I smiled. “Good night.”
The weekend dragged by in utter boredom. I skipped out on church, using my sore foot as an excuse. But the truth was, I didn’t feel up to meeting new people and lying-at church, no less-about my name, my hometown, and my bogus relationship to the doc. I’d been working hard to simplify my life. Weaving more webs went against my grain.
Monday morning I woke refreshed, ready for my first day of classes. The pain in my foot had dulled to a mere throb. I ignored it as I showered, gave my arm a clean wrap, and dressed in a thrift-mart tee and blue jeans. Breakfast, coffee-to-go, and a short walk to the bottom of the driveway. The Dogpatch squeaked to a halt. I boarded and found a seat. Mud-colored rocks and gray-blue ocean sped past. The view here was bland compared to the soothing sight of Lake Michigan from the windows of my lodge back home.
The bus turned inland and a few minutes later I disembarked on campus. A short walk found me in front of a plain, two-story building. I sighed, preparing to have Denton’s ideals stuffed down my throat. I plowed forward through the double doors to Room 117.
Fluorescent lights made a dull buzz in the tiny classroom. Seven or eight students were scattered around. Not one turned as I entered. No smiles, beckoning hands, or pats on the adjoining desk. My choice to sit against the back wall was a no-brainer.
Moments later Professor Braddock entered, fresh from his early morning staff meeting.
He flipped through a stack of papers, barely glancing up. “Students, I hope you’ll welcome my niece, Alisha Braddock, as she joins the Revamp Program.”
A couple mumbled hellos, the turn of a head. Couldn’t feel more welcomed than that.
The prof paced the front as he gave his lecture. “This year’s final project for the Revamp Program is on a grander scale than in previous years. The city has donated a block of abandoned houses, in various states of disrepair, in the Old Town District. Your job is to make the homes functional, livable, and comfortable for the disadvantaged families that will be occupying them on completion. You’ll use every skill you’ve studied in your college career-from the details of home renovation to the arts of negotiation and team building.”
I couldn’t imagine that the prof, in his high-falutin’ suit, knew the first thing about renovating homes. He was probably relieved I showed up on the scene. At least someone could get the work done and line up the various inspectors.
I tuned out his discourse on the nitty-gritty details of the renovations, having lived them firsthand for most of my adult life. Every now and then I’d hear him give a Scripture reference, reminding me that I was now in religious territory.
My pen slid along the lines of my paper, as I pretended to take notes.
I scribbled my true signature just to remember how it felt.
In front of me, the backs of heads provided new fodder for a bored mind. One hairdo reminded me vaguely of Portia Romero. I could only hope I was wrong.
Partway through, Denton shifted gears, recapturing my attention.
“Many of you have survived tough circumstances in life. Someone cared enough about you to nominate you to the admissions team at Del Gloria College. Once you were selected, you accepted the invitation, choosing to get the most out of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We designed specific coursework to help you overcome your personal challenges. We believed in you and provided encouragement throughout your time here.” He paused and met each student’s eyes. “But one year from now, you’ll be back in the real world. You’ll be dealing with people who are not sensitive, understanding, or catering to your needs. The Old Town Renovation Project bridges the two worlds, preparing you to interact with today’s culture, without being dragged down by it.” Walking to his desk, Professor Braddock gathered papers into a pile. “To make the project more real-world, we’ll add a dimension of capitalism by splitting you into two competing teams.”
He clapped his hands once, like a coach dismissing the huddle. “Take a break and be back in ten.”
Students stood and made their way to the exit. My eyelid gave a twitch of annoyance. The kinky head in front of me had indeed belonged to Portia Romero. She caught my glance.
“So how’s The Niece today?” she asked in her snotty voice.
“Doing great.” I scooted past a slow-moving classmate and hurried down the hall to the line at the soda machine. Portia joined me. I kept my back to her, tapping my foot, hoping the wheelchair-bound woman in front of me would hurry and make a selection.
“So how come you’re at DGC? You look fine to me,” Portia commented.
I turned. “Same reason you are. Get my degree and get out.”
The line cleared. I stepped up to the machine and put in my change. A bar lifted, dumping my selection into the access hole. I pulled out the citrus-flavored water and turned to go.
“Hold up,” Portia said. “I’ll walk back with you.”
I actually waited.
Portia fed her change piece by piece into the slot. With a squint, I watched, stunned. The hand holding the quarters wasn’t really a hand. A few tiny nubs, like baby fingers, seemed to grow from a stunted palm. I swallowed, feeling guilty for my earlier behavior. She obviously had enough challenges without catching flack from me.
Soda in hand, she started down the hall, me scurrying to keep up.
She tilted her head my way. “If you end up on my team, don’t think for a minute you can slack off just because your uncle is the instructor.”
So much for treating her with kid gloves. This girl could dish it out.
“Just try to keep up with me,” I said in my best attempt at a good comeback. At least my arm was back in action. She wouldn’t have that luxury.
“No problem there, sister.” She sashayed into the classroom and took her seat.
I slid into mine, trying not to let Portia’s superiority complex eat away at my confidence.
Denton strode in and started writing on the whiteboard. Two lists of names went up beneath the headings “Team A” and “Team B.”
My name landed just under Portia Romero’s on Team B.
I held back a groan. Around me, others were grumbling as well, apparently dissatisfied with their assignments. To one side, a man in his midtwenties raised his hand. A backward ball cap and megajewelry screamed “gangster.” Denton turned toward the class and wagged a finger. “Uh, uh, uh. Much thought has gone into these teams. Absolutely no changes will be made.”
Groans.
Professor Braddock wrote on the board again, printing a list of four addresses under each team.
“As this is a seniors-only curriculum, you’ll have to complete the project prior to graduation in order to participate in the ceremony. That gives you approximately eleven months to renovate four houses per team. That’s approximately one per quarter.”
I stared slack-jawed at the board. It took me at least one year to do a home. Even with four people working together, the task of finishing four homes in less than a year was simply impossible. I only hoped I wouldn’t be around to see the team’s complete failure.
I crossed my arms and poked out my lower lip.
“Gwen Hart is leader for Team A. Alisha Braddock for Team B.”
I stammered some kind of objection. I’d never been a leader of anything. I only worked alone.
Denton’s palm shot out. “No changes.” He stacked papers together on the desk and inserted them into a carrying case. “The winning team will be in the running for the college’s Covenant Award.” He looked my way. “If you’re not familiar with the award, it’s the highest honor that can be received at Del Gloria College. The top students from six departments are eligible. Former recipients have gone on to head missions in the U.S. and around the world. They’ve become leaders of charitable foundations. And they’ve changed their communities for the better.” He paused and smiled. “Not to mention that fifty thousand dollars in seed money comes with it.”
The professor dropped a packet on the desk of a mousy blond-Gwen Hart, I presumed-tossed one on mine, and headed toward the door.
“You know my office hours,” he shot over his shoulder. Then he was gone.
