EMERSON
Clearly I’d hit at an all-time low if I’d managed to convince myself I was cut out to work with these monsters, even if it was strictly behind the scenes. By noon, I’d already had my ass grabbed by one of the older boys; been told to go back to Beverly Hills by a group of girls who couldn’t have been older than eight; and was beaned by a basketball that was “accidentally” thrown out of bounds while Lauren was giving me the grand tour.
That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The real kicker had come at lunchtime, when someone—one of those little fuckers, no doubt—had decided to replace my lunch with some sort of roadkill.
Hand to God, whatever was in that bag still had its tail.
First thing tomorrow, I was making an appointment to have my uterus ripped out . . . and set on fire.
“Talk about the work of a serial killer,” I’d complained to Lauren as I’d jettisoned what was supposed to have been a perfectly edible lunch into the wastebasket.
But she hadn’t been nearly as put off by their inhospitable reception. “They’re testing you,” she’d explained over the tuna sandwich and a bag of Doritos she’d offered to split with me. “These are tough kids with even tougher lives. I never said this job would be easy. My first week, someone let all the air out of my tires. Don’t let it get you down.”
But it was hard not to.
Especially when my phone was blowing up with text messages from Lucas:
You home?
Stopped by, but no one answered.
Hoping to catch you before I had to take off.
Everything okay?
Can I stop by later? We should talk.
With each one, my mood turned from sour to foul to downright murderous. I’d started to think I might prefer a roadkill lunch over another message from him.
Lauren was a better person than me—she managed to bite her tongue and stop herself from asking what was up between Lucas and me.
I’m a meddler by nature. For sure I would have tried to break her with my brilliant interrogation skills. And if that hadn’t worked, I probably would’ve snatched her phone from her hands and tried to crack the code for myself.
But she played it cool, pretending not to notice the way I jumped every time my phone vibrated. Or the way I gritted my teeth.
She was the anti-me.
That’s how you know you’ve got yourself a good friend.
Finally, even the obnoxious buzzing got on my nerves, and I shut my phone off.
After lunch, the real work began. Lauren showed me to a desk where I threw myself into learning the ins and outs of the rec center’s accounting system. It was surprising how similar the nonprofit’s system was to the one my dad’s car dealership used, the one I’d cut my teeth on. She showed me what kinds of grants they’d gotten in the past and the ones they were waiting on already. We spent a little time googling foundations that threw money at charities like confetti, and when she left me on my own, I started going through the social media platforms they’d already set up, which were pathetic at best.
This was my sweet spot—numbers, networking, and analyzing their strengths and weaknesses. This was why I’d majored in business communications.
It felt good to flex my marketing muscles again.
When Lauren knocked on one of the flimsy fake walls that made up my small cubicle in the back offices and asked, “You ready?” I jumped in surprise.
Since my phone was off, I glanced at the old-person clock hanging on the wall, the one with numbers and hands that required brainpower to decipher. It was already after seven. “Oh, snap,” I said, slowly closing down my programs and signing out of my shiny new email account. “I had no idea it was so late.”
She was clutching a clipboard to her chest and she leaned gingerly against the wobbly wall. “Times flies . . .”
I smiled because it kinda had, despite the seriously rocky start.
Maybe this hadn’t been such a mistake after all. Weird, since I’d never considered myself a “giving back” kind of person, so working for the community rec center had never been on my list of dream jobs. I’d always thought I’d grow up to be a sports agent, like Bitsy.
Check that. Better than Bitsy. I’d have clients who were scouted and signed multi-million-dollar contracts, and earned bonuses that included yachts and vacation homes. Spoiled athletes who I’d bail out of jail on drug charges and for carrying concealed weapons without permits.
I’d never considered working for kids who grew up with nothing. Helping those whose pasts were bleak and who had probably never contemplated their futures.
But maybe this was exactly what I needed right now—a world completely removed from my old life. Maybe while I was helping these kids build their lives, this was my chance to create a brand-new me.