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Olivia stood up to give her presentation with slightly trembling hands. She never liked being the center of attention. In a small, close-knit town, too many people knew about her father’s drinking problems and the debts he’d racked up. Had she become part ofthatfamily—the one people gossiped about and pitied?
So there she’d been, pinned by the stares of her classmates, going through her slides too quickly, and trying not to notice that a couple of the popular girls were talking and laughing about something. It probably wasn’t her. If she started thinking about what they might be laughing about, she’d completely lose her place. Her zipper wasn’t down, was it? Her gaze flicked there. Nope. It was fine.
She went through the last of the slides, mentioning that she’d already talked to the food bank coordinator who was more than happy to work with the high school, should Olivia’s project be chosen. The last slide was simply the words: Serving the vulnerable. Protecting what matters most.
“Are there any questions?” Olivia knew there wouldn’t be. There never were.
And yet Carson Clark raised his hand. Carson, who never commented about anything in class, was peering at her in a patronizing way. He always sat in the back with the jocks and the popular girls and ignored all the lesser mortals.
“You have a question?” Olivia asked.
“Yes,” Carson said. “I think we should discuss your project more. Wouldn’t giving away stuff be enabling people who should be helping themselves?”
Olivia blinked at him. She hadn’t even expected Carson to know what the word enabling meant. “It’s a service project. We’re supposed to be helping people.”
Carson leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretching out in front of him. His blond hair was scruffy and yet still looked perfect on him. “Yeah, but isn’t it better to teach a man to fish than to give him a fish? This seems like a fish giveaway.”
The guy sitting next to Carson elbowed him. “Yep. Very fishy.”
One of the popular girls snickered. “Maybe we should just collect cans of tuna for the food bank so all the slackers get the message.”
Olivia tried to regain the class’s attention. “We don’t live in a hunter-gatherer society anymore so the metaphor has its limitations. I mean, are you suggesting we teach people how to make shoes and school supplies?”
“No,” Carson said, “but I’ve heard that people who use food banks are usually alcoholics and drug addicts. So by giving them stuff, we’re keeping them from getting the real help they need.”
Olivia looked to Mrs. Green for support, waiting for her to emphasize that a service project was about charity work, but she was smiling in Carson’s direction. Smiling.
Olivia gripped her clicker. “Did you not hear the part of my presentation where I said we would be collecting school supplies and shoes for our fellow students? Are you calling the students who go to our school alcoholics and drug addicts?”
Carson blew out a breath. “If you’d gone to some of the parties they throw, you’d wonder.”
The back row erupted in laughter. A few called out possible candidates for drug addiction. Mrs. Green clapped her hands together to rein in the class. “Let’s keep to the topic at hand. It’s great that you want to have a conversation about social responsibilities and the best way to help the needy.”
It wasn’t a conversation, though. For the next five minutes, Carson told the class all the things that were wrong with her project. Everyone agreed with his assessments just because he was popular. He even had the nerve to smirk at her and say, “Olivia, sometimes you’ve got to let the alcoholics go barefoot and buy their own pencils so they want to get better.”
Was that some sort of assessment of her family? Probably. Carson didn’t care who he hurt. Her face flushed in anger. “If you don’t actually want to help other people for our service project, what do you think we should do?” Let him suggest something, and she would tear it down for a while.
He gazed upward, considering. “Well, since we get extra credit for suggesting a project, I suggest we raise money for some new bleachers for the football field. That way we’d be helping our own school. We’re more deserving than the barefoot alcoholics.”
“Bleachers?” she repeated.
He grinned. “You know, a service project for vulnerable butts—protecting what matters most.”
Everyone laughed, and Olivia knew she’d be hearingthatphrase relentlessly thrown at her throughout the week. He’d turned all her hard work into a joke—and why? Since when did Carson care about the service project, or for that matter, the bleachers? He never sat in them. He was always out on the field.
Even though Carson’s idea had been thrown out on a whim, the junior class overwhelmingly voted for it. And of course, when the vote went to the student body, they picked his stupid proposal.
The Friday that Carson won the vote, he told everyone he was having a victory party at his house. His parents were out of town so he was throwing a kegger. When he and some of his jock friends passed Olivia in the hallway, he called to her, “Hey, you should come to my party too. I know how you love alcoholics.”
His friends laughed and one high-fived him. Carson’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, enjoying his joke, then he was past her, talking to his friends.
Such a jerk.
She was glad he could no longer see her because she was sure the color had drained from her face. Breathing was hard. She ducked her head and continued tromping down the hallway. Was it possible he didn’t know her father was an alcoholic? No, he had to know. Everyone knew. And most people felt sorry for her. It was only Carson who was self-centered enough to openly mock her for it.
Could anyone blame her for wanting to get back at him?
That night, she and her friend Becca boycotted the party by making cookies at Olivia’s house. Olivia got a little too carried away feeling sorry for herself, and when Becca suggested they should anonymously report the kegger to the police, it had seemed like fitting justice. Olivia was just saving a bunch of future alcoholics from their own vices. Hadn’t Carson suggested they deserved as much?
