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“Perfect,” I say. And it is. No pressure. No expectations.
“Now, let’s see that swing.”
* * *
When class is over, I drive across town to the elementary school where I volunteer in an after-school program twice a week. I’m impatient to share my news with Ivy, but I can’t call because she’s still in class and texting would take too long. The kids deserve my full attention while I’m here. Not that they’d accept anything less.
Jace nearly bowls me over with a lightning-fast around-the-waist hug when I walk into the classroom.
“What’s up, man?” I ask him, but he’s already past greetings, pulling me toward his desk.
He sits down and points me into the adjacent chair. “Mrs. Harris said if I finish this paper, you’ll shoot hoops with me.”
I glance at the teacher who runs the program, a tiny woman with a gorgeous halo of curly white-gray hair against her dark skin.
Mrs. Harris narrows her eyes at him. “Only if... ?” she prompts.
“If Ms. Ebert is willing,” he says in a decidedly practiced cadence.
His teacher humphs. “And?”
Jace sighs, then squares his rounded shoulders, presents me with a striving-for-angelic smile, and asks, “Ms. Ebert, will you help me with my—”
“Please,”Mrs. Harris insists.
“—pleasehelp me with my paper and play basketball after?” He breaks eye contact with me long enough to see the nod of approval from Mrs. Harris.
“I would love to. Let’s see what you have.”
The worksheet Jace shoves my way is unmarked. He offers me a pencil, and I’m reminded how much I wanted my own tutor to do my work for me.
“Not my job,” I say, hands up. “Dig in.”
The face he pulls looks like the one I use when taking out the overripe trash. He fiddles with the pencil, glaring down at the page.
“Did you know I have someone who helps me with my math in college?” I say.
That perks him right up. “You need help with math?”
Ah, the faith of a child. If only I could muster one-tenth that amount of confidence in my math skills. “Sure,” I say. “Everyone has things they’re really good at and other stuff they need some help with.”
Jace mulls that over for a minute. “You’ll play ball when I’m finished?”
“I’m here for the hoops, bro. And the sooner you’re done with English—”
“The longer we play!” he finishes for me, diving right into his work.
My time at the school flies by. Jace completes his homework with plenty of time left to beat me and several of the other kids soundly in a game of HORSE before parents start showing up. Once the kids have filtered back home and my shift is over, I send a text to Ivy before I start my drive home:Don’t bother getting me a date.
She text-bombs me the entire way home, but I don’t bother responding. Let her stew on it for ten minutes. Serves her right.
She gives up the texting and actually calls me as I approach the front door, but I don’t answer. Instead I holler a cheery, “Honey, I’m home!” as I walk in, and she bowls me over with her distress before the door has closed.
“Is your phone dead? Why aren’t you answering my texts? Please, please don’t bail on me!”
“Don’t freak out,” I say, hanging Trusty on my hook by the door and aiming for the kitchen. “I’m coming.”
“What? You said not to get you a date. Don’t you think it’ll be awkward if it’s just the three of us?”
