Authors: Tammara Webber
I’ve got a few more things to get turned into UC Berkeley before I start next fall: AP exam results, graduation certificate, housing deposit. Almost everyone who knows me seems puzzled by the fact that I intend to pursue a degree in social work rather than music. I’m often told that I have a beautiful voice, but that would be an impractical career path. I’d rather
do
something.
Dad’s the only one who really gets that sentiment. He’s also where I get my voice. Mom and Deborah, my older sister, are absolutely tone-deaf, but they have useful natural and applied skills. Mom’s an obstetrical nurse specializing in low-cost prenatal care, and Deb recently began her hospital residency in Indiana—she’s going to be a pediatrician. Dad and I just had to be more creative about finding our ways to contribute communally.
This summer, like the last several years, I’m working the summer program our church offers for the poverty-stricken neighborhoods nearby. The van picks the kids up in the morning, enabling their parents to go to work without worrying about what to do with them. The kids stay all day, which means we have to come up with lots of activities. The swimming pool was Mom’s idea. Some members of the church finance committee balked at installing something so lavish, but Mom convinced them we could use it for VBS, family days and monthly baptisms.
Dad says Mom could talk the Devil into baking Christmas cookies.
“…Amen,” Dad says, and I open my eyes, banishing thoughts of Satan wearing an apron and icing reindeer.
“Dori, your dad has some news that might interest you.” Mom hands me the bowl of mashed potatoes, and they’re both watching me closely. Weird.
Dad clears his throat. “You got a call just before you got home. I guess Roberta doesn’t have your cell number.”
Roberta, my project leader at Habitat, doesn’t get that people can be easily reached on the phone they carry around with them. Her cell phone is always in her bag and
off
, because she believes the battery will run down if she leaves it on, and then it wouldn’t be at the ready in case she gets mugged and needs it. I’ve never asked her how she plans to hold the bad guy off while her phone boots up.
“There’s a new volunteer starting tomorrow, and she wants you to help him acclimate, show him the ropes.”
My brow furrows. While we appreciate volunteers, this isn’t exactly huge or unusual news, plus my parents are being downright odd. “Okay. No problem.” Waiting for the punch line, I pass the potatoes to Dad. “Is it someone with electrical experience, I hope?”
“Er, I doubt that.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I finally say, “Dad, spit it out.”
Dad’s not meeting my eyes, unusually cryptic. “Well, this volunteer may be someone you know. Not
know
, exactly. But know
of
.”
Good grief, I’m way too tired for this. “Am I supposed to guess who it is?” I sigh. “Is it someone from church? Someone from school?”
“It’s Reid Alexander,” Mom blurts out, unable to contain herself any longer.
“
What?”
Oh, no. No, no, no. They
cannot
expect me to babysit that self-absorbed, fake, womanizing, probable alcoholic.
My dad tries the logical spin. “Apparently working to get the house ready sooner for the Diegos was part of his plea bargain.”
This is not happening. “Wait. So he’s not even actually a
volunteer
, then—he’ll be there under court-ordered coercion?”
“Roberta said that since you’re about his age, she was hoping you could… er…”
“Babysit him.” I scowl. “Please tell me it’s only for a day or two.”
Dad shrugs and starts to eat. “You’ll need to ask Roberta that. I’m just the messenger.”
I close my eyes for a moment, imagining the absurdity of Reid Alexander on site, the wasted time accumulating hourly. I’d planned to tile the master bath’s shower tomorrow. No way I could trust him to help with that—tiling is pretty much skilled labor, and while I’ve done it enough to be proficient, he’s probably never touched a trowel in his life.
“Why me?” I hear his answer in my head before he says it.
“Don’t know, honey. But there’s a reason for everything.” Dad pats my hand. “We’ll just have to wait patiently to see what it is.”
As I do every time he says that or something like this, I bite back what I’d say if I could reply honestly. I don’t believe there’s a reason for everything, and having faith doesn’t mean I’m blind. I believe people make poor choices. I believe bad things happen to good people. I believe there’s evil in the world that I will never understand, but will never stop fighting.
If I believed for two seconds that there was a reason behind some of the awful things that occur in this life, I wouldn’t be able to stand it.
REID
“Well, this is promising.” Dad walks across the kitchen, setting his attaché on the granite-topped buffet.
I don’t bother to reply. He’s been goading me like this since I was a kid. Took me a while to learn not to take the bait and let him prove how much more intelligent he is. My father gets
paid
to argue—and by the size of this house, the cut of his custom-made silk-blend suit and the cars in the garage, he’s brilliant at it.
It must gall the crap out of him that I do what I do and earn more money than he does. Of course, he has no idea how hard I work when I’m filming, but who cares. Let him think I do next to nothing. Just pisses him off more, which is fine with me.
“I even made coffee.” I gesture to the half-full carafe, still warming.
He fills his travel mug and screws the lid on. “Is your mother up?”
“Haven’t seen her.”
“You’ll need to call a car to get to
work
,” he reminds me, “since your license has been suspended for six months.” He sounds way too satisfied about that.
“I thought you were gonna take me.” I blink my baby blues at him. His mouth opens and no sound comes out as I fight for a straight face. “I’m
joking
, Dad—I already called the service. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“Oh.” Scowling, his mouth snaps closed. “Well, fine then.”
I’m not sure if I should be amused or pissed that he’s so surprised.
***
When I hand the driver the sheet with the charity build-a-house address, he studies it before looking at me with a perplexed expression.
“Yeah, dude, it’s correct,” I say, anticipating his question. “Just take me there, okay?”
He opens the back door to the black Mercedes. “Yes, sir, Mr. Alexander.” As we pull away, it occurs to me that this car will be fucking conspicuous in the neighborhood where I’ll be for the next month. If I took a regular taxi it would only be marginally better. To blend in, I’d need to hire a gang member in a pimped out Monte Carlo to drop me off.
On the drive, I read through some of the scripts George and I are considering for upcoming projects, but none of them motivate me to look beyond the first page. A year ago, I’d have been happy enough with several, but now I’m thinking they’re all the stupidest shit I’ve ever read. I attribute this new perception to Emma, my costar in
School Pride
. She told me last fall she’d rather do serious films than movies that have immediate blockbuster potential. Why her viewpoint rubbed off on me at all, I have no clue.
Emma is also the only girl I’ve bothered to pursue but not caught in years, and I screwed up any possible second chance by hooking up with other girls when she didn’t cave. I begged her for another shot, but the damage was done. By the time the cast met up for the premiere, she was with Graham, another costar. My longtime ex, Brooke, wanted
him.
She offered me a devil’s bargain: Brooke would seduce Graham, and Emma would fall right into my arms.
Graham didn’t go for it, but thanks to Brooke’s scheming, Emma thought he had. She was distraught. Fragile. I had her right where I wanted her, but I couldn’t do it. One of the few principles I have where girls are concerned: lying to get a girl in bed is cheating. If I cheat to win, I didn’t really win.
I got a little overly introspective after that. A short-lived state, luckily. I snapped out of it after my accident, when I had a few compulsory meetings with a court-appointed therapist who suggested that maybe I was
trying
to kill myself. I laughed in his face. I mean, there’s a difference between being suicidal and not giving a shit if you live or die. Right?
“Sir?” the driver says. “We’re here… if you’re sure this is where you want to be dropped…”
Outside the dark tinted glass lies a sea of generic bungalows—paint fading, bars on windows and doors, each house separated by a few feet from the next one and surrounded by limp, untended palm trees amidst otherwise sparse vegetation. I stare at the partially-completed house, which is literally steps from the road—just like all the others. A house number sloppily painted onto a piece of raw plywood leaning against the front matches the number on the court info.
“Yeah, this is it. Be here at or before three to pick me up. I don’t want to wait, for obvious reasons.” I normally wouldn’t be caught dead driving through this neighborhood, let alone helping to build yet another piece-of-crap house. This sucks ass.
“Yes, sir, I’ll be here by 2:45.”
Activity around the house has come to a standstill, because everyone is staring at the guy exiting a chauffeured Mercedes in the gang-infested neighborhood. Man, I seriously should have thought about arriving in some other mode of transportation.
As I walk up the unfinished pathway, a girl comes out to greet me… although
greet
is generous. She’s glaring as she walks towards me, her brows drawn together in an expression I go to concerted efforts to avoid making, even when I’m pissed.
I have about twenty seconds to sum her up physically. The process takes me ten.
She’s wearing an oversized, faded t-shirt bearing the MADD logo. Unintentional? Doubt it. I can’t tell breast size or shape under that thing; ditto whether or not she has a waist. In my experience, if a girl has either, she’s going to dress to at least hint at the fact. Her tent of a t-shirt tells me she’s hiding inadequacies, not assets.
Her shorts are so far out of style that I’m not sure they were ever
in
style. Sprinkled with flecks of paint, her construction boots are worn and scuffed. Still, she manages to pull off this part of the manual laborer look because her legs are the only thing remotely hot about her. Her calves are perfectly shaped, strong and muscled. Most of the girls I know—actresses, society girls—want long, thin legs. But legs like hers are what I go for when I’m feeling particular.
She’s tan wherever I see skin. Not a Rodeo Drive sunless tan, either—the real thing. I know this because there’s a pale strip of skin on one wrist where she usually wears something—a thick-banded watch, maybe. I don’t know a single girl who goes outside without a million SPF sunblock.
Hair—generic brown and pulled back from her face into a ponytail. Probably goes well past her shoulders when down. Assuming she ever wears it down.
Face—predictably, no makeup, not even a swipe of blush or lip gloss. Dark, dark eyes. A smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose—the girls I know would have had those burned off or bleached out or whatever they do to remove freckles years ago. Finally, her mouth—another oddity, like her legs—her lips are perfect and full, even set into a harsh line like they are now.
I stuff both hands into the front pockets of my jeans, stop a few feet from the street and wait.
“Mr. Alexander, I assume?” she says, still striding forward. I nod, adding something further to the short list of her attractive features: her voice. It makes me want to hear her sing, even though her inflection says she wishes the ground would swallow me.
Legs, lips, voice. If one of these proves too appealing to ignore, a few veiled insults will give her self-esteem enough of a hit to back off, though it seldom chases them off completely. Girls are irrationally attracted to assholes. I don’t intend to be cruel, but I’m not hooking up with some tiresome, bleeding-heart do-gooder. I just want to do my time and get the hell out.
*** *** ***
Dori
A Mercedes?
Really
? I am so not looking forward to this.
The moment his highness arrived was easy enough to determine since everyone just flat-out stopped what they were doing to gawk at the big celebrity and his ostentatious car. One minute the house hummed with the sound of people talking, laughing and working side-by-side, and the next there was silence punctuated by hissed undertones, not a hammer or paintbrush moving. I fail to see how this sort of daily interruption will be beneficial to the project… but no one asked
me
.
He’s dressed appropriately—jeans, t-shirt, work boots—but I get the feeling those jeans were more expensive than the nicest outfit I own. Possibly ditto the t-shirt, which has some sort of insignia I don’t recognize. I’m guessing it isn’t a brand found at Target.
When I walked out to meet him, he gave me a careless once-over—I should have expected as much—and dismissed whatever he saw. Most girls might be offended, or at least displeased, but I’m grateful. I don’t want Reid Alexander’s interest. If I had my druthers, I’d love for him to perform his community service elsewhere, but the judge wanted him to assist in building the home for the family he displaced, and I can’t argue with that logic.
Cramming his hands into his pockets, he watched me indifferently, as though he couldn’t care less about anything that has happened or will happen. Out of nowhere an absurd feeling of inconsolable grief washed over me. Like nothing could be more tragic than this boy standing in front of me. Ridiculous.
“Mr. Alexander, I assume?” I said, and he nodded shortly. I turned before he could see what I was thinking. When it comes to having a poker face—I don’t. Usually that’s not a problem, since lying is something I strive not to do because I just don’t see the point. But with someone like Reid Alexander, it would be unwise to let him sense any vulnerability where he’s concerned. I live in Los Angeles, after all, and while I might not run in his circle, or even within the same galaxy as his circle, I know his type: careless, spoiled and heedless of anyone’s needs outside his own. Even with that angel’s face, he cannot be trusted.