I give an exasperated laugh. There’s like a fifty percent chance he’s only saying this to mess with me. “No wonder you feel a hundred years old. You’re so cynical.”
“Hey, just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me.”
“Maybe become a social worker with me. We know how the system works, how kids get left behind. We can make it so that doesn’t happen anymore.”
“I could never do that,” he says quietly.
“Why not?”
“Because the first dad I met who beat his kids, I’d punch him in the gut so many times he’d die. And then I’d end up in jail. I’m too pretty for that, Jane.”
I suck in a breath, because he’s right. There’s true evil in this world. He knows it. I know it. Even if I get a degree and become a social worker, I won’t be able to right every wrong.
That’s a pipe dream, and he’s kind for pretending it might really work.
“There must be some dream you have,” I say. “Something you imagine when it’s dark, and you’re about to fall asleep, and Ryan is staying over at someone else’s place.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “There’s a dream.”
“Well?”
“It’s you, Jane. You’re the dream I have in those moments, when I’m too sleepy to stop myself.”
A fist closes around my throat. Heat floods my eyes. I’ve always suspected, always known, if I’m honest, that he wanted more from me than I could give him, but he’s never come out and said it. I’ve never had to tell him no before. “Noah.”
“It’s okay. I know you don’t think about me that way. And I know you’re made for better things.”
“No, Noah. It’s not like that. We’re the same, you and I—”
“We’re not. You’re going places in your life. Hell, you’ve already gone somewhere. And me? I’m going to be here, working at the same grocery store for the rest of my life. They’ll promote me to assistant manager someday, and that will be it for me.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t tell the truth? Go back to your rich people. That’s where you belong.”
There’s a click. I look at my screen. Call ended.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jane Mendoza
My eyes are puffy from crying the next day, but I scrub them hard with soap and paste a pretend smile on my face. I have an email back from the school agreeing to accept the work with stones and paint in lieu of scanned pages. There’s lots of verbiage about all the exceptions being made, and how grateful we should be, but the important thing is that it’s going to work.
Paige is going to pass first grade, and she’s going to do it herself.
My pride knows no bounds, and we forage together through the woods, painting onto rocks and trees and even a particularly large mushroom. We recreate worksheets about writing and math and social studies. When we’re done with eight of them, we move on to creative designs—the abstract swirls and splashes she loves so much.
We take a break at a patch of wild blueberries, pulling them off sharp branches until our hands are pink and our lips are colored blue.
A text comes in on my phone. I tense, thinking it might be Noah. Instead it’s an unknown number. Meet me in my study tonight at 9 p.m.
Mr. Rochester, then.
I wonder if he already knows about the school thing. I’m excited to tell him.
Groggy and heartbroken, but also excited.
While wandering, we come across a tree that has a large wound in it.
“Hit by lightning,” Paige says, her small voice knowledgeable.
We take out our paints, and she goes to work on the ten-inch canvas made by lightning while I relax with my back against another tree. Twenty minutes later she steps back, and there’s a woman in her painting with blonde hair and a sunny smile.
My throat feels tight. “Your mom?”
A quick nod.
“She would be so proud of you. The way you’re handling schoolwork right now.”
“You think so? Uncle Beau was mad at me for not doing it.”
“You are doing it now. It counts just as much on rocks as it does on paper.”
She gives me a small, unexpected grin before scampering away through the forest.
Paige goes to sleep at eight, so I have a full hour after I put her down to wait. I only make it for thirty minutes before I head to his study. No matter how much he claims not to care about her education, he does care.
No matter how grumpy he pretends to be, he’ll be happy about this.
I knock on the door to his study at eight thirty-six p.m.
“Enter.”
I bound into the study, full of energy and hope for the future. And stop abruptly when I see his expression. His eyes are full of mystery and menace. His lips are pressed to a flat line. Even now, even looking angry, he looks handsome.
It’s a cruel world. Unethical, as he would say, to make someone so mean look so beautiful.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Sit down.”
I’m too full of energy to sit down. “Paige has made the most exciting progress. She’s doing her schoolwork. She’s doing it outside on rocks, with paint, but that doesn’t matter. It still counts. I already heard back from the teacher and—”
“I saw that. Excellent work. I must say, I didn’t expect that from you.”
The way he says from you makes me stiffen. As if there’s something wrong with me. “I thought you’d be pleased about this. You said she had to pass first grade. Now she will.”
“Sit down, please.”
The word please makes me frown. He still sounds angry, but at least I can sit down and find out why. “Did something happen?”
“I suppose you could say that. I got a report back from a private security firm. Turns out the background check that Bassett Agency did was not quite comprehensive.”
I frown. “I don’t have any… felonies or anything.”
“No.” A faint smile. “No misdemeanors. Not even a single detention at school.”
“Why do you sound like that’s a bad thing?”
“It’s not, of course. Every good uncle wishes that his niece is raised by such a paragon in society.”
I narrow my eyes and say nothing. This is not a good talk.
“Your packet from Bassett Agency didn’t include your medical records.” He shifts through some pages on his desk. They look long. Like physically long pieces of paper. Medical charts? He runs his hand over something that looks like an X-ray. “Lots of broken bones.”
My blood runs cold. “How did you get that? There’s a privacy law for health records.”
“Money talks, sweetheart.”
I swallow, thinking back to Noah’s words about doctors being slaves to the pharmaceutical companies. Did the hospitals sell me out for a few dollars?
Go back to your rich people, Noah said. That’s where you belong.
But I don’t belong here.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“You’re spending more time with Paige than any other person. I’d like to know who you are. More than just some platitudes written in a recommendation letter.”