Violet scans the prospectus, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. “Have you chosen your topic?”
“Yup.”
I thumb through the open folder, fish out and hand her another single sheet of notebook paper with handwritten notes. She takes it, reads it, then glances up.
“You’re doing your research paper on this?”
I smirk. “What’s wrong with it?”
She reads from the paper. “‘Th-The biological and genetic, rather than moral, consequences of having a child with y-your first cousin?’” Pause. “Um…” She sits up straight in her chair.
“Clever, isn’t it?” I’m quite pleased with it myself.
Violet flushes. “W-What were your questions about it?”
“I guess I’m having a hard time finding facts to support my topic.”
She hesitates, wrinkles her nose. “Facts like…uh…multifactorial disorders?”
My brows rise, impressed. Apparently, the little stuttering wallflower really does know her shit about biology.
“Multifactorial disorders,” I repeat. “Is that what it’s called when a kid is jacked-up physically from all their parents’ fucking?”
A wince. A blush. “M-more like chromosomal defects, but yeah, I’m assuming that’s what you mean.”
“So how do I put that in writing?”
“Have you googled the topic at all?”
Duh. Does she think I’m a fucking idiot? “Obviously.”
She’s all business now. “What keywords did you use when you searched?”
“Inbreeding, banging cousins, fetal alcohol syndrome.” The words rattle off the tip of my tongue, and judging by the look on her face, she’s not impressed. “What’s that appalled look for? Why is your face all red? Are those not accurate descriptions?”
“Th-Those are terrible keywords.”
“Look, I seriously couldn’t give a shit if someone is banging their cousin—first, second, or third. I just pulled the topic out of my ass for the sake of getting the essay done, and didn’t want to be bored to tears writing it. So can we lose the whole scandalized virgin routine and move things along?”
I tap on the table with the end of my pen.
“Y-You’re absolutely…” Pause. “You’re certain you want to continue researching this subject?” Violet’s hesitation creeps into her voice. Her pale brows are bent, bottom lip jutted out in thought.
“Why? Does the topic make you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Great, ’cause I doubt you have a better suggestion.”
She bites down on her lower lip. “N-not off the top of my head, no, but I’m sure with a little effort, together we could come up with one.”
She looks so hopeful and laughably naïve.
“Together?” For fuck’s sake. “Aren’t you the sweetest?” I scowl because quite honestly, I detest everything about this conversation. Being here with her. Needing a tutor. The thought of collaborating with her?
Petite, mousy, stuttering Violet and me?
No.
Hilarious in its absurdity.
I wouldn’t have chosen her for help in a million fucking years.
I want to get the paper done, not write a love poem to science and biology.
But there is something I’ve been wondering. “So what’s the deal with you and that kid?”
Her light brows rise. “S-Summer?”
“Do you nanny any other annoying kids that rudely knock shit over in the grocery store?”
Violet stops taking notes long enough to give her dainty, feminine shoulders a shrug. “She wasn’t knocking anything over. She was curious and excited.”
I stare, unconvinced.
She swallows. “I’m not her nanny; I’m her Thursday.”
“Her Thursday. What does that mean?”
“Her mom i-is a student here, so as part of her tuition, Student Services provides a babysitter up to ten hours a week, free of charge, and I-I…”
“Babysit her on Thursdays.”
She nods. “Summer’s parents are part of the assistance program for enrolled students with children. Her dad just finished an internship, and her mom has history and a lab Thursdays, so while she’s in class, I-I hang with Summer.”
“What the hell do you do for three hours with a four-year-old?”
“She’s actually s-seven. Such a sweetie, the little doll face. We do arts and crafts. Do her homework. Go to the park.”
Little sweetie. Doll face.
Christ almighty.
“The park?”
“Yeah, you know—the place with swings, sunshine, and slides? Jungle gyms. Fun stuff? You do know what fun is, don’t you?”
I narrow my eyes—is she mocking me?
I wouldn’t have pegged the waif as sarcastic or snarky, but looks are often deceiving. Suddenly latching onto a topic she’s passionate about, she prattles on and on about the goddamn park like I give a shit.
“There’s a really nice park down on State, right near the admin building, almost between campus and the downtown—”
I cut her off, impatient. “I’m not paying to hear about the location of the local park. I’m paying you to help me with biology.”
She flushes, just like I expect her to. “Right. S—”
Sorry.
She catches herself just in time.
Zeke
How I found myself at the park the next day—Thursday to be exact—I have no damn idea. I guess it had something to do with not having a single place to bring this freaking kid, the one I’ve been saddled with for the next few weeks.
Meeting at the Big Brothers Center, his ass is parked in a chair when I first walk in, chatting with some lady behind the desk like they’ve done it a hundred times.
All conversation stops when I shove through the door. I step up to the counter, fill out the paperwork attached to the clipboard, and catch the eye of the gray-haired receptionist behind the desk.
She rolls toward me in the desk chair, giving me the stink eye behind her thick purple glasses.
“You’re late, and your little buddy has been waiting for eight minutes.”
What is she, the volunteer police? Eight minutes is hardly a big deal.
I give her a one-shoulder shrug. “I had class.”
“Try to be on time from now on or you’ll get written up.” She snatches the clipboard out of my hand, glances down at my scribbled responses, then asks, “And where will you and Kyle be spending your two hours today?”
Who the hell is Kyle? “Who’s Kyle?”
The woman—Nancy, according to her nametag—tilts her head, bobbing her chin toward the back wall. The boy in the chair sits, feet dangling—he can’t be more than ten or eleven years old—glaring from underneath the wide brim of an Oakland A’s baseball cap.
I have to spend the next two hours with this kid?
Shit.
I try not to grimace, but fail.
“Well? I need an answer.” She winks at the kid on the bench, even as her fingers hover above the keyboard on her desk, ready and waiting to input the location of my play date with my new Little Brother. “Where will you be taking Kyle?”
“Where?”
“Yes, Mr. Daniels.” She annunciates impatiently. “Where will you be and what will you be doing with your little? Which activities?” She speaks carefully like I’m slow to understand. “We need to know specific information because of liability.”
Nancy purses her lips and folds her arms. “This information was in the informational packet you signed off on when admitted to the program—reluctantly I might add. Now, you signed a release form stating you’d read the rules and regulations for our organization. Is that ringing any bells, Mr. Daniels?”
Right, I did do that.
Clearly I didn’t fucking read any of it.
“I guess we’ll…” I look up into the mirror above Nancy, scowling when I catch a reflection of the little bastard, Kyle, rolling his eyes behind my back. “Is there a park nearby we can walk to so I don’t have to put him in my truck? The one on…State Street.”
“Oh boy,” Nancy mutters, affronted. She collects herself. “Greenfield Community Park, or Central County National?” Nancy’s hands are back, hovering above the keyboard.
“There’s a park called Central County National? Sounds like a prison,” I deadpan.
“Well Mr. Daniels, there are a number of parks in the area, and those are two of them. If you’re looking for a prison”—she looks me up and down again with pinched lips—“the nearest one is forty minutes north.”
“Seven parks,” interjects a smaller, youthful voice helpfully. “There are seven parks in the entire city.”
“Right. Yeah. I’ll take the Greenfield Community Park option, I guess.”
“On State?” The older woman types it out. “Just to be clear.”
Goddammit Nancy, who the hell cares?
“Sureeeee.”
Nancy raises her head. “If you’re meeting here, always log in your pick-up and drop-off time on the clipboard. If not, please email or text us your hours. Kyle knows the drill.” She shoots him a smile and a wink. “You make sure to show the new guy the ropes, Kyle.”
Another wink.
Kyle hops off the bench, and off we go.
“Looks like I’m stuck with you kid. Try not to be annoying.”