail across the room, keeping my eye on the prize until I catch it.
Whap
. Right into my hand. Wow. I can’t believe I actually caught it, in front of Jack and everything.
“I feel like Mean Joe Green,” I say, letting the soda settle before I open it.
Jack takes a Dasani for himself. “The kid
hands
him the Coke,” he says, correcting me. “Mean Joe Green never catches the Coke.”
“Oh,” I say, “Right.”
“Wait a second,” Jack says, before I can get the bottle to my lips. “Aren’t you supposed to throw me your shirt now?”
I spare him a jaded glance then chug the Coke.
“Hey,
you’re
the one who said you felt like Mean Joe Green,” he points out.
I thump the bottle down on his desk. “You seriously want my shirt?”
“You said—”
Ffft
.
My shirt hits him right in the face. I was so quick to whip it off and fling it at him that he wasn’t even ready for it. Ha!
I don’t think he thought I’d do it.