Chapter Five #3
Marina and I took a watercolor painting class there one summer, when we were twelve and her mom was sick of us loafing around on her living room couch watching The Proud Family reruns.
We learned that neither of us had a burgeoning talent for art, but it gave us something to do, and we had fun exploring the community center afterward.
We played Battleship on the ancient set in the rec center while seniors played chess nearby.
We sat outside by the basketball courts, making bets on which kid would sink a basket next.
The mountain landscape she painted for me in that class still hangs in my childhood bedroom.
Now I have to stare at it every day, that physical reminder of how close we were then and how nothing we are now.
Marina throws me a begrudging glance. I know that look. No matter who she’s talking to or what grudges she’s holding, she can never resist launching into a rant.
“The town can’t afford to keep it open anymore,” she says.
“They’re talking about selling the building.
But my students need it. For a lot of them, it’s a safe place where they can go after school until their parents get off work.
And it’s not just kids. The computer class I teach at the community center is for adults, and they need it, too.
It’s one of the only places left where people can get together.
We’ve already lost the Powell Market and the bowling alley.
I’m not losing the community center, too. So, let’s save it.”
Let’s save it . Like it’s that simple.
Ever since I’ve known her, starting from that first day of third grade when we were sat next to one another and instantly bonded over how our erasers made a perfect pair—my miniature burger to her tiny carton of fries—Marina has always been endlessly optimistic.
She believes in goodness, fairness, that right will always prevail over wrong.
Two months into third grade, she found a nickel on the playground at recess and took it to the yard supervisor, who chuckled, patted her on the head, and told her it was hers to keep because no one would miss it.
And Marina, who didn’t like the idea of holding on to money that didn’t belong to her, asked our teacher to see if anyone in our class was missing a nickel when we got back from recess.
Sure enough, the messy-haired kid two rows in front of us started counting the coins in his pocket and realized his lunch money was five cents short.
As a reward, our teacher let Marina pick a sticker from her coveted sticker drawer.
I felt a strange sort of jealousy at the time.
Not about wanting the holographic rainbow sticker Marina chose, but because Marina had an instinct for goodness that I was missing somehow.
Because when Marina had taken that nickel to me, I’d told her to keep it.
If it were up to me, that kid would have gone hungry and I would have dropped that coin into my piggy bank without a second thought.
The doubt on Randy’s face tells me he’s also at a loss against Marina’s sky-high optimism. “I would love to save it, if I could. I know how much Marge loves teaching her boxing class over there. But…I’m not sure what we could really do.”
“I was thinking we could revive the Greenstead Apple Festival,” Marina replies.
“Apple festival?”
Apparently my only contributions to this conversation are repeating Marina’s words like a dumbfounded parrot.
It’s whiplash-inducing, being inundated with a flood of memories every time she speaks, blinks, exists.
Now I’m back at the apple festival, one of the years before our fight, sinking my teeth into a caramel apple, leaves rustling at my feet, Marina by my side.
“We could bring it back and set up a way for people to donate,” Marina says. “Maybe it would raise enough money to save the community center.”
“Fun!” Jen enthuses. I turn to see she’s drawn closer, coming to stand beside Randy. Arun and Tessa, too, have moved forward, standing in the aisle by my desk.
A tentative ray of hope lights Marina’s eyes. “So you’ll help?”
Jen’s face falls into uncertainty. “Oh, I didn’t mean… I think it’s a wonderful idea. I’m part of the community center’s crochet circle; I’d hate to see it go. But…there isn’t much we could do.”
“I play racquetball at the court over there almost every weekend,” Arun says. “I could make a personal donation. How much do you need?”
Marina chuckles wryly. “My best guess? At least a hundred thousand dollars.”
Arun’s shoulders droop. “Oh. Um…have you tried seeing if the town council will help? Get it on Mayor Bradley’s radar?”
“I think I’d have a better chance of calling up Bigfoot,” Marina replies, and the office breaks into titters. I fake a laugh too, pretending to get it.
“So there’s nothing you could do?” Marina asks Randy. “Marge said maybe you could—”
“I think Marge may have overestimated my abilities,” Randy says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t speak for the rest of us, but…I wouldn’t even know how to help. I’m no good with…any of that stuff.”
“What stuff?” Marina asks.
“ Everything. It’s why I’m here.”
“It’s why we’re all here,” Tessa says quietly. “Flop House.”
“What was that?” When Tessa waves it off, Marina sighs. “I guess that’s typical. I should know by now how pointless it is to ask Ryser for help.”
Marina’s gaze falls on me when she says this.
Her eyes narrow just enough to make it abundantly clear that this is really an insult meant just for me.
She’s trying to convey how enlightened she is, how right she is for knowing Ryser would never lift a finger to help anyone, while I’m just the useless corporate lackey who sold my soul for a paycheck.
I imagine the satisfaction of telling Marina, No, actually, you don’t know everything, we will help . Her self-righteous veneer would buckle on the spot.
I don’t know how to throw a festival, but it would be glorious to play the part, save the day, shatter her expectations and come out on top.
Then she’d see I have a heart. I’d get to feel like the superior one, like I finally did something right, followed that instinct for goodness that’s always escaped me.
Somewhere along the way, the fantasy starts to feel more possible.
This isn’t that sweeping act of good I’d planned to do as communications director, but it’s something, isn’t it?
It’s a way to help out Greenstead. It’s something to do while I’m here, instead of wasting away watching professional development webinars, peppering my new colleagues with questions they can’t answer, and lying to Dad and Wendy about what goes on here.
The idea grows larger in my mind, glittering with promise.
This could even help me get my old job back.
Throwing this festival would be a PR boon for Ryser, earning them the goodwill they desperately need after the last year of press disasters.
They could plaster their website with pictures of smiling children holding sugar-dusted apple cider donuts, a crowd of grateful Greensteaders cheering in front of the newly reinstated community center, the mayor of Greenstead raising an apple cider toast to Ryser Cares.
Amanda will thank me sincerely, realize how much she needs me on her team, and summon me back to DC.
Maybe she’ll even promote me on the spot.
And I’ll float back home, my early retirement plan back on track, leaving Greenstead behind a better place and proving that I’m a good person once and for all.
And somewhere in there, a thought so small I’m reluctant to acknowledge it: I wouldn’t mind another caramel apple. I wouldn’t mind replacing that jagged, hurtful memory of fighting with Marina at the last festival with something happier.
“We can help,” I say.
Marina blinks once, twice. “You can?”
“We can?” Arun says. Beside him, Randy bites his thumbnail. Jen looks conflicted, like she’s fighting the urge to correct me. Tessa winces in the way one might when they’re watching a car skid off the road.
“Yes,” I say. It feels good to return to the poise of Business Partner me. “Ryser’s one of the biggest food suppliers in the country. Our entire mission is about empowering people through food. We absolutely have the resources to support an apple festival.”
“Really.” Marina’s voice is dripping with doubt. Her gaze shifts from me to the rest of the Ryser Cares team.
I keep my head high. “Really.” I reach for my wallet and pull out my business card. “Here’s my card. Let me know when you want to set up a meeting. I’m looking forward to collaborating.”
My genial Business Partner smile seems to catch her off guard. Marina slowly takes the card, stares at it, tucks it into her purse. “O…kay.” With one last wary glance at me, she turns for the exit.
When the door swings shut with her departure, I’m acutely aware of four questioning pairs of eyes on me.
“How are we supposed to throw a festival?” Tessa asks.
“We’ll figure it out.”
They keep staring, but I turn to look out the window, watching Marina get into her car, feeling like I’ve won a chess match.
I still need to get my colleagues on board, and there’s the small matter of figuring out how one throws a festival, but I’ll find a way. The way I’m feeling right now, anything is possible.