“I don’t wanna serve slop to a bunch of hobos!” Tessa yelled into her mobile phone at her mother. She had pulled her white Lexus—not the Barcelona red she had requested—into a street spot and pounded the steering wheel like a toddler. “Why do I have to do stupid community service anyway!” “First,” her mother spoke like a gasket about to blow, “don’t stereotype these people. You don’t know what they’ve been through. You don’t know their struggles. And second, you need six hours of service to pass religion. It’s not my fault you waited until the last minute to arrange it, and this was all that was left. Now, shut your face and get in there.” Tessa flipped open the visor mirror to “check her face.” She reflexively pulled her soft champagne-coloured hair into a ponytail, even though she had spent considerable time styling it earlier. She caught a glimpse of her necklace—a sixteenth birthday gift from her parents—four teardrop emeralds, her birthstone, in a white gold setting, arranged to symbolise a four-leaf clover. They had enclosed a note, written in her mother’s boarding school script, that waxed about good fortune and love. She glanced up at Butler House across the street, a monstrous deep blue Victorian deeded over to a non-profit agency in desperate need of a home, and unclasped the necklace, tossing it onto the console with her Ray-Bans, a Starbucks gift card, and a tube of apricot hand lotion. She braced herself as if about to mount an attack on hostile land and exited the car, pulling on a puffy white ski vest. More than a dozen people, mostly men, had already begun to queue outside Butler House, determined to score a hot meal on a chilly autumn day. Tessa noted their collective slouch, hands in pockets, scruffy beards, frayed clothing. A little family of four clustered together, looking like any family on an outing, the children flitting about with energy. A pair of women chatted as if standing in line for the opera—if people wore knit caps and hoodies and carried plastic Walmart bags to see Carmen. She scanned them, attempting to decipher the alcoholics from the drug addicts, the abused from the abusers, the insane versus the lazy. Tessa steeled herself to walk past them when she spotted a sign instructing staff and volunteers to enter through the side door. She sighed in relief and made her way through a sticky door, down an eerie hallway that opened into a large kitchen. A distracted woman in a chunky sweatshirt and worn jeans instructed her to hang her vest, sign in, wash her hands, and gather at the top of the serving line with the others. She was handed an apron, a hairnet, and thin plastic gloves. A formidable, bosomy woman with short, cropped hair, who told them her name was Rosalie, came before half a dozen volunteers and thanked them for their time—though her tone sounded more perturbed by their unskilled presence, as if they were more a nuisance than a blessing. She rattled off a laundry list of rules about Butler House: no weapons, no alcohol, no drugs, no swearing, no fighting, no seconds. People could not save spots for others. Servers were not to chit-chat with the patrons. “Do not give them choices,” Rosalie cautioned, “because they can’t handle such difficult decisions. Simply ask, ‘Do you want lemonade?’” She lowered her chin and looked at her crew like an old-school librarian and warned, “Absolutely no extras. We have enough food for one hundred people. Those at the end of the queue deserve as much as those at the front. Got it?” She paused as if waiting for someone to challenge her. She pointed at Tessa and waved her over. “You do the ham, dearie,” and Tessa moved quickly to avoid potential corporal punishment, her lip in a snarl. “Reach for a tray, then with the tongs place one slice, and only one, on a tray. Smile at the person if you want, then slide the tray to the next volunteer.” And in a flash, Tessa’s training was complete. She straightened her hairnet, grabbed her tongs, and split her thoughts between fear she would fail at her duty and terror at facing, close up, these local street people, criminals, mental cases, and derelicts. She served up her first portions without even looking at the faces that appeared before her but quickly realised how friendly their voices were, saying “Thank you,” and “God bless you,” and, “This looks delicious.” She finally mustered the courage to look up and found hardened, shaggy men and women, young and old, children and teens with chapped faces and dirty cuticles, in tattered clothing and worn footwear, but with generally pleasant dispositions. She studied folks who looked harmless and kind, some thoughtful, some jovial, some quiet, others nervous. Some were quirky or strange, but others, she thought, presented themselves as perfectly normal people, whatever that means. She sensed a disturbance near the door and looked up to find Rosalie castigating an especially vocal man. “You’re drunk, keep moving,” she gave him a push and waved on the next person. Incrementally, Tessa’s shoulders relaxed, and she found herself conversing about the weather and local sports and answering simple questions with a salubrious smile. As she tonged another slice of ham, Tessa heard a smooth baritone voice exclaim, “Wow, they brought in the A-team today!” She looked up, and before her stood a tall, lean young man in an army field jacket covered with patches. His walnut-coloured skin encased mesmerising brown eyes and an angular face, like something from a cologne advert. But these features were completely overwhelmed by his smile, a wide, brilliant grin that illuminated the room. His smile was positively radiant, ever-so-slightly crooked in a manner that made him winsome and boyish. She stuttered, attempting to thank him for the compliment, her tongue suddenly untamable. She felt herself drawn to this young man, who seemed to be about her age, as if in a trance. She formulated a hundred questions for him, needing to unravel his mystery, but her body would not cooperate. Without thinking, operating like a remote-controlled doll, she slid the ham slice onto his tray, then, like a spy passing classified documents, secreted another on top and quickly passed on the tray. Eyes fixed like search beacons, she followed him as he shuffled along the line, past the mashed potatoes, corn, rolls, and dessert, and completely missed the next tray as she served up another slice of ham. Befuddled, Tessa forged on with her serving duties, finding herself more and more comfortable interacting with the guests before her but scanning the room looking for that luminescent grin. When the last man claimed the last slice of ham, Rosalie squeezed behind the serving line and instructed Tessa to sweep the dining room floor. Tessa grabbed a broom from the corner near the door and began to sweep. Then she felt a nudge and found army field jacket-boy with a broom sweeping alongside her. “Mind if I help?” he smiled again, and she felt her knees give. “That’s okay, I’ve got it,” she smiled back. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for the bonus ham,” he winked and waved at Rosalie, who scowled at him like a teacher afraid to admit he was her favourite student. “I’m Tyree,” he offered. “Tessa. Nice to meet you.” “I would say, ‘come here often?’, but I’m here every Saturday, and I sure would remember you.” He stopped sweeping. “Let me guess, required community service for school?” “I know, I’m a cliché.” “Where?” “Glenmary,” she demurred. “Oh, a Glennie! Cool! So, you’re east side.” “Yes, and we hate that nickname. It screams spoiled brats.” “Indeed, it does. Sorry.” “How about you?” Tessa also idled her broom. “I didn’t finish school. Had to leave unexpectedly.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” Tessa felt embarrassed for him. “It’s alright. My little brother got sick, and I had to take care of him.” “Oh. I hope he’s better,” she tried to spin the conversation back to something more positive. “Well, he didn’t make it. Leukaemia,” the brilliant smile disappeared, but somehow Tyree remained just as handsome but in a different shade. “After our mother disappeared, I was all he had, and he was all I had.” “My gosh, Tyree, I…” Tessa teared up. “Hey, hey, girl, it’s all good. Marquay is in a better place. All part of the plan, I guess.” The pair stood in silence for a moment. “I think we’ve swept as much as we can,” Tyree nodded at the brooms, and they finished up. She held the dustbin, and he pushed in their refuse and dumped the contents in the bin. “I like the patches on your jacket,” she pointed at the various sewn-on emblems. “Oh, these. Got this coat at Dayspring Centre. But I like the patches—Peace, Planet Over Profit, Coexist. I happen to believe in all that.” “Me too, I guess.” Tessa blushed with insecurity. “Well, I’d better go,” she stammered. “Meeting you is the highlight of my week, guaranteed,” his smile returned and seemed even more vibrant than before. Tessa thought it beamed like a lighthouse beacon. Uncomfortable with his attention, she bid him goodbye, grabbed her vest, and manoeuvred down the Butler House steps, her mind swooping and pulsing, when her feet slipped out from beneath her and she dropped onto her tailbone, a loud grunt echoing into the busy street. She lay there unsure of her condition for a few seconds, then pushed herself into a seated position and leaned against the wrought-iron railing. She blinked, and suddenly Tyree’s smile appeared before her. “Holy shit, what happened to you?” he called out. “Just sit a minute and catch your breath. Anything broken, sprained, pulled?” he quizzed her. “No, just a bruised tailbone,” she assured him, “and embarrassed I can’t even walk right.” “Maybe just sit here for a bit and rest,” Tyree suggested. They sat in a moment of silence, traffic surging by them, a siren throbbing in the distance, an autumnal breeze flinging Tessa’s ponytail. Tessa finally gathered the courage to ask, “Is it gross being around these people all the time, you know, the homeless?” “They’re just people,” he challenged her. “Let me ask you, does anyone at your school have a drug problem, drink too much, steal shit, or have mental health issues?” “You have no idea,” she scoffed. “I see your point.” “People are just people. Same problems. Your folks just have prettier masks to wear.” “And homes to hide in,” she added. “Exactly. Out here, we’ve got no place to store our weaknesses. Everyone’s always exposed.” “This feels so far away from my house, but I only live a few miles from here,” Tessa turned philosophical. “The worlds are so close, yet so far,” Tyree’s voice dropped off. “Well, we need to get you home,” he surmised. “I’m parked right over there, the Lexus across the street,” she pointed. “Can you just help me walk over?” Gingerly, Tyree lifted her up on a count of three, and she placed her arm around his neck as best she could, given his height. “I could carry you,” he suggested, but she laughed. “We’re not in a rom-com, Mister,” she quipped. They hobbled across the street and toward her car, Tyree explaining he had taken some first-aid classes at the Boys’ Club, that he could wrap her foot in a bandage if they only had one. “I’m always the one this shit happens to,” Tessa complained. “I’m still nursing a volleyball injury to my thigh. I’m like the walking dead.” “Sounds like some bad juju. Who’d you piss off?” “What the fuck!” Tessa cried out as the two arrived at her car. “I’m parked in!” “Whaddaya mean?” Tyree questioned. “I can get you out of that tight spot in no time. Let’s get you in the passenger side. Give me the keys.” He helped her into the car and jogged around, waiting for a city bus to pass. “I’ve done some valet work at the Sussex. Watch this,” his smile lit up the atmosphere around him. Tyree belted himself in, checked the mirrors and camera, shifted into drive, scooted the car an inch, then shifted into reverse and continued to alternate until, with relative ease and patience, he had freed Tessa’s Lexus from bondage. He pulled into traffic and drove up a block and into a Dollar Store car park. “Easy peasy, Weezie,” he laughed. Tessa formed the words “thank you”, but no sound emitted from her mouth. “Can I drop you at home, Tyree?” she asked. “No, thanks,” his smile dimmed, and his head tilted down. Tessa realised her naivety, her obtuseness, her insensitivity. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think,” she chastised herself. “I guess I am a spoiled Glennie. A horrible person. I’ve always been a horrible, self-absorbed person. I’m so sorry.” “It’s alright. This poverty gig is new to you. There’s a learning curve.” “But the thought of you sleeping outside in the cold…” “I don’t. I have a room at the Mission Centre over on Capitol. For £70 a week, I get a bed, a hot shower, a locker to keep my stuff, and sometimes church groups bring snacks or socks, or even gift cards for food.” “How awful!” “No, it’s not. Lots of folks have it way worse. I’m lucky. I have friends. I find little jobs. I’m in a programme that helped me get a bank account. I’m saving up with two friends to get a flat. And I’m healthy. Here, look at these fantastic teeth.” Tyree parted his lips with his fingers and leaned toward Tessa. “I go to the dental college twice a year for free care.” He paused and stared at her horrified face. “Come on, laugh. That’s some funny shit, girl!” “You’re not only beautiful, but you’re also funny,” she swatted at him playfully. “You know the only way we’re different?” she asked. “Besides every way, you mean?” “I’m being serious.” She glanced down at her emerald necklace. “It’s luck. I just realised I have all the luck in life, and you have no luck. No family, no home, no education, no job, no security. And yet, you have your act totally together. You know how to find resources. You can figure out stuff about how to live, how to survive. I can’t even pass Chemistry or parallel park my stupid car.” “I’ll trade ya,” he smiled sympathetically. Tessa tried to hold back tears, but she had never been in the presence of someone so completely sure of himself, so composed, so positive about life at such a young age, so happy, but without reason. Suddenly she realised what strength Tyree and others in his position possessed, a kind of strength she had never encountered. “You have something in your hair,” she noticed and leaned in to pluck a scrap of paper from his spongy head. Then, in a complete surprise to them both, he kissed her. His kiss was warm, smooth, and gentle. It lifted Tessa’s spirit almost out of her body. She felt as if his grasp of goodness had seeped into her body via his masterful kiss. Sure, Tessa had been kissed before. First by Reese Andretti after prom, then by BeBe Schneider on a drunken dare at an out-of-control party at Conner Midlam’s house when his parents were in Italy. But this was not the same. This was a real kiss, a moment of personal religion secured in her heart. The kind of kiss people write poems and songs about, the kind they rhapsodise about in their diary and discover twenty-five years later and can still feel the press of his lips, the thrill of his breath, the exchange of moisture, tingly and comforting when they read the words even after all that time. An electricity lingered between them. Tyree placed his large, brown hand on Tessa’s cheek and whispered, “See ya next Saturday, my little Glennie,” and exited the car. Tessa slid clumsily into the driver’s seat and sat completely still. After several minutes, she refastened her necklace. She stared at it for a long measure in the rearview mirror, fingering it delicately, then removed it. She contemplated her life in an entirely new fashion. She reviewed her choices, her tantrums, her pettiness. She reflected on how pampered she was, how isolated her world, how exclusive, how small, and how consequential, how meaningful, how exhilarating it could be. She sank into self-loathing but then wandered again into Tyree’s mesmerising smile, his vibrant aura, his affirming eyes. She discovered she was shaking at the thought of him and rubbed her arms to stem the tide. Then she pulled out into traffic and drove into the western sky, the opposite direction from everything she had ever known, a glowing smile upon her face.
R.H. Nicholson’s short story: Lucky Smile
“I don’t wanna serve slop to a bunch of hobos!” Tessa yelled into her mobile phone at her mother. She had pulled her white Lexus—not the Barcelona red she had requested—into a street spot and pounded the steering wheel like a toddler. “Why do I have to do stupid community service anyway!” “First,” her mother spoke like a gasket about to blow, “don’t stereotype these people. You don’t know what they’ve been through. You don’t know their struggles. And second, you need six hours of service to pass religion. It’s not my fault you waited until the last minute to arrange it, and this was all that was left. Now, shut your face and get in there.” Tessa flipped open the visor mirror to “check her face.” She reflexively pulled her soft champagne-coloured hair into a ponytail, even though she had spent considerable time styling it earlier. She caught a glimpse of her necklace—a sixteenth birthday gift from her parents—four teardrop emeralds, her birthstone, in a white gold setting, arranged to symbolise a four-leaf clover. They had enclosed a note, written in her mother’s boarding school script, that waxed about good fortune and love. She glanced up at Butler House across the street, a monstrous deep blue Victorian deeded over to a non-profit agency in desperate need of a home, and unclasped the necklace, tossing it onto the console with her Ray-Bans, a Starbucks gift card, and a tube of apricot hand lotion. She braced herself as if about to mount an attack on hostile land and exited the car, pulling on a puffy white ski vest. More than a dozen people, mostly men, had already begun to queue outside Butler House, determined to score a hot meal on a chilly autumn day. Tessa noted their collective slouch, hands in pockets, scruffy beards, frayed clothing. A little family of four clustered together, looking like any family on an outing, the children flitting about with energy. A pair of women chatted as if standing in line for the opera—if people wore knit caps and hoodies and carried plastic Walmart bags to see Carmen. She scanned them, attempting to decipher the alcoholics from the drug addicts, the abused from the abusers, the insane versus the lazy. Tessa steeled herself to walk past them when she spotted a sign instructing staff and volunteers to enter through the side door. She sighed in relief and made her way through a sticky door, down an eerie hallway that opened into a large kitchen. A distracted woman in a chunky sweatshirt and worn jeans instructed her to hang her vest, sign in, wash her hands, and gather at the top of the serving line with the others. She was handed an apron, a hairnet, and thin plastic gloves. A formidable, bosomy woman with short, cropped hair, who told them her name was Rosalie, came before half a dozen volunteers and thanked them for their time—though her tone sounded more perturbed by their unskilled presence, as if they were more a nuisance than a blessing. She rattled off a laundry list of rules about Butler House: no weapons, no alcohol, no drugs, no swearing, no fighting, no seconds. People could not save spots for others. Servers were not to chit-chat with the patrons. “Do not give them choices,” Rosalie cautioned, “because they can’t handle such difficult decisions. Simply ask, ‘Do you want lemonade?’” She lowered her chin and looked at her crew like an old-school librarian and warned, “Absolutely no extras. We have enough food for one hundred people. Those at the end of the queue deserve as much as those at the front. Got it?” She paused as if waiting for someone to challenge her. She pointed at Tessa and waved her over. “You do the ham, dearie,” and Tessa moved quickly to avoid potential corporal punishment, her lip in a snarl. “Reach for a tray, then with the tongs place one slice, and only one, on a tray. Smile at the person if you want, then slide the tray to the next volunteer.” And in a flash, Tessa’s training was complete. She straightened her hairnet, grabbed her tongs, and split her thoughts between fear she would fail at her duty and terror at facing, close up, these local street people, criminals, mental cases, and derelicts. She served up her first portions without even looking at the faces that appeared before her but quickly realised how friendly their voices were, saying “Thank you,” and “God bless you,” and, “This looks delicious.” She finally mustered the courage to look up and found hardened, shaggy men and women, young and old, children and teens with chapped faces and dirty cuticles, in tattered clothing and worn footwear, but with generally pleasant dispositions. She studied folks who looked harmless and kind, some thoughtful, some jovial, some quiet, others nervous. Some were quirky or strange, but others, she thought, presented themselves as perfectly normal people, whatever that means. She sensed a disturbance near the door and looked up to find Rosalie castigating an especially vocal man. “You’re drunk, keep moving,” she gave him a push and waved on the next person. Incrementally, Tessa’s shoulders relaxed, and she found herself conversing about the weather and local sports and answering simple questions with a salubrious smile. As she tonged another slice of ham, Tessa heard a smooth baritone voice exclaim, “Wow, they brought in the A-team today!” She looked up, and before her stood a tall, lean young man in an army field jacket covered with patches. His walnut-coloured skin encased mesmerising brown eyes and an angular face, like something from a cologne advert. But these features were completely overwhelmed by his smile, a wide, brilliant grin that illuminated the room. His smile was positively radiant, ever-so-slightly crooked in a manner that made him winsome and boyish. She stuttered, attempting to thank him for the compliment, her tongue suddenly untamable. She felt herself drawn to this young man, who seemed to be about her age, as if in a trance. She formulated a hundred questions for him, needing to unravel his mystery, but her body would not cooperate. Without thinking, operating like a remote-controlled doll, she slid the ham slice onto his tray, then, like a spy passing classified documents, secreted another on top and quickly passed on the tray. Eyes fixed like search beacons, she followed him as he shuffled along the line, past the mashed potatoes, corn, rolls, and dessert, and completely missed the next tray as she served up another slice of ham. Befuddled, Tessa forged on with her serving duties, finding herself more and more comfortable interacting with the guests before her but scanning the room looking for that luminescent grin. When the last man claimed the last slice of ham, Rosalie squeezed behind the serving line and instructed Tessa to sweep the dining room floor. Tessa grabbed a broom from the corner near the door and began to sweep. Then she felt a nudge and found army field jacket-boy with a broom sweeping alongside her. “Mind if I help?” he smiled again, and she felt her knees give. “That’s okay, I’ve got it,” she smiled back. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for the bonus ham,” he winked and waved at Rosalie, who scowled at him like a teacher afraid to admit he was her favourite student. “I’m Tyree,” he offered. “Tessa. Nice to meet you.” “I would say, ‘come here often?’, but I’m here every Saturday, and I sure would remember you.” He stopped sweeping. “Let me guess, required community service for school?” “I know, I’m a cliché.” “Where?” “Glenmary,” she demurred. “Oh, a Glennie! Cool! So, you’re east side.” “Yes, and we hate that nickname. It screams spoiled brats.” “Indeed, it does. Sorry.” “How about you?” Tessa also idled her broom. “I didn’t finish school. Had to leave unexpectedly.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” Tessa felt embarrassed for him. “It’s alright. My little brother got sick, and I had to take care of him.” “Oh. I hope he’s better,” she tried to spin the conversation back to something more positive. “Well, he didn’t make it. Leukaemia,” the brilliant smile disappeared, but somehow Tyree remained just as handsome but in a different shade. “After our mother disappeared, I was all he had, and he was all I had.” “My gosh, Tyree, I…” Tessa teared up. “Hey, hey, girl, it’s all good. Marquay is in a better place. All part of the plan, I guess.” The pair stood in silence for a moment. “I think we’ve swept as much as we can,” Tyree nodded at the brooms, and they finished up. She held the dustbin, and he pushed in their refuse and dumped the contents in the bin. “I like the patches on your jacket,” she pointed at the various sewn-on emblems. “Oh, these. Got this coat at Dayspring Centre. But I like the patches—Peace, Planet Over Profit, Coexist. I happen to believe in all that.” “Me too, I guess.” Tessa blushed with insecurity. “Well, I’d better go,” she stammered. “Meeting you is the highlight of my week, guaranteed,” his smile returned and seemed even more vibrant than before. Tessa thought it beamed like a lighthouse beacon. Uncomfortable with his attention, she bid him goodbye, grabbed her vest, and manoeuvred down the Butler House steps, her mind swooping and pulsing, when her feet slipped out from beneath her and she dropped onto her tailbone, a loud grunt echoing into the busy street. She lay there unsure of her condition for a few seconds, then pushed herself into a seated position and leaned against the wrought-iron railing. She blinked, and suddenly Tyree’s smile appeared before her. “Holy shit, what happened to you?” he called out. “Just sit a minute and catch your breath. Anything broken, sprained, pulled?” he quizzed her. “No, just a bruised tailbone,” she assured him, “and embarrassed I can’t even walk right.” “Maybe just sit here for a bit and rest,” Tyree suggested. They sat in a moment of silence, traffic surging by them, a siren throbbing in the distance, an autumnal breeze flinging Tessa’s ponytail. Tessa finally gathered the courage to ask, “Is it gross being around these people all the time, you know, the homeless?” “They’re just people,” he challenged her. “Let me ask you, does anyone at your school have a drug problem, drink too much, steal shit, or have mental health issues?” “You have no idea,” she scoffed. “I see your point.” “People are just people. Same problems. Your folks just have prettier masks to wear.” “And homes to hide in,” she added. “Exactly. Out here, we’ve got no place to store our weaknesses. Everyone’s always exposed.” “This feels so far away from my house, but I only live a few miles from here,” Tessa turned philosophical. “The worlds are so close, yet so far,” Tyree’s voice dropped off. “Well, we need to get you home,” he surmised. “I’m parked right over there, the Lexus across the street,” she pointed. “Can you just help me walk over?” Gingerly, Tyree lifted her up on a count of three, and she placed her arm around his neck as best she could, given his height. “I could carry you,” he suggested, but she laughed. “We’re not in a rom-com, Mister,” she quipped. They hobbled across the street and toward her car, Tyree explaining he had taken some first-aid classes at the Boys’ Club, that he could wrap her foot in a bandage if they only had one. “I’m always the one this shit happens to,” Tessa complained. “I’m still nursing a volleyball injury to my thigh. I’m like the walking dead.” “Sounds like some bad juju. Who’d you piss off?” “What the fuck!” Tessa cried out as the two arrived at her car. “I’m parked in!” “Whaddaya mean?” Tyree questioned. “I can get you out of that tight spot in no time. Let’s get you in the passenger side. Give me the keys.” He helped her into the car and jogged around, waiting for a city bus to pass. “I’ve done some valet work at the Sussex. Watch this,” his smile lit up the atmosphere around him. Tyree belted himself in, checked the mirrors and camera, shifted into drive, scooted the car an inch, then shifted into reverse and continued to alternate until, with relative ease and patience, he had freed Tessa’s Lexus from bondage. He pulled into traffic and drove up a block and into a Dollar Store car park. “Easy peasy, Weezie,” he laughed. Tessa formed the words “thank you”, but no sound emitted from her mouth. “Can I drop you at home, Tyree?” she asked. “No, thanks,” his smile dimmed, and his head tilted down. Tessa realised her naivety, her obtuseness, her insensitivity. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think,” she chastised herself. “I guess I am a spoiled Glennie. A horrible person. I’ve always been a horrible, self-absorbed person. I’m so sorry.” “It’s alright. This poverty gig is new to you. There’s a learning curve.” “But the thought of you sleeping outside in the cold…” “I don’t. I have a room at the Mission Centre over on Capitol. For £70 a week, I get a bed, a hot shower, a locker to keep my stuff, and sometimes church groups bring snacks or socks, or even gift cards for food.” “How awful!” “No, it’s not. Lots of folks have it way worse. I’m lucky. I have friends. I find little jobs. I’m in a programme that helped me get a bank account. I’m saving up with two friends to get a flat. And I’m healthy. Here, look at these fantastic teeth.” Tyree parted his lips with his fingers and leaned toward Tessa. “I go to the dental college twice a year for free care.” He paused and stared at her horrified face. “Come on, laugh. That’s some funny shit, girl!” “You’re not only beautiful, but you’re also funny,” she swatted at him playfully. “You know the only way we’re different?” she asked. “Besides every way, you mean?” “I’m being serious.” She glanced down at her emerald necklace. “It’s luck. I just realised I have all the luck in life, and you have no luck. No family, no home, no education, no job, no security. And yet, you have your act totally together. You know how to find resources. You can figure out stuff about how to live, how to survive. I can’t even pass Chemistry or parallel park my stupid car.” “I’ll trade ya,” he smiled sympathetically. Tessa tried to hold back tears, but she had never been in the presence of someone so completely sure of himself, so composed, so positive about life at such a young age, so happy, but without reason. Suddenly she realised what strength Tyree and others in his position possessed, a kind of strength she had never encountered. “You have something in your hair,” she noticed and leaned in to pluck a scrap of paper from his spongy head. Then, in a complete surprise to them both, he kissed her. His kiss was warm, smooth, and gentle. It lifted Tessa’s spirit almost out of her body. She felt as if his grasp of goodness had seeped into her body via his masterful kiss. Sure, Tessa had been kissed before. First by Reese Andretti after prom, then by BeBe Schneider on a drunken dare at an out-of-control party at Conner Midlam’s house when his parents were in Italy. But this was not the same. This was a real kiss, a moment of personal religion secured in her heart. The kind of kiss people write poems and songs about, the kind they rhapsodise about in their diary and discover twenty-five years later and can still feel the press of his lips, the thrill of his breath, the exchange of moisture, tingly and comforting when they read the words even after all that time. An electricity lingered between them. Tyree placed his large, brown hand on Tessa’s cheek and whispered, “See ya next Saturday, my little Glennie,” and exited the car. Tessa slid clumsily into the driver’s seat and sat completely still. After several minutes, she refastened her necklace. She stared at it for a long measure in the rearview mirror, fingering it delicately, then removed it. She contemplated her life in an entirely new fashion. She reviewed her choices, her tantrums, her pettiness. She reflected on how pampered she was, how isolated her world, how exclusive, how small, and how consequential, how meaningful, how exhilarating it could be. She sank into self-loathing but then wandered again into Tyree’s mesmerising smile, his vibrant aura, his affirming eyes. She discovered she was shaking at the thought of him and rubbed her arms to stem the tide. Then she pulled out into traffic and drove into the western sky, the opposite direction from everything she had ever known, a glowing smile upon her face.
DoubleSpeak 