Mourning Becomes Cassandra (7 page)

As for the whole mentoring thing, I pushed it to the back of my mind and defiantly recycled the bulletin.

Cooking days were a delight. I’d always loved to cook, but after Min came along, lack of time and energy had reduced me to seven tried-and-true quick meals. If-it’s-Tuesday-it-must-be-taco-salad kind of thing. Now I could spend all the time I liked, and my first Palace offerings were rather elaborate: chicken breasts stuffed with apples and gouda, pork tostadas with homemade chutney. Phyl and Joanie were effusive in their praise, but Daniel, who came home any time between 6:30 and 8:00, would raise a skeptical eyebrow as he watched these creations rotate in the microwave. Apparently if everything I cooked him was going to be reheated, I would have to choose more microwave-friendly creations. Phyl’s casseroles and Joanie’s stir-fries didn’t turn to cardboard jerky when nuked, after all, and I didn’t want to be the cook whose meals his lordship dreaded.

When my household responsibilities were under control, I turned to my Brilliant Career. Before Min was born, I did some freelance work writing grant proposals and helping with fundraising, but the thought of tapping those connections now made me feel slightly nauseous, since I had last seen them, solicitous and awkward, at Troy’s and Min’s memorial. Ugh. Besides, I might as well take advantage of this moment in life when I wasn’t cash-strapped and try my hand at something completely different.

For lack of a better idea, I decided to experiment with some creative writing. But what to write? After more hemming and hawing, I settled on trying a movie novelization as a warm-up. That way I wouldn’t be bothered with generating a plot and could just focus on getting a story on paper. I figured if I tried one of the
Star Wars
movies I could compare my results with an existing novelization, but this turned out to be more complicated than I thought, because I was no expert in all the myriad star ships and fighters and destroyers and droids and whatnot.

One afternoon found me trolling the nerdy section of the library, searching for
Star Wars
picture books. Having found a couple likely candidates which I tucked under my arm, I was just adding a volume of detailed spaceship cross-sections when I felt a middle book squidge out and tumble to the floor, hitting me squarely on the toe with its corner. “Franklin D. Roosevelt,” I hissed, hopping on my uninjured foot.

When I reached for my fallen book, I heard a derisive snort. Startled, I looked up to see a tall, lanky teenager with pale blue eyes and longish brown hair, combed forward. He was wearing the standard Northwest uniform of frayed jeans, layers of t-shirts and flip-flops, and he was grimacing at the title in my hand.

“What?” I asked warily.

He shrugged without meeting my eyes.

“You don’t like this book?” I persisted. “I don’t super know what I’m looking for, so advice is welcome.” When he didn’t answer, I tucked it back under my arm, only to see him raise his eyebrows in a don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you fashion. “Wha-a-a-t?” I demanded. “If you want to say something, say it—unless you’re mute or something.”

“No way do you want that one,” he declared at last in a raspy voice. “The guy can’t write for crap, and he even gets some of the basic facts wrong. Can’t tell a podracer from Padmé’s ass.”

“Oh!” Surprised at my success, I replaced the offending volume on the shelf. “What do you think of this one?” Indicating the cross-section book.

Another snort. “I met the guys who did that one at a book-signing. They were cool—well, one of them was a total loser—but he was all pissed because he didn’t like his latté. He kept saying stuff like, ‘What, they don’t do foam in Washington?’ Like he was some kind of sorry-ass coffee expert when he wasn’t doing
Star Wars
books.”

I blinked at him. “So…but you think this cross-section book is okay? Accurate, I mean?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I mean
he
sucked, but he knows his shit. Why do you wanna know? You don’t look like the typical person I see in this aisle.”

“Because I’m not a guy?”

“For one. You work here?”

“You mean, am I a librarian?” I screech-whispered. Grief, I could handle his sailor’s mouth and criticism of my book choices, but no way would I put up with being mistaken for a librarian.

He looked puzzled by my irritation. “Yeah, are you a librarian? What do you want with these books?”

“I’m trying to write a book,” I grumped. “But I didn’t know there was so much stuff I would have to learn. If you’re such a big expert, maybe you could help me pick out the good books.”

He shrugged again and began running his finger down the row. “Decent. Total bullshit. B.S. Decent. This one’s good—hardcore nerd porn.”

I followed behind him, hastily pulling out the “decent” and “nerd porn” ones. “Thank you.” I hesitated, then hitched the books to one arm so I could hold out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Cass.”

He stared at my outstretched hand. “Huh. Okay, I’m Kyle.” He put his hand limply in mine for a split second and then pulled it back and stuffed it in his pocket. “What kind of book are you writing? Are you trying to make up one of those back stories that the movies don’t cover? ‘
Still More Legends of Tatooine’
and crap like that?”

“No,” I admitted slowly. “I’ve never done any fiction writing before, so I’m just trying to write a novel version of one of the movies. A novelization. For practice. How about you? What do you do besides read
Star Wars
books?”

Kyle started fiddling with one of the sub-par books, tapping it up and down on the shelf. “Nothing. Well, school started last week, but I’m thinking I’ll just go sometimes.”

Sometimes was right. Here it was Tuesday, and he was at the library. “Which school do you go to?”

More book fiddling. Then, reluctantly, “Camden School.”

“Camden School!” I screech-whispered for the second time, feeling my heart rate accelerate. Guiltily I remembered the discarded bulletin. I said God would have to be pretty clear if he wanted something out of me—did this count? “I’ve heard good things about it,” I ventured.

Still avoiding my eyes, Kyle muttered, “I just started there, but I already hate it because it’s a bunch of druggies and the classes are stupid.”

“Well, if you’re not a druggie, why are you there, then?” I asked, rather deflated.

“Kicked out of Bellevue High for vandalism and other stuff. Stupid administrators want to charge me with a felony, but the lawyer’s getting the prosecutor to divert the case.”

“Oh,” I said lamely, having had no idea that normal kid vandalism or mysterious “other stuff” could even be a felony, nor any clue how the juvenile justice system worked. Maybe this was a sign that mentoring would indeed be out of my league. Then, to my surprise, I heard myself say, “Well, do you want to walk over there now with me? You could help me more with the
Star Wars
stuff.”

Kyle shrugged again but submitted to his fate. The Camden School was housed in a former church just in back of our church, about a fifteen-minute walk from the library. In an unexpected act of chivalry, he grabbed the picture books from me and carried them without a word.

“Do you have a mentor?” I asked, as we huffed up the hill. His strides were so much longer than mine that I was trying not to compromise my dignity by breaking into a trot.

I decided to overlook this. “Well, it could also be a young person. I—I was thinking of volunteering. I think you would hang out, I guess. I might ask about it today, and I could let you know.”

I figured it would be too nosy at this point to pursue that subject—not that Kyle seemed particularly hung up on the social niceties—so I stuck with
Star Wars
questions until we reached the school. He handed me back my books and, staring at the sidewalk, said abruptly, “If you want me to read your book and make sure it’s okay, I could do that.”

He was such an odd mixture of alien teenage boy and gallant knight that I couldn’t read him, but I felt touched nonetheless. “It’s a deal! I wouldn’t want it to be crap, after all.” He scribbled his email address on my library receipt and then darted inside without even looking at me or saying good-bye.

Hesitating with my hand on the door, I had another brief, one-sided argument with God.
Okay, already, you got me here. And Kyle seemed like a good kid. If you insist, I’ll just go inside and ask about it, but no promises! What do I know about drugs or vandalism or connecting with teenagers?
Taking a deep breath, I went inside.

I found myself in a small, neat reception area, reminiscent of a 1970s dentist’s office. “Hello!” a young woman greeted me from behind her desk. “Are you here for the mentors’ meeting?”

“What?” I gasped.

“The mentors’ meeting,” she repeated, taking in my amazed expression. “The meeting to learn about becoming a mentor. It starts in the Director’s office in about five minutes. Or maybe you have a child you want to enroll here..?” Given that I was only 32, that meant she either thought I looked like 42 or that teen pregnancy was nothing new in the population they targeted. I was going to go with that.

As for the mentors’ meeting, there it was, I suppose. My sign. I guess I was going to become a mentor. Maybe God found it easier to produce a
deux ex machina
than to tackle the heavier stuff.
I managed to nod, and, after regarding me curiously another moment, the admin pointed to the hallway. “First door on the right.”

Feeling her eyes on my back and wishing I’d dressed up a little, I forced myself to walk down the hallway. All the doors on either side were closed, and behind them I could hear the hum of voices. In the Director’s office a few other people were already waiting, most of whom I’m sure Kyle would classify as old, though there was one man about my age. I wondered randomly if they also had been tricked by God into being there. When their heads turned to look at me, I pinned on a general smile and took an empty chair.

“Won’t this be exciting?” the lady next to me asked. A willing victim, then. She looked to be in her seventies, with neatly waved white hair and hazel eyes, and she sported a bright quilted jacket with appliqués that I didn’t think would go over so well with teenage girls. “I’ve never done anything like this, but I heard that student speak in church and thought I might give it a try.”

I felt rather embarrassed to think I’d been putting up such a fight when someone twice my age was being more adventurous. “I was on the fence,” I admitted, “but I ran into one of the students just now at the library, and he seemed like a good guy. We walked back up here together,” I added, leaving out the vandalism and cussing parts.

“At the library?” huffed one of the older men. “Well, I guess if you’re cutting class, that’s not such a bad place to be.”

I smiled benignly. “I ran into him in the science fiction section. He knew a lot about
Star Wars
but didn’t seem to know much about the mentor program.”

“He knew a lot about
Star Wars
?” The younger man spoke up, leaning forward. Looking directly at him for the first time I realized he was very attractive. He was of middling build—Joanie would certainly call him “short”—with a pleasant face, gray eyes and curling brown hair. His looks didn’t knock the wind out of you, like Daniel’s tended to if you weren’t prepared, but there was something about his overall demeanor: the way he held himself alert and attentive, the smile in his eyes, the way of looking at you as if you were either very important or very interesting or both. I imagine the word I was looking for was “charming.”

I was thankful for my wedding ring, which I twisted self-consciously. At least I could converse with him without him thinking I had anything in mind. Or not. Maybe only women looked for wedding rings. He didn’t have one, for example. “Yes,” I answered. “He’d read a lot of the books about the movies and had even met some of the authors, so he had very definite recommendations to give me. I didn’t dare check out any books besides the ones he approved. Do you like
Star Wars
too?”

“Sure. But more to the point, I work for a video gaming company, and we’re working with Lucas Arts to develop some games. What was his name? If I clear the mentor bar I’ll try to hook up with him. It would give us something natural to talk about.”

Before I could answer, the Director of Camden School swept in, bringing the conversation to a close. Mark Henneman was a big, energetic bear of a man. He shook each of our hands firmly and plopped down in his chair to deliver a practiced speech about the mission and vision of Camden School. He talked about a typical student’s background (Kyle was indeed an anomaly), teaching strategies, and goals of the mentor program.

“Did you know that teens with stable, loving adult influences in their lives are less likely to do drugs, drink, drop out, or engage in violence? But we’ve found our typical students have very few solid, grounded adult influences in their lives. Oftentimes they live in a single-parent family, or there are two parents who are not around much or not emotionally available for whatever reasons—maybe the parents are dealing with substance addiction themselves. The public school system isn’t meeting the needs of these kids because it doesn’t have the bandwidth to fill in the gaps in these students’ lives. We try to do that here at Camden with on-site addiction counseling, life counseling, access to rehab programs, more one-on-one instruction and attention. And now we’re adding this mentor piece. We envision matching up each of our students with a mentor, someone who will hang out with them or at least have some phone contact with them once a week, someone who will pray for that student, be a role model, do occasional special activities with other students and mentors. We’ll have monthly trainings to cover topics like building trust, understanding addiction, safety and boundaries, and so on. You don’t need to be an expert in anything. Can you love someone and invest in him or her? Can you try to build a relationship of trust? Can you applaud that student when he makes good choices and keep believing in him even when he makes bad ones?”