Chapter 11 Most Philanthropic
MOST PHILANTHROPIC
“I’m so happy you’re able to come today,” Mrs. O’Riley, the director of MASE, says when I show up Saturday afternoon.
She’s a middle-aged woman with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun that is in stark contrast to her warm smile.
“It’s hard to get people to commit their Saturdays to being tucked away in a kitchen dishing up food for people they’ll never meet. ”
“I’m just happy the timing worked out.”
Since cross country meets are so early in the morning, it wasn’t too difficult to make it here for the lunch shift. The only hardship is that I didn’t have time for a shower. I put on some fresh deodorant, changed my clothes, and hope that I don’t smell too bad.
Mrs. O’Riley doesn’t notice or doesn't care because she starts right into a spiel about MASE and the work they do here.
“You and another volunteer are packing meals to be delivered this afternoon. How about I give you the tour while we wait?” Mrs. O’Riley says and leads me through the rest of the facility.
Many of the rooms are administrative offices and supply closets. We walk past them without fanfare until we get to the kitchen. It’s deep inside the building and is a cramped room with a buffet line of warm food and limited counter space.
Mrs. O’Riley lifts a lid to one of the chafing dishes. Steam comes billowing out. “We have chicken and dumplings in these.”
I nod.
She points to some industrial size cans on a shelf. “Peaches in those. There’s a can opener somewhere.”
“Okay.”
She walks over to a rack and rests her hand on it. “Cornbread’s on this, and pads of butter are in the fridge.”
I add each one to a mental checklist. “Got it.”
“You’ll need to put a hairnet on and wash your hands before you start assembling meals.” Mrs. O’Riley says. “I’m going to go back to the front and see if the other volunteer is here yet. But once you’re done getting washed up, you can grab some containers and serving spoons.”
She walks out quickly and leaves me with the echo of her instructions.
Hairnet first. I pull the tangle of string out of a box on the counter and put it over my head.
There aren’t any mirrors in here, so I try to use the glare coming off the plastic sneeze guards to see what I look like.
It's hard to see, but I know it’s not glamorous between that and the junky shirt and jeans I’m wearing.
If I’d known the other volunteer was going to be late, I would have taken the extra couple of minutes to shower. Next time, I’ll know better.
After washing my hands, I start rummaging through drawers for serving spoons. They’re mismatched and different sizes, and I wonder which I’m supposed to use when Mrs. O’Riley returns with this morning’s volunteer right behind her.
Connor.
Deep down, I knew it was going to be him.
When I told him not to volunteer for MASE at the thrift store, it was a challenge.
That was enough to solidify his spot here.
Still, my heart jumps a little when I see him standing on the other side of the small table.
He doesn’t meet my eyes as Mrs. O’Riley introduces us.
“Ella, this is Connor. Connor, this is Ella. You’ll be working together this morning.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“We actually already know each other,” I say, breaking it. I twist the serving spoon in my hands.
Connor still doesn’t look at me. His eyes stayed glued to Mrs. O’Riley. The middle-aged woman’s eyes narrow as she looks back and forth between Connor and me. I can practically see the gears working in her brain as she tries to puzzle out if we’re mere acquaintances or something more.
“We’re not dating,” I blurt out.
He raises his brows at me but neither confirms nor denies our relationship status.
Mrs. O’Riley sighs. “Just so you know, we do have cameras in every room of the building. We can see what’s going on at any time. So, please stay focused on the task in front of you.”
My face burns with the implication that something romantic will happen when Mrs. O’Riley leaves the room.
Other than one moment of vulnerability at Hardy’s party a couple of weeks ago—that I’m starting to wonder if I imagined—there’s nothing behind Connor’s hard facade. He’s the same jerk he’s always been.
He stands there casually, hands in his pockets, as he looks up at the ceiling. I wonder if there really are cameras up there. Obviously, we won’t be making out, but the jury is still out on whether or not he might try to kill me.
Mrs. O’Riley grabs a giant sleeve of styrofoam containers. “Fill each of these with an eight ounce portion of dumplings, a four ounce serving of peaches, one piece of cornbread, butter, and plasticware. We have three hundred orders to deliver today. Do as many as you can.”
Without any further instructions, she leaves us to work.
I stare at the work area, purposefully trying to avoid Connor, but the space isn't big. His body is just there, and huge, and in the way. When I finally look in his direction, he’s staring at me.
“What?” I ask cautiously.
“Your hair is sticking out. It’s unhygienic."
“Okay.” I tuck the offending strands back under my hairnet. “Do you know which serving spoons are which?” I ask, holding them up.
“Do I look like a lunch lady, Adams?”
The harshness of his voice feels like a slap to the face.
The next few hours with Connor are going to drag on.
Wasting precious time trying to decipher which spoon is which will only force me to spend more time with him.
I decide I don’t care if I’m using the right size spoon.
If the director was really concerned about it, she would have told us which was which.
I grab a few indiscriminately while watching Connor in my peripheral.
He stretches a hairnet over his hair and starts setting up his work station.
He opens several cans of peaches, dumps them in a metal bowl as big as a swimming pool, and puts it in the middle of the buffet.
Connor and I stand on opposite ends of the serving area and work in silence.
The sound of metal spoons bumping against stainless steel dishes and styrofoam containers closing fills the room.
The noises settle under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch, but I try to focus on the work in front of me.
I’m careful to keep everything nice and neat in its own compartment.
When I accidentally drip some liquid from the chicken and dumplings on the side of the container, I use a nearby cloth to wipe it clean.
I’m focused on my task, feeling good about my progress when I look up and see Connor’s stack of meals.
He has about four more boxes on his side.
I take note of that and keep working. I move a little faster as I fill the next two boxes, but when I look over to see Connor’s progress, he’s now got five more boxes than me.
How is it possible that I’m moving faster and I’m still not able to catch up?
Does he have to be so good at everything?
Then I get a better look at one of his boxes.
There’s a little bit of peach juice spilling out from the side.
It’s dripping onto the box below it. He’s faster but lacks quality.
A puff of indignation rises in me. Of course, it’s easier to go faster when you don’t care about appearance.
I’m careful to keep each serving clean and tidy. That is, until I realize that if Connor finishes more boxes, he wins at one more thing. I can’t let that happen.
All conviction flies out the window as I fill the next box, a little food spills into the compartment next to it. I leave it. When a piece of cornbread crumbles in my hand for the next, I don’t bother getting a different one.
Soon, I’m matching speed with Connor. My box count is getting closer to his, and I feel good about it until he picks up the pace. I move faster. So does he. We’re slinging food into our boxes, not caring about the mess on the table. Our box count looks pretty close.
Then the peaches run out.
We both stare at the empty container of fruit, then at each other.
“Go get more peaches,” he says.
I cross my arms across my chest. Connor has barely spoken to me the entire time we’ve been here, which is actually great, but the few things he’s said to me have been orders. We’re both volunteers on our first day. He’s not my boss. He doesn’t get to tell me what to do. “No.”
“I did the first few cans.”
I wave my hand in front of me. “Then you already have experience.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your turn.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Neither am I.”
“Whatever.” Connor shrugs and starts assembling boxes without any fruit in them.
Red hot anger courses through my body. “Stop it.”
He sets aside an unfinished box and starts working on the next one. “Stop what? Making food for the less fortunate?”
“Stop trying to get ahead of me.”
“Wait.” He laughs. “Is this another competition to you? You really need to chill out, Adams.”
“You’re working way too fast.” I shake my head. “I know you’re trying to beat me.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I wasn’t even paying attention to you?” He sets the spoon down on the counter and holds out his hands. “I’m trying to work hard for the elderly.”
“Stop trying to gaslight me.” I smack my hand against the counter. “And don’t act like you care about anyone but yourself. You’re only here because it looks good.”
His face is serious as he stares at me. His gaze is penetrating. “Isn’t that why you’re here? Because it looks good?”
I almost crumble beneath his scrutiny but force my chin up instead. “That’s not the only reason.”
“But it is the one you care about the most, and don’t bother pretending otherwise. I know you.” Connor starts scooping again.