She shakes her head, and her voice tightens. “It’s easy for me. But the rest of the world doesn’t recognize Phillip the way the rest of the world recognizes you.” She points toward my box. “Look at all these things, how many times I’ve gotten to sit in an audience and have other people acknowledge just how awesome my kid is.” My mom stares into my eyes, and I wish I could ignore the glassy cast to hers. “You think it’s selfish, but it’s not. It’s this feeling like the love and joy you find in your child can’t possibly be contained in your heart alone, this feeling like the world should celebrate your child, too. Every child should be celebrated that way, at least once.” Her throat convulses and her voice drops to a whisper. “It comes with being a parent, and I don’t think I was being selfish for wanting that, just once, for Phillip.”
“Mom—”
She waves her hand in protest and wipes at her eyes. Eventually, she forces a laugh. “I know it’s a pipe dream, all of it—the idea that I’d be able to coax him into a tux, the idea that he’d actually walk down that red carpet, the idea that he’d realize what the night is for and enjoy any part of it. But I want that for him, anyway.”
She stops trying to laugh the pain away and she looks sadder than I’ve seen her look in a long while. “I’m never going to get what I want, but still . . . I can’t seem to stop wanting people to fill his box the way people have filled yours.”
I hover above her, silent. I guess in my mother’s eyes, Phillip and I are more alike than different.
I stare down at his image, smiling in the school picture. Phillip reduces everything, everyone, to objects and it’s easy to do the same to him. To view him as a highly irritable robot, whose programming is rife with bugs and flaws, creating disconnects every time he tries to interact with humans. Looking at this picture, you’d never know. He’s just as human as I am, and it’s not right that his box is empty, I decide.
But we can’t change the world, and we sure as hell can’t change Phillip’s world, so what she wants, yeah, it seems like a pipe dream. And I hate the idea of her having to face reality and the idea of other people, Phillip included, letting her down. That’s really what I’d been trying to say to her the other night, but my own feelings got in the way.
“I just don’t want you to be disappointed if the night doesn’t turn out the way you want it to.”
My mom turns toward me a final time and squares her shoulders. “If I worried about disappointment when it comes to Phillip, he’d never be where he is today, Jordyn. I can hardly let the fear of my expectations falling short, the idea of people letting me down, dictate how we live around here.”
Something catches within me.
Her words poke at a truth buried within me, reminding me of ways in which I am weak.
I hurriedly push my sleeve up and glance at my watch. “Well. I’m going to be really late soon. I should get going.”
“Thanks for stopping to chat.” She offers a small smile in parting.
I nod once and scurry toward the front door, away from the discomfort our conversation has provoked.
After getting caught up talking to my mom, I’m running late to meet the work crew at the playground. But I need a few minutes to clear my head, so I stop and pick up a bagel and coffee at the Einstein Bros I pass on my way. As an afterthought, I add a cinnamon raisin bagel, Alex’s favorite, to my order. Knowing him, he’s probably been at the playground site since the crack of dawn.
When I pull up to the park, the dirt lot is full of cars, and in the distance, I see groups of people already hard at work. I’m not surprised that Alex has gotten a good turnout of friends from school and members of the community. As I approach the crowd and find Leighton manning the snack table for volunteers, I’m glad I can blend in as one friend of many.
Even so, I stash the Einstein Bros bag in my purse as I near the group. She’s beat me to the punch, anyway. The table is covered with artfully arranged trays of fruit and dip, bagels and gourmet cream cheese, and danishes and doughnut holes. There are plastic carafes of fruit juice and thermoses of coffee.
I guess manning the snack table is Leighton’s only task, because she doesn’t seem very motivated to move beyond it. She’s relaxing in a folding chair with her feet up, sipping from a cup of coffee and talking to Dana and Jamie like today is a social gathering more than anything else. It doesn’t escape my attention that she’s taped a flyer advertising the hockey team’s upcoming spaghetti dinner fund-raiser for new equipment to the front of the table. There is a cash box and a pile of tickets in front of her.
Even though I’d love to avoid them entirely, I force myself to say hi.
“Jordyn’s here. Shocking,” Dana quips.
Leighton is all business as she points toward the box. “We’re multitasking today. Did you buy tickets for your family yet? The team should really have one hundred percent attendance.”
I’m aware of her 100 percent goal, but, no, I have most certainly not bought tickets for my family yet.
I open my purse and pull out some money, thinking maybe my mom won’t mind going by herself, since I’ll be working the event.
I hand Leighton a twenty-dollar bill. “My dad’s tied up that night, but I think my mom can come. Just one ticket’s fine.” Tickets are only ten dollars, but I wave the change aside. “Keep the change, as a donation. I’m sure my parents won’t mind.”
Hopefully, this will appease her.
She nods her approval, and as she hands me one ticket, I notice Alex approaching. His face is serious and focused, but he looks as appealing as ever in cargo pants, a gray hoodie, and a navy knit hat that makes his beautiful brown eyes stand out even more than normal. His cheeks are flushed from exertion and the cold.
“Hi, Jordyn. Thanks again for making it out today. Was keeping an eye out for you.”
It’s an innocent enough comment, but internally I cringe, thinking how the words will sound to Leighton and crew.
“Sorry I’m running so late,” I spit out in a rush, taking a step away from him. “I got caught up talking to my mom, and—”
Leighton interrupts me. “We’re right on top of things at our post, Alex,” she informs him cheerily. She tightens her scarf around her neck. “Making sure workers stay fed and warm and happy. Everyone’ll be more productive that way.”
Alex’s expression becomes colored with some low-burning frustration, and he just smiles tightly at her in response.
Leighton doesn’t seem to notice though, and continues on. “And like I just told your buddy Jordyn, I’m multitasking. Like a boss. I already sold more than twenty tickets to the spaghetti dinner, and it’s only ten thirty.”
I think his annoyance is obvious now, in the set of his jaw and darkness of his eyes, but she still doesn’t seem to get it.
“I’m gonna get Jordyn started,” he says tersely, grabbing my elbow and steering me away from the table. I try to picture what Leighton’s face must look like, but I sure as hell don’t want to turn around to see. He is not helping me out here.
I don’t relax until we round the corner of the bathrooms and three pairs of eyes are no longer on my back.
Alex’s mood seems to lift as well and his smile turns genuine. “So . . . all set for latrine duty?”
“Yeah. I just wish you’d stop calling it that.”
“Again, if you’d rather, I can get you a hammer.” He points toward a group of guys from school who are squinting at a diagram as they attempt to put together a complicated-looking seesaw apparatus.
“I’ll stick with latrines. As long as I just have to paint.”
Alex nods toward the entrance. “Come on, then, I’ll show you. Get ready to Seussify the place.”
I giggle and smile as I follow his lead.
Alex, in conjunction with the charity organization sponsoring the playground development, had decided on a whimsical, colorful design scheme based on popular Dr. Seuss books and characters. The plans include red-and-white-striped poles, à la the Cat in th
e Hat, and the main path leading to the playground is going to be painted in pastel-colored stripes like the road in Oh, the Places You’ll Go! A local artist has been commissioned to craft a large, sweeping banner over the entrance, one that will bear the quote, “Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is youer than you!”
I adore the theme and think it’s perfect for what Alex is trying to accomplish by getting this playground built.
He leads me into the small stucco bathroom building, the interior of which has been slated to receive a dousing of orange, blue, and white, to represent the color scheme from Horton Hears a Who!, the book about the compassionate elephant who looks out for those smaller than he. The main walls have already been given a base coat, but I’ll be responsible for working on the wooden stall frames and doors, along with the wooden frames surrounding the mirrors. It’s not a terrible job. There are no confusing diagrams involved, at least.
Alex goes over the basics with me, and I nod. “No problem. I helped paint the sets for a few plays at my old school. This’ll be easy-peasy.”
Alex quirks an eyebrow and his dimple appears. “Easy-peasy?”
“Yes, easy-peasy.”
He laughs, and I am happy to see him brighten again, even at my silly terminology. “Easy-peasy. If you say so. Alright, well, Dan and Mitch are over working on the boys’ bathroom side, but if you want some help, I can pull Dana or Jamie away from Leighton.” He doesn’t bother to stifle an eye roll. “I don’t really think you need three people to hand out bagels, but . . .”
“I’ll be fine,” I say quickly, because I don’t want to spend the day trapped inside a small bathroom with either one of them. Plus, I have my secret supply stash that I don’t want to explain to them. “I’ll yell if I fall into a paint vat, or a toilet, or something.”
Alex chuckles one more time before his voice turns serious. “Okay. And thanks again, Michaelson. I really appreciate it.”
“Happy to help,” I answer.
“What are you working on?” I ask, as he turns to leave. “Just supervising? Shouldn’t you have a hard hat or something?”
My favorite grin lights up his face, causing the dimple to reappear. “I don’t, but you’re right, I should. That would be amazing.” He shakes his head. “No, actually, I’m working on one of the wheelchair ramps.” He shrugs. “I helped install a couple at home, so actually I am sort of the crew chief. Not sure anyone else knows what they’re doing.” Alex suddenly looks concerned. “In fact, yeah, I better get back out there. See ya later, M.J.”
“See ya later.”
He turns to leave, I take a second to watch him go, and then I get to work.
I’m pretty adept with paintbrushes and rollers, from my work on the play sets I told Alex about and because I’ve painted my bedroom several times over the year. I can work with precision around the blue tape strips, and I know how to edge like a pro. It’s a bit more complicated when it comes to painting the stall doors because I have to stand on a step stool to reach their tops, but there are only three of them to worry about.
I take a break around lunchtime, when Alex has a bunch of pizzas delivered. I want to make sure to check in with him, rather than having him check in on me later, when I plan to work on the surprise part of my project. I don’t get to talk privately to Alex, though, because Leighton is too busy drawing him into some very public recognition.
When everyone has gathered around a few rickety picnic tables, balancing slices of pepperoni and mushroom on flimsy paper plates, Leighton claps her hands loudly and bellows for everyone’s attention.
“Before we all get back to work . . . ,” she starts.
I consider how her definition of work differs from mine. Sitting behind a table peddling tickets and talking to friends is a far cry from how most of us spent the morning.
“. . . I just wanted to take a minute for everyone to acknowledge how hard Alex has been working to make this project spectacular.”
She stands behind the table, beaming, pointing in his direction and winking before leading everyone in a big round of applause. “This is a huge deal and he’s totally going to turn it into a success. I mean, can we just take a minute to acknowledge how awesome this guy is?”
Everyone joins her in applauding and she throws in some whooping on top of the cheers.
I study her as I halfheartedly join the cheering. Her enthusiasm and praise of her boyfriend sure seem genuine. Nothing she says is untrue, and I don’t think Alex would’ve hated the recognition if we were just among friends.
But with adults from the community and fund contributors standing about, it’s wrong to focus the admiration on a single person when so many are involved in the project’s completion. It’s just all so very Leighton, but it isn’t Alex at all. I shift my attention to his face, and I can tell he’s less than thrilled about the attention being focused on him instead of the project overall.
Leighton leaves right after lunch. I hear her ask Alex, “I mean, snack time is over, right? Do you mind if we take off? I have some things to take care of, and I should really drop the cash box back at school.”
It does not cross her mind that maybe she could help elsewhere, that no one else is gearing up to leave.
Alex just nods. He steps forward to plant a quick kiss on her lips. But he doesn’t reach out to touch her, and his eyes are even farther away than his body.
The first day of school, I had a pretty emotional reaction to seeing them together. Jealous. There, I said it. I felt jealous.
But in this moment, I don’t. I feel sad for my friend, whose girlfriend seems so entirely oblivious to how his mind and heart work. It must be a pretty lonely feeling for him.
I get back to work as everyone else does. I’m happy to find that the paint has dried enough for me to begin phase two of my project.
When Alex told me about the theme for the bathroom, I looked around online and discovered these stencils and decals to create murals in kids’ rooms and doctors’ offices. I was so excited when I found the Horton characters in the online catalogue that I ordered several.
Now I work to arrange them carefully on the stall doors so it appears that the characters are peeking out from the edges of the doors. I plaster a second stencil at wheelchair height on the main wall behind the sink. I take my time painting the letters until Horton’s mantra is complete: “A person’s a person, no matter how small.”
It’s hard work, requiring precision and focus, and it consumes me. Eventually, I notice the sun beginning to set behind the hills through the one small window in the bathroom, but I refuse to stop until I’m finished. I don’t want Alex to see anything less than a finished project. I am thirsty, I have to pee, and my back is stiff from bending over to paint the lower sections of the mural. But eventually, I paint the last tuft of hair on Horton’s head and stand up to examine my work.
There is Horton, smiling out from the corner of one door, with a little Who from Whoville balanced precariously on his head. The Wickersham monkey brothers swing from the top of the second stall. There is the Mama Kangaroo, with her baby in her pouch, staring haughtily at a whole village of little Whos on the last door in the room.
A huge smile spreads over my face. The murals look even better than I imagined. They look awesome.
I’m still standing with my back against the wall, admiring my work, when I hear the door open. Alex walks in. “Christ, M.J., you’re still here? I figured you’d left by now and I just missed—”
He stops dead in his tracks. His eyes widen, and his mouth actually falls open. He looks at me in amazement, looks back at the doors, and then back at me. “Are you kidding me? What is this?”
I lower my gaze and shrug dismissively. “It’s the Horton bathroom, obviously,” I say, gesturing toward the orange paint on the walls.
“Yes, but . . . what’s the rest of it?”
I swallow hard and manage to meet his eye. “That’s my contribution.”
Alex com
es over and stands beside me, so close that our sleeves are touching. He adopts my position, arms folded across his chest, as he stares at the paintings some more.
“Jordyn, this looks awesome. Did you actually paint these?”
“Oh, I had stencils. They’re really easy to use. Trust me, I’m not that artistic.”
“Where’d you get this stuff?”
“Online. You can find anything online.”
“I’ll reimburse you,” he assures me quickly.
“Nope. Like I said, it’s my contribution, and they weren’t expensive.”
I take a deep breath and look over at him, which isn’t easy at all, considering how close he is. As soon as my eyes meet his, I feel like talking is no longer a skill that comes easily. “I, uh, hope you don’t mind that I didn’t ask first. I wanted to surprise you. Figured I could always paint over it, if you hated it.”
Alex’s eyes widen in protest. “Hate it? I love it!”
He stares at me for another minute, the look in his eyes a confusing combination of gratitude, warmth, and . . . sadness? He allows the back of his hand to tap against the back of mine. “I love that you wanted to do this,” he whispers.
“Well, you’re making everything around here special,” I reply. I try to laugh, but it gets stuck in my throat. I can hardly breathe, with him looking at me like that. “You know. The ‘latrines’ should be special, too.”
Alex shakes his head, at a loss. “I’ve said thank you a lot today, I’ve said it to a lot of people. I have no idea how to say thank you for this.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.” He turns so he is facing me now. I turn toward him. We are practically touching and I can feel the soft, heavy fabric of his sweatshirt against mine. I smell wood shavings and cologne. I feel warmth.