by Leigh, Tara
“Oh, right. Sure. Sorry.” I’d forgotten about the survey I received, asking about my interests and skills. My palms are sweating and my breath is too fast, too shallow. I dare a glance at Tucker. He is perfectly at ease, wearing jeans and a Henley, one foot crossed over his knee.
“Now, Poppy, you were a camp counselor, is that correct?”
I nod. “And Tucker, you coached a boys lacrosse team, right?”
“Just a clinic. It was part of an—”
Dean Johnson beams. “Clinic, right. The point is, you’ve both worked with kids. And, it just so happens I’ve found a perfect opportunity to fulfill your community service hours. Since you’ll be working together, it made sense to go over the details together, too.”
Working. Together.
This can’t be happening.
But it is.
“As I’m sure you know, Worthington University prides itself on our community outreach. TeenCharter is a nonprofit that runs several group homes in our area. Their facilities support teenagers who, for whatever reason, cannot live with their own families and haven’t been placed with a foster family. I recently met with their program director to set up a tutoring service for them and she shared some of her other concerns with me as well. We’ve decided that the youths could benefit from more direct contact with Worth U students, unrelated to academic objectives.”
“Are these kids—”
“What kind of—”
Tucker and I both talk at once. He grins at me as if we’re sharing an inside joke.
I flinch, spinning back to face the dean.
We found evidence of sexual activity. A condom… inside your clothes. Does that sound about right to you?
We shared one night, one mistake. That’s all.
Focus on the kids, Poppy. “TeenCharter… they work with the Department of Children and Families?”
“Yes. Each of their homes can support eight to twelve teenagers, but they’re not large facilities, and the director thinks it would be helpful to bring them to the Worth U campus one afternoon every weekend. The kids…”
I listen to him explain the necessity for places like these, housing children who don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t admit that I know exactly what kind of homes they are, and the children who live there. I was once one of them.
“How can we help?” Tucker asks.
I listen carefully for any note of scorn in his voice, any indication that he intends to do only the bare minimum to fulfill his obligations. But I don’t find any. Tucker sounds intrigued, even enthusiastic.
“The specifics are up to you and Poppy. But the main problem, as I understand it, is—”
“Boredom,” I interject. “These kids attend school, but there’s no organized sports, playdates with friends, or even errands with their parents. They’re scared, and they feel abandoned.” TeenCharter didn’t manage the home Sadie and I were placed in, but the issues children face are universal.
Two pairs of eyes swing my way. Dean Johnson speaks first. “That’s exactly right. What I’d like you both to work on is setting up an ongoing outreach program, where interested Worthington students will spend time with the TeenCharter children one afternoon every weekend. You can organize games or crafts, anything to put smiles on their faces. Sound good?”
“Yes,” Tucker and I both agree.
Aside from actually working with Tucker, it sounds great.
Chapter 20
Worthington University
Fall Semester, Sophomore Year
“Have you ever shot one of those before?” Jenny regards me dubiously, her eyes traveling from my helmet and thick safety goggles to my camouflage coveralls and the gun I’m clutching to my chest with gloved hands.
She is wearing an identical getup, and I grin at her. I’ve grown close to many of the teenagers from TeenCharter, especially Jenny. She reminds me a little of me, actually. Absentee father, addict mother, few relatives or foster families willing to take on a teenage girl who’d basically raised herself and didn’t believe normal rules—curfews, bedtimes, chores—applied to her.
When I first met Jenny, she was angry at the world—and I was no exception. But over time, we’ve come to an understanding. I don’t try to act like a parent or even an older sister—no judgment, no advice. When she wants, she participates in the activities Tucker and I plan, and when she thinks they’re dumb, she sulks in a corner and seeks me out afterward.
Jenny is skittish, especially around Tucker and the lacrosse buddies he’s enlisted to work with the TeenCharter kids once a week. But she’s also smart and strong, and when she smiles, her entire face radiates joy. Jenny’s laugh is my favorite part of the week.
Working with Tucker is my least favorite.
Jenny had picked up on my discomfort almost immediately. “Why don’t you like him?” she’d asked me in a whisper the second afternoon we spent together.
“Who?” I played dumb, though I knew exactly who she meant.
Jenny knew I was lying. “Fine, don’t tell me,” she’d huffed, then stalked off.
But she brought it up again the following week. “If you don’t want to be around Tucker, why do you come here with him?”
“Well, if I didn’t, then I wouldn’t get to see you, would I?” Jenny’s eyes had filled with reproach at my half-answer and I’d sighed, looking away. “Things with Tucker are… complicated.”
Jenny didn’t push further, though I could tell she wanted to. If anyone understands complicated, it’s a teenager in a group home.
To get this program off the ground, I’d had to put my feelings about Tucker aside. They were still there, of course, otherwise Jenny wouldn’t have noticed anything.
It’s hard to look at Tucker without feeling ashamed of my own behavior that night. And angry at him for, knowingly or unknowingly, taking advantage of my intoxication.
But it’s been months, and while it’s definitely not easy to see him every weekend, to text and email and coordinate about TeenCharter events, it has gotten easier.
In my Intro to Psychology course, we learned about Exposure Therapy. It’s a treatment developed to help people confront their fears, by repeatedly exposing them to the object of their fear. It’s extremely effective.
And I think that’s what our TeenCharter program has done for me. At first, it was just a means to fulfill my community service hours. But it’s become so much more. My commitment to the kids we help has far outweighed my aversion to dealing with Tucker.
The truth is, I couldn’t have asked for a better partner. Tucker is great with them, and generous with his time. He fulfilled his community service hours within the first few weeks, but hasn’t once mentioned pulling away from the program.
At this point, more than just “complicated,” my feelings for Tucker can best be summed up in one word: discomfort. I don’t want to like him. But it’s hard to hate someone who dressed up in a bunny suit for Easter last semester and spent two hours hopping around the main quad, pretending to “lay” plastic eggs we’d spent hours filling with candy, stickers, and temporary tattoos.
When Tucker first proposed the idea, I tried to shut it down. They’re teenagers. They don’t believe in the Easter Bunny, I’d said. But Tucker rented the bunny suit anyway, and he was right. Most of these kids didn’t grow up with novelties like the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. They had a blast.
Just like they did at the Monster Mash he suggested for Halloween.
And coming to Paintball-Palooza today was Tucker’s idea, too. He’d convinced the owner to comp our fees and Dean Johnson arranged for transport using one of our campus shuttle buses.
Now I wink at Jenny through the thick lenses. “Believe me, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
At Paintball-Palooza, games are played on four and a half acres of thick woodlands, with natural cover coming from trees and boulders, piles of logs and tires, as well as manmade wooden shelters.
As a camp counselor for five summers in a row, it wo
uld be impossible not to be at least somewhat proficient at paintball. Although, after finding out we were coming here today, I made a solo trip to acclimate myself to the terrain and equipment.
I’m glad I did. The second I pulled the scent of pinecones and damp earth unto my lungs, a wave of nostalgia sent me reeling. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the good rather than the bad. Because almost all of my memories of Gavin are good. Incredibly great, actually. Our hikes, our talks, our card games. Kissing and touching and exploring each other’s bodies. Stolen moments. Shared jokes. Laughing and loving.
The Sackett Preserve had been a little slice of paradise. Our little slice of paradise.
And I want to remember that. The smiles Gavin put on my face. The joy he brought into my life.
It took a while, but I thought I’d pulled myself together. I really did.
So, I let go of the maple tree I’d used to steady myself, and my palm came away sticky from untapped sap.
And suddenly… I wasn’t okay. My hand felt like it was on fire. Pain ripped through me, sharp-edged and fierce, as if I’d been gutted by a hot poker.
Gavin.
I spent the entire session hiding beneath that tree, my paintball gun forgotten on my lap. Finally accepting that his absence is a gaping wound I might never recover from.
Even knowing I don’t deserve him anymore. That, in the truest sense of the word, I’d been unfaithful. Regardless of what came after, I flirted with Tucker. I kissed Tucker. I invited him back to my room before agreeing to go to his.
I don’t know whether Gavin has been with anyone else. Or why he left. But I would take him back in a heartbeat… if he’d have me.
If he’d only come back. Or call. Send a message via carrier pigeon. Anything.
I left without answers or closure. The only saving grace was that got my breakdown out of the way. So far, I’ve managed to maintain a relatively calm, composed facade in front of the TeenCharter kids. And Tucker.
We split up into teams, then paired off to find cover. I led Jenny behind a stack of several enormous Goodyear tires, our guns blending in with the black rubber, cautioning her, “Most people run around like lunatics, shooting at random. If we stay focused, we’ll take out the other team like fish in a barrel.”
The fog horn blares, and as I suspected, everyone starts running like children let loose on a playground. Which, let’s face it, is entirely accurate in this situation. I take aim, fire, watch the bloom of neon pain strike a shoulder. I find another target and repeat.
Jenny fires off half a dozen shots, cursing when she only hits trees.
I put my gun down. “Here, let me show you.” I go over the rudiments of aligning her sight and firing in the space between her breaths.
“Should I be scared that you’re a little too good at shooting people?”
I pick my weapon back up. “Only if you decide to switch teams.”
This time, when Jenny squeezes the trigger, she makes contact. “Got one!” she squeals… a little too loudly.
Shit. From the corner of my eye, I see Tucker drop out of a tree. I swivel, pointing my gun in his direction and firing. Tucker rocks backward, his chest splattered with yellow, just as a green paintball from his gun slams into my upper arm.
We’re playing the game with seven lives, which means we can get hit seven times before we’re out. But after each hit, we have to walk back to home base, and wait three minutes before returning to the field.
“I’ll be back,” I say to Jenny.
“You’re leaving?”
I shift so that she can see the paint covering my arm. “I won’t be long, but in the meantime,” I point at a shed behind us, “head over there. And don’t announce every hit, okay?”
She nods and I wait for her to reposition herself before standing up. “Dead man walking!” I yell, shouldering my gun and heading back to home base.
Home base is a bench positioned beneath a metal overhang, near the entrance to the course. Shawn and Terrell, two of the TeenCharter boys, glance at me briefly before returning their attention to the clock.
“Good shot,” Tucker says when I show up just as he’s sitting down, rubbing his chest.
My arm is already aching where he hit me, but I don’t admit it. “Yeah, you too.”
“I’m free!” Shawn yells a few seconds later, rushing out onto the field without a backward glance. Terrell follows behind not long after.
“You know, I tried to convince Wren to come with us today but she was pretty adamant that paintball isn’t her sport.”
“Wren?” I try and fail to picture my former roommate wearing dirty coveralls and safety goggles, hiding behind trees and crawling through mud. “This is hardly her scene.”
Tucker’s lip twitches. “Even if you tried baiting her with that line, I don’t think she would have come.”
I shrug. “Guess she’s smarter than I am.”
“That’s not true, Poppy. Wren is just… well, she already knows who she is. She doesn’t have to prove herself to anyone.”
“Are you implying that I don’t know who I am?”
“No. Well, not exactly.”
“You don’t even know me!” When it comes to Tucker, my emotions are on a hair trigger.
“Because I fucked things up the first night we hung out. I hate what happened as much as you do.”
My eyebrows lift so high I feel them disappear into my hairline. “I doubt that,” I say, every syllable dripping with disdain.
“Fuck.” Tucker lets his head fall back and sighs. “There’s something about you. I’ve never met anyone else who makes me get everything wrong, every single time.”
I release a hoarse chuckle. “It’s a gift.”
He brings his head level again and turns to me. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re open to different people, different experiences. You’re still trying to figure out your path while people like me and Wren, well, ours was laid out before we were even born.”
“And you think that’s a bad thing? Please. You have no idea how lucky you are, Tucker.”
He shakes his head. “Lucky? It’s like wearing a goddamned straitjacket.”
My head twists back to him like it’s on a swivel. “Are you seriously expecting sympathy for the silver spoon jammed in your mouth when you were born? Or your perfect pedigree?”
“No,” Tucker practically growls. “I’m not looking for sympathy from you or anyone else. But I didn’t realize I had to filter my experiences and opinions through your lens, Poppy. If you’re only interested in hanging out with people who are just like you, then I have news for you—you’re just as judgmental as Wren.”
Tucker’s words land heavily and sit like stones inside my chest, the truth of them an unexpected weight.
Is that why I’ve always had a hard time making friends—because I’m only comfortable with people who are just like me?
I’d found one when I was thirteen, practically in my backyard. Gavin and I were so alike. My mother an addict, his father an alcoholic. Years in the foster system. Abandonment issues. Trust issues. Growing up with barely two nickels to rub together.
I scratch at the paint drying on my face. “You’re right.”
Tucker remains expressionless for a moment and then, to my surprise, he grins at me. “It killed you to say that, didn’t it?”
“It kind of did,” I admit, fighting a smile of my own.
Tucker taps his temple. “In here, we’re our own worst enemies.”
The timer goes off, putting an end to our conversation. I sprint out onto the field without another glance at Tucker. Out here, battle lines are clear, the rules of the game defined. Tucker Stockton is my enemy and I spend the rest of the hour shooting at him.
Chapter 21
Sackett, Connecticut & New York City
Holiday Break, Sophomore Year
My phone rings on the morning of New Year’s Eve. I put it to my ear before I’m fully awake, my hello more of a yawn.
&nbs
p; “Good morning.” Tucker’s deep voice jolts me awake, a surge of adrenaline rushing through me.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” My thoughts immediately turn to the TeenCharter program. Besides Christmas Day itself, I’ve been working practically nonstop since coming home for break, and I had to miss the holiday party we’d planned for them.
I feel terrible about it. This time of year is rough for anyone going through family drama, and especially for kids who feel like the entire world has abandoned them.
“No. Everything’s fine.”
“The party? And the Secret Santa gifts?”
“Went off without a hitch.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, letting myself fall back against my pillow. “How is Jenny?” Not long after our day at Paintball-Palooza, her father showed up and she’d left with him. But it didn’t last. A few weeks ago, she showed up outside my door with a tear-streaked face and a black eye. She’s back at TeenCharter now.
“She’s doing okay. And I think she really liked her present.”
I smile. “Yeah?” I had bought Jenny’s gift myself—a rose gold journal and a pack of metallic, flare-tip pens. She isn’t good at talking about her feelings, so I thought writing them down my might be helpful for her.
“Definitely.”
As I wait for Tucker to tell me why he’s calling, my mind starts flipping through my schedule. Maybe I can stop by to see Jenny before our next planned weekend afternoon…
“I was just calling to say hi.”
“Oh.” I have no idea what to say back. For the most part, I’ve barricaded that night into a dark part of my past, pretending it’s a mistake I’ve moved beyond, a strange anomaly that doesn’t define who I am today. Most days, I even believe it. I have to. Anger and fear are heavy burdens that only weigh me down. “Hi.”
And I’ve forgiven Tucker. We don’t live in the same dorm anymore and our interactions are purposeful, focused solely on TeenCharter. We don’t hang out. We don’t share confidences. He’s not my friend.
