Page 3

Mozey Cruz arrives at Pathways before we even unlock the doors.

I see him standing outside through our newly installed, glass, fire safety door.

The Pathways building, as of last year, is a fully converted elementary school.

We didn’t do all that much to convert except to replace the miniature toilets and sinks in the bathrooms with adult sized ones.

Janey and I giggled for months before they were installed about squatting so low our knees ended up higher than our hips.

A compromising position—to crouch in a ball to pee five times a day.

I wave casually at Mozey through the door and tap my watch, tying to communicate to him we don’t open the doors until eight.

He nods his head at me, acknowledging my presence but he seems unconcerned and absorbed by whatever’s playing in his headphones.

I shrug, grab my coffee mug and make my way back to my office.

I’ve never felt attracted to a participant before.

Most of them are far too damaged for my taste.

It’s not like I can’t handle life scars, everybody has them, and I’ve even got a few of my own.

But I prefer not to have them in my bed.

I want a healthy relationship; I don’t have time for anything else.

What I do is too important to me to make such a foolish mistake.

I can appreciate everything about Mozey, his looks, his talent—everything.

I can appreciate and walk away.

He comes straight to my office after he signs in at the front desk.

He pops his head around the office door right as I hear Janey say, “Please have a seat out here.”

She knows I don’t like unannounced visitors.

He walks in despite her warnings and closes the door.

It would appear he’s more determined to see me than he is about adhering to site rules.

Not a good sign.

I’ll have to kick him out of the program if he’s a habitual rule breaker.

“You can have a seat,” I say clearing my throat.

“Usually you have to sign in to see me.

The door has to stay open.

It’s standard procedure.”

He saunters over to my desk and pulls out a chair.

He nods his head and keeps his gaze steady with mine.

His eyes are charcoal gray.

I swear he’s wearing guyliner, but I don’t want to look too close to confirm.

He leans forward ever so slightly as if insisting I sit first.

I return the gesture, trying to retain some amount of control.

He cracks a smile and leans forward, again insisting.

I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

We are suddenly like awkward Americans at their first Japanese business meeting, answering every unknown with a timid greeting bow.

“Sit,” I say too loudly, forcefully breaking our mutual spell.

We sit simultaneously.

Mozey plops with confidence, relaxation gaining easy control of his face.

I tuck my skirt under like a sweaty, nervous secretary, as if our roles were reversed and he was here to interview me.

“I came to sign the papers.

I want to stay.”

“You can do that.

It’s fine.

But you do always have to follow the rules.

It’s the only way this program works.

And it’s the only way to stay in it,” I add.

I want to stress just how important procedure is to him.

Without it we fall apart.

He nods again and adjusts his beanie a little bit farther back on his head, using both of his hands.

The rings.

They flicker and wink at me against his warm brown skin.

He brings one hand down and rubs his chin, massaging the flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

He leans forward and his legs spread into a wide V, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Got it,” he says and licks his white teeth.

I feel the lick in all the places I shouldn’t be feeling it.

I feel the goddamn lick all the way down to my feet.

I want to lick those teeth.

“Did you see the mural sketch we did yesterday?” his eyes light up and shine bright at the mention of it.

“Oh my God, it was good! Hands down.

The best work I’ve ever seen.”

I don’t mean to be so forward, but it’s hard for me not to gush.

His talent alone is gushworthy.

“I’m serious.

Even the sketch could hang in a gallery.”

He grins at my comment and looks sweetly sheepish.

He offers nothing to qualify it.

Only a grin and silence.

He’s looking at me like a man looks at a woman.

Not like a juvie kid looks at their court appointed social worker.

I want to blush under his gaze.

But I’m too seasoned for that.

I won’t be seduced away from my mission.

“Have you always been an artist? Are you at all trained or just naturally talented?”

“I always had my drawings.

Kept me sane when other shit wasn’t.”

His mention of his past yanks me into the present.

I’ve got a job to do here, and I really want him to succeed.

I’ve got to give him the skills and the confidence to make it in society once he walks out these doors.

I know I’m good at it.

He needs my help, and I’m more than willing to work to see him through this.

Despite his good looks there are some boundaries I would never cross.

I need to get myself a friend with benefits to work off all of this sexual tension.

“I got your note, so I filled out the forms myself.

All I need is your signature.”

I rummage through my desk and then pass him the clipboard.

He flips the pen around in his hand before he signs.

He’s a show-off, this guy, always trying to impress.

His signature is stylized, and he puts a cross after Robles instead of writing “Cruz.”

“Is that your legal signature?”

“Yes, ma’am, afraid so.”

Oh, so today he’s answering my questions.

When opportunity knocks… “Do you have any support system? Any family you’re in touch with?”

“I have some friends.

I don’t know where my ma is at right now.

I know I got some family in Mexico, but I ain’t in touch with them.”

“We offer group therapy here twice a week.

It’s a really great opportunity.

We also have a sponsor program, so if you’d like, we can set you up with one.”

He pulls off his beanie and his shiny, black hair falls to his shoulders.

“Who are they?”

“Who’s who?” I ask and realize I’m chewing on my pencil’s eraser.

I throw the pencil down like it’s an affront to my authority.

“Sponsors,” he says, running his hand back across his head gathering it up with his thumb and forefinger.

He pulls it into a ponytail and then twists it into a knot, securing it with a black elastic he pulls from his wrist.

“You can do that better than I can.”

He raises a brow looking quizzical.

“I’ve never been a hair person,” I say, self- consciously.

“I’ve had the same cut since I was twelve.

My mom always did it.

Probably went out of style a long time ago.

I wouldn’t even know.”

I’m rambling.

Likely blushing and definitely sweating in my shirt.

Rein in the schoolgirl, Lana, his mental health and his success are important to you.

He doesn’t care about your hair.

“All the sponsors are employees, we don’t take outside volunteers.

It would be someone you’d get a chance to get to know well, someone you could spend time with.”

“You a sponsor?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest, all of his fingers coming to rest under his armpits except for his thumbs.

“No!” I say, eyeing all of his bracelets, made of cloth, string and leather.

There are a few silver bangles that clang together when he gestures.

I wonder if he showers with them or if they’re the kind that never come off— each one symbolic of something to him.

It doesn’t take much to imagine him in the shower.

Water running down that beautiful body.

I can’t stop the images.

Sure, I’m a sexual person, but I’m not usually so brazen.

The bracelets.

Sometimes kids in the system become extremely attached to material things, endowing them with huge emotional significance.

It gives them something to hold onto when their lives are unstable and people are taken away from them.

A bear, a blanket, a picture of family.

“Janey is, Jennifer is, even Pedro at the front desk.

Practically everyone who works here is.

Except for me.”

He nods his head and then jerks his chin toward me.

“Pick someone for me.

Whoever you think would be a good match.”

“I’d say Brigitta.

She’s from Germany, popular with everybody.

All the participants love her.

She’s really easy to talk to.”

“Is she as pretty as you are?” he asks, leaning further forward, his elbows coming to the edge of his knees.

He interweaves his fingers and cracks all of his knuckles.

His eyes are dark and smoky and roaming all over me.

He’s challenging me, feeling out my responsiveness.

My sympathetic nervous system shoots into overdrive.

I try to form words, but his abrupt come-on has left me speechless.

“We don’t, we don’t… at Pathways we don’t value people based on physical appearance.

We don’t, you can’t… We adhere to a code of mutual respect that upholds specific and important boundaries.”

Mozey rises as I stutter like the nervous bird he’s turned me into.

He pulls his arms behind his back, then yanks on one wrist and pulls on the other until I hear his whole spine crack.

He’s loosening up while every one of my muscles is seizing up.

“Never mind, Lana.

I take it back.

You’re not pretty,” he says with annoying ease and walks right out of my office without looking back.

My mouth is hanging open.

I can barely form thoughts let alone sentences.

Did he just tell me I was pretty and then take it right back? I slam my head down on my desk.

Again.

I’m defenseless against the effect he has on me.

Mozey makes me want to crawl away into the sand and disappear.

(With him, preferably with him.)