I don’t answer that because she’s right, and the truth tastes like ash in my mouth.I go back out to the gym, to the safe chaos I know how to shepherd.CJ is teaching Malik how to square his shoulders on a shot.He stands behind the boy, hands light on Malik’s forearms, talking gently and precisely.When Malik sinks the basket, CJ whoops like he’s on a game-winning penalty kill.The entire court beams.
He catches me watching and tips the brim of his backward cap like we’re in some ridiculous Western.
Nope,I tell myself.Absolutely not.
“Okay, everybody,” I call.“Homework hour starts in fifteen.If you need a snack, grab it now.”
The chorus of groans and gratitude is familiar.Kids peel off toward the counter where Jada and Ezra pass out apple slices and granola bars.
CJ jogs over.“How can I help?”
It’s not flirtation.It’s a genuine question.
“You can copy these worksheets,” I say, handing him a stack.“Double-sided, collated.”
“Collated,” he repeats, as if he’s never been asked to do something so grown-up in his life.
“And you can remind the big kids that phones go in the basket during homework hour,” I add.“They’ll pretend they forget.”
“I never forget rules,” he says, and grins when I raise a brow.“Okay, some rules.But I can be an enforcer.”
“Please don’t call yourself that in front of parents.”
He laughs and takes the papers, heading for the copy room.Two minutes later, I hear a thunk, followed by a muffled choke that is either a cough or an attempt to mask profanity.I head that way and find him staring at the machine like it personally insulted his mother.
“It says ‘paper jam,’” he tells me earnestly.“I think I angered it.”
“Everyone angers it,” I say, and pop the tray.I slide out a crumpled sheet and thump the side of the copier in the exact spot required by the gods of office machinery.The light turns green.
He stares.“Was that… magic?”
“Experience.And two YouTube videos at midnight.”
He tips his head.“You and I have very different midnight hobbies.”
“So it would appear.”
When the copies are spit out warm and in blessed collated stacks, he gathers them like a prize and then pauses.“Thank you.”
I raise an eyebrow.“For rescuing you from toner?”
“For giving me a chance not to screw this up.”
For a moment, I see under the jokes again, the name on the birth certificate, and the kid who learned to be loud so no one could see fear.
“I know I’m here because I earned it.I’d rather earn something else.”
I shrug.“It’s work, not a party.But if you show up and you try, I’ll notice.”
He nods, serious as a penalty shot.“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.I’m twenty-six.”
“Respectfully noted, Boss.”
I almost smile.Almost.
Homework hour is controlled chaos, which is to say chaos with a timer.CJ drifts between tables, handing out pencils and compliments like he’s been doing it for months.When he spots a boy getting frustrated over long division, he drops into the seat beside him, flips his cap forward like he means business, and draws boxes until the problem looks like a rink.The kid laughs.
