Truly Madly Royally

by Debbie Rigaud

  He laughs. “O-kay, most people think of our mediocre cuisine or our hosting the Olympics four years ago, so I’ll accept that as a fresh departure.”

  I can’t stop smiling throughout this wild conversation. Then I happen to glance toward the far corner and that’s when I see the clock face on the wall. I almost swallow my tongue.

  Oh. No.

  “Speaking of departure … my train leaves in six minutes,” I say in one breath. “I’ll be late if I’m not on it.”

  “Late for what?” the boy asks.

  “The kids will be crushed if I’m not there to help set up.”

  When you’re tiny, empty promises from big people are tough to stomach. I’ve had my share of letDads—er, I mean letdowns—and I don’t want to put any kid through that.

  I hate to cut this short, but public transport waits for no one.

  My arms are a blur they’re moving so fast. In a tizzy, I grab my books and cram them into my bag, then slide my phone off the shelf and shove it into my back pocket.

  Seeing his solitary phone sandwiched between books must be a lonely sight, because there’s a tinge of disappointment in my mystery friend’s voice when he speaks next.

  “Sounds terribly important. What time does—”

  I’m just about to cut him off to say good-bye when It Girl’s voice returns.

  “What time does what?” she asks him sweetly.

  While his not-girlfriend chats him up, I turn and slip out of the bookshelf maze unnoticed. Even if I had time to loop around and take a peek at my mystery friend’s face, I couldn’t. A small group of Men in Black types start snaking their way toward me and I wouldn’t want an audience to my spying. Besides, catching that train is the only thing on my mind.

  No time to take in the impressive sights while I walk-run my way through the grassy quad. But also, no study chapters droning in my ears. No mental review of every awkward moment I had today. Just me, and the summer sun, and a dash through what honestly is a pretty dope campus.

  I take a few running steps onto the platform, and I arrive, panting, at the same time as the train. I slide through the train doors with a sigh of relief and plop into the first empty seat, taking my phone out of my back pocket. No disappointed kiddos in my future.

  As usual I pop in my earplugs, and go to cue the audiobook on my phone.

  That’s when I notice it for the first time. I have Library Guy’s cell phone instead of my own!

  I LOSE my cool. Any chill I have left is gone, immediately.

  How could I have taken the wrong phone? Panic creeps up my chest like a big, hairy spider. Forget about the fact that I know where I’m going. I still feel hopelessly lost. Maybe I can get off at the next stop and head back to school? But without my phone, I can’t even check the rail schedule to see if that’s manageable. Gah!

  I don’t know how long I sit on the train in shock, examining Library Guy’s cell. It is the identical size as mine and has the same textured black case. But the lock screen image is not a close-up selfie of me and Anaya, my first Walk Me Home student. It’s of an unidentifiable skydiver midjump.

  “Stan’ clea-yah of tha closing door-ahs.”

  I look out the train window for the first time. Newark Penn Station. This is my stop! Thank goodness I’m right next to an exit. I spring out of my seat and in one catlike move, my shoulder bag is lodged between the sliding doors. As I’d hoped, the jaws of the door release my bag, then open long enough for me to slip out.

  “Watch the closing door-ahs,” the hidden conductor scolds as I run toward the staircase leading down to the light-rail platform.

  The first car is too packed to get on. Thankfully, the second one is right behind it. No available seats, though. Just wall-to-wall commuters avoiding each other’s eye contact. Finally in the perfect standing nook, I grab ahold of a crowded safety pole. It’s just a seven-minute ride to my hometown of Appleton.

  The cell phone vibrates. With a start, I reach into my back pocket, and narrowly avoid elbowing the person next to me.

  It looks like a foreign number, but I don’t answer in time. The buzzing stops and then starts up again. A different number pops on the screen. This time, it’s from a New York City area code. Could it be Library Guy calling? I decide to pick up the call. Whoever it is can help me get my phone back. The moment I swipe to answer, the light-rail jerks as it changes tracks. I stumble to the side a few paces, stepping on a fellow commuter’s foot in the process. It’s the same man who almost got my elbow moments ago.

  “Yo!” He frowns.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, embarrassed.

  “Hello?” A girl’s voice is piping from the cell phone. I almost forgot about the call.

  “Hello?” I respond breathlessly. But quietly, because dude with the throbbing toe is giving me a death stare.

  “Who’s this?” the girl asks in an aggressive tone.

  “Hi, I’m—”

  “What’s going on over there? I hear lots of commotion.”

  “It’s just that I’m on a train. Listen, do you—”

  “On a train, right. I see how it is. I guess this is what he means by single.”

  “Huh? It’s not like that at all. Can you just slow down for a second?”

  “No, really. I can take a hint. Sorry to bother him. If I were you, I’d take the fastest train away from that player.”

  The girl hangs up, and I’m left frowning and confused. The toe-hurt commuter looks satisfied by my reaction to the troubling call. As long as it makes his toe feel better.

  Whatever just happened with that call, I want to avoid it happening again. I shut off the cell phone, stick it back in my bag, and rush off the light-rail when we get to my stop.

  It’s a long city block from the station to the community center. I’m crossing the street when I spot the center’s director, Ms. Nelson, unloading her car. Sigh. An encounter with her is the last thing I need when I’m still in freak-out mode. God love her, but Ms. Nelson can talk a person’s ear off. A few car lengths before reaching her, I zip across the wide sidewalk and pretend not to notice her. I’m about to walk into the center when I hear her trunk slam.

  “Zora, is that you?”

  Cover blown. My surprised-to-see-you expression isn’t going to win any acting awards, but I give it a try.

  “Hello, Ms. Nelson,” I say innocently. I slow my pace but don’t stop. “Exciting day. I can’t wait to see the kids’ artwork.”

  “Now, hold on just a minute—you young people are always in a rush.” The stubborn cowlick on top of her bowl-cut hairdo trembles with her deep disappointment. “We’re planning to livestream the Metropolitan Gala ceremony next week, and folks are signing up to come to the viewing.”

  She knows just how to guilt folks into a conversation. The Metropolitan Gala is the Oscars of service awards, where the “Goodies” are awarded to do-gooders from our New York City metro area. I still can’t believe I’m one of the teen nominees. When I started Walk Me Home, I just wanted to help out a couple kids in my neighborhood—some as young as five—who didn’t have after-school chaperones. They either had an elderly grandparent who couldn’t meet them at school, or adults who couldn’t leave work in time. And when I submitted an application for the Goodies, it felt a little out of reach. But Walk Me Home has grown beyond my wildest expectations, and influential people agree we’re doing great work. The upcoming Gala is a huge deal. Black tie, fancy dinner, honored guests, moneyed guests, and—if I win—enough grant money to fund the after-school program for another year.

  “If you win it, I know every penny of that fifteen-thousand-dollar award would go to Walk Me Home, not like that fundraising fraud couple from the news they just arrested.” Ms. Nelson shakes her head. “You started something special. Your kids look out for each other, and they talk about you all the time.”

  My heart softens. I can’t imagine life today without my Walk Me Home kids. And that little group has become involved in a bunch of the activities at the c
ommunity center. Coming here today is my way of carving out some time to visit my little fam. They help me just as much as I help them.

  I still get choked up when I think about the moment the families of my Walk Me Home students gifted me with a New Jersey Transit rider pass that covers the entire month of July. That’s been one less concern about my attending Halstead U this summer. It’s overwhelming knowing that what I learn in my philanthropy class at the program will not only boost my academic profile, but also benefit the Walk Me Home kids and the affordable aftercare service I’m helping the community center launch.

  “Aw, I miss them, too. I can’t wait to go in and see them,” I say. (Hint, hint.)

  Ms. Nelson looks pleased to recognize a trace of the old have-time-for-everyone Zora, pre–Halstead U.

  “And here I was just yesterday bragging to my hairdresser about how our Zora is going to make everyone in Appleton proud,” she says, beaming.

  I don’t know what to say. Unfortunately, Ms. Nelson does.

  “Who would’ve dreamed we’d be sending one of our stars up to such a fancy un-i-ver-si-ty?”

  She over-enunciates, as if speaking of the Ivy League school puts her in its formal company.

  “It’s good that they’ll know what our best and brightest kids are made of.”

  Great—now I’m the ambassador for the entire town? Still fidgeting, I shift my weight (which now includes the heft of all of Appleton’s expectations) from one foot to the other.

  “Go on in and see those babies before they head home.”

  I wave and jog inside, confused by how it comes to be that Ms. Nelson is shooing me away.

  “ZORRAA!” Anaya runs up to me as soon as I step through the door of the community center.

  I don’t have to bend as low as I used to to give her a hug.

  “How did you already get so tall?” I ask. “It’s only been a few weeks!”

  “Girl power!” she giggles, repeating the rallying cry I usually give her. The multicolored beads weighing down her cornrows chime with her gleeful sways.

  “A to Z back together again.” I hold up my fist, and she bumps it with as much seven-year-old girl power as she can muster.

  “Ouch!” I pretend my knuckles are aching and shake out my hand.

  “Come on! Everyone is out back!” Anaya says. She takes my hand and leads me away from the lobby. I manage to wave hello to Mr. Lance, the elderly man volunteering at the front desk.

  “Miss Zora, you’re the one who wanted to teach them to be leaders! Careful what you ask for next time,” Mr. Lance cackles.

  “I should’ve listened when you warned me,” I shout to him over my shoulder.

  Anaya’s braids chime all the way to the outdoor playground, where the rest of the five-to-eight-year-old campers are buzzing with Water Day excitement. They’re too distracted by the sprinklers, Slip ’N Slides, and bubble machine to notice me at first. And then I get mobbed by the group as they take turns hugging me with dripping wet arms.

  “ZORRRAAA!”

  “Hi guys! I’ve missed y’all!”

  I call out each of their names with every embrace. Reunion over, the boys and girls all scurry back to their play, except for Anaya.

  “Don’t worry about me, go change into your bathing suit!” I tell her.

  “My grandma said she’ll get me a swimsuit not this paycheck but the one after because she has to pay the light bill first,” Anaya explains matter-of-factly in between reassuring nods.

  I look through my bag. Between my laptop and my Grant Writing course text is the size-eight Popsicle-print swimsuit I bought on sale for her. Anaya squeals when I hand it over, and I’m even happier I came today.

  By the time she emerges from the bathroom splash-ready and beaming, the pop-up gallery is poppin’. Over the next hour, with all the gallery hopping and water-games playing, I hardly have time to stress over the fact that my cell phone is missing.

  But no doubt, as soon as I get home that evening, I bust inside like an unleashed Black Friday shopper. I tear past the kitchen, where my big brother, Zach, is eating a bowl of cereal at the table. His tall, curly ’fro practically uncoils from the whirlwind I’ve whipped up.

  I run straight to the entry hall console table, where the cordless landline can be found sitting like a museum relic. Ma and my stepdad, John, stand strong every time Zach and I clown them for keeping a landline. For which I am suddenly grateful.

  I grab the phone and dial my own cell phone number over and over again. No one picks up. Game recognize game, my dad would say. I guess any player with a broken-heart rap sheet would avoid the drama that could come with picking up a call on someone else’s cell.

  Zach pokes his head into the hallway. It’s like he’s been overprotective and on patrol ever since I started my summer program. Even more protective than he was four years ago, when he thought Ma marrying John would be the end of our Triple Threat we called a family.

  Having just completed his first year as a premed student at Garden State U, Zach doesn’t seem entirely comfortable knowing his kid sister has to be on any college campus every day. He looks mildly concerned for me, but I don’t tell him what’s up. If he knew, he’d probably poke fun and, purely for his amusement, refuse to let me use his cell.

  “You run out of cell phone power?” he asks.

  “You run out of ChapStick?” I throw back playfully.

  The creases across his forehead smooth out. He smiles and waves his finger at me, backing out of the hall.

  “Point for Zora,” he says. There’s relief in his voice. At least for now, he doesn’t have to hunt down some college heartbreaker on my behalf.

  I smile back at him, playing up the role of carefree sister.

  “I’m always on point!” I respond.

  Once he’s back in the kitchen, I sneak the cordless phone up to my room. I put down my bag and turn on the mystery cell, which already has a text message waiting for me.

  Hi, it’s me, from the library confessional. This is the number I will call you from. Please pick up if you can.

  He’s sure to call now that I’ve rung my own cell a bunch of times. I wait for his call to come in on his cell phone, debating how I’ll answer it. “Hi” or “Hey” is what I settle on. I feel like either one would strike the right tone of casual and not too self-conscious.

  Seconds later, the expected buzzing begins.

  “Hello?” I hear myself answer. I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Hello.” He echoes my formal vibe.

  Then silence.

  “Delightful meeting you today,” he says.

  “I can’t believe I took the wrong phone,” I say at the same time.

  We both chuckle at our awkward simultaneous chatter.

  “Terribly sorry. You first,” he says.

  I don’t want to go first, so I hesitate. Then a good question pops to mind.

  “What’s your name?

  “Owen,” he says. “Owen Whittelsey.”

  I don’t know much about Owen, but I can already tell his tone is different from our first conversation.

  “And your name?” he asks.

  “Zora Emerson.”

  “Hi, Zora. Nice to match the face to a name.”

  How has he seen my face? Then I remember: my selfie on the lock screen. I wonder if that explains the low-key flirtation in his voice. Does he think I’m cute? Anyway, why do I care if he does? Haven’t I been forewarned that he’s a player?

  I shake off the whirling thoughts. All of it is none of my business. I just need my phone back, so I stick to the script.

  “I need my phone back, but I’ve already left campus,” I say.

  “Right. I’ll be happy to meet you at the library tomorrow morning,” he offers.

  “What time is your first class?” I don’t want to push, but I can’t make it much longer than twenty-four hours without my phone. I only have one class on campus tomorrow, but I can come in as early as possible.
<
br />   One Mississippi, two Mississippi. No response.

  “H-hello?”

  I check the phone. The screen is dark; it’s completely dead.

  This is a disaster! A growl escapes through my clenched teeth.

  My first thought is to call Skye, but I can’t remember her new number. Ugh. I plug the cell in next to my bed, but the battery blinks at me, refusing to charge yet.

  Keep it together, girl, I tell myself. I can spend one night without my cell phone. Right?

  I pick up the cordless, working up the nerve to call Owen back from it, when my mother’s signature bubbly laugh percolates up the stairs. It’s quickly followed by the baritone hum of my stepdad’s voice. They’re home, and suddenly right down the hallway from my bedroom door.

  “Hey, baby, how did the camp event go?” Ma calls out to me.

  I shove the landline phone under a faux fur pillow. They’d never let me live it down if they knew I used it.

  “Great,” I say as cheerily as possible.

  My mother appears in my doorway holding one end of a rustic-chic shelf fitted with wire baskets. John, holding the other end, peeks his head past my doorframe and his glasses slide down his nose. Ma’s shoulder-length locs swing into her face as he bumps the shelf into the wall. They rebalance the shelf between them.

  “Looks like somebody’s been shopping without me,” I say, desperate to take the focus away from me and the day I’ve had.

  “It’s my fault,” says John. “I should’ve stressed the ‘digital’ part when I suggested your mom get more storage.”

  “Don’t hate,” says Ma. “Congratulate. I scored this bad boy at half off.”

  It’s tough for my mom to keep her social work at work. Every time she signs up for a class or training session, there’s an avalanche of pamphlets, handouts, and other reading materials. And in the mix are the handouts and pamphlets she herself writes for her colleagues.

  They place the shelf somewhere in their room and follow me downstairs to the kitchen. No use trying to deal with my own drama on an empty stomach.

  “West Indian Wednesday in effect!” sings Ma.