How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [31]
If you don’t believe you own it, you almost suffocate from feeling fake. Passing the bulletin board with the array of Bible verses, I pause. God? My cry is silent and yet I feel like every bone in my body is shouting for help. What does that quote say? “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.” And from Grandpa, I received, “Put your whole hand in His.”
Yes, but how is that done? My own understanding is that this place is not for me, and I will never understand why my grandpa thought I should teach these children. Obviously, Ernest did not know me at all to place me here, or else he was just cruel, which can’t be true. Everybody adored Grandpa. Except for my mother, but that’s not my grandfather’s fault. Even Mom’s own mother told me once that “She was a stubborn child.” Dad only sees her soft hair and features, and in college he was mesmerized by her shrewd business skills. She keeps her emotions to herself while keeping the farm in profits. Her good qualities are evident—I know I’ve gained from them over the years—yet sometimes I do wish she were not a prickly pear but more like a smooth Georgia peach.
When I turn from the bulletin board, Zack is walking toward me. His look holds genuine empathy. It prods me to say, “I’m not a teacher.”
His face softens, and he gives me a small smile. “I’m not either.”
“I don’t even know if I like kids.” Surely he will tell Miriam this tidbit and she’ll oust me from The Center. I’ll be kicked out forever, which, come to think of it, would not be a bad thing. Then I can work totally on establishing my cake-decorating business and eventually turning it into a catering company. No more kids to teach!
Zack says, “I used to think the same thing.”
“You used to think you didn’t like children?” What in the world? He is a kid magnet.
“They were so young and hopeful, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.”
Well, those are not my fears at all. I continue spilling out my emotions. “They’re so… so…” What is wrong with me? I know what I mean.
Zack supplies, “Noisy? Undisciplined? Aggravating?”
Does he agree that they are? Or is he just saying this to appease me? I hate being appeased like I’m a… a child. “Yes, yes, yes,” I say. I take a breath, and we both smile. His eyes are hazel with a tint of green around the edges.
“I know. But they will grow on you. It takes time.”
“Why are you here?” I ask him. My voice is more demanding than I intended.
He looks a bit baffled and then slowly says, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“No, not that. Why are you here at The Center?”
“Oh.” His faces relaxes. “I’m a social worker. I’m the caseworker for a bunch of these kids.”
“You’re a social worker with social services?”
“Yeah. But most of the time I spend here is volunteer. The Center is a really good program.”
“Oh.” What can I say? He chose a profession that deals with children. He even volunteers to spend time with children. He could be anything he wanted to be, I think. He’s confident and articulate and grows more handsome every time I see him. He could be posing for Maxim. Instead he is here in the mountains of North Carolina working with a bunch of kids.
His smile is broad, and I note his dimples.
“You’ll be okay,” he says.
You’ll be okay. How many times have I heard that line in the last three months? If I had a penny for every time a friend, coworker, parent, or doctor said that string of words to me, I’d be rich enough to bribe the lawyer on Main Street so he’d have to let me have the cabin sans teaching cooking to wild children with no manners.
————
After a dinner of steamed broccoli and pasta seasoned with oregano, olive oil, and tomatoes, I take out the Bryson City phone book. I study the local businesses—potential places I can market my cake business. I plan to ask them if they will place my brochures in a strategic location with lots of customer traffic. That should generate some responses so I can start getting orders for