Authors: Mara White
Chapter 3
M
ozey Cruz arrives at Pathways before we even unlock the doors. I see him standing outside through our newly installed, glass, fire safety door. The Pathways building, as of last year, is a fully converted elementary school. We didn’t do all that much to convert except to replace the miniature toilets and sinks in the bathrooms with adult sized ones. Janey and I giggled for months before they were installed about squatting so low our knees ended up higher than our hips. A compromising position—to crouch in a ball to pee five times a day.
I wave casually at Mozey through the door and tap my watch, tying to communicate to him we don’t open the doors until eight. He nods his head at me, acknowledging my presence but he seems unconcerned and absorbed by whatever’s playing in his headphones.
I shrug, grab my coffee mug and make my way back to my office. I’ve never felt attracted to a participant before. Most of them are far too damaged for my taste. It’s not like I can’t handle life scars, everybody has them, and I’ve even got a few of my own. But I prefer not to have them in my bed. I want a healthy relationship; I don’t have time for anything else. What I do is too important to me to make such a foolish mistake. I can appreciate everything about Mozey, his looks, his talent—everything. I can appreciate and walk away.
He comes straight to my office after he signs in at the front desk. He pops his head around the office door right as I hear Janey say, “Please have a seat out here.” She knows I don’t like unannounced visitors.
He walks in despite her warnings and closes the door. It would appear he’s more determined to see me than he is about adhering to site rules. Not a good sign. I’ll have to kick him out of the program if he’s a habitual rule breaker.
“You can have a seat,” I say clearing my throat. “Usually you have to sign in to see me. The door has to stay open. It’s standard procedure.”
He saunters over to my desk and pulls out a chair. He nods his head and keeps his gaze steady with mine. His eyes are charcoal gray. I swear he’s wearing guyliner, but I don’t want to look too close to confirm.
He leans forward ever so slightly as if insisting I sit first. I return the gesture, trying to retain some amount of control. He cracks a smile and leans forward, again insisting. I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. We are suddenly like awkward Americans at their first Japanese business meeting, answering every unknown with a timid greeting bow.
“Sit,” I say too loudly, forcefully breaking our mutual spell.
We sit simultaneously. Mozey plops with confidence, relaxation gaining easy control of his face. I tuck my skirt under like a sweaty, nervous secretary, as if our roles were reversed and he was here to interview me.
“I came to sign the papers. I want to stay.”
“You can do that. It’s fine. But you do always have to follow the rules. It’s the only way this program works. And it’s the only way to stay in it,” I add. I want to stress just how important procedure is to him. Without it we fall apart.
He nods again and adjusts his beanie a little bit farther back on his head, using both of his hands. The rings. They flicker and wink at me against his warm brown skin. He brings one hand down and rubs his chin, massaging the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He leans forward and his legs spread into a wide V, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Got it,” he says and licks his white teeth.
I feel the lick in all the places I shouldn’t be feeling it. I feel the goddamn lick all the way down to my feet. I want to lick those teeth.
“Did you see the mural sketch we did yesterday?” his eyes light up and shine bright at the mention of it.
“Oh my God, it was good! Hands down. The best work I’ve ever seen.” I don’t mean to be so forward, but it’s hard for me not to gush. His talent alone is gushworthy. “I’m serious. Even the sketch could hang in a gallery.”
He grins at my comment and looks sweetly sheepish. He offers nothing to qualify it. Only a grin and silence. He’s looking at me like a man looks at a woman. Not like a juvie kid looks at their court appointed social worker. I want to blush under his gaze. But I’m too seasoned for that. I won’t be seduced away from my mission.
“Have you always been an artist? Are you at all trained or just naturally talented?”
“I always had my drawings. Kept me sane when other shit wasn’t.”
His mention of his past yanks me into the present. I’ve got a job to do here, and I really want him to succeed. I’ve got to give him the skills and the confidence to make it in society once he walks out these doors. I know I’m good at it. He needs my help, and I’m more than willing to work to see him through this. Despite his good looks there are some boundaries I would never cross. I need to get myself a friend with benefits to work off all of this sexual tension.
“I got your note, so I filled out the forms myself. All I need is your signature.” I rummage through my desk and then pass him the clipboard.
He flips the pen around in his hand before he signs. He’s a show-off, this guy, always trying to impress. His signature is stylized, and he puts a cross after Robles instead of writing “Cruz.”
“Is that your legal signature?”
“Yes, ma’am, afraid so.”
Oh, so today he’s answering my questions. When opportunity knocks…
“Do you have any support system? Any family you’re in touch with?”
“I have some friends. I don’t know where my ma is at right now. I know I got some family in Mexico, but I ain’t in touch with them.”
“We offer group therapy here twice a week. It’s a really great opportunity. We also have a sponsor program, so if you’d like, we can set you up with one.”
He pulls off his beanie and his shiny, black hair falls to his shoulders.
“Who are they?”
“Who’s who?” I ask and realize I’m chewing on my pencil’s eraser. I throw the pencil down like it’s an affront to my authority.
“Sponsors,” he says, running his hand back across his head gathering it up with his thumb and forefinger. He pulls it into a ponytail and then twists it into a knot, securing it with a black elastic he pulls from his wrist.
“You can do that better than I can.”
He raises a brow looking quizzical.
“I’ve never been a hair person,” I say, self- consciously. “I’ve had the same cut since I was twelve. My mom always did it. Probably went out of style a long time ago. I wouldn’t even know.” I’m rambling. Likely blushing and definitely sweating in my shirt.
Rein in the schoolgirl, Lana, his mental health and his success are important to you. He doesn’t care about your hair.
“All the sponsors are employees, we don’t take outside volunteers. It would be someone you’d get a chance to get to know well, someone you could spend time with.”
“You a sponsor?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest, all of his fingers coming to rest under his armpits except for his thumbs.
“No!” I say, eyeing all of his bracelets, made of cloth, string and leather. There are a few silver bangles that clang together when he gestures. I wonder if he showers with them or if they’re the kind that never come off—each one symbolic of something to him. It doesn’t take much to imagine him in the shower. Water running down that beautiful body. I can’t stop the images. Sure, I’m a sexual person, but I’m not usually so brazen.
The bracelets. Sometimes kids in the system become extremely attached to material things, endowing them with huge emotional significance. It gives them something to hold onto when their lives are unstable and people are taken away from them. A bear, a blanket, a picture of family.
“Janey is, Jennifer is, even Pedro at the front desk. Practically everyone who works here is. Except for me.”
He nods his head and then jerks his chin toward me.
“Pick someone for me. Whoever you think would be a good match.”
“I’d say Brigitta. She’s from Germany, popular with everybody. All the participants love her. She’s really easy to talk to.”
“Is she as pretty as you are?” he asks, leaning further forward, his elbows coming to the edge of his knees. He interweaves his fingers and cracks all of his knuckles. His eyes are dark and smoky and roaming all over me. He’s challenging me, feeling out my responsiveness.
My sympathetic nervous system shoots into overdrive. I try to form words, but his abrupt come-on has left me speechless.
“We don’t, we don’t… at Pathways we don’t value people based on physical appearance. We don’t, you can’t… We adhere to a code of mutual respect that upholds specific and important boundaries.”
Mozey rises as I stutter like the nervous bird he’s turned me into. He pulls his arms behind his back, then yanks on one wrist and pulls on the other until I hear his whole spine crack. He’s loosening up while every one of my muscles is seizing up.
“Never mind, Lana. I take it back. You’re not pretty,” he says with annoying ease and walks right out of my office without looking back.
My mouth is hanging open. I can barely form thoughts let alone sentences.
Did he just tell me I was pretty and then take it right back?
I slam my head down on my desk. Again. I’m defenseless against the effect he has on me. Mozey makes me want to crawl away into the sand and disappear. (With him, preferably with him.)
Chapter 4
J
aney comes dashing in seconds later, sloshing coffee out of her mug all over the carpet.
“Watch it, Janey!” I say, regaining my composure.
“What the hell—sorry, I heard all that on speaker phone.
“Great. Why, can I ask, are you spying on me?”
I dialed to let you know he was coming in and then you pressed the button—and I didn’t hang up.”
“It’s fine. Nothing happened. He just makes me flustered. The kid knows how to get under my skin.”
“Yeah, well he’s hot, and H-O-T spells trouble.”
I snort on the sip of coffee out of the mug Janey’s just handed me.
“Should I try to see if they’ll transfer him to another program?”
“You’re overreacting, Janey! I swear. I think I can handle it. Remember last year? The kid who threatened me with a knife? The one who got my home address?”
“Yeah, but that was a knife. This guy is threatening you with hotness, which could start all sorts of problems.”
“I’m not afraid. He’s just a cocky kid. But, we have to keep him—he’s incredibly talented.”
“He’s trouble. He kind of looks like a girl. A hot, muscly girl. He’s got better hair, longer lashes and bigger pec tits than me. He’s basically a hotter girl than I am, and he’s a dude. Could he maybe be gay?”
“
So not gay
. Not at all gay.” But now that I think about it, Mozey somehow seems so voraciously sexual he could consume both men and women, like his appetite would be insatiable.
Hell, maybe he is kind of gay. What do I know? Can you even be kind of gay? Sometimes I think my brother is.
“Why is he so forward with you? If you ask me, he’s already way too comfortable.”
“It’ll be fine. We just have a little power thing going. He’s totally harmless.”
“A summons arrived for you this morning. Sorry,” Janey says, throwing it down on my desk.
I swallow my coffee and pull the envelope to me. Every once in a while I’m summoned to appear in court on behalf of a program participant. I wish that’s what this was. I know without looking that this one is on behalf of my parents.
“It’s from Michigan. Are you going to go?”
“Don’t know.” Housing court again. My parent’s house is in foreclosure. We transferred everything to my name two years ago because I was the only one in the family with a job. All it did was slow down the show. A show that started when first my dad and then eventually my mom got laid off as the factories shut down. I had been trying to swing their mortgage payments, but then Baba had to go into assisted living. That obviously isn’t free. Credit cards are maxed, and my salary isn’t enough to support all three.
“I’m fucked. We’re going to lose the house. I think we’ve got a month at most. They’ll have to come out to LA and move into my apartment.”
“What about Alex? Has he finished school?”
Alexei is my little brother. He’s had his own run-ins with the law, but thank God he’s in college now.
“I’ll have to appear. Maybe I can get them to give us another extension.”
“Extreme make-over home addition? Ty what’s his name? We could make a video to submit.”
“Does that come with life long property taxes paid after you get the fancy house? Because my parents have got nothing. Four years of unemployment ate up a lifetime’s worth of savings. My mom pawned her wedding band last Christmas to pay for the duck roast. Then my grandmother and dad wouldn’t eat it because they were pretending to still be Eastern Orthodox. My whole family is crazy. My mom called me crying, and I had to scold my dad over the phone. I told him to eat the fucking roast duck like it was his last meal on earth.
“Are they affected by the water shut off?”
“No, not yet at least. But soon they won’t even have a home that the water could be shut off to.”
“I only booked you intakes for the afternoon. If you need to take care of this—go. I’ve got everything under control.”
Janey looks at me seriously with big eyes blinking like an innocent toad.
“I’d rather add misery to misery. That way I know I’m not alone.”
“That a girl!” Janey says, picking at the vertical ruffles on her blouse. I love you when you’re all morose and sarcastic. Then I know for sure you haven’t been replaced by an extraterrestrial clone. It’s that bitter aftertaste you have that makes you so sweet.”
“It’s awesome if you’re twenty-five and your parents move back in with you, right? God, they could even bring their furniture and knickknacks. That alone could secure me some dates.”
“Maybe some weirdos. You never have any problem finding men—you may just want to reconsider bringing them home. You do have a court appearance at twelve. The Jarel Hopkins case is closing. He’s being tried as an adult.”
I look at my watch and groan.
“I don’t even remember him. Did he complete the program?”
“Yep. Seemed like a good kid. Drug robbery gone bad. First-degree manslaughter. Not a pretty case. There’s no testimony on this one—you’re there for support.”
Janey leaves my office, and I dig my fingers into the back of my neck, trying to strangle away the knots. I sleep twisted up like a pretzel and sometimes I wake up on the floor. I’m more stressed out than a stockbroker. Without the money. Without any money. I’m broke. I’m broke-ass-poor.
After an early lunch, I head back to my office to get ready for court; I keep a few extra blazers in my work closet. I’ve got a navy blue velvet one that makes up for the air-conditioned nightmare that is LA county criminal court. It’s got something crusted on the lapel that I attempt to scrape off with my nail. I vaguely remember soup, maybe salad dressing. I lick my finger and rub.
Good as new. Time to go watch the whale of a system swallow up more plankton. I’ll deal with Michigan later. One calamity at a time; it’s all I can do. It’s all I’ve got time for. I kick off my flats and squish my feet into some heels. Heels give me more power. I’m not only taller, but I’m much more badass in heels. These ones are black, four inches with a line of snakeskin up the back of the heel.
On the way out of Pathways, I run into Mozey Cruz in the hall. He’s got a program participant, a pretty one with a full sleeve of tattoos, backed up against the wall. His arm is up, palm flat, sustaining him and effectively hiding her face. I’d like to just march by, let them make out and make my way out the door. But it’s the rules here that sustain us, and I happen to be the asshole in charge.
I hike my bag up on my shoulder and grip my case files hard.
“Mr. Cruz, Ms.—” I say, trying to see her around his arm. She giggles. Little baby girly laughter that says she’s eating up his charm. Neither of them pays me any heed. They’re too wrapped up in each other. She’s got a crop-top on, and I watch in horror as Mozey’s other hand caresses her bare flesh. The back of his hand brushes up her torso, but I swear I’m the one who feels it. What would it be like to have him touch me like that?
Snap out of it, Finch. That’s not going to happen.
“Hey, guys?”
They both turn on a dime and stare.
“What’s up, Doc?” says the girl and steps out of the cage of Mozey’s arms. Her eyebrows have a high arch; she’s wearing bright red lipstick. I note that none of it is on his face.
“I was heading to the bathroom. He was filling me in on his project,” she says, winking at him, her eyes going right to his crotch. “I’d say he’s a team asset.”
For some reason
I’m
the one dying of embarrassment.
“Fine. Go,” I say, waving her off.
Mozey watches her ass as she sways her hips and slowly saunters away down the hall.
I can’t believe I fell for his act. He’s a disgusting man, just like all the rest. He comes on to anyone with a vagina. And I fell for it. On the inside, I’m still the little kid with no friends. I want everyone to like me.
“Hey, Lana,” he says, eyeing me up and down suggestively.
“Mr. Cruz there is no fraternizing on our property. What you do on your own time is none of my business. However, fraternizing during open hours will get you kicked out of the program. Consider that your first and last warning. Please don’t waste my time or make me regret that I chose you.”
Mozey leans back against the lockers and crosses his arms.
“You don’t want me touching other women.”
It’s a statement. He delivers it with complete seriousness. I’m frozen and momentarily delirious.
Did he just say “other women”?
“No touching, no kissing, no canoodling, not even hand holding. Hugs are okay, as long as they’re appropriate and warranted.” I rattle off rules like a robot. I am a robot. I don’t have feelings anymore.
His face curves seductively to reveal his sweet smile. He takes one step toward me and envelopes me in a huge, warm hug. My body tenses. I wasn’t expecting a hug, and I’m taken so off guard. I haven’t been hugged in a long time and his is so friendly; it warms me from the inside out. But, I’m made of hard clay, or maybe of stone, anything that would require a hammer and chisel for molding. Crack, bang. A few percussion chips fall away and smash on the floor.
I step backward out of his hug, my arms clenched at my sides. He smells of cedar and musk with a hint of turpentine.
“Funny, Mr. Cruz. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to court.”
I’m spinning inside, a gyroscope caught around my heart.
“Do you oil paint, too or is that-? Never mind. I’m late. Get to your creative space or get lost. The hug doesn’t get you off. I’m still writing you up.”
“Maybe I wasn’t trying to get off.”
His innuendo is clear.
“Can it, Cruz. I’m late,” I say as my heels clack down the hall, and I refuse to look back.