Still, it didn’t stop me from dialing my mom on my way to the rec center, just to say hi.
“Norm, come out here. You have to see this!” My heart was beating double time as I propped open the front door and called for my new supervisor. There might not be fences with razor wire, but this still wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where you left your keys in your car . . . or a giant box of brand-new laptops unattended for too long.
Norm rushed from his office, his face flushed and blotchy, and his eyes bulging. “What is it? Where’s the fire?”
“Hurry!” I nodded toward the parking lot. “No fire, but you won’t believe what just happened.”
And if he had any sense, he shouldn’t. But it didn’t stop me from praying I could pull this off. My acting skills were about to be put to the test, and if I played my part right, this performance would be Oscar-worthy.
By the time he reached me, he was sweating. I worried that if that brief burst of exercise had been such a strain, then what I was about to do might cause his heart to actually explode. It didn’t matter though. The kids needed these computers.
“Check it out,” I told him, grabbing his arm and towing him along. “I was just getting out of my car when some guy pulled into the lot and dropped these off.” We reached my car, where I’d unloaded the box I’d meticulously packed the night before. Inside were ten laptops, loaded with the latest and greatest in hardware and software. Not only would I teach these kids the fundamentals of computers, I hoped to introduce them to skills like coding and Web developing. I intended to give them the skills to surpass their peers.
Basically, I wanted to turn them into full-blown cybergeeks.
Norm looked into the box and then back at me. I tried to decide if I saw any trace of suspicion, but after several long seconds, his mouth went slack. “So this guy, he just . . . dropped them off?”
“Look!” I gasped dramatically. “There’s a note!”
He fumbled for the envelope and ripped it open. I waited while he read it, not needing to see it to know what it said:
To Whom It May Concern:
I’ve recently had a run of luck and wanted to pay my good fortune forward. Please accept this donation to your organization. I hope these computers help to teach many children the skills they need in this ever-changing world we live in.
Signed,
Anonymous
I had to force myself not to mouth along with the words as Norm read it again to the staff members inside, even as he took credit for finding the box himself.
I didn’t care about any of that. All I cared about was that the kids would have the computers they deserved.
It took several hours to get the laptops all up and running, but I enlisted my class—all but the one who hadn’t bothered to show up again this morning—for help. Apparently I hadn’t been as disappointing as I’d thought.
I walked them through the steps of unpacking the computers and booting them up, one at a time. And while we did that, I memorized each of their names. I talked Norm into giving me the passwords to the wireless routers they used at the center for their main computers, and while we waited for each computer to connect, I made different connections, getting to know more about my new students.
I knew that Walker, the boy who’d been wearing the tattered blue jeans the day before, lived with his grandmother. That’s what he’d told me, almost in the same breath he’d admitted that his mom had been in jail since he was a baby and he’s never known his dad. It was one of those moments when I realized that what I was doing was bigger than just teaching some kids how to point and click.
I knew that Annalisa was only thirteen, but had already lived in seven foster homes. She liked the one she was in now. They had two other foster children and another girl they’d officially adopted a couple years ago. They were good to her, she said, and she had her own bedroom. She didn’t say as much, but I got the feeling she hoped they would adopt her too, so she could stop moving from place to place.
I didn’t blame her. I sort of wished they would too.
It was amazing to watch these kids progress, even in only one afternoon. At first everything I said to them was gibberish. But after just a few hours it started to sink it. These were smart kids who’d never really been given a chance. I could hardly imagine how much more I could teach them.
This was the real reason I’d left Arizona. This was how I’d use the skills I’d learned by running my Web operation. Now it would serve a purpose.
This, right here with these kids . . . this, I was proud of. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere.
LAUREN
Emerson knocked on my bedroom door, but didn’t bother waiting for an answer before she peeked inside. “Lo?” she loud-whispered into the dark.
I would have played possum but it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. Em had a poor grasp on the whole “boundaries” thing. Knocking was just her way of pretending to go along with social norms. “I know you’re awake. That’s the fakest snore I’ve ever heard,” she said, not even bothering to whisper this time, and I remembered that other thing, the one where Emerson could also tell when someone was trying to blow her off.
“You would know. You’re the house expert on snoring.”
“Dang. Kitty got claws.”
I rolled onto my back and sighed. “So, I guess what you’re trying to tell me is I wasn’t really tired?” I said it like a question, as if Em knew me better than I did.
“Not anymore,” she informed me. “Only senior citizens and farmers go to bed this early, and last I checked we’re not in Kansas anymore. Besides, this came for you.” She held up a dress—my boho dress, to be precise—wrapped in clear plastic, fresh from the dry cleaner. “Will dropped it off . . .” Her words faded at the end, like she was reluctant to say that last part.
I shot upright. “Is he still here?”
She shook her head. “No. He just said sorry it took so long to return, and then he bounced.” She hung the dress on the back of my door, and eased down next to me, making my bed dip drastically.
I thought maybe she was waiting for me to say something, but I couldn’t. I’d been waiting to see Will, hoping to run into him, and at the same time kind of hoping I wouldn’t because what would I even say if I did? That I was sorry for thinking he was a big, fat jerk, and for announcing as much to everyone within earshot? That I knew now what a good guy he really was, coming home like he had to take care of his sister, even after his dreams had been crushed?
Or the real truth? That I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and I wanted him to do things to me that I’d never let any other guy do before?
For just a fleeting moment, my heart had soared at the possibility that the dress had been some sort of white flag, a chance for me to call a truce between us. But I’d been wrong. He was polite, that’s all. The fact that he’d left right away proved he had no interest in seeing me.
“Lauren,” Em said, her hands folding around mine. “It’s been two weeks. You have to stop moping around. Lucas told me what you thought . . . about Will’s sister.”
I looked up and met her eyes, and wondered why she hadn’t said anything before. “I’m not moping.”
“Yeah, you are. You go to that sad-kids center all day long, and then you come back here and go straight to your room. We barely talk anymore. We never do anything. You’re acting like an old woman.”
Old Lauren would’ve defended the kids at the center, telling her they weren’t “sad,” they were just underprivileged. I might even have tried to convince Emerson it might do her some good to come down and meet them. Give back a little herself.
Instead, I grimaced because she’d hit the nail on the head with her play-by-play of my daily routine. I thought I’d done a better job hiding how pathetic I’d become, but clearly I was delusional. The center had become my only social life, which made me the sad one considering my circle of friends consisted of a bunch of elementary, middle, and high schoolers who sat ar
ound learning the ins and outs of Google and Excel all day.
“Or a farmer,” I added with a wry grin.
“Or that.” She scowled at me. “This is so not funny. I’m being serious here. I get it, your feelings are hurt. Well, guess what? That’s life. Everyone goes through this shit, and everyone survives it.” She tapped the imaginary wristwatch on her arm. “I’ve given you two whole weeks, and now it’s time to get your shit together.”
I sighed, hard. “Get my shit together and do what?”
Emerson sighed too, a long, languorous sound as she stretched out on the narrow twin bed, tucking her arms behind her head. “And do whomever you want. Preferably someone superhot.”
Okay, so it wasn’t so much a who I wanted to do, as a what that I finally landed on to make myself feel better.
I’d come all this way with the dream of learning to swim, which I’d already scrapped right out of the gate, namely because I was a terrible—or rather, a non-swimmer.
But that was the thing; I didn’t have to be a non-swimmer. I might not be gold-medal material, but I could still do the whole swimming thing. And I didn’t need Will or Zane to make it happen.
Turns out, finding someone to give me swim lessons in Southern California wasn’t all that hard and I had a new instructor within the week. She wasn’t as easy on the eyes as Will, but she was patient when I was hesitant and definitely knew her stuff. And after several lessons and a whole lotta practice, I was actually able to make it from one end of the pool to the other. No small feat for someone like me, who, in the beginning looked like I was assaulting the water rather then trying to swim in it.
After my lesson one night, I decided to swing by the center on my way home. There was always something happening there, even if it was just a teen movie or game night.
When I got there, the kids were all gathered in the Commons watching some singing competition on TV. The Commons was perfect for parties or movie nights, with a giant flat-panel TV—definitely from this century and likely a gift from some fancy donor, judging by the run-down state of the rest of the furniture the kids were gathered around on.
“Hey, Lauren!” Walker called when he saw me come in.
I nodded to him and grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the back counter while I leaned against the wall to check out a few minutes of the show they were all so engrossed in. It was one of those competitions where singers compete for a massive payout and a huge contract with a record label—a rags-to-riches kind of gig.
Then one of those commercials came on, the kind for an animal rescue organization. I’d seen them before, hundreds of times. They were the ones that showcased haunting images of abused and neglected animals, while a singer belts out moving lyrics, the whole thing orchestrated to tug at your heartstrings. And they do. I’ve always had a hard time watching them.
But for some reason, this time . . .
It was a million times worse because it sparked a memory of something else. Of someone else.
Jefferson Brandt.
He’d been on my doorstep that night when I’d been coming home from the coffee shop, where I’d been transferring money from my “work” account to my personal one. I was always so cautious, or at least I thought I had been, careful to keep those two worlds as far apart as possible.
Yet, here was this guy, standing in front of the tiny two-bedroom apartment Em and I shared off campus.
He easily could have passed as one of the professors from the university—threads of gray making an appearance along his temples, inquisitive hazel eyes, rumpled khakis. Even the messenger bag he carried could have been filled with ungraded papers or textbooks.
But he wasn’t a professor. And before I could ask him what he was there for . . . what he wanted, he said, “Just one dance. I’ll make it worth your while.”
He shouldn’t be here, my mind screamed as my heart lodged in my throat.
Looking back, I should have realized how sad he’d been. How desperate. But all I’d really thought was, Someone might hear him.
“No!” My voice was strangled as I insisted he go. I’d shoved him, looking around to make sure no one saw.
“Please,” he’d begged.
That’s what I remembered most. That every word out of his mouth was fractured. Broken.
“I have money.” And he’d shown me. A lot of it. He’d shoved the messenger bag toward me. “Fifty thousand.” The bag hadn’t been that big. I would have expected fifty thousand dollars to be . . . more substantial.
There’d been this tiny part of me that, maybe . . . for a second, had considered his request. It was a lot of money.
But . . . no. A webcam was one thing—detached. What he was asking was real life.
I couldn’t. No way. Once I crossed that line, there was no uncrossing it.
When I’d refused to take the bag, he dropped it in front of me. It landed with a heavy thud. “Please,” he’d asked again—more begging. “Just this one night. Just this one dance.”
“No.” It had come out harsh. “You have to get out of here. And don’t ever, ever come back.” My heart hadn’t stopped pounding, I remembered that too. How scared I’d been. How totally freaked out, because somewhere along the way I must have fucked up, must have missed something in my attempts to be safe.
If this guy had tracked me down, how many others could do the same?
How long would it be before my little Internet operation was blown wide open? Before it wasn’t just some harmless creeper on my doorstep, but someone dangerous. Someone who wanted more than just a dance.
Or worse. What if my parents found out?
“Please. If you need more, I can get it.” His voice had this frayed quality that tugged at me, but maybe that was only in hindsight.
I’d looked at his face—his eyes had been drawn, and his skin slack and gray. It had almost been like he wasn’t there at all. Like he’d already checked out. I kicked his bag. “I mean it, get the hell out of here.” And then I’d jammed my key in the lock and disappeared inside.
Finals had just wrapped up and Em had been gone home to Dallas that weekend to make last minute arrangements with her parents for graduation. So I’d been alone, and I’d locked myself inside and hadn’t gone back out again. I had no idea if he’d taken off the way I’d told him to.
Looking back now, it hardly mattered that my hands had been shaking so badly I could barely hold the key, or that I hadn’t been able to sleep that night, or the next, or even the one after that.
Or that I’d taken down my website and never stripped again.
All that mattered was that the bag was still sitting there when I’d opened my door the next morning. How had no one wandered by and discovered it? How had all that cash not been stolen?
But it hadn’t been, the entire fifty thousand was there. I knew because I’d been curious enough to count it, my hands shaking all over again. And inside, at the bottom of rolled bills, was a note, just like the one I’d left for Norm at the rec center, only much, much shorter.
Keep it, the note had read.
That’s it, just: Keep it.
I’d been tempted, because yeah, why look a gift horse in the mouth? But the answer was: Because it wasn’t mine.
So I’d decided to track the guy down and give it back to him. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I pretended he wouldn’t miss it.
Except the universe had laughed in my face over that one. No good deed, and all that crap.
I never had the chance to return the fat wads of cash to their rightful owner, because that owner—the guy who’d stood on my doorstep the night before, begging—begging!—me for just one dance, for me to maybe just spend a few minutes with him—had killed himself. Right after he’d left my place.
How was that for karma? The guy had blown his brains out and I was stuck with a bag of money for a job he’d wanted me to do during his time of need. One I’d turned him down for.
Maybe if I’d have said yes . . .
Maybe
if I’d given him the dance . . . chatted with him . . . gotten to know his name before I’d seen it on the news . . .
And that was the kicker. That’s how I found out he was dead, because it made the news. Most suicides didn’t. But this guy . . . he’d been worth a fortune.
A loner, without a single close friend or family member he trusted to will his fortune to. So instead, he’d left millions to his local animal shelter.
Newsworthy stuff.
Especially once his long-lost relatives starting trickling out of the woodwork, trying to pick his estate apart. Demanding investigations into his death to prove he was mentally unstable when he wrote his will. Trying to get their piece of the pie.
It was the last thing I needed—the cops prying into Jefferson Brandt’s financial affairs.
So not only was I carrying the burden of this guy’s death, along with the fifty grand he’d dumped on my doorstep, but now I had a hard time watching one of these abused-animal ads, without picturing that tortured look on Jefferson Brandt’s face all over again.
Now I was the one who felt tortured.
Suddenly, the cookie I’d just eaten was finding its way back up my throat. I raced for the restroom, and when I got there, I clung to the toilet until I’d retched up every last bite I’d eaten for the past twenty-four hours. Maybe for the past month. When I was finished, I didn’t go back out to the Commons, I went to my computer classroom instead, so I could have a few minutes alone.
I leaned my cheek against one of the cheap Formica tabletops as I waited for the confusion and guilt and memories to pass.
I wished I could stop thinking about Jefferson Brandt. I wished I could have stopped him, or at least stop feeling responsible for his death. It would have been easier if he hadn’t left all that money on my doorstep.
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