Good (13 page)

“Mr. Connelly, why did you volunteer for this youth group project?” I asked, watching Tate saunter back up the road.

“Just trying to get involved,” Mr. Connelly replied.

“Yeah, but there are a million service organizations you could get involved in. Why our church? I mean, you’re not even a member, are you?”

“I’m sensing you don’t want me here,” Mr. Connelly said.

“No!” Yuck. That reaction was way too obvious. “No, it’s not that. Just curious, is all.”

“Well, if you must know, I’m just trying some stuff out. To see what I like. To see if there’s a place for me in your church.”

I had to hand it to him. He was good. But I didn’t believe him for a second that he wanted to find a place in my church. Something else was going on, and because I felt an undeniable attraction to him, I automatically assumed there was attraction on his end. He volunteered today because of me. That’s what I decided to believe. For someone who wasn’t generally full of herself, today I was bursting.

Fanny Burken was a sweet old lady who lived in a tiny house with about two working lights. Though she kept the house clean, it was falling into disrepair. We learned that her son recently died in a motorcycle accident, and he was her only family. She couldn’t reach the ceiling lights to change out the bulbs and had no one to help her maintain the house.

It was immediate: I went into Operation Fix It mode and ordered Tate to change out all the lights in the house. Then I went to the bathroom and scrubbed it from floor to ceiling. I don’t know why. The bathroom was clean, but I guess my time in juvie conditioned me to clean bathrooms when I needed work to do. It took me an hour and a half, and I didn’t mind.

I gathered all of the laundry with Fanny’s help and started the wash, then helped Mr. Connelly fix some leaky pipes.

“Cadence, my wrench is in the side pocket of my bag,” he said, lying on his back with his head under the kitchen sink.

I played assistant while Tate caulked Fanny’s tub and grouted some tile. Mr. Connelly had to show him how since Tate had never done a bit of manual labor in his life.

“Is this it?” I asked, holding up a tool with a circular attachment on the end.

“Sort of close. That’s a socket wrench,” he replied. “Don’t even know why that’s in my bag.”

He pulled himself out from under the sink and searched through the side pocket of his tool bag. He pulled out what he told me was a pipe wrench.

“Oh yeah. I’ve seen those before,” I said.

Mr. Connelly smiled and ducked back under the sink.

“You’re a good helper, Cadence,” he said.

I snorted. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Well, you’re keeping me company, and that’s nice,” he replied.

“Just until the sheets finish drying,” I said.

“And I appreciate it,” Mr. Connelly said. “Wanna shine a light for me?”

“Sure,” I replied, and fished around in his tool bag until I found a miniature flashlight. I hesitated for a second, realizing I’d have to sit very close to Mr. Connelly in order to shine the light on the pipes. The opening under the sink was tight, and he took up most of the space.

“Shine it right here over my face,” he said, watching the light bounce around the darkness as I positioned myself. I sat with my legs tucked under me, hunched over, leaning into his thigh. ‘That’s good,” he said. “Hold what you’ve got.”

I watched his arm muscle flex every time he worked the wrench. I felt the flexing in his thigh, too—how it went rigid then relaxed each time he tightened the bolt. And my body responded to him against my will. My brain screamed for me to stay still all the while I felt my weight shift, leaning further over, further into his body. It felt so good, my thigh pressed against his, and I closed my eyes, imagining how the feeling would be different if our legs were naked.

“Cadence?” I heard from far away.

I fought the urge to touch his leg. I wanted to more than anything. And not with my own leg. I wanted to reach out and run my hand along his thigh.

“Cadence?” The voice was coming closer.

I opened my eyes to see Mr. Connelly staring at me. His expression was unnerving, like he knew exactly what had been playing through my mind. But he wouldn’t dare say it out loud.

“The light?” he asked.

I hadn’t realized Id lowered the flashlight and aimed it back into position.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and looked over in the direction of the dryer when I heard it buzz.

“Just in time,” Mr. Connelly said. “All done.”

I got up without a word to get the sheets.

Fanny and I put clean linens on her bed, and while I was in her room, she showed me a collection of old love letters written by her late husband when they dated in high school. I’d never seen an actual love letter, hand-written in cursive. I didn’t think men could write in cursive. It was old school love, and I thought I’d like someone to write a love letter to me.

Team 2 was busy outside cleaning the yard. When we finally checked off all the inside jobs, we headed out to help. Most everything was almost finished, and I was tired. I swept the front porch before taking a seat beside Fanny to hear her childhood stories. She had a lot, and they were fascinating, but I mostly listened because I knew she needed someone to hear them. I thought it had been a long time since someone listened to her memories.

I grew frightened in the midst of her storytelling, thinking that I didn’t want to be alone when I was old. It never occurred to me until now, but my life was moving in that direction. I had no friends except Avery, and she really didn’t count as a true friend. I wasn’t on good terms with my parents and was unsure if I could rely on them for anything. I had no boyfriend.

I realized I went some days barely speaking because I had no one to talk to. If I couldn’t exercise my social skills now, how did I expect to make friends in college? How did I expect to date and fall in love and get married? I would end up alone, old and gray in my little house for one, regretting a past where I made one lousy mistake my junior year of high school that cost me love and friendship for the rest of my life.

“But those were different times,” I heard Fanny say. “We were poor, and a Coke was a treat.”

I smiled, trying hard to ignore my fears.

“Let me tell you about the pennies I earned for swatting flies,” Fanny continued, and I imagined myself as the fly on the wall, but not in the proverbial sense. I was an actual fly on the wall, going about my fly business, unaware that I was taking my last breaths as Fanny hovered above me, flyswatter poised, ready to eliminate me like I mattered for nothing.

***

“You’re very quiet, Cadence,” Mr. Connelly said, sitting across from me. I watched him shake red pepper flakes over his pizza.

We all met at Alfredo’s for dinner—a treat from Mr. and Mrs. Sunders for a successful workday. I wanted to go home. I felt hot and sticky and dirty, but that would have been rude. And I didn’t have a car anyway. I rode with Avery. Plus, a part of me wanted to prolong the time with Mr. Connelly, though I was really in no mood to chat. I just wanted to look at him.

“Am I?” I asked, fingering my pizza.

“Not a pizza fan?” he asked.

“It’s a’ight,” I replied, pulling off a pepperoni and popping it in my mouth. Very unladylike. My mother would have disapproved.

“Did you just say ‘a’ight’?” Mr. Connelly asked, grinning.

“Did I?” I didn’t know. I didn’t care. All I could think about was that I was an insignificant fly. Oh yeah, and an irritating one, too, according to Avery.

“What’s wrong, Cadence?” Mr. Connelly asked softly.

I sipped my Coke. “I don’t want to end up old and alone.”

“What makes you think you will?”

I rolled my eyes. “You know I don’t have any friends,” I mumbled.

“It’s high school, Cadence. It doesn’t count.”

“It sure feels like it counts,” I said, a little ruffled that he was downplaying my plight. “You know, it’s just like adults to say crap like that. ‘Get some perspective. High school is so unimportant.’ Yeah? Well it’s important while you’re in it!”

Mr. Connelly nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“I mean, this is my reality right now.”

“I totally understand, Cadence.”

I pulled another pepperoni from my pizza and shoved it in my mouth.

“You won’t end up old and alone,” Mr. Connelly said after a while.

“Well, I’m afraid. I mean, seeing Fanny all by herself like that. No children. No husband. No neighbors who help her. Who does she talk to?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Connelly said.

Suddenly I remembered a line from
The Preacher’s Wife
. Jeremiah, the little boy in the movie, has to say goodbye to his best friend who’s moving to another state to live with foster parents. He turns to his mother and asks, “Who will I tell my secrets to?” Who did Fanny tell her secrets to? She shared with me tidbits from her past. She shared with me her love letters. Was she telling me her secrets because I was there and she was desperate? Is that what lonely people do? Share their secrets with whoever will listen?

I stared at my pizza and waited for the sadness to turn to anger. I glanced at Gracie. Even in my abject misery I was able to find the humor in the fact that her name was ‘Grace’ and she exhibited none. I felt like yelling at her across the table about it.

“Okay! I’m a terrible person! But you’re supposed to forgive! That’s your freaking name, after all!”

I could hear her reply. “You’re an ex-con, Cadence. I think that exempts you from forgiveness.”

To which I would say petulantly, “Yeah? Well that’s not very ‘Christian’ of you.”

And she would spit back just as petulantly, “At least I’m a better Christian than you! I’ve never taken drugs! I’ve never robbed someone!”

And then I could see the conversation devolving into a screaming match where we would both compare our Christian virtues in a desperate attempt to come out the winner. Stupid. Immature.

My anger escalated the more I thought about Gracie, and church, and living a holy existence. I think I was over the whole scene. And suddenly I was pissed at Avery for making me go back to youth group. So what that most of the kids were nice to me? I’m not a moron. I knew they talked shit about me behind my back. Just like church-goers to be gossipy. But it’s never like regular gossip. Christian gossip sounds more like this:

“Did you hear about Cadence Miller?”

“Yes. She’s, like, so lost. Satan really got his talons into her.”

“We need to pray for her, for sure.”

“Well, what exactly did you hear happen? I mean, just so that we can pray for specifics.”

“I heard she snorted cocaine and then made out with Dean.”

“Really? I heard she slept with him.”

“What?! Well then we really need to pray for her. Sex outside of marriage? That’s, like, the ultimate sin.”

“I know, right? I could almost forgive the whole robbery thing, but premarital sex?”

“For real. The right thing to do is for the two of them to get married.”

“I know. Aren’t they married in God’s eyes anyway? Since they had sex?”

“I think so. They need to make it official so they’re not living in sin.”

“Such a shame. We need to
really
pray for her.”

I hung my head and giggled. And then I burst out laughing. Several people at the table turned in my direction, looking at me with confusion and suspicion. I saw Avery glare. What was the big deal? I was only laughing. Hysterically. And then Avery got up from her seat and walked over to me. She leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“Don’t you dare crack up on me,” she hissed. “Put that pizza in your freaking mouth and eat. I told you you need to be eating. And stop laughing like a lunatic. If you mess up my plans, I
will
murder you.”

I shook my head and sighed.

Christians.

Several weeks passed, and I had graduated to three driving days. For whatever reason, Dad decided to give me Wednesdays in addition to Tuesdays and Thursdays with the understanding that I come straight home from school. I didn’t want to push it, but the Starbucks sign signaled to me like a lighthouse, and I was the tired, wandering sailor in need of caffeine. I put on my blinker before thinking, and turned into the parking lot. That’s when I remembered that I’d be a sailor without a boat if I didn’t let Dad know what I was doing. I pulled out my cell phone and called him.