Last Chance (5 page)

“Hot tea?” I said.

Mr. Schuster grinned. “A hot beverage actually cools you down on a day like this,” he said.“Of course, it doesn't work the other way around.” He peered across the table at me while he sipped his tea. “You look pretty young to be working here full-time. Summer job?” he said.

“Something like that,” I said. “What about you? I saw you with one of the dogs this morning. Do you work here?”

“I certainly do,” he said. “Five days a week for the past six years. But I don't get paid for it. I'm a volunteer.”

“You must really like animals,” I said, impressed. “Do you have a dog of your own?”

He shook his head. “I'm between animals, as they say. Jinx passed away a couple of months ago. He was eighteen years old.” He shook his head. “I should be lucky enough to live that long.”

I had to do some quick math in my head to work out that eighteen dog years was the equivalent of 85 years. I wasn't sure that I would ever want to be that old.

“I've always had a dog,” Mr. Schuster said. “Always liked their company. It got to be even more important after I retired and my wife died.”

“I'm sorry,” I murmured.

He smiled at me. “I'm thinking of adopting,” he said. “There are plenty of fine animals here that haven't had it so good. That dog I was working with this morning, he's like a big unruly kid, always seeing what he can get away with. But there's a good chance he can be broken of his bad habits.” He glanced back at the building, in the general direction of Kathy's office. “He needs a lot more work, though,” he said. “It takes six to eight weeks to break a dog of undesirable behavior, and three to four weeks to lock in a new behavior. But who knows? Maybe he'll be the one for me—
if
they get sensible around here and let someone with experience work with him.” I had the feeling he was referring to his conversation with Kathy this morning. But it was really none of my business, so I didn't ask. Mr. Schuster peered more closely at me.

“Don't tell me, let me guess—you're not a dog person,” he said. “Cats more to your liking?”

“Actually, I'm allergic to cats.” After five minutes of direct exposure to a cat, I start to sneeze. After ten minutes, my eyes begin to water. After fifteen minutes, they turn red and itch so badly that I feel like scratching them out of my head.

Mr. Schuster opened his mouth to speak but was stopped by a whoop of laughter. I looked around and saw a gang of boys swarming out of the parking lot and onto the lawn. At first it looked as if they were headed our way. Then one of them pointed in our direction and the whole group ground to a halt. They conferred for a few moments before changing direction. One of them—Nick—glanced back over his shoulder at me. He was frowning. I watched them disappear inside the building.

“Good riddance,” Mr. Schuster said.

“Who are they?” I said.

“In my day we called them juvenile delinquents.” I looked from his bitter face to the door through which Nick and his friends had just disappeared.

“They can't be that bad if they're volunteering here,” I said.

“Volunteering?”
Mr. Schuster said, his contempt deepening. “They aren't volunteering. They're here because they
have
to be here.” He shook his head. “Young offenders, that's what they call them these days. Future convicts is what they really mean.”

I thought about Nick and what I already knew about him.

“Kids like that don't know the first thing about volunteering,” Mr. Schuster said. “You have to be capable of thinking about someone besides yourself. The only thing those kids think about is themselves. They're always looking for a way to get something for nothing. That's what got them in trouble in the first place.” His anger stunned me. “I'm sorry,” he said, reading my expression. “I know I'm ranting. I just can't help myself. Kids like those really get me going. If I were in charge, I wouldn't let those violent criminals within a mile of this place.”

“Violent?” I said.

“Every single one of those young fellows has been in trouble with the law,” Mr. Schuster said. “And I don't mean jaywalking or stealing a pack of gum from the corner store. I mean serious trouble. The reason they're here is that they've been charged with at least one violent crime. And now some weak-kneed do-gooder has decided that working with animals is just the cure for their violent tendencies.” He snorted.

“Violent crime?” I said.“What kind of violent crime?”

“We're not allowed to know that,” Mr. Schuster said. “Those young fellows could go out and kill someone, and we wouldn't be allowed to know.
They're
protected by the law.”

I know from my mother, who sometimes works with young offenders, that it's illegal to report their names in the media. Mr. Schuster swallowed the last of his tea and screwed the top back onto his thermos. He snapped the lid onto the plastic container that had held his lunch. “Well, work doesn't do itself,” he said as he stood up. “It was very nice to meet you, Robyn.”

Before I could ask him how working with dogs could cure Nick—or anyone else, for that matter—of violent tendencies, he was striding away from the picnic table. For an old guy, he sure moved fast.

 

. . .

I had to transfer buses twice to get all the way from the animal shelter to the vegan restaurant near where Billy worked. Billy was waiting for me outside. He's tall and thin and knows more about animals than anyone I've ever met. He's planning to be a wildlife biologist.

“You really didn't have to do this,” I told him again as we sat down.

“I hope you'll like this place, Robyn.”

“If you like it, I know I will,” I said.

In fact, the menu looked great. It was amazing how creative vegans could be in coming up with dishes that came 100 from the plant world—no meat, no cheese, no eggs, nothing that came from animals.

We ordered and Billy started to tell me about a project he was working on with some of the camp kids. They'd drawn up a petition to ask the city for permission to paint a mural on a pedestrian walkway that was covered in graffiti.

“They've done studies,” Billy said. “Murals are a good way to combat graffiti. Graffiti artists respect other artists. Murals also beautify a neighborhood,
and
if they're well done, they can even educate people. We want to do ours on—”

Suddenly his eyes skipped from my face to somewhere over my shoulder. He shrank a little in his seat. I turned around to see what the problem was.

Terrific.

I looked back at Billy.

“Of all the people who had to walk in here, it had to be him,” I said. “Don't look. Maybe he won't notice us.”

No such luck.

Behind me Evan Wilson called, “Hey, Billy. There you are.”

There you are?
It sounded almost as if Evan had come in looking for Billy.

“Tell me this is a coincidence,” I said under my breath. “Tell me you didn't plan this.”

“I didn't. Honest,” Billy said. He looked miserable.

“He isn't coming over here, is he, Billy?” I said.
“Please
tell me he isn't coming over here.”

Billy sank lower in his seat.

A hand fell on my shoulder.

“Robyn,” Evan said, giving me a little squeeze. “Good to see you again.”

I glowered at Billy, who shook his head and mouthed the word, “Honest.”

“Hey, Robyn, what you did at that protest was awesome,” Evan said. He dropped into the empty chair beside me.

“That was an accident,” I said. The sooner he found out that I was not the earnest, dedicated activist that he thought I was, the sooner he'd (maybe) leave me alone.

“Yeah, well, it was still awesome. Because of what you did, we got news coverage—print
and
TV.”

Things just kept getting better.

“But they didn't show your picture, Robyn,” Billy said quickly. “They didn't even mention your name. They just said there was a scuffle.”

“So, Robyn,” Evan said, grinning and leaning toward me. “Now that you're so into protesting, I was wondering—”

I stood up.

“I just remembered I'm low on cash,” I said.

“But this is supposed to be my tr—”

I silenced Billy with a sharp look.

“I have to run out to the ATM,” I said. “I won't be long.” As I circled the table, I bent and whispered into Billy's ear: “Make him go away.” I headed for the door. Before I pushed it open and stepped outside, I glanced back at the table. Billy was looking forlornly at me. I ignored him. My plan: I would give Billy five minutes to get rid of Evan. If he hadn't done the job by the time I returned, well, then I would just have to do my very best Morgan impression and get rid of him myself.

There was a cash machine two blocks from the restaurant, near the bus stop. I'd spotted it when I arrived and had been planning to hit it before we went to the movies—I really was low on cash. I headed for it and took out some money. I was waiting to cross the street on my way back to the restaurant when a bus pulled up. Its doors opened, and a young woman struggled down the rear steps with a brand-new stroller heaped high with colorful bags and boxes. A bouquet of balloons was tied with ribbon to the handle of the stroller. Baby shower, I guessed.

One of the stroller wheels got wedged in the bus door, and the young woman looked flustered as she tried to work it free. I hurried over to give her a hand. She was wearing a waitress uniform from a chain restaurant and a name tag that said
Angie.

“Thank you,” she said when we had finally freed the stroller. Her face was flushed, and her round belly strained at the fabric of her uniform.

“Do you need help with that?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I'm fine,” she said. “I live right there.” She gestured to an apartment building almost directly opposite the vegan restaurant. “But thanks, anyway.” Suddenly her face brightened, and she raised an arm and waved. She pushed her over-burdened stroller toward a guy with rust-colored hair who was about to enter the apartment building. He turned and started toward her. As I crossed the street, I heard her say, “Did you get the job?”

The bad news: when I got back to the restaurant, Evan was still there. The good news: he stood up as soon as I sat down.

“I'd better run,” he said. “Nothing worse than being a third wheel, right, Billy?” He winked at Billy and flashed him a big grin.

I watched Evan walk out of the restaurant. “What just happened?” I said.

Billy shrugged and looked down at the tablecloth.

“Evan didn't come here because of me, did he, Billy? Because I told you yesterday that I wasn't interested in going out with him.”

“And I told him that,” Billy said. “He called me right after I talked to you.”

“And you said, ‘Robyn's not interested in you, Evan'—those were your exact words?”

Billy squirmed. “I think I might have said you were maybe interested in someone else—you know, so he wouldn't keep pestering me about it. But I didn't go into details,” he added quickly. “I didn't think it was any of his business.”

“Not to mention that it's not true,” I said.

Billy's cheeks turned pink.

“It sounded to me like Evan knew you were going to be here today,” I said.

“Yeah,” Billy said. He looked around, as if he wished our food would hurry up and arrive.

“You told him, didn't you?”

“We were just talking, you know, the way you talk to the people you work with.” He was slumped in his chair again. “I guess he just decided to take a shot.”

“Even though you told him I was interested in someone else.” Which I wasn't.

“Well, you know Evan.”

I did. He was self-righteous and overly zealous, bordering on dogmatic. Apparently, he was also arrogant enough to think he could win me away from my (nonexistent) boyfriend. I looked across the table at Billy. There was something else going on.

“He mentioned a third wheel,” I said.“And he winked at you, Billy.”

“What?”

“Evan. He winked at you.”

“He did? I didn't notice.”

Billy is many things, but a good liar isn't one of them.

“What exactly did you say to make him leave, Billy?”

“Ah, um . . . ” Billy looked down at the tablecloth again. “I might have told him a sort of white lie,” he said.

“Sort of, huh?” I watched Billy squirm some more. “Such as?”

“I might have given him the impression that maybe we were here together because you were maybe interested in . . . ” His voice faded away.

“Say that again, Billy.”

“Me,” Billy said in a whisper. “It's possible that Evan has the impression that you're interested in me.” He dared a glance at me. “I just wanted to get rid of him like you said, Robyn. I'd never be even remotely interested in you.”

Of course not.

“Not in a million years,” he said, for emphasis. “I mean, why would I be?”

Why indeed?

“Thanks, Billy,” I said.

Thanks a lot.

 

. . .

I was in the staff kitchen at the animal shelter the next day, when Nick walked in. He waited until I was finished taking my lunch out of the fridge before getting his. At least, I assumed it was his lunch. It was in a brown paper bag.

I went outside. I had planned to sit at the picnic table and read while I ate. Nick was right behind me. About three feet from the table, we both realized that we were headed for the same place, and we stopped. He looked at me and then stepped back a pace.

“It's okay,” he said. “You can have it.”

“No, you go ahead,” I said. “You and your friends have been here longer than I have.”