CHAPTER FOUR
A soggy Cheerio falls from my spoon and lands perfectly in the middle of a giant heart on my Dragons Reborn inspired leggings. I doubt Finn, or the company that now owns his popular video game, gave them permission to make leggings based on his characters, but the dragons flying around the pixelated hearts were too good to pass up. Drew calls them my crazy cat lady pants because rather than grow old with one hundred cats he thinks I’ll be the little old lady playing online video games in my nursing home.
Sounds like a good plan to me.
The man in question lumbers down the stairs like an elephant that saw a mouse. Framed pictures on the wall shake as he turns into the kitchen. His footsteps slow long enough to grab a granola bar from the box he continuously leaves on the counter. He exits from the other side of the kitchen, and we both throw up a hand in a silent wave as he passes me and heads for the front door.
“Later!” he yells on his way out.
I don’t bother yelling back as the front door slams shut, the pictures rattling again. Over the years, this has become our summer ritual when my working hours better line up with his. Drew didn’t have the grades to get scholarships out of high school (like me). Aging out of the foster care program pretty much guarantees you don’t have a wealthy benefactor to pay your tuition. While I was attending classes in the city, Drew was working his way up the corporate ladder. He is now assisting day manager for a large local construction firm.
I’m not sure when we stopped being the rebellious kids who snuck cigarettes behind Mrs. Haverbush’s garden shed and became these responsible adults, but I like it. This adult business isn’t half as much fun as we thought it would be, but it has its moments.
A knock on the heavy wood of the front door startles me, and I dribble the milk I’d been drinking from the bowl down my shirt. Mother F’er. At least I hadn’t gotten dressed for the day yet. Drew would never let me live it down if I wore the dragon leggings to work. No one else would either.
With another silent curse I stand, wiping spilled milk into my shirt. On the other side of the door is a man in a brown uniform holding a ridiculously large vase of red roses. I consider letting him leave them on the porch, but curiosity wins over my distaste for answering the door.
“You probably have the wrong house.” My eyes flicker back and forth between the roses and the delivery guy.
His head drops to the pad in his hands, not accustomed to my unexcited reaction. “I’m looking for Clare Cunningham. You her?”
My eyes narrow and my forehead pinches together in suspicion. “Who are they from?”
The guy studies his clipboard again. “Paperwork says the name on the credit card was a Grant Moore.”
I was afraid of that. “Can you send them back?”
He looks at me as if I have a snake coming out of my ear. “You want me to send back three hundred dollars in roses?”
“Don’t tell me the price!” I wave my hands frantically in front of me to stop him from saying more.
“Listen, lady, do you want the flowers or not?”
I sigh in defeat. “Fine.” With one hand I sign for the delivery and hold the heavy vase in my other hand irritated. With the delivery taken care of, I leave the roses on the table next to my empty bowl of cereal and grab my phone heading upstairs.
CLARE: Flower delivery is not included in our friendship contract.
I’d tried to refuse taking Grant’s phone number last night, but now I’m glad he programmed it in my phone.
I send the quick text to Grant and toss the phone on my bed not expecting an immediate response. In what is his ongoing theme, the man surprises me by sending a return text right away.
GRANT: Are we discussing contracts now? I love a good negotiation early in the morning.
I hurry to throw on a pair of jeans and a grey hoodie with the center’s logo across the front. The flower delivery set me back on a tight morning schedule.
CLARE: Plus red roses, really? How unoriginal.
Getting dressed distracted me from the purpose of my text — to ensure Grant lays off the flower deliveries.
CLARE: Seriously, Grant, friends only. You promised.
His reply comes as I’m locking the front door.
GRANT: Okay, I get the point. No more red roses.
Aghhh. Why is he so frustrating?
CLARE: NO flowers! Friends don’t send flowers.
GRANT: Okay, no flowers. You’d be good at negotiating if you ever want to enter the corporate world.
I read his text, my head shaking, as I quickly walk the few blocks to the center. At least he got the message. I slip my phone in my back pocket, expecting that’s the end of it, but it vibrates a few steps later.
GRANT: We should get together and play Dragons Reborn. I think you’d like it.
I laugh at the text. Who does he think I am? I definitely let my nerd knowledge slip last night, but we went the entire meal without mentioning the popular video game.
CLARE: I already play. Level 30.
His text comes quickly like the last few.
GRANT: Homestead or castle?
CLARE: Castle, of course.
The walk goes faster than normal while texting with Grant. His next one lights up my phone as I’m unlocking the door to my office.
GRANT: That’s my girl. What system do you play on?
I smile at his comment of me being his “girl”, but then I frown. I should not care if I’m Grant’s girl or not.
I mean I definitely don’t care if I’m Grant’s girl.
CLARE: A laptop. Windows version.
I boot up my computer waiting for him.
GRANT: What’s the graphic card readout on that? How many frames per second?
I read the text three times and still have no idea what he’s talking about. Sometimes I forget the preppy kid is a big nerd too.
CLARE: I’m not sure, it’s Drew’s computer. A black one.
GRANT: What’s your user name and the server you play on?
I debate being difficult and not telling him, but as I open my work e-mail, I give in and text him back. He’s best friends with the game developer. It wouldn’t take long for him to find someone to figure it out. Plus, he and the other RDA girls play on a different server.
GRANT: I’m not on that server.
As expected he tells me information I already had.
CLARE: So?
There’s no way he’s talking me into abandoning a level thirty Castle. I worked way too hard.
GRANT: Well if we play on your server I won’t have any of my cool swords to wow you.
I laugh at his persistence and the sound travels far enough into the hallway. One of the early arrival kids pops his head in my door. He looks at me in an odd way like he’s never heard me laugh before, but soon he smiles too and his head disappears back to where he came.
CLARE: Tell you what. You can live in my castle until you get on your feet.
GRANT: You have space for a roommate?
CLARE: Level 30 remember?
The thought of spending my morning locked away in my office texting with Grant has its appeal, but if I don’t show my face with the kids soon, they’ll come looking for me. I turn off the screen to my desktop computer and get ready to start another morning of keeping San Francisco’s kids entertained.
CLARE: Got to go for real. Kids are here.
**
“Okay, throw the balls back in the pit and let’s break for a quick lunch.” The sound of basketballs being dribbled across the gym makes a racket. I’ll enjoy the thirty-minute lunch break I get in my quiet office. Some days I eat it in the conference room with the kids who pack a lunch while the others visit various establishments near the center. They don’t always make it back after lunch, getting caught up in the moment of something more fun but normally not good for them. I understand, I was once one of those kids.
Lunch with my regulars gives me the chance to learn more about their lives at home. I often hear facts no teenager would normally share with anyone over twenty. They learn to be closed off and secretive. But today rather than information gathering, I plan to use the break to enjoy private time… and check to see if Grant texted again.
The door to my office is closed the way I left it, but there definitely wasn’t a man sitting behind my desk this morning.
“Can I help you?” I ask politely rather than yelling “what the fuck” like I want.
He stands, a huge smile on his face like he’s here to give me a million dollars or solve world hunger, but I’m not dreaming so it can’t be either of those. The poor kid isn’t a day over twenty and he’s obviously proud of whatever reason brought him here. It’s not every day I get a black clad, hair gelled, office guy to visit the youth center. It’s not normally a good thing. I’m suspicious to say the least.
“You are set. I’ve installed any programs I thought you might need and downloaded the latest version of Dragons Reborn. She’s for you.”
“Who’s ready for who?” I’m normally much harder to catch off guard, but today has been the oddest day. I’m not sure what to do with him.
He taps the lid of a brand-new black laptop, which definitely wasn’t on my desk when I left three hours ago. “Your new laptop. Mr. Moore wanted to make sure I stayed to answer any questions you have.”
Mr. Moore, huh? “I get how to use a laptop. But you can take it back to Mr. Moore,” I emphasize the Mr. “And tell him thanks, but no thanks.”
Little wanna be Bill Gates’ face pales, his eyes turning from happiness to concern. “But it’s… I… I,” he stutters over his words. “I’d lose my job.”
“You would lose your job for bringing back a laptop I don’t want?” Sure, the kid is obviously scared, but Grant’s not the type to fire someone over this. At least I don’t think he is.
Sensing there’s hope, his words become excited again. “I’m an intern. This is the first task I’ve been given that doesn’t involve a copy machine. I can’t mess it up.”
“Fine,” I give in. I don’t want to get the poor kid fired. “I’ll handle Mr. Moore myself.”
He jets around my desk so fast his suit jacket flies out behind him like a cartoon character running from a madman. Except in this case I guess I’m the madman… or woman.
I sit in my office chair and am forced to lower it a few inches. More points deducted from Little Bill Gates for messing with my chair. My phone is locked in a top desk drawer and I pull it out, making sure not to touch the shiny new laptop. I don’t want it to turn into one of those “you touched it last… you have to keep it” situations.
Now that I’m alone and the situation is sinking in, my anger grows. Who the hell does Grant think he is?
CLARE: WTF? A laptop?
His return text takes longer than this morning, but I don’t grab the sleeve of crackers I plan to eat for lunch today. I’m too angry now. Another minute passes and I tap my fingers on a small portion of the desk, still not touching the laptop. What is he doing? Working? Of course Grant would choose now to work when I want to yell at him.
Another three minutes and twenty-five seconds later — not that I’m counting — and my phone vibrates.
GRANT: It’s not flowers.
CLARE: I said no gifts.
GRANT: You only negotiated for flowers.
The texts volley back and forth between us. I don’t put my phone down in between because the next one comes right away. Each time he replies my anger multiplies. And to think I’d started to like the man, but in a few short hours he’s pissed me off again.
CLARE: That’s crap and you know it, Grant.
GRANT: I was only helping out a friend. I’d do it for anyone in the group.
That reply makes me pause for a moment because it’s true. They are a close group of friends and they come off as people who would definitely step up to help someone out. But this isn’t a flat tire or a simple dinner check. A new laptop to play a video game on is not something even a friend would do.
CLARE: I don’t need your handouts and plus I’m not in the group.
The RDA girls are cool and I enjoy hanging out with them on occasion, but I’m definitely not a member.
GRANT: Well they think you are and you don’t disagree with Marissa. She’s vengeful.
CLARE: I’m not keeping this laptop.
GRANT: Why do you have to be difficult?
If he thinks I’m being difficult, the poor man is in for a surprise. This is me being reasonable.
CLARE: I don’t want it.
A full minute passes with no return text from Grant. Worry builds as I wait. Is he busy constructing the perfect reply or did he forget about me?
GRANT: Fine.
That’s it? I don’t even know what fine means.
CLARE: Fine, what?
This text comes at the regular pace again.
GRANT: I can’t get away from the office right now. Take the laptop home and I will pick it up later.
CLARE: Fine I’ll be home after five.
GRANT: Do you need a ride?
I toss my phone back on the desk in frustration. Why can’t I make him understand? I don’t need anyone to watch after me. I’ve been doing fine on my own for years.
CLARE: You can’t help yourself can you?
GRANT: We seem to be at an impasse. I can’t stop offering and you can’t learn to say yes.
I read his text once, then twice, then a third time. I told Grant we’d never work as friends, but over the last few hours I started not hating the idea. It’s too bad he so easily agreed it won’t work.
Another text from Grant comes before there’s time to reply.
GRANT: Let me give you a ride home from work and pick up the laptop too.
Another offer of help. I can’t handle it and my anger flares up again.
CLARE: I don’t need a taxi.
GRANT: Consider me an Uber, but a sexy and safe one.
My head falls back, shaking at his refusal to take me seriously.
CLARE: No thanks. I’ve had enough Uber drivers hit on me while I’m in their backseat.
I sit staring at my screen waiting for it to light up with another text, but when it does, it’s a call. Grant’s face with a goofy lopsided grin stares back at me, the green incoming call button next to it. When he took the photo of himself and then programmed into my phone, I never expected to see the silly shot again so soon.
“Yes,” I answer with hesitation. It’s possible he didn’t mean to call me. I mean who uses the phone to make calls anymore?
“You’ve been in cabs where the driver hit on you?”
“Yeah…” My sentence trails off never really ending.
Grant sputters for second. “It’s dangerous. You could be killed, kidnapped, or a hundred other horrible things.”
Now he’s stepping all over me on the phone, not just in text. How does he think I survived for twenty-four years without him by my side?
“That’s insulting, Grant. I live in Hunter’s Point. I’m capable of taking care of myself. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”
“What do you mean?”
Whoops. I’ve definitely never shared with Grant my history and the ever-popular San Francisco foster care system. That’s a whole different set of questions I’m not ready to answer.
“I live blocks from the center. I’m able to get myself home fine. Come pick up the laptop later.”
Grant sighs. “Fine, tell Drew I’m bringing dinner. See you later.”
“No you –” he hangs up before I properly threaten him.