Olivia Christakos and Her Second First Time

by Dani Irons

  We passed a couple more restaurants and a place that sold souvenirs called Old Wharf Trading Company. Maybe on our trip back to the car I’d stop in there. Get something to remember my first not-really real date with James. At the end of the wharf, we sat on a large log that was chained down. James and I were on the west log, Chloe and Bo, Amy and Tyler were on the east log.

  “You know what I like about you?” James said over the lapping of the water.

  “Hmm?” I said, because I’m so good with words around him. The sun was warm on my shoulders and I was holding hands with the cutest guy in school. I had no words.

  “That time you came up to me at that dance? What was that...sixth grade?”

  “Oh, yeah...” I said, trying to act casual. Like I could forget.

  “I really liked your balls, you know? How you could just come up to someone you like and ask for what you want...” He looked off at the water, all wistful-like. “A lot of girls I know aren’t like that.”

  “They aren’t?” I wasn’t looking at the water. I was staring at our intertwined hands sitting in his lap. My hand was in James Declan’s lap.

  “Are you always like that?” he asked.

  “Like what, exactly?”

  He cleared his throat like he was actually the nervous one and our eyes met. “So...confident...like you were that day.”

  I opened my mouth, about to say no, but then I’d have to explain that he made me feel nervous. I didn’t do that. Instead, I pretended he didn’t make me nervous. I pictured kissing someone less exciting—like Wyatt—and my nerves calmed.

  I smirked, leaned and pressed my lips to his. Then I thought, I can’t believe my first kiss is with James Declan.

  James eagerly accepted the kiss. He pushed his face to mine and opened his mouth a little. I mirrored his movements. His tongue slipped in and I melted into a pile of goo. I had to keep Wyatt’s image in my mind to keep from getting too nervous again and only later did I think it odd that I was kissing James and thinking about someone else.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Now

  It’s too early to be awake and I don’t know why Wyatt has insisted that our non-date kick off at 7:00 a.m. I didn’t want to ruin my good record of being on time, so I made sure I laid out clothes—comfortable ones, at Wyatt’s suggestion—the night before. Jeans, a gray-and-blue silk blouse and red ballet flats. Looking at the shoes causes this weird flip in my belly. What’s up with that?

  I sit awkwardly on the sidewalk, my hair tied back into a braid and my face devoid of makeup, wondering if Wyatt is taking me shopping. What else could “picking up groceries” mean? Despite the rules I set, I feel nervous. Maybe it has something to do with my agreeing to hang out, like I’d lowered the drawbridge to my heart a tad.

  So far, my feelings with Wyatt have been a constant pull and push, like a game of tug of war. When he’s wearing his Scouts uniform, I’m pushed from him. When he’s smiling confidently and joking around with me, I feel a pull toward him.

  Push.

  Pull.

  Push...

  Pull...

  Wyatt pulls up and I finally get to see his “hooptie”: a faded and rusted orange Datsun truck, mid-eighties, maybe. When I climb into it, I wonder what Old Liv’s opinion of it was. I’m still trying to figure her out. She liked clothes, celebs and random classes in college. It’s not much to go on. I want to know what she was like. What made her tick.

  Wyatt’s hair is a tangled mess, but he smiles sleepily at me when I fasten my seatbelt. “Morning,” he says, and hands me a white paper bag. I open it and inside is a couple of large chocolate donuts. “Uh, I actually got those for me, but thought I’d offer them anyway. I don’t know if you like the same foods you did before your accident.”

  My mouth waters when I reach into the bag for one.

  “But I also got you this low-cal Greek yogurt.” He tosses me another bag. “I think it’s pineapple? But it’s your choice. Unless you’ve already eaten.”

  I had—a small bowl of Natalie’s Cocoa Roos, but I kinda wanted a donut. So I grab both of them, handing him one. He takes it from me with his fingertips and digs his teeth in.

  “Thank you,” I say, leaning back into a seat that smells like decayed cologne. “So where are we going?”

  After a look over his shoulder, he pulls away from the curb, swallows his bite, and heads down my street. “Well, I can tell you there’ll be boxes, people and a lot of driving involved.”

  I squish up my nose as I stuff another hunk of donut into my mouth. I’m not sure, but I don’t think Old Liv liked surprises.

  * * *

  As we head out, I watch the scenery outside of the windshield like a tourist. Palm trees and cars choke the streets, people mill around in front of the many shops, sometimes being led by a dog, and sometimes by a paper cup of coffee. The streets are hilly, the skies blue and the mountains are fluffed in green and pocked with brown. Large, ornate churches pop up every few blocks or so and I wonder which one my family attends. The street opens up now and then to great open spaces for parks and walkways and there must be a hundred plants for every person in the city’s population.

  It’s a hilly wonderland.

  I realize I haven’t seen the ocean since I “woke up” and hope that Wyatt’s going to drive by it. But he doesn’t. He takes a dirt road that winds up a steep hill, and when we pop over the top of it, the scenery’s changed. It’s deserty and dry and only a cactus grows here and there.

  And Wyatt’s still driving. Like fifteen minutes worth of it, deeper into Nowhere Land.

  We pull up to a large, white, unmarked warehouse and my first reaction is, ohmygod, Wyatt plans to kill me, because we’re on the outskirts of town, deep in a cactus-and-trash-riddled desert, with only a trace of a dirt road leading back to civilization. But when my mind settles down, I realize there are several other cars outside this warehouse, and even a few people mingling around. Most of them are dressed like me in T-shirts and jeans but a dark-skinned woman stands near the entrance, dressed in a heavy, navy-blue suit and four-inch heels. If I had worn something like that in this heat I’d be sweating my boobs off, but the woman looks poised and comfortable in her skin.

  A little girl about five or six with a blaze of red hair circles the woman, making train noises.

  Wyatt presses a hand gently on the small of my back and leads me toward them. When the girl sees us approaching, her face beams and she runs to Wyatt. Hops into his arms. He lifts her into the air and spins her around while she cries out in joy.

  “Mr. Rosen,” the lady says, walking over to us, “I tried to call you.”

  After Wyatt deposits the little girl back on the ground, he pats his pockets. “Oh, crap. I’m sorry. I must have left my phone somewhere.”

  “Your mom told me you’d be here,” she adds, without any acknowledgement that I’m standing there. “And it looks like you’ve got plans today. But Charlotte’s mom isn’t feeling well this morning and called us to...um,” she looks down at the little girl who’s untying Wyatt’s shoelaces. “Relieve her for a little while.”

  Wyatt nods eagerly.

  “Her mother isn’t in any shape to take care of Charlotte this morning.” The woman jangles her car keys in her hand, like the second she’s free of this kid, she’s out of here. I look at Wyatt, expecting him to tell the woman not to talk that way in front of Charlotte or to explain who exactly these people are, but he doesn’t.

  Instead, he says, “Of course! The more the merrier.” Then he bends down to the girl.

  When she looks up from her task of tying Wyatt’s shoelaces together, she watches him intently as he begins to sign.

  He also says what he’s signing aloud. “Would you like to spend the day with me and Olivia?” He points to me and for some reason I blush. The woman is al
ready gone, so Charlotte will be spending the day with us whether she likes it or not.

  The girl nods vigorously and signs something back, making only a few noises as she speaks with her hands. Then she takes Wyatt’s hand and my heart melts all over my guts.

  Pull...

  Wyatt pretends to trip when he takes a step forward because his laces are tied together and Charlotte laughs so hard her face turns red. She signs something that might be sorry and helps him fix his shoelaces.

  “Wyatt,” I whisper, “who is this?”

  “This is Charlotte. I’m her Big Buddy.”

  “Big Buddy/Little Buddy? Like the volunteer organization?”

  He nods. “Yep. We’ve been together for a few years now.”

  “And you know sign language?”

  “I’m slowly still learning it,” he admits, standing up and wiping the dirt off his butt. “For her.”

  And my heart-melty guts explode. Pullpullpullpullpullpullpull.

  I’m not sure how spending the day with a mischievous preschooler is going to go—especially since I don’t know what Wyatt has planned for us today. But when we walk into the dimly lit building, he looks calm and serene, so I’m not worried. Plus, him wanting to hang out with Charlotte, to volunteer his time with her, makes me want to reach over and stick my tongue down his throat.

  I resist, but just barely.

  The first thing I see upon entering the building is mountains of canned food in brown grocery bags. The next thing I notice is that the warehouse is huge and very open and that there are at least fifty people inside. Almost all of them are chatting and it creates a comforting hum about the place.

  Without letting go of Charlotte’s hand, Wyatt greets some of these people—with a hug or a handshake, or just a wave. I nod to the ones he’s able to introduce me to, but mostly I’m quiet. I don’t recognize anyone and I don’t know if they know me.

  Long white tables are lined up in the middle of the warehouse, topped with large cardboard boxes and lists. Wyatt walks up to one, scooping up Charlotte, and then sets her down on the tabletop. He signs and says, “We need to fill up these boxes with food and deliver them to the names on these lists. Do you want to help?”

  Charlotte nods and begins to work. She picks up a can of creamed corn and sets it in the bottom of the box.

  I pick up a list and read some names. “Ralph & Edith Sumner, Robert Packer, Emanuel Rosada, Josie Martin...who are these people?”

  Wyatt sets a can of meat into the box. “Hungry people,” he says.

  I look back to the list. Most of the names have addresses also listed, but one, toward the bottom says:

  Chuck Walters—usually resides behind the mall

  I point to the name and show Wyatt. “What’s this mean?”

  He looks. “Means we need to take his box of food to the mall. We might have to buy him a can opener too.”

  “What is this place?”

  “The Knights of Columbus,” he says, picking up a large paper grocery bag nearby that has just been emptied of its canned contents. “We drop these bags off in different neighborhoods, collect them and then distribute the food inside to people in need.”

  Taking the bag from him, I read the note that is stapled on one side:

  THANKSGIVING IN JULY!

  The Knights of Columbus will be collecting food for Santa Barbara’s homeless and hungry the morning of July 6th.

  Place food/nonperishables to be picked up in this bag and place it outside your front door.

  “So, you guys are like Robin Hood,” I say, pulling grocery bags closer and studying how Wyatt sorts so all of the boxes get a variety of food and following suit.

  He smirks. “Something like that, I guess.”

  “Olivia Christakos!” A voice over my right shoulder says. I glance at him—a large guy with a crooked noise, thin brown hair, about my age. “Imagine. You, helping people out.”

  I say nothing because I don’t recognize him, but I look to Wyatt to help me fill in the blank. He’s giving the guy a look of death.

  When I glance over at the guy again, he seems sheepish. “He-he. Just kidding.” He shrugs and walks off.

  I turn to Wyatt. “What did he mean?” I ask.

  “He was just joking. You guys used to tease each other back and forth at school.”

  “Why did you look at him like that, then?”

  “Like what?” He starts tying Charlotte’s shoe, not meeting my gaze.

  “Like you were going to rip his head off.”

  A long minute passes. “I told him to tone down the teasing while you were here, because you wouldn’t remember him. But I guess he forgot.”

  I leave it alone, but something in the back of my mind niggles at me.

  When we push the twelfth box into Wyatt’s Datsun, we load into the front—Charlotte in the middle. She leans her little body on me. She’s hot and her eyelids look heavy. “She worked hard today,” I say, running my fingers over her hair. It’s weird that little kids don’t mind being touched this way after only meeting a person a short time ago. I wish I had that kind of trust with people.

  Wyatt nods. “She sure did.” He turns the key in the ignition and then bends down to her. “Thank you for your help,” he says, signing at the same time.

  Charlotte puts a palm on his cheek, her eyes full of love.

  “Do you have the list?” Wyatt asks as we’re backing out.

  “Yep,” I say, breaking my eyes away from the super-cute-heartbreaking scene. I shake it in the air. “First stop, Maria Sanchez on Laguna Street!”

  “Alrighty then,” Wyatt says, pointing the truck in that direction.

  * * *

  Maria Sanchez’s house looks like a hallway with a door, squished between two other hallways with doors. It’s a row of apartments, I know, but they’re the smallest ones I’ve ever seen.

  Wyatt does the first delivery alone because: a) I’m too nervous. Something about giving out charity to strangers squeezes at my stomach and b) Charlotte is sleeping on me and if I move she might slide down the seat onto her face.

  I roll the truck window down as he knocks. A short, slender woman answers the door, an annoyed, tired expression hanging from her face. “Cómo está?” Wyatt asks her, but she just nods and grabs the box. Obviously she’s gotten a donation before. She closes the door before anything else can be said. I don’t know if I think she’s rude or proud. Maybe a little bit of both.

  “That seems easy enough,” I say to Wyatt after he buckles.

  “Most of them are. They’ve been through this before.”

  I wonder if I’ve been through this before. “Did I come with you on these trips before my accident?”

  Wyatt is very still. “No...” he drifts off, like he’s about to say something else and then decides against it.

  “Why not?”

  “I guess it wasn’t your thing.”

  A seed of anger plants itself in my stomach. Not my thing? What, did I not like helping people or something? “What was my thing?” I ask, turning toward him enough that I can see him better, but not too much to disrupt Charlotte.

  “Well, you like clothes, partying, friends, shoes, tanning, reality shows—”

  “Reality shows? You’re kidding me, right? You’re telling me that reality shows were my thing?”

  He opens his mouth, but I don’t let him speak.

  “I never like, helped you sell cookies for the Cub Scouts or packed up boxes of food for people? I’ve never hung out with you and Charlotte before?”

  “The Cub Scouts don’t sell cookies,” he says, keeping his gaze out the windshield. “I think you’re thinking of the Girl—”

  “That’s not the point and you know it.” I don’t mean to direct my anger toward him, bu
t I can’t help it. “Did I really not help you do any of this stuff?”

  He hesitates and then shakes his head.

  “So I was shallow.” I don’t ask this. I’m stating a fact to myself. Feels like I’ve taken a gulp of warm curdled milk.

  “No. You weren’t—”

  “Can you name something I’ve done that’s not shallow? Or for purely selfish purposes, for that matter?”

  Again, he hesitates. Too long. “You really love Natalie.”

  “Natalie? Who doesn’t love their little sister? That’s not the kind of thing I mean.”

  He opens his mouth but then shrugs.

  I growl at him, and either my anger or the vibrations of the growl through my body disturbs Charlotte. She wiggles around and then leans on Wyatt, falling back to sleep instantly.

  “It’s not too late to change things,” he says, and I look at him. Like I can’t believe a guy this nice was interested in Old Liv. I mean, I still don’t know that much about her, but if I was Wyatt and my girlfriend didn’t support all the volunteer work I was doing, she’d be gone.

  I want to ask him what he sees in me, in Old Liv, but I’m afraid of the answer. So instead I say, “Take me to Carrie Lockhart’s house,” gripping the Hungry list like my life depends on it.

  He nods seriously. “She’s a new one, so you’re gonna have to give me the address.”

  “1826 De La Vina Street.”

  * * *

  The box is hard to carry with only one good arm and my not-yet-healed ribs screaming at me. Wyatt insisted on helping me, but I wouldn’t let him. I told him to stay there so Charlotte can sleep. Plus, this is something I have to do on my own. I have to prove to myself that I’m not as shallow and selfish a person as I suspect I might have once been.