by Dylan Allen
“Oh.” He frowns and his eyes narrow and I can practically hear his brain rerouting itself.
“What time do you want me to come by?” he asks, and I smile, impressed with how quickly he made up his mind. I expected he’d do like my brothers whenever they have to help in the kitchens – kick up a fuss and whine.
“I’ll be here to get you at 8pm.”
His smile disappears. “You’re gonna come get me?”
I fold my arms over my chest, assuming a stance of authority. “I don’t know how you got to the bakery yesterday, but you’re too young to be going anywhere that time of night alone.”
He balks. “I rode my bike like I always do. It’s fine.” His somber expression reminds me of all of the things he’s recently lost. I relent.
“Fine, but when we’re done, I’ll throw your bike in the back of my car to bring you back. That’s the deal.” I add when he opens his mouth to argue. “You get to study while I work, and then you help me clean up. When you’ve worked enough hours to earn the $500, you’re free to go.”
“Okay,” he croaks out. He looks sharply at the ground, but not quickly enough to hide the tears that well in his eyes.
My heart squeezes in empathy.
I hate for people to see my tears, too.
I walk over to him. I bend so we’re eye level and grab his chin and turn his face up to mine.
“I’m sorry about your stepfather.”
He blinks up at me in surprise. “Sure, thank you.” His eyes mist and he blinks to clear them and gives me a heartbreakingly brave smile. I run a hand over his hair and it’s not my imagination when he nuzzles against my palm before stepping back.
“I know it feels like the entire world is too small to hold your hurt, and there’s no shame in crying. if you need to talk, I won’t mind listening.”
His tongue darts out and he licks his lips and then bites the lower one. They’re very swollen still. My fists curl in on themselves itching for a chance to punch those boys square in their stupid, smug faces.
“Have you lost someone?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“Last night, you said something that made me think maybe you lost someone, too,” he elaborates. “Why are you looking like that?” he asks when I just gape at him.
“Just that, I thought you’da been too busy scheming to have heard anything I said.”
He rolls his eyes again, but an embarrassed blush colors his cheeks and a shy smile dances on the corners of his cherub’s mouth. I chuckle, utterly charmed by him. He’s guileless and brave, but he needs someone looking out for him. “I did lose someone, a long time ago, yes.”
His gaze sharpens. “Who?”
“My dad.”
He nods absently as if he’s processing my answer. “And…you’re okay now?” His voice is innocent, but his expression intent, like my answer, is the most important thing in the world to him.
So, I answer with a candor I only share with a few people. “Most of the time…yes. Life goes on. But the first thing you have to decide is whether you’re going to let grief rule you or if you’re going to fight for every morsel of joy you can squeeze out of life.”
“I want to fight,” he says with a fierce light in his big eyes. “It’s better than being a chicken,” he challenges with an up tilt of his stubborn, surprisingly strong little chin.
I raise an eyebrow in response. “Not every battle is worth fighting. It takes courage to walk away from those, too.” I hold a finger up to stop whatever rebuttal he’s prepared.
“Just trust me on this one, okay?"I know you’re smarter than everyone else in this place, but there are some things only time can teach you.” I cringe inwardly at how much I sound like my mother.
He casts me a dubious glance and nibbles the corner of his lip, but his eyes don’t lose the gleam of determination. “Can I start tonight?”
Relief courses through me, relaxing the muscles I didn’t realize I was tensing. I don’t know why this matters so much. The smart and safe thing would be to let this all go. But it’s more than him paying for what he did. This child needs someone. And I’m compelled to be that person.
“Yup. At fifteen bucks an hour it’s gonna take you a while to earn it—"
“It’ll take approximately thirty-three hours. If I work 2 hours a night, we’ll be square in as few as 17 days.”
I blink in surprise. “How did you do that so fast?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “In my head, Captain Obvious.” He taps his temple.
“Very funny. The answer only seems obvious because you’re answering the wrong question.”
He shakes his head. “You asked me how I did it. That’s a very specific question. You should have asked how I did it so quickly. But seeing how I'm 10 years old and in high school, that’s got a pretty obvious answer, too.”
I open my mouth to retort and shut it again when I realize that he’s right.
His cheeky smile widens to a grin at my deepening scowl.
Outwitted, I scowl. “No one likes a know -it -all.”
I regret my quip when his eyes fall to his shoes and mutters a barely audible, “I know.”
What is it about this kid and the way he tugs heartstrings I didn’t know I had?
“No one, but me, that is,” I add in a voice devoid of sympathy. The unexpectedly joyous smile he beams up at me feels like a trophy. I smile back and ruffle his mop of dark brown hair. I catch a glimpse of the time on my wristwatch and start backing away.
“I’ll see you tonight. Come in by the front door. I got that back door fixed,” I inform him with a meaningful look before I turn to hurry back to my car.
“Uh, Regan?” he calls. I turn to find him running toward me.
“I didn’t tell you my name.” I raise an eyebrow in suspicion. He stops a few inches shy of bringing us toe to toe and gazes up at me with hopeful eyes.
“You didn’t have to. You’re exactly like everyone describes you.” He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose and clears his throat. His cheeks flush flame red and he drops his gaze to the ground.
“And how’s that?” I ask, not sure if I should be flattered or concerned that “everyone” is talking about me.
He shrugs, and looks up at me through his lashes, but his gaze is direct and intense light in them.
“That you don’t look like anyone they’ve ever seen… and really pretty.” He drops his gaze again and I’m grateful.
Heat rushes up my neck and floods my cheeks and I curse my sun starved skin as my embarrassment makes itself plain as day. I’ve heard myself described that way before and I don’t understand it. I have a twin. We’re not identical. But there is no doubt that we’re siblings. And, I look just like my mother. I clear my throat and “I have to go and you’re late for study hall, I’ll see you tonight.”
“Wait.” He grabs my arm to stop me from turning away. His head remains bowed and his grip on my hand tightens as if for moral support.
“Yes, what is it?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
“About the window. I was…” he rushes the words out and then comes to a sudden, stuttering stop. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, his hair sways with the baleful shake of his head that follows. “There’s no good reason for it. I’m just sorry.” Hope shines out of his remarkably clear hazel eyes. I put a hand on his shoulder and smile at him as wide as I can. “I forgive you. Thank you for apologizing.”
His frown is skeptical. “Your smile looks like you don't mean it.”
“I know. It’s just how my face is. I promise that all is forgiven. We’ve got a clean slate.”
I hold my hand out for him to shake.
He ignores it, takes a step forward and wraps his arms around my waist. His head comes just to the top of my torso. He rests it there and squeezes me tight.
It’s so sweet and sincere, and the unexpected warmth so welcome, that my embarrassment falls away and I return his embrace automatically, “You know that I came here to punish
you, right?” I ask when he doesn’t let go.
“You could have, I would have deserved it. But you’re helping me instead. Thank you, so much,” he says with his mouth pressed to my belly. I let him hold on for a minute more before I lean back, so I can look him in the eye.
Maybe Stone, just maybe, you deserve this, too.” I give him a wink and walk away.
Alchemy
Stone
“Hey, come in here for a few minutes,” Regan sticks her head through the door of the office she set up for me to work in. I glance at the clock in surprise. I’ve only been working for thirty minutes. But I put my pen down and close my notebook. “Oh, okay…Are you ready for me to start cleaning already?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Nope. I have a treat for you. Can you take a break?” Surprised, I look up at her and instantly forget what she asked me.
She’s so pretty. I know I shouldn’t even be thinking it, but I can’t help myself. She has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. Her lips may not be made to smile wide, but the way her eyes twinkle when she’s happy more than makes up for that.
“Well, can you?” she asks, when I don’t answer. I’ve still got at least an hour’s worth of work to do, but after this afternoon, I would do anything she asked me to.
“Yeah, I can. I just need to finish this equation. I just need a few more minutes?”
“Okay, see ya,” she calls as she disappears down the hall.
I glance at the now repaired back door and smile when I remember the first time I came to this bakery. Thankfully, for me anyway, a faulty lock wasn’t a high priority on anybody’s to - do list in places like Rivers Wilde.
This is a community that behaves the way a family should. And that includes trusting their neighbors to walk past a broken lock and not see it as an invitation.
But since my stepfather died, and my brother Hayes left to live with his aunt in Italy, I’ve been repeatedly reminded that in the eyes of most of the people I’ve called friends since I was three years old, I’m nothing close to family.
My mother is seen as the person who drove the much beloved and respected head of the Rivers Family, to an early grave. The Rivers family is without an official leader even though my Uncle Thomas is acting in his place. He can barely manage his own life, much less an entire empire.
It threw Houston’s philanthropic community into a tailspin and created enough uncertainty to send the Rivers family’s business, Kingdom, stock value into free fall.
Fortunes have been lost or greatly reduced in the last few weeks, and my mother is viewed as the person who knocked over the first domino.
I came back to campus after the funeral and learned the hard way that being her son, too small, and way too smart for my age, was a triple curse.
Life at Blackwell turned into a game of survival. During the day, I had to be on constant alert for pranks and traps my bullies set. I couldn’t focus enough to study. I got a C on the first exam I took after the funeral and it scared the hell out of me.
The school had been hesitant to admit a student as young as me. Despite my test scores and performance on the assessments they gave me, it took funding the library’s endowment and my stepfather’s clout to convince them. With him gone, I'm afraid they’ll kick me out of here so fast, my head will spin.
I can’t afford to let that happen. Not just for my sake. But for my two younger brothers as well. I’m the only responsible person in their lives now. My mother will ruin them, just like she ruins everything else she touches. The sooner I graduate, the sooner I can take care of them. When I walk into the kitchen, she’s sitting at the counter with a plate full of biscuits and two glasses of milk in front of her.
“Come on, sit down. I want you to try these. I created the recipe myself.”
“Okay...” I wasn’t expecting her to feed me, but I’m glad. I’m too busy watching my back to actually eat anything at mealtime.
Most of the kids come back to school with care packages or get them regularly from home. I don’t have anything like that, and I usually go to bed hungry. I sit down and pick up one of the tender, golden biscuit looking things and examine it.
“Looks weird. What is it?”
“It’s a scone.” She says scone like she’s saying diamond.
I frown at her. “Looks like a biscuit.”
She presses a finger to my lips, her eyes wide with alarm “Hush, before you hurt its feelings. Taste what it’s made of, then you’ll know why it’s special.”
I cast her a skeptical look but bite the biscuit thing before she starts talking about it like it's a human being again. It’s as light as air, and practically melts on my tongue. I groan, my eyes roll heavenward. The butter, ginger, lemon and sugar are like biting into sunshine.
“I knoooow,” she croons.
I nearly choke on my biscuit. She’s smiling wide, even though she’d said she couldn’t. But yesterday when I said it, she looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. So, I keep the thought to myself and take another bite of scone, intending to play it cool this time.
But I can’t.
It’s just too delicious.
“These flavors together -this is alchemy,” I exclaim and then bite my tongue. I know how my vocabulary annoys people.
Her eyebrows raise up and she smiles down at me, something like pride shining in her eyes.
“Alchemy? That’s a great word. How does it feel to be so incredibly smart?”
My stomach knots and I don’t want to talk about this, not with her. I shrug. “I’m only kinda smart, but mainly I read a whole lot.”
She smiles “I know you don’t think it’s great now but when you’re older, you’ll be so glad--”
“Yeah, obviously.” I hate how people seem to like telling how much I’ll love being me when I’m an adult. But that doesn’t make it feel better right now. I want to be normal.
Embarrassed by attention and not wanting to say anything else, I grab the glass of milk and wash down the rest of the scone.
She hops off the stool she’s perched on and walks over to the huge cabinet and starts taking out bowls and baking sheets. “It’s not so bad to be misunderstood and ahead of your time …Jesus, Jane Austen, Malcolm X, Winnie Mandela - they were all revolutionaries who were ahead of their time. People thought they were weird, chased them, teased them, rejected them. But they didn’t stop. And neither will you.”
“I won’t?” I ask absently. I’m mesmerized by the economy and precision of her movements as she lays out her tools.
She gathers up her long, straight dark hair and ties it up on top of her head in a huge bun.
“Nope. Because we can’t stop being ourselves. Just because you’re not like everyone else, doesn’t mean there’s a single thing wrong with you. You’re perfectly made.”
I can’t speak around the tears clogging my throat, my heart feels too big for my chest. No one has ever spoken to me like this.
“Okay, you go to do your homework while I get to work. I’ll have tons of clean up for you by the time you’re done.” She points me in the direction of a dark corridor but doesn’t even spare me a glance as she dons her crisp white apron and gets to work.
“Are you sure you don’t mind me being here?”
She shakes her head, her bun bobs as she ties the strings around her waist. “After living with my two brothers, hanging with boys is my forte. You couldn’t possibly annoy me half as much as they do.”
She cocks her head to look at me, that half smile on her pretty mouth, and my stomach feels weird, like I’m on the Texas Cyclone at Six Flags. I’m afraid that I’m gonna fall off the stool, so I stand up and grab the counter. “Give it a couple of days. My mother says I could try a saint,” I warn her.
“Well…I’m made of sterner stuff than some old saint. Besides, you’re like me…a giver. And I’ve heard it said somewhere, that when two givers get together, it’s like…alchemy.” Her eyes twinkle and this body that's always felt too small for the s
oul inside it, relaxes and I draw in a deep lungful of air. And then she says the words that, later on, I’ll recall as the ones that made my heart hers forever. “I water you, you water me. Together, we’re going to grow.”
“You did good. Cleaning up my colossal messes just might be your calling.” It’s a few minutes past midnight and Regan just locked up the store.
“As if it takes any talent to wash dishes,” I grumble, glad the dark is hiding the blush that blooms at her praise.
She nudges my shoulder as we make our way down the main street of Rivers Wilde. “I don’t know if it takes talent, but it certainly takes determination to scrub every last burned-on crumb off those cookie sheets. I used to think spotless baking pans were the sign of a dispassionate baker. Now, I’ll think of them as fruits of a committed dishwasher’s labor.”
We walk in silence the rest of the way to her blue Mustang and she pops the trunk for me to drop my BMX inside the surprisingly roomy compartment. When she starts the car, music blares from the speakers so loud that it rattles the windows. She winces and turns the volume down to just above audible.
“Sorry, I listen to it like that when I’m alone.”
“It’s cool,” I shrug and stare out into the night, still lost in my thoughts as we make our way toward the exit of Rivers Wilde.
She didn’t go easy on me tonight. She gave me all the work she would have done if I wasn’t there. And I loved every minute of it.
I’d never washed a dish in my life before – I’ve been missing out. It feels good to see that sparkling, empty sink after it was with dirty whisks, mixing bowls and measuring spoons.
In fact, the whole night was nice. Everyone else treats my enjoyment of hard work as a flaw. “Chill, kid,” or some variation of that sentiment is a common refrain from my brothers, parents and teachers.
“I failed second grade.” Her unexpected statement draws my eyes to her. She’s got her eyes on the road, but her jaw flexes in sync with her hands’ grip on the steering wheel.
