“Nah, I’m good.” She scoots forward on her chair and focuses on the computer screen. I wait for her to start typing again, but she simply stares at the screen, unblinking.
“Jordy?”
Without looking at me, she says, “I was wondering if there are rules about employees applying for these baskets.”
Ahh.I had wanted to offer Jordy’s family a basket, but didn’t know if it would be weird. I’ve helped Jordy as much as I can over the last year and she usually accepts it, but she seems to have hard lines she won’t cross, and I’m still learning what those are. She accepts food—both from me and from the food bank portion of the center. She’s refused my offer of clothing, although she’s used money from her own paycheck a couple of times to buy clothes from the center’s thrift shop. A few months ago, she took me up on my offer to buy her a used cell phone and let her pay me back in installments, which she’s made monthly without fail.
Jordy and I have developed a real connection over the last year. I genuinely care about her, so I never want her to think I see her as a charity case. Because of that, I’m afraid to overstep. I want so badly to make life easier for her, the way my friends and their families made life easier for me when I was Jordy’s age and needed help. During the last two years of high school, my friends banded together so no one would know my family was struggling. They made sure I always had school lunches, they shared their clothes with me, they paid for my movie tickets and food court lunches and other things.
My dad told me to stop accepting handouts, but I didn’t see any of it as handouts, even though there were times I was ashamed and felt unworthy. Mostly, I saw it as my friends—my chosen family—helping me when I needed it. They’d always done it and I knew they always would.
Jordy doesn’t have anyone like that. I’ve asked her about friends, but other than a few classmates she hangs out with during school hours, she doesn’t seem to have any real friends. At home, it’s just her and her dad, and he’s gone most of the time, according to Jordy. She usually walks to and from the center, so I’ve only met her dad a couple of times when he’s come to pick her up. He was gruff and rude, but I didn’t take offense; my dad became that way too when our fortunes changed and we needed places like Belle Vie to help us get by. Things like exhaustion, hunger, overwork, sadness, anger, and pride will change a person. They certainly changed my dad.
“Nevermind,” Jordy says quickly, making me realize I’ve been mentally wandering around in the past. She jumps to her feet, shutting the laptop with more force than I think she intended. “Forget I said anything.”
“No, Jordy, wait.” I rise from my chair and hold out a hand, beseeching her not to go. “I’m sorry, I got lost in thought for a minute. Please sit back down. Of course you can apply for a Holiday Sharing basket.”
She hesitates before lowering herself back into her chair. “Thanks. My dad’ll probably flip, but considering we were so completely broke last Christmas we didn’t even bother celebrating, I’m not leaving it up to him this year.”
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat caused by her words. “Good thinking,” I say, forcing a smile. “And you’re making your own money now so you can buy yourself something nice if you want.”
“Oh, I plan to, don’t you worry.”
I laugh, relieved to see her sass return so quickly after our little hiccup. I try hard not to fall into my own thoughts in front of her, but sometimes I get swept up in the parallels of her life and my former life.
My office suddenly feels too warm and too small. I’m sure Jordy could use an outing as much as I could. “How would you feel about a little field trip?”
CHAPTER SIX
Does it count as retail therapy if you’re not buying anything for yourself? I’m not sure, but after two hours at the mall shopping for supplies for the Holiday Sharing Program, I certainly feel better. Despite Jordy’s initial resistance to being at the mall, once we entered the toy store and I told her she could help pick out toys and games for the first group of children—ages four to eight—she lit up like a full moon on a dark night.
“Are you in a hurry to get home?” Jordy asks as we saunter through the mall. We’ve just left one of the many children’s clothing stores, and our hands are full of bags from both there and the toy store.
I glance at my watch; it’s shortly after six o’clock. I expect Jordy wants a ride home, which I was going to offer anyway. Just in case it’s something else, I don’t tell her I’m looking forward to getting home, lounging in front of the TV, and drinking a glass or two of wine. “Nope. Did you want to stop anywhere else?”
“I was thinking maybe we could have dinner in the food court,” she says as we approach the line of restaurants, which we need to walk past to get to the exit. “If you want,” she adds hastily. “No pressure. I understand if you’d rather get home or if you have other plans for dinner or—”
“Jordy,” I say, my voice shaking with suppressed laughter at her rapid-fire words. “I’d love to have dinner with you. What do you feel like eating?”
Her shoulders slump slightly as the tension leaves them. She straightens again immediately, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she scans the options. “I’d like a burger, I think. And fries. No, onion rings. No, poutine!”
“A burger sounds good to me too. Why don’t we go put this stuff in the car and come back so we don’t have it scattered all over the floor around us?”
“Oryoucould take it out to the car and I could order and grab us a seat,” Jordy says.
“Good thinking.” I fish in my purse for my wallet, hoping I have cash to give her. “I’ll have a cheeseburger with no pickles. And if you decide on fries or poutine for yourself, how about I get onion rings so you can have some too?”
She reaches out to stop my hand, which is still digging around in my purse. “I’ll pay, Hollie.”
“What? No, no, I’ll get it. Consider it a thank-you for all your help today. You’ve gone above and beyond your job description.”
“Hollie. Let me pay.” Jordy’s voice is firm and her expression is as earnest as I’ve ever seen it. “Please. I can pay. You said I went above and beyond today, but you go above and beyond every day. You do all kinds of stuff for me that you don’t have to do.”
I want to ask if she’s sure, but I worry it would insult her. Instead, I say, “Okay. I really appreciate that, Jordy.” I get out my car keys and hook my bags higher on my wrist so I can take the ones she’s carrying. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Oh, and—”
“Don’t change your order to something cheaper,” she interrupts.
“I wasn’t going to!” My high voice likely speaks the truth more than my words do. That’s exactly what I was going to do: change my onion rings to fries and my cheeseburger to a plain burger because they’re cheaper.
