Between Sundays (6 page)

His agent doled out advice almost daily, and always it was intended to help Aaron some way. Bill looked out for him, and when he had an idea—the way he often did—he talked about Aaron as if the two of them were a team. “We should think about that…” or “We would never consider such an offer.” That sort of thing.

Now Aaron watched as Bill made a few quick phone calls, the tips to the media he’d promised. Bill would lay down his life for Aaron, no question. If he thought Aaron needed to spend a Friday night with Derrick Anderson and a gym full of foster kids, so be it.

Aaron stood and motioned to Bill that he had things to do. Before he left, he needed to check his locker. He was missing a pair of running shoes, and he had a feeling they were mixed with the junk at the bottom of his space.

The locker room was empty, everyone else enjoying the day off. Aaron hurried down the long aisle to his spot and opened the door. As he rummaged around, he felt the envelope—the letter from the foster kid. He pushed it toward the back. No time for fan mail today. He wanted to spend an hour in his pool and get his Hummer cleaned up. He had a date tonight with a French bikini model, the sort of girl he could picture himself settling down with. For a few months, anyway. Or maybe forever. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing. Because maybe settling down would do the one thing seven years and a string of women had never quite been able to do.

Make him forget about Amy Briggs.

M
egan had been up since just after four that morning, but she wasn’t tired. Today was Monday, and she had a shift at the youth center that afternoon. These were the best days of the week, the days she felt closest to God. On occasion, she read her worn-out Bible, the one that used to belong to her grandmother. From what she could gather, Jesus wanted people to serve. More than that, maybe the entire reason people were created was to serve. So the world would get a better picture of Jesus, the way He had worked when He was on earth.

Megan had known church kids when she was in high school. Mostly the kind that spent Wednesday nights at youth group and Friday nights slamming back a six-pack of Budweiser. Popular kids from the right families, kids who had convinced their teachers and parents that being part of a church meant they were the good kids. They stayed away from Megan because she didn’t have the right clothes or the right home life. Not one ever tried to be her friend.

No, Jesus wouldn’t have hung out in stuffy wooden pews with mostly hypocrites, reciting an hour’s worth of songs and prayers once every Sunday. He would’ve been at the youth center, shooting hoops with the kids who didn’t have anyone.

She finished her paper route and put in her time at the diner. Then she hurried home and ran up two flights of stairs to her apartment. She had thirty minutes to be at the youth center, where Cory had gone after school, just enough time to grab a yogurt and an apple. She rushed through the door and when she finished eating, she made a quick cup of coffee, poured it into her travel mug, and changed out of her uniform.

Cory hadn’t stopped talking about the pizza party, of course. When he was home, he checked the answering machine three times an hour in case he might’ve missed a call from Aaron Hill. Megan almost wished the guy would call. Then, for all time, Cory could put aside the fantasy that the quarterback was his father.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ears and ran down the stairs. She was five minutes later than usual, and she wanted to make up the time. Which she would. She was used to making up time. Her jobs kept her running, and today was no exception. She hurried out onto the street, and five blocks later she zipped down the stairs and bought a ticket to Mission 24th Street. Some days she walked the whole way, but not this afternoon.

The kids expected her at a certain time. They counted on her.

Megan liked taking the BART—the Bay Area Rapid Transit system. It gave her a few minutes to think about the day and the grant proposal she was working on. She pulled it from her bag and studied what she’d written so far. It started with the scenario of a fictional foster boy, the year after his eighteenth birthday. In a short sequence of events, the boy graduates from high school and learns there is no longer room for him at his foster home. Not long afterward, he’s stealing from the cash drawer at a convenience store and being locked up for theft. When they let him out, he connects with a drug dealer, running deals, collecting cash.

The story was compelling, and Megan had a suspicion that if she could get the proposal into the hands of the right people, the grant money might actually become available. Maybe a person didn’t need to be highly educated or famous or wealthy to ask for government funding. Maybe they only needed passion.

She tucked the papers into her bag and surveyed the other passengers. At the back of the car were a mother and daughter, both of them hollow-eyed and silent. The girl was maybe ten or eleven, and she had her head on her mother’s shoulder. Megan didn’t want to stare, but for a moment she was looking at herself, just as she had at the youth center, the way she looked the few times she was reunited with her mother during her childhood. The brief flashes when she’d been granted the privilege of laying her head on her mother’s shoulder. Anyone who’d seen Megan back then would’ve known from her eyes what she was thinking. How, if only she could freeze time, she would never, ever leave her mama’s side again.

Megan looked away. The car was slowing, coming to her stop. She stood quickly and was the first one off. Whatever the story between the mother and daughter, Megan didn’t have time to stick around and find out. The city was full of sad stories.

She ran lightly up the stairs and down the sidewalk toward the center. The sidewalk teemed with people, folks of every color, size, and shape. San Francisco was a melting pot of nationalities. The shops along the way told the story. A Korean thrift store, a Chinese dry cleaner, a Vietnamese grocer.

Megan pushed open the door to the center and glanced into the gymnasium. Four older kids were playing Ping-Pong, but most of the regulars weren’t here yet. She set her bag under the desk in the office and found her whistle, the one she wore when she worked the pickup games.

On the way into the gym, she spotted a kid sitting on the floor in the hallway, leaning against the brick wall. His knees were drawn up, his head down, resting on his forearms. Megan looked closer and recognized him. He was a stocky black kid, loud and cocksure, a junior football player in high school. He’d been placed in a group home a few months ago—an event that triggered trouble for many foster kids. Last she heard, the boy was on academic probation, his place on the football team in jeopardy.

A trio of teenagers entered the building and grinned at her. Megan returned the smile and waited until they moved on into the gym. Then she headed down the hall until she reached the boy on the floor. “Rudy?”

He didn’t look up. “Leave me alone.”

Megan dropped slowly onto the floor in front of the boy. She sat cross-legged and made her voice softer, gentler. “Can’t do that, Rudy. You know me.”

A sigh slid through what sounded like clenched teeth. “Doesn’t matter.”

These were the same things she heard over and over again at the center.
Doesn’t matter…leave me alone…
Kids who weren’t coping, kids already jaded and betrayed by the system. The future was crashing in all around these kids. Of course it mattered or Rudy wouldn’t be here.

Megan wasn’t in a hurry. “Is it school?”

He was silent.

Details came back to her, a conversation she’d had with one of the other volunteer counselors. “You had a big math test Friday, right?”

“Yeah.” He looked up, his eyes distant and defiant. Fear was there too, the way it was for most foster kids. But like the others, Rudy was good at hiding fear. He exaggerated a shrug. “Left my math book on the kitchen table and one of the kids took it. Couldn’t study without a book.”

Megan winced. “How’d you do?”

Rudy clenched his jaw. “Failed it.” Another shrug. “Who cares, man? What’s it matter?”

“A lot, Larry. You’re going to college, remember?”

“For what?” He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Man, you talked to Toby lately? Got hisself a scholarship until Christmas break. Then what? School closes and he winds up in a mission, mixing with the homeless.” Rudy shrugged again. “Didn’t go back, ’cause what’s the point? He wasn’t staying in no homeless shelter all summer, you know?”

Megan felt her heart breaking. This was the exact scenario that needed addressing. Why wasn’t a counselor at the college made aware of the situation for foster kids? What would it take to give them year-round housing through college? She stifled her frustration. “You can’t give up, Rudy. Education’s the only way out of here. You know that.”

They talked a few more minutes, and Megan patted his shoulder. “Bring your math test Wednesday. You and I are going over it one problem at a time. I’ll call your teacher so you can take it over.”

He lifted his eyes, apathy and doubt meeting in his expression. “Then what?”

“Then we spend a few minutes every day going over it until the semester’s over and you have a grade you’re proud of.”

Rudy looked at the floor for a few seconds. “I saw my picture the other day.”

“Your picture?” A surge of hope pulsed through Megan’s veins. He was listening to her, and that was progress.

“Yeah.” He narrowed his eyes. “On a photolisting.”

He might as well have slipped a knife between her ribs. The photolisting was part of the state’s adoption website. Rudy was among hundreds of kids listed with a photo and a short bio. Kids who were a stone’s throw from adulthood, still waiting to be adopted. She resisted her desire to tell him the photolisting was a good thing, that an adoption could happen. He had a better chance of winning the lottery. Instead, she sighed and put her hand on his big worn-out Nikes.

“They got it all fancy and everything.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Says Rudy Booker’s a friendly young man with great athletic ability and much potential. Rudy’s still hoping that you’ll be his forever family.” He threw his hands up. “What a lie, huh?”

There was no clearing a path through the jungle of disappointment Rudy was venturing toward. Instead, Megan took a quick breath and smiled. “You got me, Rudy. Me and your math book, which you’re bringing Wednesday.” She stood and reached her hand out to him.

For a few seconds he hesitated, but then he clasped her hand and pulled himself slowly to his feet. “Still don’t know why.”

“’Cause I said so.” She wasn’t nearly as tall as him, but that didn’t matter. Rudy was a kid, and he, like so many of the teenage foster children who acted tough, really wanted a parent figure. Megan wasn’t nearly old enough to be Rudy’s mother, but the years had given her a wisdom that belied her age.

Rudy must’ve sensed that, because he gave her a reluctant grin. “Fine. But don’t be surprised if I show up at your door with my suitcase someday.”

“Any time, Rudy.” She stopped and faced him. She was too young to adopt him, but she would never stand by and let him fall through the cracks. Not as long as there was a spot on her sofa. “I mean it.”

This was the part of her job Megan liked most of all. Learning about the kids who were about to become a statistic, and doing whatever she could to show them a way to succeed. A way to survive.

After an hour of heated pickup ball, Megan retreated to the lunchroom. She needed to call a couple social workers, and the youth center had a phone in the small eating area. Communication between the adults who cared for foster kids was crucial.

An old TV sat on a rickety stand at the corner of the room, tuned in to ESPN. As Megan sat down, the story on the set changed and Aaron Hill’s face filled the left half of the screen. A concerned-looking anchorman announced that charges initially pressed against San Francisco’s star player for the 49ers were no longer an issue. “Early today, the teenager who first reported sexual harassment by Hill withdrew her complaint. A statement, issued through her attorney, said the girl was confident she misunderstood Hill, his actions, and his motives.” The anchor looked down at his notes. “In other NFL news…”

The girl misunderstood him? Megan rolled her eyes and focused on the phone calls. She could only guess how much money Hill had paid for the misunderstanding to come to light. Stories like this about Aaron Hill were rare. Megan had only caught wind of an occasional tabloid headline where the quarterback had been seen at this bar or that party.

But the story wasn’t a surprise.

Aaron Hill’s arrogance shone through in every interview. He acted as if he were invincible, king of the world, an island. Rarely did he talk about his teammates or share the light with his supporting cast. He’d been careful with his reputation—or someone had carefully looked out for him. But that didn’t change the guy’s character. Megan was glad for Cory that Aaron Hill wasn’t his father. The sooner Cory became convinced, the better.

As for the news, thanks to Mrs. Florentino, the story had slipped by without Cory noticing it. The woman down the hall had called Megan, concerned about the bad press surrounding Cory’s hero. “I keep the paper tonight, yes?” she asked.

“Yes.” Megan’s heart warmed. The woman was beyond thoughtful. “You keep the paper. Thank you.”

Megan finished her phone calls. One to a social worker about a teenage girl who’d come to the center last week with bruises on her arm. Megan had called the social worker the first time that same afternoon. Today the girl hadn’t shown up, and Megan needed to talk to her social worker to hear the news.

“We moved her to a different foster home.” The caseworker sounded encouraged. “Apparently she was sneaking out to meet her boyfriend, and last week they got into a fight. The guy’s just a junior in high school, but already he has a history of abuse.”

Megan was confused. “So they pulled her from her foster home?”

“No supervision. Something like this, we figure she needs a new environment.” The social worker hesitated. “It wasn’t a great match in the first place.”

Megan wondered if she could add another sofa to her already crowded apartment. “Where is she today?”

“With a counselor. She’s pretty upset.”

The call ended with Megan more discouraged than ever. The girl gets abused and loses her foster family all in one week. Of course she was upset. Megan would make a point to pull her aside and talk to her when she returned to the center.

The second call was to Rudy Booker’s social worker. Megan gave the man an update on the teenager and asked for the phone number of Rudy’s school.

“I’ll follow up on the math test.” Megan found a pad of paper in her purse and jotted down the school’s number. “I’m sure they’ll let him take it again.”

“Thank you.” The man sighed. “I’ll make a call too. But if you’ve got time to tutor him, that could make the difference.”

“Yes.” Megan looked out the door and into the adjacent gymnasium. Twenty-five kids were lined along the walls waiting for a turn on the court. “Sometimes the smallest things make the difference for these kids.”

When she was finished, she hung up the phone and headed back to the gym. Cory met her in the hallway, his eyebrows raised high into his forehead. He still had his backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Any phone calls?” His eyes were so wide she could practically see the whites around them.

Megan wrapped her arm around his slim shoulders and pulled him close. “No.”

Cory was antsy. He pulled back and searched her face. “Some kid told me Aaron Hill’s in trouble with the police.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “That’s crazy, right?”