Paige Torn

by Erynn Mangum

  “I don’t know about you, but I prefer homes where I feel like a kid could be allowed to make messes. It’s important for kids to make messes,” she told me afterward while she leaned against my desk eating a celery stick.

  Candace is one of those women who isn’t necessarily skinny but isn’t necessarily overweight either. Which means she is also one of those women who goes on a diet about twenty-three times a year.

  Or anytime she needs to fit into what she calls her “wear-all” dress.

  “If I’ve got a funeral, it’s appropriate. If I’ve got a wedding, it’s appropriate. Need a dress for a baby shower?” she told me another time. “Got it. It’s like the million-wear dress.”

  Candace always makes me laugh.

  I set my purse under the desk and turn on the computer. The message light is blinking, and I pull over the voice-mail message book to start writing them down.

  “Yeah, hi, my name is Flynn Anderson, I’m with Office Plus. Just calling to see if there is a good time today to swing by and check out your copier. Give me a call.” He rattles off his number, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Finally.

  A few messages are for Mark, several are for Peggy, and Candace got one from a former client about her child’s upcoming birthday party.

  I call the copier guy back as soon as I finish getting all the messages. A man answers on the third ring. “This is Flynn.”

  I bite my lip, trying to get the image of the lead male character from Tangled out of my head. “Hi, Flynn. My name’s Paige Alder. I work at Lawman Adoption Agency, and you called us earlier this morning?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I’ve got a report here that says you need a technician to come look at your copier.”

  “Yes, please.” Like two weeks ago, but I don’t complain and I try to keep my voice sweet. My grandmother always told me you could attract more bees with honey than with vinegar. Considering I was six, it was no wonder I smelled like dill pickles for the rest of the summer.

  I hate bees.

  “All righty, ma’am. I’m on my way to another job, but it shouldn’t take too long. Can I be there around three or four?”

  I look at the clock. It is barely nine. Suddenly, I understand a little better why it has taken them two weeks to get back to me if a six-hour job is considered a short one.

  “Uh, sure,” I say.

  “Great. I’ll see you this afternoon, Paige.”

  I hang up and spend the rest of the day answering the phone and getting all of the information we need to do paychecks on Friday. We get paid the first and third Fridays of every month. This week is the third week in January, and I always hate doing paychecks for the third week because it is depressing to think this is the last time I am getting paid this month.

  I rip open my salad bag at noon and Peggy comes down the hall, holding a fresh-from-the-microwave Lean Cuisine. “Need to work through lunch?” she asks me.

  I shake my head. I got the time cards all put into the program, and I almost have the checks ready for Mark to sign.

  Mark does everything old school. There are ways to give each person an account on their own computer that will track when they get in and when they leave, but Mark still wants handwritten time cards. Except for him and Peggy. Both of them are on salary. Mark keeps wanting to put Candace and me on salary, but I think that’s just another way of asking us to be here longer without getting paid for it.

  And Candace agrees, so I don’t feel completely bad about it.

  “No, I was just going to read some blogs.” I have an idea for the head table at Layla’s party, and I think I remember seeing something similar to it on one of the blogs I read last night.

  “Well, Candace and I are going to eat at the back table if you want to join us.” Peggy smiles.

  I pick up my bag of salad and my fork and follow Peggy down the hall. The blogs can wait until later. The back table is in the playroom. It’s a place where kids can hang out while their parents are in meetings with Peggy, Candace, or Mark. All adoptions require many hours of evaluations, so if you already have kids, it gets expensive fast to hire a babysitter for all those hours. Or if the adoption is for an older child, it’s where Candace can do their counseling session.

  But the playroom only adds to Layla’s confusion about my job. She came by for lunch one day when Peggy was meeting with a couple who adopted two kids previously through our agency. The kids were busy playing, and Layla walked in and told them she hoped we found them a nice family someday.

  I think the kids were almost as confused as Layla.

  Candace is already sitting at the table with a container of celery sticks, carrot sticks, and cucumber slices. And she has a smaller dish with peanut butter next to it.

  “What’s the occasion this time?” I nod to her

  vegetation.

  “My niece is getting married.”

  “The one who just had a baby?” Peggy asks.

  Candace shakes her head, mouth filled with cucumber. “No, different niece.”

  “Oh! The one who just backpacked across Europe?” I ask.

  Candace shakes her head again. “Nope. Still a different niece.”

  “Which one is this, then?” I ask.

  “She’s the one who wants to be an interior designer,” Candace says.

  I can’t remember any stories about her. Judging by the look on Peggy’s face, she can’t either. “Is she the one who adopted that Lab puppy without talking to her parents?”

  Candace sighs at Peggy’s question. “No, still a different one. My brother really obeyed that command God gave Adam and Noah, huh?”

  “Which one?” Peggy asks.

  “You know. He leaved, cleaved, and reproduced. Go forth and multiply? Replenish the earth?” Candace says, waving her hand around.

  I grin.

  Peggy shrugs. “My husband just tells me to replenish the earth whenever I forget to run the sprinklers before I leave for work.” She looks up at Candace with a frown. “And is leaved a word?”

  Candace shrugs. “I don’t know. It rhymed.”

  Peggy looks over at me. “So, when are you going to do that?”

  “Rhyme?” I finish chewing my bite of salad. “I rhymed earlier today. I told Mark I was going to have to learn how to fix our website before someone came and buy-ent his clients.”

  Both women just look at me.

  I sigh. “And he had about the same reaction.”

  “Not rhyme,” Peggy says. “Because you should definitely never do that again. No, when are you going to get married?”

  Here we go again. How is it that every time the M-word comes up, everyone has to swarm the one single person in the room and demand when it will be her turn?

  I roll a shoulder. “I’m nowhere near ready. And good grief, you guys. I’m twenty-two.”

  Peggy concedes. “True.”

  Candace doesn’t. “You are almost twenty-three.” She rolls her eyes. “I was nineteen when I got married. Bob was twenty. We look like elementary school kids in our wedding pictures. I’m pretty sure he didn’t have to shave every day until we’d been married for over six years.”

  I laugh.

  “I’m pretty sure you haven’t dated anyone seriously in about two years either,” Peggy says offhandedly, chewing a bite of some sort of Asian chicken.

  “Nope, she hasn’t,” Candace agrees. “Not since Luke.”

  Luke. There is someone I haven’t thought of in a while.

  My chest gets all tight just thinking about his name, and there is probably a good reason I haven’t thought of him in a while. Luke is tall, he is smart, and he has these chocolate brown eyes that made me follow him around like a lost puppy way back in the fifth grade.

  Luke is also Layla’s older brother.

  There is a sad, convoluted story behind that one. Not one I necessarily want to relive today. Luke moved to California two years ago, and after he moved, Layla and I slipped into this unspoken rule about never mentioning him
.

  I am better off without him.

  I am.

  * * * * *

  This time I go straight to youth group from work so I can attend the leaders’ meeting Rick enforced. He even texted me a reminder this afternoon while I was watching Flynn Anderson — who had no similarity to Flynn Rider from Tangled — wrestle with our copier.

  It was fairly entertaining. Candace even came out of her office to watch for a few minutes.

  “It’s like watching that show on the Discovery Channel,” she whispered to me at one point as Flynn grunted loudly and flipped the copier over on its side. The copier groaned.

  “What show?” I whispered back.

  “Hog Brawl? Swine Struggle? Pig Grappling?” She shrugged. “I actually don’t remember. I wasn’t really watching it. Bob was while I checked my e-mail. He watches the weirdest shows.”

  I grinned and looked down at the text Rick sent.

  LEADERS MEETING. 5:30. TARDINESS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED AND LATECOMERS WILL BE SHOT ON ARRIVAL.

  Two years ago, Rick somehow managed to get a marshmallow gun from one of the junior high kids for Christmas, and it is his most prized possession. I have definitely seen him walking around the church with the bright-red gun holstered to his hip on more than one occasion.

  I swear that some men just never grow up.

  So, I make sure I am there plenty early for the meeting. As much as I like getting shot in the head with a marshmallow, I can think of a few other things that are more fun.

  Like not getting shot in the head with a marshmallow.

  Rick and Trisha, the leader of the junior and senior girls, are in the high school room when I walk in. “Hey, Paige,” Rick says. He is sitting backward on a folding chair, arms over the top of it, dangling his marshmallow gun by the trigger. He looks at his watch. “It’s 5:23,” he announces.

  “You’ll notice I am still in my work clothes.” I point to my dress, leggings, and boots. You have to take advantage of semicold weather when you get it in Dallas and wear leggings and boots whenever slightly possible.

  The dress, however, will make it hard to sit cross-legged on the floor like I usually do while teaching my small group. I grab a folding chair for myself and set it up beside Trisha.

  “And you look very office professional, casual, whatever the current thing to look like is,” Rick says.

  Sam Kelson, the leader of the junior and senior guys, walks in then. Sam is probably about thirty or thirty-five, married, and has the cutest little two-year-old twin girls I’ve ever seen.

  “It’s 5:27,” Rick tells him when he walks in.

  “Not only on time but early.” Sam drags a folding chair over for himself. He sits down and waves at me and Trisha. “Evening, ladies.”

  “Hi, Sam.”

  “Hey, Sam.”

  Julie, who leads the sophomore girls, and Trevor, who leads the sophomore guys, come in next. Julie and Trevor have been married for a few years but still act like they are newlyweds. Maybe because they don’t have any kids. Whatever the reason, they dangle somewhere between very cute and gag-inducing.

  “Hi, everyone,” Julie singsongs when she walks in.

  “Hey, guys.” Trevor waves with the hand not holding Julie’s.

  “It’s 5:29,” Rick says. “I should give you a single shot just for shaving it so close, but I will refrain.”

  Julie rolls her eyes while Trevor gets them both chairs. “Whatever. We are clearly within the time frame you gave us.”

  Rick is just staring at his watch now, his finger tightening on the trigger as excitement over Tyler’s lateness starts to set in. “He’s so going to be late,” Rick says under his breath. “And, three … two … one …” He looks up at us, grinning. “Happy marshmallow time, everyone.”

  I immediately stand, pick up my chair from where I am sitting sort of near the door, and move to the far side of the room by Sam. Rick is not the best shot in the world.

  “Wimp,” Rick mutters. He lays his arms across the back of his chair, sets his right wrist on top of his left arm, and takes aim at the open doorway, peering through the sighting with one eye closed.

  Tyler comes walking in at 5:32. “Hey, guys, I’m — ”

  “Tardy!” Rick opens fire.

  “Augh!” Tyler covers his head with his arms and launches himself into the room.

  He lands sort of near my feet, and I look up at Sam, who is shaking his head. Tyler army crawls over to the stack of folding chairs, grabs one off the stack, and scurries around behind it while a stream of miniature pastel-colored marshmallows plasters him in the head, neck, and back.

  “Uncle! Uncle!” Tyler yells.

  Rick ceases fire. “Lateness will not be tolerated,” he says in a very serious voice.

  I bite my lip hard to keep from snorting.

  Tyler stands, unfolding the chair and brushing marshmallows out of his ears, collar, and shirt. “Dude, these are like rock hard. When did you buy them? Three years ago?”

  “Stale ones are the best to use.” Rick shrugs. “Leaves more of a sting than just a squish. Okay. Let’s pray.”

  I can’t help it. I start laughing right at the same time as Trisha. Tyler is grinning, and Julie and Trevor exchange lovey laughs with each other.

  Rick salutes. “Welcome to the youth ministry, Tyler.”

  Later that night, after small groups, I am once again trying to make up for the lack of dinner by scrounging around the snack table. Someone brought some type of caramel-apple bars, and there is a bag of pita chips I guess the kids deemed too healthy.

  I pour some into a bowl and set a caramel-apple bar on a napkin.

  “Hey,” Tyler says, coming over.

  “Hi, Tyler. Sorry about the marshmallows.”

  He shrugs, grinning. “It is kind of fun, actually. I might have to be late again next week and bring my own gun so at least it’s a fair fight.”

  “You have a marshmallow gun?” I ask.

  “Sure. Doesn’t everyone?” He reaches around me and grabs a pita chip. “I had to stop and get something for dinner and change clothes before I came tonight. I had a good excuse.”

  I point to my dress, which forced me to sit in one of those little Sunday school chairs only meant for a child younger than four. “I didn’t have time to go change. And this is my dinner.” I eat another pita chip.

  Tyler shakes his head. “Pita chips are not dinner. They’re a snack. And not even a good one at that.”

  I wave my caramel-apple bar in his face. “Well, this is my snack tonight.”

  He sighs. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” I ask, crunching another chip.

  “I’m taking you to dinner. This is ridiculous.”

  I shake my head. I have to go home as soon as I’m done eating the pita chips and start planning my lesson for Sunday. If I don’t do it tonight, I won’t have time the rest of this week. I am meeting Nichole, the girl whose parents are divorced, tomorrow right after work and then Layla right after her. And Friday night, Geraldine, our church’s secretary, called me and asked if I could help with childcare for a dinner the church is putting on for families who live under the poverty level.

  I’m pretty sure if I’d said no to that, I would have been labeled “Scrooge” for the rest of my life.

  “I have to go plan my Sunday school lesson,” I tell Tyler.

  He looks at me. “What age do you teach?”

  “Two-year-olds.”

  “Do you like it?”

  Kind of a weird question. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “Should I not?”

  He shrugs again. “I’m sure it’s fun. You stay pretty busy, don’t you, Paige?”

  I think about it. I didn’t used to be this busy, even just a few months ago. Maybe things are busy right now, but I’m sure they will calm down before too long. “Yeah, I guess so,” I say.

  “How long does it take you to write a lesson plan?”

  “I don’t know. An hour or so?”

&
nbsp; He looks at his watch. “It’s eight o’clock. If I have you home by nine, you can work on it until ten and still have most of your evening left.”

  I think about it, looking at my pita chips. On the one hand, they aren’t super filling. On the other hand, they have to be healthier and are definitely less expensive than eating out.

  Like I said, I’ve blown that budget until March.

  “I’m buying,” Tyler says.

  I purse my lips and then look up at him and nod. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”

  He grins at me. “Cracker Barrel? It’s open late and they have cobbler.”

  I laugh. “Fine.”

  I follow Tyler to Cracker Barrel, and he holds the door for me as we walk in. I inhale deeply and smell bacon.

  That is why this restaurant has done so well. Any place that pumps the smell of bacon into the entrance is destined to be a success.

  “Good evening. Two tonight?” the hostess asks once we make our way through the country store part of the restaurant.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tyler says.

  “Right this way.”

  She leads us over to a table near the windows and sets our silverware wrapped in napkins and our menus on the table. “Your server will be right with you.”

  Tyler waits until I sit down to seat himself, and I hide a smile. Polite. I like that.

  “So,” Tyler says, not even looking at the menu. “I know what I’m getting.”

  “Come here that often?”

  “Paige. They have cheesy potatoes. They have bacon all day long. And they serve root beer in a frosted glass.” He ticks the points off on his fingers. “I mean, if you could describe heaven, it wouldn’t be too different.”

  “Cheesy potatoes, bacon, and root beer,” I repeat, trying hard not to make a face. I am not being very successful at that, apparently, because Tyler grins at me.

  “Must be a dude thing.”

  “Why do you guys say that?”

  “Say what?” He unwraps his silverware and puts his napkin in his lap.

  “Dude. I mean, I hear the word like ninety times whenever I’m around Rick and the youth kids.”

  Tyler shrugs. “What would you prefer we say?”

  “The person’s name? ‘Hey, pal’?” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”