22 McKenna #3
to teach them. So many obstacles can prevent them from getting in the water. Sensory issues, fear, struggling with transitions,
stuff you’d assume. But what really hit me was how the neurotypical adults are the real obstacle. They just don’t think the
kids will be able to do it.”
Beck’s gaze is steady, as though he’s waiting for me to say more. But that’s it, that’s all of it.
“What?” I ask.
His lip ticks up on one side, a small smile.
“What?” I say again.
He leans back in his chair, regarding me. “You just get it,” he says with the hint of a shrug. “It’s nice.” The intensity
of his gaze makes me shift in my seat.
“I’ve never liked being underestimated, and I don’t like when it happens to other people.”
“So by giving those lessons, you were busy proving the haters wrong. And maybe yourself too.”
“Yeah, until I ruined everything with my temper. I don’t know what it is with me. Sometimes I just can’t control myself. Even
when I know I’m only shooting myself in the foot. I get so angry I feel like I’m breathing fire. And I don’t stop until I’ve
incinerated everything in my path.”
“Maybe you just have big emotions,” he says. “You could be a little more generous with yourself.”
“Maybe.” I nod, but I don’t really mean it. “My grandmother always said I should embrace the passion, that my intensity is
what gives me my speed in the pool. But sometimes I feel like I’m a walking stockpile of TNT, just waiting for someone to
throw a match.” I’m not painting the most attractive picture of myself. “I’ve probably scared you off now, huh?”
“It’d take a lot more than big emotions for that to happen,” he says, and suddenly I feel a longing that frightens me.
The path I’m on doesn’t leave room for these feelings, not when I’m so close.
Two more years. Once I have my degree and the job that follows it, I’ll finally be able to take care of myself, on my own terms. I should have said no to this date, but I didn’t know it’d be like this.
And now I’m doing mental gymnastics, trying to figure out how to let this situation progress without derailing my goals.
“So what inspired you to go into environmental science?” I ask, trying to move the focus off me.
He looks off to the side, as if pondering how to answer. “I guess after all those years looking out for Leo, watching for
when my parents were tense about something, I sort of became wired to notice small changes, to help fix things. Then, you
know, living where we do, we’re surrounded by coastlines that look fine from a distance but are quietly deteriorating. It
just kind of translates.”
“And are you? Fixing things?”
“Works in progress.” He smiles sheepishly, like maybe it’s not as easy as he thought. He then starts telling me all about
his dream of opening a restaurant focused on sustainable gastronomy. He’s so animated while he talks about it, using lots
of words I’ve never heard applied to food, and I have to ask a million questions. When he mentions the closed-loop system
and regenerative sourcing for the third time, I think I’m finally catching on.
“So it’s basically like a salad bar, but with no waste?” I ask.
“Tell you what,” he says. “Why don’t you let me cook you dinner next week, and I can show you?”
I really want to say yes, but instead I go with the truth. “I have to see. If I find another job, I don’t know what my schedule’s
going to be like, and if I haven’t found a job, I should probably be spending the time looking, and I have to leave time to
visit my grandmother, and practice and everything. I shouldn’t even really be here now, and I have to figure out my service
hours again.”
He chuckles. “Take a breath, McKenna. It’s fine. Just let me know if you find yourself with some spare time.”
If only.
When I turn the car onto Glory’s street, it’s nearly dark outside. I’m shocked to see the For Sale sign staked into the grass
beside our driveway. Even though I knew it was coming, I’m surprised the broker has already been here to set it up. The waning
evening light makes it impossible to read all the words on the rider, but the sign looks just like any other listing notice
on someone’s front lawn. I was the one who told the broker I was ready to start this process, but looking at the sign now,
I don’t feel ready at all.
I wonder again if there’s any way I could keep the home, but no, not with Glory’s bank accounts and her binder full of crazy.
We have almost nothing, and I need to do this if I want my grandmother to have proper care for longer than a few months. I
stare at the sign a moment longer, wondering why I never thought about the people in all those other homes, never wondered
if the signs staked outside their houses were part of a bigger, sadder story.
Dropping my bag inside the front door, I head to the kitchen in search of something to eat. The shelves inside the fridge
are so much emptier than when Glory was living here, and I feel a weight in the pit of my stomach looking at them. I think
about ordering delivery, but given my new salary of zero, I figure I’d better settle for the sad-looking, day-old sandwich
sitting on the top rack.