by Nicole Young
Boyfriend. I choked on the word. It should have been fiancé. I looked at my left hand, scuffed from its tussle with the concrete. The ring finger was bare. Just one more day and it would have been sparkling in the rays of a setting sun.
“I need to talk to Brad.”
Denton led me up the steps. I leaned into him, limping on my weak ankle, newly raw from the fall.
“I’m sure you know as well as I do how impossible that would be.”
In the door, down the hall, through an arch. Denton plunked me on a velvet settee.
I looked around the formal sitting room at the coved ceilings and window nooks. Furniture and accents came in various shades of ivory, gold, and green. Opulent. Decadent. Very appropriate to the period of architecture, and right in line with the owner’s impervious attitude.
“Ms. Rigg,” Denton’s voice boomed. “Bring an ice pack, please.”
A few minutes earlier I’d been convinced the best thing to do was get out of Del Gloria. Now, I didn’t have an arm or a leg to stand on.
Denton unfastened the buckle of my Mary Jane and pulled it off, checking my injury.
I gave a sigh of defeat. “Listen. I’m sorry I overreacted out there. I’m kind of stressed right now. This not knowing is starting to get to me.”
“Not knowing about what?”
“You know, like is everyone okay at home? Is someone taking care of my house? Is it safe to go back there? How close are they to putting the bad guys behind bars? Stuff like that.”
Ms. Rigg arrived with the ice. “Will she be alright, Professor?” The housekeeper leaned in to give her beady eyes a better view of the swollen area.
He wrapped the cold pack around my ankle. “It’s too soon to tell, Ms. Rigg.”
“Aye.”
I flipped a hand toward the injury. “It’ll be fine. I landed on it funny last fall. It acts up every so often.”
“Your ankle is the least of my concerns.” Denton stood. “Keep it elevated the rest of the evening. Ms. Rigg can bring your supper out here.”
I didn’t relish the thought of reclining all night in dress clothes. My nylons were already twisted around my thighs and the waistband of my skirt dug in. The tag of my blouse scratched at the back of my neck. But the humble pie I’d already been forced to eat today made the clothes on my back far more comfortable than the bloating in my stomach.
With a final pat on my foot, Denton left the room, the loyal Ms. Rigg just behind him.
Alone in silence, I took a deep breath and leaned my head against the wooden arm of the settee. I stared at the concave ceiling, its perfectly smooth surface the work of an expert craftsman. Brad told me specifically not to contact anyone once I got to Del Gloria. But I couldn’t take it. I was going crazy. I had to talk to somebody. I had to know what was going on back there.
The wood dug into my skull. I looked around for something soft. A green chair nearby offered a matching bolster. I hobbled over and swiped it. Comfortable once more, I drifted back to that morning at the lodge. Just hours before doomsday, Brad had practically popped the question, implying that we’d drive to town for an official engagement ring-and fitting proposal- the next day. But then I’d gotten that call from Candice. She needed the box of photos, the culmination of years of evidence against a prosperous and violent drug ring. And I’d been stupid enough to bring them to her.
I glanced down at my arm. Then she’d shot me. I blinked in concentration, trying to fit the pieces together. That morning Frank Majestic, the local trucking tycoon drug lord, had come to the house wanting to know where my father was-as if I had a clue. Then Candice snuck in, grabbed Frank from behind, and stuck a gun to his head.
My fingers twiddled aimlessly. She was there to save me, right?
But then she pointed her weapon…
The sitting room flashed white.
“Ahhh,” I cried out as pain shot through my arm at the memory.
Gasping for breath, I determined that this time I would see past the white light that blotted out more than twelve hours of my life. But no matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn’t see beyond the blast of Candice’s weapon. It was as if a scratch on a music track merged the echo of the gun with the crumpling of steel on the back bumper of a minivan. Nothing existed between the two sounds.
I blew out air slowly. If I kept up the brooding, I’d fall into a panic attack.
That was why I couldn’t afford to lounge around and nurse my ankle. I flipped my feet to the floor. More than anything, I needed a project to keep my mind off things. It was bad enough I had only one arm going for me. My foot would just have to take a number and get in line.
The staircase beckoned just outside the doors. I hopped on one leg and gripped the rail. Teeth clenched, I made the climb to my bedroom. A long soak in the tub, then jammies and The Count of Monte Cristo from a shelf of classics. Snuggled in a corner chair, I paged through the story of the naïve Edmond Dantès. The setting sun dipped the pages in gold, illuminating the account of the Frenchman’s conniving foes, jealous of his good fortune in business and love, as they schemed to be rid of the young Dantès. I grunted as I read, indignant at the power others held over a man trying so hard to live right.
A knock sounded at the door. I looked up.
“Miss Braddock,” came the housekeeper’s voice, “I have your supper.”
“Yes, come in.”
The doorknob twisted and Ms. Rigg entered with a tray of meat and potatoes smothered in gravy. Silverware rattled as she set the tray on the table next to me.
“Thank you,” I said, mouth salivating.
“Not at all.” She gave me a pursed-lip, flared-nostril, squinty-eyed look and turned to go.
When she was halfway to the door, I got up my nerve. “Ms. Rigg?”
She halted, her back still to me.
“Can I speak with you a moment?” I asked.
She turned. “Did you want something more, miss?”
“Have you already eaten?” I plodded ahead, hoping to win the old gal over.
“Aye.”
“Well,” I tried for a weak spot in her armor. “Won’t you sit and enjoy a cup of tea?”
She looked at the upholstered armchair opposite me as if I’d just insulted her. “I’ll not be shirking my duties.”
“I won’t tell.” I gave her my friendliest smile. “I’d love to hear about your life in Ireland.”
A look of surprise crossed her face. Her fingers fidgeted a moment, as if torn between duty and desire. She shuffled to the chair and sat.
“Ireland,” she said as if speaking the name of her lover.
One hand rubbed along her jaw. Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I was beautiful there. The most beautiful woman in all of Dublin.”
At the memory, her face seemed to become younger. Wrinkles smoothed from her forehead, her mouth grew from a frown to a smile, and the hump on her spine seemed to straighten.
“I loved to dance. You should have seen me in my red dress.” She shook her head and gazed toward the windows, perhaps lost in the memory of an Irish ballroom. “Did you work at the embassy? Is that how you met the Braddocks?” I pictured the bustling streets of Dublin, the young Ms. Rigg in a fifties coatdress and coiffed hair skipping up the steps of an old-fashioned building ready to type letters for the day.
“I was a waitress at a gentleman’s club.” She flicked a glance my way as if to watch my reaction.
I kept my face placid. “I forgot to pour you some tea.”
“I don’t drink it.” She settled back in her chair. “The ambassador would request me at his table.” Her pride was evident. “A generous man, he was.” A shadow fell across her features and her shoulders drooped. “After he returned to America, I contacted him for work. Times were hard and I had a daughter to raise.”
“You have a daughter?” For some reason, Ms. Rigg hadn’t struck me as the motherly type.
“Jane. She lives in Los Angeles now, but she was raised alongside the young pro
fessor. He’s always looked on her as a wee sister.”
Perhaps the professor had a heart after all.
“Do you miss Ireland?” I asked.
She gave a vehement shake of her head. “Never knew if you’d live through the night. Revenge. Everything was about revenge. No end to it.” Her eyes glazed. “I had my fill.” The thought seemed to remind her that she wasn’t supposed to like me. Her lips returned to their tightly pursed position. “I’ll be going now.” She stood and smoothed her black cotton.
“Thank you for the meal. I enjoyed talking to you. I hope we’ll do it often.”
Ms. Rigg’s face reddened. “If I thought for a minute you were true kin of the professor, I might agree.” She adjusted the blousy front of her dress. “For his sake I’ll treat you kindly, whoever you are. Don’t ask more than that.” She spun to go.
Sharing tea had been a once-weekly event with Candice LeJeune. But judging from Ms. Rigg’s sudden attitude change, I doubted she and I would ever find common ground.
I poked at the meat on the plate and read awhile longer, grateful that cooking skills and social graces were independent gifts.
Half an hour later, another knock interrupted my tale. “Come in.” I folded a tissue to mark my page and closed the book.
Denton peeked over the threshold. “Take the weekend to rest up. You’re welcome to come to church with me Sunday if you want. You’ve got class Monday morning, eight a.m. I’ll be in meetings, so you’ll have to take the Dogpatch.”
I nodded. DGPTC, pronounced Dogpatch, stood for Del Gloria Public Transportation Carrier, a fancy name for the local bus. I’d found my ticket to ride, a swipe-ngo pass, in the admissions packet.
“Thank you.”
“Good night.” He nodded his head once.
I smiled. “Good night.”
The weekend dragged by in utter boredom. I skipped out on church, using my sore foot as an excuse. But the truth was, I didn’t feel up to meeting new people and lying-at church, no less-about my name, my hometown, and my bogus relationship to the doc. I’d been working hard to simplify my life. Weaving more webs went against my grain.
Monday morning I woke refreshed, ready for my first day of classes. The pain in my foot had dulled to a mere throb. I ignored it as I showered, gave my arm a clean wrap, and dressed in a thrift-mart tee and blue jeans. Breakfast, coffee-to-go, and a short walk to the bottom of the driveway. The Dogpatch squeaked to a halt. I boarded and found a seat. Mud-colored rocks and gray-blue ocean sped past. The view here was bland compared to the soothing sight of Lake Michigan from the windows of my lodge back home.
The bus turned inland and a few minutes later I disembarked on campus. A short walk found me in front of a plain, two-story building. I sighed, preparing to have Denton’s ideals stuffed down my throat. I plowed forward through the double doors to Room 117.
Fluorescent lights made a dull buzz in the tiny classroom. Seven or eight students were scattered around. Not one turned as I entered. No smiles, beckoning hands, or pats on the adjoining desk. My choice to sit against the back wall was a no-brainer.
Moments later Professor Braddock entered, fresh from his early morning staff meeting.
He flipped through a stack of papers, barely glancing up. “Students, I hope you’ll welcome my niece, Alisha Braddock, as she joins the Revamp Program.”
A couple mumbled hellos, the turn of a head. Couldn’t feel more welcomed than that.
The prof paced the front as he gave his lecture. “This year’s final project for the Revamp Program is on a grander scale than in previous years. The city has donated a block of abandoned houses, in various states of disrepair, in the Old Town District. Your job is to make the homes functional, livable, and comfortable for the disadvantaged families that will be occupying them on completion. You’ll use every skill you’ve studied in your college career-from the details of home renovation to the arts of negotiation and team building.”
I couldn’t imagine that the prof, in his high-falutin’ suit, knew the first thing about renovating homes. He was probably relieved I showed up on the scene. At least someone could get the work done and line up the various inspectors.
I tuned out his discourse on the nitty-gritty details of the renovations, having lived them firsthand for most of my adult life. Every now and then I’d hear him give a Scripture reference, reminding me that I was now in religious territory.
My pen slid along the lines of my paper, as I pretended to take notes. Alisha Marie Braddock, I wrote. Big, bold cursive. Tiny, neat print. Medium, sloppy strokes. None felt natural.
I scribbled my true signature just to remember how it felt. Patricia Louise Amble. Then I crossed it out.
In front of me, the backs of heads provided new fodder for a bored mind. One hairdo reminded me vaguely of Portia Romero. I could only hope I was wrong.
Partway through, Denton shifted gears, recapturing my attention.
“Many of you have survived tough circumstances in life. Someone cared enough about you to nominate you to the admissions team at Del Gloria College. Once you were selected, you accepted the invitation, choosing to get the most out of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We designed specific coursework to help you overcome your personal challenges. We believed in you and provided encouragement throughout your time here.” He paused and met each student’s eyes. “But one year from now, you’ll be back in the real world. You’ll be dealing with people who are not sensitive, understanding, or catering to your needs. The Old Town Renovation Project bridges the two worlds, preparing you to interact with today’s culture, without being dragged down by it.” Walking to his desk, Professor Braddock gathered papers into a pile. “To make the project more real-world, we’ll add a dimension of capitalism by splitting you into two competing teams.”
He clapped his hands once, like a coach dismissing the huddle. “Take a break and be back in ten.”
Students stood and made their way to the exit. My eyelid gave a twitch of annoyance. The kinky head in front of me had indeed belonged to Portia Romero. She caught my glance.
“So how’s The Niece today?” she asked in her snotty voice.
“Doing great.” I scooted past a slow-moving classmate and hurried down the hall to the line at the soda machine. Portia joined me. I kept my back to her, tapping my foot, hoping the wheelchair-bound woman in front of me would hurry and make a selection.
“So how come you’re at DGC? You look fine to me,” Portia commented.
I turned. “Same reason you are. Get my degree and get out.”
The line cleared. I stepped up to the machine and put in my change. A bar lifted, dumping my selection into the access hole. I pulled out the citrus-flavored water and turned to go.
“Hold up,” Portia said. “I’ll walk back with you.”
I actually waited.
Portia fed her change piece by piece into the slot. With a squint, I watched, stunned. The hand holding the quarters wasn’t really a hand. A few tiny nubs, like baby fingers, seemed to grow from a stunted palm. I swallowed, feeling guilty for my earlier behavior. She obviously had enough challenges without catching flack from me.
Soda in hand, she started down the hall, me scurrying to keep up.
She tilted her head my way. “If you end up on my team, don’t think for a minute you can slack off just because your uncle is the instructor.”
So much for treating her with kid gloves. This girl could dish it out.
“Just try to keep up with me,” I said in my best attempt at a good comeback. At least my arm was back in action. She wouldn’t have that luxury.
“No problem there, sister.” She sashayed into the classroom and took her seat.
I slid into mine, trying not to let Portia’s superiority complex eat away at my confidence.
Denton strode in and started writing on the whiteboard. Two lists of names went up beneath the headings “Team A” and “Team B.”
My name landed just under Portia Romero’s on Tea
m B.
I held back a groan. Around me, others were grumbling as well, apparently dissatisfied with their assignments. To one side, a man in his midtwenties raised his hand. A backward ball cap and megajewelry screamed “gangster.” Denton turned toward the class and wagged a finger. “Uh, uh, uh. Much thought has gone into these teams. Absolutely no changes will be made.”
Groans.
Professor Braddock wrote on the board again, printing a list of four addresses under each team.
“As this is a seniors-only curriculum, you’ll have to complete the project prior to graduation in order to participate in the ceremony. That gives you approximately eleven months to renovate four houses per team. That’s approximately one per quarter.”
I stared slack-jawed at the board. It took me at least one year to do a home. Even with four people working together, the task of finishing four homes in less than a year was simply impossible. I only hoped I wouldn’t be around to see the team’s complete failure.
I crossed my arms and poked out my lower lip.
“Gwen Hart is leader for Team A. Alisha Braddock for Team B.”
I stammered some kind of objection. I’d never been a leader of anything. I only worked alone.
Denton’s palm shot out. “No changes.” He stacked papers together on the desk and inserted them into a carrying case. “The winning team will be in the running for the college’s Covenant Award.” He looked my way. “If you’re not familiar with the award, it’s the highest honor that can be received at Del Gloria College. The top students from six departments are eligible. Former recipients have gone on to head missions in the U.S. and around the world. They’ve become leaders of charitable foundations. And they’ve changed their communities for the better.” He paused and smiled. “Not to mention that fifty thousand dollars in seed money comes with it.”
The professor dropped a packet on the desk of a mousy blond-Gwen Hart, I presumed-tossed one on mine, and headed toward the door.
“You know my office hours,” he shot over his shoulder. Then he was gone.
