When we finally get to Mr. Dill’s classroom, we peek through the square of glass in the door. If it was just me I’d turn the knob carefully, hoping it didn’t make any noise, then hurry to my desk, wishing I was invisible. But Teddy has never been much for keeping a low profile; he throws open the door so hard that it bangs against the wall and comes bouncing back at him. He catches it with an open palm, then grins at the twenty-two faces turned in his direction.
“Howdy,” he says, and Mr. Dill—who is standing at the board, his glasses askew and his gray hair messy—lets out a long sigh.
“Mr. McAvoy,” he says, sounding tired already. “Thanks for joining us.”
“Sorry,” I say, inching inside the classroom just behind Teddy.
“And Ms. Chapman too. We’re honored.”
Teddy gives him a little salute, then stands there for a few seconds, and I realize he’s waiting for Mr. Dill to say something about the lottery. I glance at our classmates, who are watching the exchange with unusual alertness, and it occurs to me they are too.
But Mr. Dill clearly either doesn’t know or doesn’t care, and in that moment I sort of love him for it. “Did you want to sit down,” he says, looking at Teddy over his glasses, “or were you planning to stay in the cheap seats?”
Teddy shakes his head. “No,” he says, uncharacteristically contrite. “We’ll sit.”
We file over to our desks, but it isn’t until we’re both seated that Mr. Dill turns back to the board, where he writesSENIOR PHYSICS PROJECT,then underlines it three times.
“This is the big one, folks,” he says. “The one you’ve all been waiting for…”
“Boats,” someone whispers behind me.
“It’s the Twelfth Annual Cardboard Boat Regatta!” Mr. Dill says, grabbing a pile of papers from his desk and handing them out. “We’ll be applying all the principles of physics we’ve learned so far. Buoyancy, surface tension, density, et cetera. Your only supplies will be cardboard and tape, and this will have to be enough to get two of you across the length of the swimming pool. So I hope you’re up for the challenge.”
Teddy turns around in his seat and raises his eyebrows. “Partners?” he asks, though he doesn’t really have to, since we always pair up for these types of projects.
“Of course,” I say, already looking forward to the hours we’ll be spending together, working as a team, building something from scratch. He gives me a thumbs-up before swiveling back around, and it’s only then I notice that Jacqueline—the gorgeous French exchange student—is scowling at me, and Lila—Teddy’s ex-girlfriend—is gazing at him with obvious disappointment. I’m afraid to turn around and see how many other girls were hoping to be his partner.
I have a sinking feeling there are more today than there would’ve been last week.
It isn’t until later, when I walk into the soup kitchen where I volunteer after school, that the day starts to feel normal again. I stand in the doorway for a minute, watching the familiar preparations: the chopping and sorting and simmering, the hustle and hurry and noise. It’s only three-thirty, but already the whole place smells like tomatoes and garlic.
I’m always reminded of my parents, being here. There was a soup kitchen not far from where we lived in San Francisco, and the three of us used to go often, bringing grocery bags full of fruits and vegetables and loaves of crusty bread.
Other kids played soccer or video games growing up. Not me. I spent my weekends trailing after my parents—who each ran their own nonprofit—on all their other philanthropic pursuits: wading through dirty streams in my wellies as my mom picked up trash, handing out cups of water at a 5K to raise money for Alzheimer’s research, donating my Halloween candy to a homeless shelter, and grooming ponies at the therapeutic riding center where my dad volunteered.
So I know they’d be happy that I’m carrying on the family tradition. What I don’t know—what I never know—is whether it’s enough.
“Alice,” says Mary, the sprightly sixty-something who runs the place, shoving a box of cans down the counter in my direction. “Can you help Sawyer with the sauce? He always adds too much salt.”
“Sure,” I tell her, looking over at the industrial-sized stove, where a tall boy with shaggy blond hair and a green apron is stirring a giant pot.
“Sawyer?” I say, setting the box down beside the burners.
He glances over at me with a smile. “Hey.”
“I’m Alice.”
“I know.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing we must have worked together before. The problem is that I’ve been volunteering here two nights a week since I was twelve, and after so many shifts and so many faces, it’s all become something of a blur. “Sorry, have we—”
“We go to school together.”
I look at him more carefully. He’s tall and spindly, with clear blue eyes and ears that are just a bit too big. “You go to South Lake?”
“Yeah, but I’m a junior.”
“Ah,” I say. This makes more sense. The school isn’t huge, but it’s big enough that I don’t even know everyone in my grade, much less the ones below me.
