Breaking Rules

by Puckett, Tracie

  Back in town, it seemed as if Carla’s soup kitchen idea was a hit with the locals. And on the most positive note of all, Bailey had fit in, just like I knew she would. It was all because she stepped out of her comfort zone and tried something new.

  “We’ve served at least two hundred tonight,” Bailey whispered, looking out over the packed dining hall. There were dozens of families packed at the tables. “There hasn’t been a quiet moment since we got here.”

  “Lashell said that’s how it was at first at the Desden soup kitchen, too,” Fletcher cut in. “They’d serve hundreds a night for the first few weeks.”

  “And then it died down?” I asked.

  “Quite the opposite,” Lashell said, stepping around me to collect some dirty trays. “After word got out, we had to change locations altogether. The local church started filling to capacity. We had to turn people away.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Gabe made an executive decision to build from the ground up,” she said. “We constructed a soup kitchen to hold twice the number of the local church.”

  “And it’s been successful?”

  “For over a year,” Bailey said, and I guessed that this was a conversation that they’d had while I was out. My sister nudged me with her elbow and leaned closer, “That’s some guy you’ve got there, sis.”

  Fletcher and Carla perked up at Bailey’s comment, and I rolled my eyes, pretending I had no idea what she was talking about. I wasn’t entirely sure Gabe wanted the whole team to know that something had sparked between us.

  “Times are hard,” Fletcher said, shrugging a shoulder. “You always think you’ve got it bad, but you never realize how much worse others might have it. I never thought half the people I’ve seen here to tonight would need something like this.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of kids from school tonight,” Carla whispered, and Fletcher nodded as if that’s exactly what he’d been getting at. “I didn’t know we were surrounded by so many people who needed the help. It’s just nice to know we can do something for their families, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and then I looked at the busy dining hall for a second time.

  Carla had really done something great here, and if things continued over the next six weeks, I couldn’t imagine what kind of impact her soup kitchen would have on our community. She’d really outdone herself.

  The evening dragged on, slower and slower with each passing minute. Even at the hour of the lowest attendance, the dining tables were still three-quarters full.

  Every time the front doors opened or I caught the sight of a blue shirt coming through the kitchen, I perked up with hopes that it’d be Gabe. I knew he’d be thrilled at the turnout.

  But we closed up a little after eight with no word or sight of him.

  I tried to make excuses and wait around, hoping that he’d only lost track of time, but by eight fifteen, everyone else was already saying goodbye and pulling out of the parking lot. I asked Bailey if she’d mind hanging around a little bit longer, but she put a lot of emphasis on the words a little. After fifteen minutes of overtime, she lost her patience, took the keys, and settled herself in the driver’s seat of our car.

  I didn’t want to leave, but I knew that if Gabe hadn’t showed up by now, he wasn’t going to show up at all. So I followed my sister out and climbed in the passenger’s seat.

  The drive home was anything but silent; Bailey spent the entire drive going on and on about how much Fletcher flirted with her all evening, and she blushed every time she said his name. When I took the time to remind her of a little someone named Jones, she rolled her eyes and reminded me that she was simply taken, not dead. If it’s looking and not touching, then no one gets hurt, she’d snapped at me. I thought to argue otherwise, but I knew that nothing I could say would change her mind. And besides, if Bailey had had a good time volunteering, who was I to judge her for how she’d had fun? She may’ve had a few, flirtatious moments with someone who wasn’t her boyfriend, but at least she’d been doing something helpful and positive in the process. For my sister, progress was progress, no matter how small. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.

  “What’s on tap for the night?” Bailey asked, slinging her purse on the kitchen counter ten minutes later. “I was thinking we could head over to Maurine’s and meet Jones for a sundae or something. You up for that?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I have some research I need to get done, and I don’t think it’s smart to put it off any longer.”

  “Research for what?” she asked. “We have every class together, and we don’t have anything due.”

  “It’s for the article I’m writing for the Herald,” I said. “I finished the story this morning, but I want to make sure I haven’t missed anything important before I turn it in to Georgia tomorrow.”

  “Oh, so Gabe-research, then?” she asked, making kissy noises.

  “Goodbye, Bailey.” I turned back long enough to give her a mind your own business kind of look.

  Once curled in bed, I pulled my laptop on top of my sheets and waited for the computer to boot up. I focused all of my attention on digging up all the research I should’ve done a long time ago—and not research for the newspaper, either. I’d lied to Bailey when I’d told her that. It was just easier than telling her the truth. I’d already finished my article that morning before school. I turned it into Georgia with one day to spare, and I knew that it would be in perfect shape to run on Monday’s front page. That story didn’t require an ounce of last minute research or fact checking. But I still had stuff to dig up, and it didn’t take more than a simple Google search to find dozens of articles about the Desden native, philanthropist, and do-gooder, Gabriel Raddick.

  I pulled up each article, focusing with the kind of intensity and attention I knew they deserved.

  I was determined to find something about Gabe, something that I didn’t already know. He’d been generous enough to give me a little bit of insight here and there, but his past was still a huge mystery to me. After the way he’d acted on the street earlier, I was determined to learn something—anything. I wanted answers.

  Had he really been everything Jones had said—lonely, quiet, socially awkward? Did he have a family, and if so, why hadn’t he ever mentioned them? Why hadn’t they gone to his high school graduation? The closest he’d ever gotten to discussing his life outside of RI was when he’d told me that Lashell had been like a mother-figure to him, and even then, he’d remained pretty tight-lipped.

  I didn’t feel guilty for wondering. Gabe himself had been the one who told me to turn all of my questions into answers, and the only thing I was guilty of was being too afraid to ask him directly. He had the answers, but I wasn’t certain that he’d ever give them to me. If he was eager to talk, if he’d ever wanted to open up to me the way I’d opened up to him, he’d already had his opportunity out on the street. Something hurt him, and whatever it was had come on fast and strong. I recognized the look in his eyes, and I knew it was pain. I’d hugged him. I’d held him. I’d ask him to talk to me, but he turned away.

  Gabe had his chance to tell me, and he hadn’t said a word. He laughed it off with a joke, and he tried to hide the pain beneath the surface. The Internet, though, wouldn’t let me down. I knew I’d find everything I’d need to gain a better perspective on the man who’d weaseled his way into my heart.

  With one search, I got to work.

  “Do-Gooder Gabe Raddick gives back to local communities”

  “Local solider wins national philanthropy award”

  “An angel among men: Gabriel Raddick makes his mark”

  “Local communities see the impact of Raddick’s return”

  And those were only the first four results to pop up. The next few pages of results were littered with articles just like those, stories that praised Gabe for all the wonderful things he’d done during his short reign as the ‘angel among men.’ And most of the stories included a great picture of him posing with Lash
ell or some of the blue-shirt volunteers at various locations.

  The longer I searched, the harder it became for me to ignore just how much everyone loved Gabe; there wasn’t a single bit of negative light shed on him anywhere.

  When I sat staring at the screen, watching the cursor blink in the Google search bar, I vividly remembered the look on Gabe’s face as we sat at Shae’s and he’d asked how many bad yearbook pictures did you dig up? And then the genius idea hit me.

  If I wanted to find something on his past, I needed to stop searching his present. I needed to set my search back a few years.

  Gabriel Raddick + Desden High School + yearbook

  After scrolling past a few familiar article headlines, I found a link to the Desden High School yearbook directory. Clicking a few years back, I scrolled through hundreds of rows of black and white senior pictures. When I finally landed amongst the R’s, I stopped breathlessly as I read— Not Pictured: Gabriel Raddick. I went back another year, and I still couldn’t find anything. With no luck from his senior or junior years, I searched the year prior, and that’s when I hit the jackpot. The first of the R’s, and there he was—the tenth grade version of Gabe.

  His long, blond hair was a mop-top mess, haphazardly disheveled and falling just below his ears. His bony face was mostly hidden behind large, thick-framed glasses, and the dark circles under his eyes made him look as though he’d gone weeks without sleep. He didn’t smile, nor did he frown. Gabe was expressionless, and his pale eyes were hollow and void of any emotion. He looked empty, drained. Awful.

  If I thought Gabe looked homeless the first time I met him on Highway 6, then I didn’t even know how to describe the image in front of me. This person, this younger version of Gabe… it was someone I would’ve never known.

  If I’d met this guy five years ago, back when the photograph was taken, I would never believe that he’d grow up to be the man he’d become, and I suddenly understood Jones’s shock. It was like looking at a complete stranger.

  The more I studied the picture, the more I wanted to know about the boy looking back at me. I already knew how his life would pan out. I’d seen it in person; I’d read the articles. His future was destined to blossom into something beautiful and amazing. If that sophomore student only knew what he would make of himself, he might not have looked so lost and lonely. But what I really wanted to know, what my heart ached to learn, was what in the world happened to him to cause him to be so shut off, so distant, so broken. I could see it in his stare. Gabe had been lonely once, too, and that picture captured the loneliness.

  That look, that desperate hopelessness in his eyes, that was the same look he’d had out there on the street just a few hours ago.

  It wasn’t until I looked at the clock a while later that I realized I sat staring at the picture of Gabe for a long time—an hour, in fact, and it was already time to crash for the night. No longer anxious to look at another article, photo, or reminder of Gabe, I shut my laptop, set it aside, and dropped my head on my pillow.

  All I wanted was to find something, just one thing that would help me understand him, but I hadn’t found anything useful. In fact, after all the articles I’d read and the pictures I’d found—especially his yearbook photo—I found myself asking more questions and feeling more anxious to learn all the things about Gabe that he obviously didn’t want to share.

  I closed my eyes and prayed for a dreamless sleep.

  But I tossed and turned all night. All I could see was him.

  “All right, let me have it!” I said eager to hear Georgia’s thoughts on the piece I’d written. “What did you think? It was good, right?”

  I stood in front of her desk, watching as she looked up at me with a broken stare. She let go of a long breath, and then she turned to the stack of papers next to her, pulled a sheet of paper from the middle, and passed it over to me.

  “We can’t print this,” she said, tapping a finger on the page. “Journalism is supposed to be honest and objective, and your goal here was to do nothing but tell the story.”

  “That’s what I did,” I said, picking it up to reread the article I’d poured my heart and soul into. “It’s a good piece.”

  “Sure, it’s great,” she said, shrugging. “And if we were trying to publish a story that captured the angelic essence of Gabriel Raddick, then I’d print your article today. But you were assigned to write a story about the program. You were supposed to get information from Gabe, to snag a few quotes for your article. But what you’ve written, no. That’s not objective journalism. Your perspective is skewed, and that won’t fly in this newsroom.”

  She slid her rolling chair across the floor and stopped at the desk behind her. She plucked a folder from the large pile of clutter growing on the back counter, and then she wheeled over to the desk in front of me. She opened the folder, retrieved a group of 8x10 glossy photos, and passed them over.

  “I sent Santiago out to get some candid shots of the group in action this week,” she said. “He came back with the proofs, and I think we can both agree that there’s a distinctive pattern.”

  I flipped through the photographs, one by one, and it only took a single moment to see the pattern she was referring to.

  In every photograph of Gabe, I was there, too.

  There was a picture of him and Lashell talking up on the stage in the auditorium, and I recognized the image quite well. It was the first day of the program, the Saturday afternoon just after I’d hit him with my car. He was still scruffy and dirty, but he wore a smile. Over in the corner of the photograph, Carla and Fletcher were leaning over a notebook, deep in conversation. I wasn’t focused on them or anything happening in our group. I was turned around in my seat, watching Gabe and Lashell, eavesdropping on a conversation I had no right to listen in on.

  The second picture was taken shortly after Gabe sat down with my team. While I was looking at Carla, my face all twisted and distorted, Gabe was staring at me. His elbow was propped on his leg, his head was resting in his hand, and he just studied me, as though he couldn’t believe I was getting worked up over whatever it was we were talking about in that moment. There was an intensity to his stare that was almost frightening.

  He knows you.

  I could hear Bailey’s voice ringing through my ears.

  It means he likes you, Mandy. He knows you.

  I knew that now, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew me so well because of how closely he’d watched me. He’d already confessed to it once before. He said he could recognize my gestures, and he knew I’d been tense. But that was after we called our truce and started over. If this photograph was any indication, then it meant that Gabe really had been studying me all along, from the very beginning. That probably explained how he’d been able to tell me and my sister apart at first glance.

  He knew me.

  “Mandy?”

  “Hmm?” I said, looking up from the photographs.

  “There are a dozen more just like those,” she said. “We have more from the orientation and from the car wash. And don’t forget I sit in the same cafeteria with you. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”

  “What are talking about?”

  “I know it’s only a school paper,” she continued. “And I understand that we don’t have to abide by all the journalism codes here the way they do out in the real world, but I take this job seriously; it’s my passion. When I go in for my college interview in the spring, I want to be able to tell the university that I have run this school paper as honestly as I could with integrity and dignity.”

  I nodded.

  “I can’t do that if I let you publish this article,” she said. “The writing is great; it’s snappy, and it’s entertaining. But you’re too close to the subject. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Raddick, and it’s none of my business, but I can’t let you write anything else about the program from here on out. It wouldn’t be fair to our readers.”

  I nodded again, and then I managed to f
ind my voice.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I understand.” I wadded the article into a ball and tossed it in the trashcan next to her desk. Georgia’s eyes trailed over to the garbage before she looked back to me. “I can ask someone else to cover the story—”

  “Don’t bother,” she said, picking up a piece of paper. “We’re just going to run the story Mary Chris covered on the transportation changes. I’ll take care of the Raddick story myself, and we’ll get it in for the next issue.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said. “These things happen. There’s always a Plan B.” A small smile pulled at her lips, and she leaned a little closer. “Now,” she said, taking an imaginary hat off of her head. “The editor cap is off. I know I said it’s none of my business, but I’m curious. What’s going on with you and Raddick? Everyone’s been talking.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, frozen.

  “You guys have been working very closely,” she said. “And we all saw you together in the lunch room on Monday. You can’t tell me you don’t see the way he looks at you.”

  “Um… no, I mean… Gabe is just… Gabe.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that,” she smiled. “I know we’re not friends, per se, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you happy. You smile around him, and I don’t think anyone at this school has ever seen you smile. We thought it was like a medical impossibility for you or something.”

  “I smile,” I argued. “I smile all the time.”

  “Mandy,” she said, looking at me from the tops of her eyes. “Seriously. What’s going on?”

  “I like him,” I said, finally admitting the words out loud for the first time. I barely recognized my voice as I heard that one simple truth slip off my lips. “I like Gabe… a lot. And you were right; I probably shouldn’t have written that article. I’m not unbiased or objective by any means. He’s amazing, and part of me wants nothing more than to shout it to the world so that everyone knows.”