Kicking sand into a black girl's fresh braids probably wasn't the best way to make friends for six-year-old Marshall Stone. In fact, that's how he found a rival.
Love Lewis has always disliked the boy that had her mother on a rampage when she came h...
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"Mars, what are chicken nuggets made of?" Kaeli's question earns her some echoes and I have to fight the urge to chuckle. Today is a rest day for the kids of KidzTime which meant they get to stay at the base for the day and just play around in the different sports areas.
Sponsors donated enough to create a center that resembles the Y - there are swimming pools, basketball courts, volleyball courts, and my favorite part of all, a cafeteria.
Those who didn't want to play were sitting at a bench in the cafeteria, munching on chicken nuggets that were provided for their lunches. The other volunteers are scattered around the building, monitoring the other kids but an early morning practice with Coach Greg was enough for me to find refuge at my own table, eating my own chicken nuggets.
His head acted as my ray of sun this morning.
I'm not surprised that Kaeli and her little girl group are where I am. I don't think there's been a day I've worked here in the last two years that they haven't followed me around, asking incredibly niche questions.
This is the least of them, but I know where it's coming from.
"What do you think, stupid?" Kaeli's sister, Layla, shuts down the young girl's conversation starter. They're eleven years old and identical twins so it isn't surprising when one attacks the other. I wasn't new to it considering Trin does the same thing to me and I'm three years older than her.
"No name-calling," I warn.
"It's not name-calling," Layla crosses her arms over her chest, "It's fact-telling. She asked a stupid question and got a descriptive word that matches."
"Layla -"
"Marshall, there you are!" The sound of Robin's voice enters the room and I watch as she quickly walks toward me, a familiar face beside her. One that has my breath hitching in my throat. I scramble to my feet, hitting my knee against the table. My kneecap was already too high for the small area, but my haste sends a slight shiver up my spine.
Robin is the Managing Director of KidzTime and looks like a kid herself. She's 4'10" and has a high-pitched voice and sometimes blends in with the elementary school kids, especially her own that spends evenings and weekends here.
In addition to me having to break my back to look at her, I've been unfortunate enough to be caught in her office whenever she finds the urge to vent about her deadbeat husband. I don't know what about me screams 'I want to be besties with my boss' but she kinda leaves me no choice.
Especially when she stops in front of me, iPad glaring with incoming emails. Beside her is Love Lewis.
I'm starting to think this is fate. We've seen each other more in the past two weeks than I have in two semesters. And every time I see her, I'm more and more shocked at how beautiful she is. Today she's dressed in a dirt brown KidzTime t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts encasing her curves. On her feet are a pair of Shadow Brown Jordan Lows.
Another thing I admire about her is her grand collection of shoes that she's been collecting since middle school. However, I know I can go head-to-head with her on my worst day.
"I'd like to introduce you to Love Lewis. She's our newest volunteer." I don't know how to react to Robin's words as she gestures between us. Love has this agreeable look on her face like she's never seen me a day in her life. Well, I've definitely never seen that before.
It raises the question of why I admire her so much if she's never so much as looked at me with anything but hate in her gaze.
Her curls rest on her shoulders and her face is fresh and smooth like she'd just done a fourteen step skincare routine before coming here. Her lips are glossed and — I guess I should stop staring at her and say something.
"Hey."
Seriously? That's the best I could come up with?
Robin doesn't give her a chance to respond before she's tapping away on her iPad and speaking once again, "You've been working with us the longest and you have the most experience, so I've decided you'll be training Love. Give her the rundown and introduce her to some of the kids."
Love's eyes widen but past that, I can't tell what she's thinking. As usual.
"Right." I say. I can't take my eyes off her despite how obvious I'm being. I want to ask her how she even found out about this or why she decided now was her chance to take it from me. I feel almost territorial over this part of my life. Like this is the one place I know hasn't been touched by her, hasn't been a place for me to see her and then have to think about her.
I can throw all thoughts of escaping her away.
Robin's voice changes, almost raises an octave as she waves at the ten kids now watching the interaction, "Hi, my loves! Bye, my loves!"
She quickly walks away, leaving me to stare unabashedly at the woman in front of me.
I don't know what to say, and that's how I know I've already lost this battle between us.
She crosses her arms over her chest, lacking her usual attitude. Instead, it's more like she's seeking comfort in her warmth. Her eyes fall to the floor then back up to me. She's biting the inside of her cheek.
For a moment, the rest of the world fades and it's just me and her.
"I didn't know you worked here." She says and considering this is my first time hearing her voice in almost a week, my heart almost pounds out of its chest. I'm surprised my watch hasn't told me to sit down before I have a heart attack.
"I don't see why you would," I try not to be too harsh, but the spirit of our relationship — or lack thereof — tells me that I could've said worse.
She nods and my eyes catch on how her lips fit her face so well, "Fair. We don't really know each other."
I want to tell her she's wrong; that I know too much about her that she doesn't think I've noticed. How her favorite flavor of anything is mango, how she worked at the ice cream shop in the middle of our hometown despite her lactose intolerance, how her favorite colors are yellow and green, how she's been sporting a seventh-renewed driver's permit.
But no, we don't really know each other.
"Do you guys like each other or something?"
My head is slightly fuzzy as I finally turn to the children who've been staring at us. The question came from eight-year-old Roger. He's reading a Junie B. Jones book and pushing his round Harry Potter glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"No." Love answers with the same passion and speed that I have with a similar response, "No, we're not."
Layla hums and slips a fry into her mouth, "That was believable."
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