But Holly whirls back to face me just as she reaches the door out to the parking lot.
“Ever since then, every kid who’s ever made it through one of my classes, gets a lunch when they leave. I don’t care what they do with it. I don’t care if they throw it away. We don’t discuss it. Ever. That may be the only food they have to eat tonight. They may have to split it with their family of four. Or more. I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t ask questions. I just give them the food. Because they may need it or they may not. But I don’t judge them. I don’teverjudge them. And if you’re going to, then this is over right now.”
“I’m not, but—”
“There’s no ‘but’ at the end of that sentence.” Her hand cuts through the air like she’s wielding a machete. “You don’t get to judge.”
“I was just explaining my position.”
“This isn’t your doctoral defense. I don’t care about your position or your thought process. If you make a mistake, you apologize. And back there”—she gestures towards the building—“you made a mistake.”
I open my mouth, imagining the logical and completely valid defense I could offer.
But if I’m honest, when have logical and valid defenses of my behavior ever helped?
Never. That’s when.
So I nod and try again. “I’m sorry.”
She looks at me through narrowed eyes, like she knows there’s a defense hiding there behind the apology.
Then she walks away, heading for the car parked in the middle of the parking lot.
I follow, saying nothing, but a little in awe.
If you’d asked me a week ago, I couldn’t have imagined her losing her temper like that.
I know what it’s like to have that kind of rage. How hard it is to get it back under control, even when everything you’re saying only makes things worse.
I follow her to a Toyota that’s seen better years and wait while she puts her bag in the back seat. Then I say again, “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m—” She gives a little chuckle, that doesn’t sound amused at all. “You know what? I’m not going to apologize for defending those girls.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“But I did overreact. I just get so tired of the attitude in this country that people deserve whatever poverty they have. None of those girls chose to be born poor. And they're doing everything they can to change things, but they have so few opportunities. So few options. I do what I can, but I know it's not enough. Even if it's enough for one of them, it's not enough for all of them. Let alone enough for all of the girls in poverty.”
I don’t even know what to say. Because I have no idea what it’s like to live in poverty. My childhood was comfortably middle class. My intellect has opened doors I didn’t even know existed until years later.
Despite that, I know what it’s like to feel trapped by circumstances. To feel like you have no options. No way out. I know the frustrations.
Suddenly, all I want to do is pull her into my arms and hug her.
I’ve never wanted to hug anyone in my life. Ever.
So I have no idea why that’s the idea that comes to me.
Probably because that’s what characters do on TV when they’re trying to comfort someone. I don’t know.
Right after my parents died, my aunt had tried hugging me. A lot.
She used to tell me people needed eight hugs a day to maintain their mental health. Tavey used to tell her that I wasn’t most people, but that she needed extra hugs to make up for it. Because that was the kind of shit Tavey has always done. Automatically stepped into the space between me and the rest of the world.
I don’t know if she does it to protect me or everyone else.
But Tavey would probably hug Holly now. Of course, Tavey isn’t six-four. If I try to hug Holly, she’ll probably pepper-spray me. If I don’t crush her, that is.
Standing beside the open door to the car, Holly says, “I am sorry I overreacted. I don't normally get so . . . worked up.” She straightens and looks up at me. “But very few people from the university know what I do here. And I don't think most people would understand. So if you could keep this between us, I would appreciate that.”
