7
The class sat speechless at the professor’s hefty assignment and hasty departure. The thought of fifty grand apparently wasn’t enough to generate enthusiasm for the year of grinding labor ahead. I couldn’t even fathom what to do with that kind of money. I supposed Brad and I could finish the renovations on my rambling lodge back in Michigan and fill the bedrooms with foster kids or something. But I sure didn’t know the first step toward saving the world.
I rubbed the stitches on my arm as the room came to life with a purposeful rustling. Binders slammed closed. Zippers zipped. Students rose from their seats, as if about to leave.
“Hold it.” Portia’s voice ricocheted off the walls. “Nobody’s leaving yet. Class is only half over. Get in your teams. Talk about how to tackle your project. Come on. Don’t waste time.”
Almost reluctantly, the class split into the assigned teams. I stayed in my seat, waiting for my groupies to gather around me.
On the other side of the room, Gwen, the blond from Team A, stared at the packet in front of her as if it contained the Twelve Labors of Hercules. The gangster guy scooted a desk up to hers and slouched into the seat, wiggling one leg impatiently. They were joined by a man in his thirties with a deep purple birthmark covering half of his face. The last to join them was a fidgety young brunette, playing with her pencil like it was a baton.
When nobody from Team B turned up at my desk, I glanced over and saw my teammates hunched around Portia. I could already tell things were getting off to a bad start. With a resigned sigh, I brought my “leader” packet to the huddle.
Not willing to meet Portia’s eyes, I smiled instead at the redheaded assistant from Dean Lester’s office.
“I thought I recognized you,” I said to the woman in the wheelchair, glad to have a friendly face in such hostile surrounds. She introduced herself as Celia Long. I looked to the fourth member of Team B, a twenty-something youth with a cane.
“Koby Rider,” he said with a nod.
“Great.” Portia snagged the instruction packet from me and dug into it. “Now that we all know each other, let’s get this show on the road.” Quiet for a moment, she scanned the pages.
My fingers gave an irate tap on the desk. Denton had assigned me to be team leader. Portia had usurped my authority in the first thirty seconds. I had a feeling this whole project thing was going to be one long, uphill battle.
“Okay,” Portia said, straightening the stack, “let’s get over to the homesite and see what we’ve got ahead of us.”
The other team was still bickering as we got up, gathered our totes and backpacks, and headed out.
At the curb, we stood in silence, watching for the next bus. At some point I’d have to grab the reins from Portia. She seemed like she knew what she was doing organization-wise, but when it came to bricks and mortar, I’d have to reclaim my authority and get the job done right.
The bus belched a diesel cloud as it drove up to the curb. Celia boarded via a wheelchair lift. Inside, the rest of us sat on adjacent benches. I dropped my black canvas tote on the floor, studying Koby from the corner of my eye. Light brown hair, a pensive aura, and a cane with a snake’s head on the handle.
I cleared my throat. “So, what’s the meaning of the cane?”
He tapped it once on the floor of the bus as if annoyed. “I don’t have any legs.” He looked down at his slacks. “These are prosthetics.”
“Oh.” There really wasn’t a good response to a statement like that. “I guess what I meant was how come you have a snake’s head on your cane? Is there some significance?”
He shifted his gaze out the window. “From the Bible. Moses put a snake on the pole and when people looked at it, they were saved.”
“Oh.” At least he wasn’t a member of some violent gang called the Fangs or the Serpents or something.
“How about you?” he said after a beat. “What’s your problem?”
Blood rushed to my face. “I don’t have a problem. I was just striking up conversation.”
“Yeah?” Portia said from her place across from me. “Everybody at Del Gloria has a problem. Just ’cause we can’t see yours doesn’t mean it’s not there.” She leaned back against her seat. “We’ll figure it out. It’s just a matter of time.”
I looked down. The last thing I wanted was my muddled past to follow me to Del Gloria. At least here, I’d hoped to have a shot at a fresh start. But fibbing about my name, my hometown, and my relationship to the professor wouldn’t earn me any brownie points if people caught on. I’d better try to act more natural before Portia connected the dots and blabbed to the world that I wasn’t really Alisha Braddock.
The bus rolled to a stop and we got off at an oldendays train depot. A modern-day Amtrak was just pulling from the station.
Portia glanced at the paperwork as we waited for the train to pass. “Just down a few blocks,” she said over the din of clanking metal.
As the sound died, our group of misfits crossed over the rails to Del Gloria’s historic district. Rows of tiny bungalows lined the streets. Portia guided us down a block to Rios Buena Suerta.
“Good Luck Street,” she translated.
We paused at the crossroads, gazing at the line of dilapidated homes we had only eleven months to complete.
I shook my head in dismay. “We’re going to need more than good luck. This will take a miracle.”
“No way,” Portia said. “It’ll just take hard work.”
I rolled my eyes. “Look at us. No offense, but half of us don’t have the use of their legs. The other half barely have arms.” I held up my bandaged bicep while nodding toward Portia’s fingerless hand. “How much can we actually get done before the deadline?”
“Watch it,” Portia spat in my direction. “I’ve already overcome my handicap. You’re the one with all the hang- ups.” “It’s okay, Alisha.” Celia edged her chair close to me. “We’ll get done in time.”
Koby lifted his cane in the air. “Announcing the winners of the Covenant Award… Team B!” he said in a dramatic voice.
I shot a glance at the guy I had pegged an introvert, then looked at the row of homes. One had a dislocated front porch. Another had a roof caving in. Down the way, a foundation crumbled.
I put a hand on my hip and mumbled under my breath. “I’m holding out for a miracle.”
Celia led the way down the sidewalk to the first house. Portia and I team-lifted her in the wheelchair up a step onto the sagging porch.
Celia drove toward the threshold and stopped. “Great. I wondered about this.” The width of the wheelchair exceeded the measurement of the doorway by a couple inches. “I’ll just wait out here.” Her voice sounded glum. “Not a chance,” Portia said. “Koby, collapse that chair and push it through while I pick up Celia.”
I rushed to intervene. “Here, I better do it.” I grabbed at the back handles the same time Koby did. Portia hefted the tiny Celia into her arms and walked through the door.
“I’ve got it,” Koby said, reaching in to take over my hold.
“I’ll get it. You could fall.” I nudged him with my hip to back him off.
“Somebody get that chair in here,” Portia ordered. “I’m not made of muscles, you know.”
Koby practically body-slammed me out of his way. “And I’m not made of glass.” He pushed the chair over the threshold and opened it on the other side.
Portia lowered Celia into her seat.
Koby threw me a look of triumph as I rubbed at my hip.
“Truce.” I put my arms up in surrender.
He nodded. “Just don’t do it again.”
With our first disagreement behind us, the hodgepodge members of Team B surveyed the project ahead, giving each house a once-over. Celia kept a list of major issues and ideas as we brainstormed a plan of attack.
The last home was in the best condition. Nineteen thirties or forties with an updated feel. Ahead of me, my teammates moved with determination, performing their routine to get Celia in the door. I hung back, wondering if
