17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
C ARLY
Micah grows quiet as we head to the food bank, carrying several bags of canned beans, corn, and a bunch of other goodies. They only cost a few hundred dollars and I’ll donate the rest of the money I got from the pawnshop in the morning before we leave. But I want to do this tonight, and don’t want to be dissuaded.
Even with Micah accompanying me silently, his disapproval thick in the air.
I’m not sure why he’s not saying anything. I thought he would try harder to argue against what I’m doing now or claim that I shouldn’t be doing it in a dress that cost thousands of dollars. I thought he would at least mention the risk of getting robbed. It’s something I thought about myself, but the food bank is close enough that I’m not super worried. Besides, we seem to be in a safe neighborhood.
Still, I expected Micah to argue. But he remains thoughtfully quiet instead, and quietly judgmental.
Finally, I can’t tolerate the silence anymore, so I turn around to find that he’s watching me as he walks, his perusing expression highlighted by the moon.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” But there’s a mocking smile at the corner of his lips, revealing that his “nothing” isn’t nothing.
“Just say it,” I say. “You think I’m stupid for doing this, don’t you?”
“Not stupid. Just unexpectedly naive.”
I glare at him. I’m grown enough to understand that naive is just a nice word for stupid. Either way, I don’t appreciate it.
“What do you have against charity anyway?” I ask.
“I have nothing against charity. Last I checked, you were the one who said that charities only use their money to pad their CEO’s pocket.”
I blush at the reminder. “Uh-huh. And I was wrong.”
I researched it last night after he went to sleep and found that he was right. A lot of charities did use most of their donations directly to help the needy. I just assumed they didn’t because of what I heard my mother say. She used to denigrate NGOs in the past, particularly every time our church hosted its annual charity drive. Whenever I suggested we ask them for help, my mother would say, “Charities aren’t for us. They just use people like us to collect more money to give to their big bosses.”
And I just took what she said at face value after watching them turn her away a few times. That’s my fault for believing my mother, a well-known liar. I should have known that if a charity didn’t want to help her, then she probably did something to deserve it.
Last night, I also extensively researched Last Hope Food Bank, where we’re headed right now. They’re very open online posting on their website how much they receive in donations and also giving a detailed breakdown of exactly what that money is used for. Everything I’ve read about them, including reviews, suggests that they’re one of the better food banks in the city. Luckily, they also have a repository outside their office, where we can leave the canned food and anyone in need can access it twenty-four-seven.
But on the way there, we happen upon groups of people sleeping on the streets, curled into walls to fit underneath the building’s awning. Sympathy twinges in my heart. One of them meets my eyes and I pause, then squat and lower some cans of beans for him. I don’t say anything else, and he simply nods as I leave.
Another thing I used to hate about asking for help was the stares I got. I hated the pitying look that people used to give me, how it robbed me of dignity. So I don’t stop and gawk and I don’t wait for any acknowledgement. I just place the cans and go.
As I move, I place more cans along the way. Some of the sleeping are awoken by the clatter and jerk back from me, and others just stare off. A few mutter out a thanks as I walk away. The response doesn’t matter. I keep the same routine until I’ve given everyone at least half a dozen cans of food.
“You keep that up, you’re not going to have enough by the time we get to the food bank,” Micah says as we turn the corner. He says it in a wry tone and once again, his total detachment irritates me.
He makes no secret that he doesn’t care about any of this, and thinks what I’m doing is stupid. But of course, he doesn’t. He’s probably never had to beg or visit a food bank in his life.
I resolve to ignore him at first, but eventually, as we get close to our destination, my indignation builds until I can’t hold it back.
“I don’t know what your problem is,” I finally say turning on him.
He raises an eyebrow. “My problem?”
“Yeah. Aren’t rich people supposed to at least pretend to be nice and care about the less fortunate? Did you see that party we were just at? The gift bags? The hosts spent more on hors d’oeuvres than some people might make their entire lives.”
“And that’s supposed to be my fault?”
“No, of course not. But it wouldn’t kill you to at least give something back. Show some empathy, damn it. Care about someone else other than yourself.”
He’s silent for a few seconds, pinning me with a look. “You think that’s what this is? You think I lack empathy?”
I raise a challenging eyebrow. “Don’t you? You don’t seem to care about anyone else, and you actively get mad when you see me trying to help people.”
He laughs, loud and long. “You think what you’re doing is helping people? By what? Spending time buying cans of beans?” He chuckles again, shaking his head. “What’s the point of doing this when you know nothing is going to change? None of this matters. You’ll give cans of beans today and then what? What will they get tomorrow? Because you know they’ll still be hungry and homeless tomorrow. And the day after that and the day after that too. You won’t make a difference because the system is built against positive change. There will always be people suffering because there has to be. And that number will only grow because more and more cities are built to be unlivable by the common population. You see, the rich like comfort, opulence, and mega-mansions. And cities like the rich. So forget about sustainable buildings and rent control. The cost of living will continue to skyrocket and there will only be more and more homeless people until eventually humanity eats itself.” His eyes glitter. “I didn’t create the game, darling. I’m only playing it.”
I blink. That was not at all the answer I expected. I expected him to laugh and say something flippant, not to be unexpectedly profound.
It sounds like he has thought about this problem in depth.
And he doesn’t stop there, eyes blazing as he continues, “In the grand scheme of things, giving someone a few cans of beans doesn’t even matter. I know it doesn’t matter. And secretly you know it doesn’t matter too, besides making you feel better for a few hours. So let’s not stand here and pretend any of it makes a difference. I don’t have the stomach for that much hypocrisy.”
I’m quiet for a second, some of my ire dissipating in the face of what he’s saying. He’s right of course. But in a funny way, he’s also being short-sighted.
“Do you think it matters to them?” I ask quietly, watching his eyes glitter. “The people we just gave the beans to, do you think it mattered? Or would they rather we just walked by pretending that we didn’t see them?”
His mouth closes, jaw clenching as he looks back in the direction that we just came from. His expression shifts slightly as though he’s struggling with himself.
“No,” he finally answers. “I think it mattered to them.”
I nod. “And that’s all I need to know. So what if it makes me a hypocrite? I’d rather be a hypocrite for at least trying to do something good than accept that I can’t make a change so do nothing. Sure, I’m not going to change the world. But I don’t think I have to. I think it’s okay if I just change one night, for one person. Or a couple of people. Or just do something nice, no matter how small it is. Sometimes that has to be enough.”
The air whistles after my speech and I pull Micah’s jacket tighter around me. He gave it to me in the grocery store and it smells like him. I enjoy the strong scent as he ponders on what I said.
He’s thinking about it deeply; I can see it in his face. I give him a few seconds to consider it, and then finally, he grants me a weak smile. “I guess you’re right.”
I smile back too. As we continue to the food bank, I realize that I may have just unlocked a facet of his personality. Perhaps he’s not as callous as I once thought. He’s not Prince Charming by any means and he’s probably never going to be a super kind and affectionate person.
But perhaps his lack of consideration doesn’t necessarily indicate a lack of care.
Or maybe I’m just being delusional for trying to see the good in him again.
The food bank is closed by the time we get there, so we put the food in a collecting receptacle and leave. Micah takes hold of my hand and we walk back to the limo, the silence now filled with a different, familiar warmth.
“You seem to have really done your research about homelessness, huh?” I inquire.
He runs his thumb across the back of my hand. “Yeah. It was part of a project I once proposed that my brother seemed interested in.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. Tristan told me he wanted to run for office in New York someday. I told him if he won, we could do something about the housing problem. Like a joint venture.”
“That was nice.” It makes me see him in a whole new light. “But…”
He sighs. “But Dad wanted him to take over the family business and so he did.” His eyebrows ruffle and he sighs. “And I guess he let his political dreams die there. He was never good at resisting Dad. I thought eventually he would snap out of it but he never did. He lived for that man until the day he died.”
Bitterness leaks out of Micah’s tone and I squeeze his hand. I also make a note to be careful when asking questions about his brother. Seems to still be a sore topic.
When we finally get back into the car, Micah pulls me close, wraps his hand in my hair, and kisses me, murmuring against my lips, “Finally. I’ve been thinking about that all night.”
The next day, after we fly back and Micah drops me off at Mrs. Peach’s home, I feel a little like Cinderella after the clock strikes midnight. All the fancy clothes are gone, and so are the fancy buildings and people. I’m back to my regular life.
And it isn’t a bad life at all.
It’s just that, as I walk back to my house, I realize that my regular life is especially loud and chaotic.
“You cheating bastard!” I can hear my mother screaming from outside the house. “I’m going to kill you if you come near me!”
“I didn’t cheat on you, harpy!” my father yells back and sounds of crashing echo. “But I should have!”
I exhale. I’m so tempted to leave them to it and go somewhere else, but the last time I did, my father ended up in the hospital and it was on me to take care of that bill.
So I climb the porch stairs and open the door, in time to see a lamp go flying. My father crouches to avoid the projectile and the ceramic crashes onto the wall.
“Mom!” I yell. “Stop.”
She ignores me. “You drunk imbecile. Good for nothing. You ruin everything. You ruined my life!”
“You ruined your own life, Imogen.”
Mom picks up another lamp to throw, and I rush to stand in front of her, grabbing her wrist.
“Let me go, Carly!”
“No,” I say. “I saw Officer Jensen riding around the neighborhood. He hears a commotion like this and he’s going to come right over. Do you want to spend another night in jail?”
That finally reaches through the rage and she reluctantly drops her hand, her dark angry eyes turning to me.
“Where have you been?” she says in an accusatory voice.
“I was sleeping over at Emma’s,” I lie. “I had to work a late shift and didn’t want to wake you guys.”
Emma doesn’t talk to my parents, so it’s an easy lie to get away with. Besides, my mother doesn’t even care to confirm the story. She simply glares at my father for the last time, before storming upstairs.
I stare at him too, at his haggard looks and his red eyes. I shake my head and go upstairs too to get ready for work.
At work, I’m still feeling the whiplash of returning to Laketown. It’s just been a stark difference from the past few days that it’s almost like I have a hangover. But I ignore my feelings and just keep moving and working. When I take a break, I notice a text on my phone from an unknown number. But I already know who it is.
Call me back. It’s serious.
I stare at the text Nate sent, apprehension and guilt tangling in my gut. It spreads through my mind, peppering it with questions.
Should I call him back? I probably shouldn’t. How did he even text me from jail? You know what, I don’t even want to know.
I battle with myself for minutes, but before I can decide, another call comes in. From Micah.
“Bad news,” he says. “My grandfather wants to meet you next weekend.”