Nine
“Have you been helped yet?” I ask, slinging my backpack onto the floor behind the front desk.
The woman turns to me. “Is Mr. Rossi available?”
I yell over my shoulder for Dad, and the woman and I share an awkward silence. Her eyes slowly scan the hallway, with its shelves of antiques, and lands on the tuba upturned in the living room. She makes a note on her clipboard.
Dad appears behind me, wiping his hands on a cloth.
“Mr. Rossi?” the woman says, extending a hand. “I’m Lana Augustine. We spoke on the phone last month. I’m Garrett’s liaison with Global Youth Ambassadors.”
Dad warily shakes her hand. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course. Just a routine walkthrough,” Lana says. “We try to get around to all our placements to check on how our students are doing.”
“Even when they’re halfway around the world?” I ask.
“We have an extensive network,” Lana says. “I’m based out of Green Bay, and I’m checking on our U.P. placements today.”
I wonder how many other students were placed in small Michigan towns. My guess is zero.
Dad’s eyebrows knit together. “You don’t give notice before stopping by?”
Lana shakes her head dismissively. “That would defeat the purpose of a walkthrough. The goal is to gain an understanding of an ordinary day at home for our placement. Don’t worry.
I’m just here for a quick check-in to ensure Garrett feels safe and comfortable.
It’s a program requirement that gives our students’ families peace of mind, knowing their children’s homes are monitored by a third-party professional.
So if it’s okay with you, could we do a quick tour of your lovely home? ”
Dad eyes her. He nods.
We walk her through the living room. The dining room.
The kitchen. She follows, jotting notes on her clipboard, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.
When we return to the front hall, Darryl Maki, IHS’s calculus teacher, has settled himself in his usual spot on our couch, browsing a set of Bee Gees albums.
We lead Lana upstairs, and she pauses in the hallway. “Has Garrett expressed any concern about the lack of privacy in your home?”
Dad has morphed into his silent-and-angry lumberjack mode, and his eyes darken at this question. “Nope.”
Lana’s pen scratches at her notepad. “And he doesn’t have to work for you, correct? He’s not being asked to do unpaid tasks for your family business?”
“Nope.”
Lana smiles. “Glad to hear that. I’ll just need to take a little peek in Garrett’s room, if that’s all right.”
“What about Garrett’s privacy?” I say.
“That only matters sometimes,” Dad deadpans, leading the way to the staircase to Garrett’s and my rooms.
Lana’s expression turns sour, and I worry that we’re pissing off the wrong person, but I also don’t care because something about this walkthrough feels off.
We reach the third-floor landing. From our position between the two rooms, it’s obvious that each is occupied by a very different type of teen guy: my room with its keyboard, organized sheet music, oboe; Garrett’s with piles of laundry, football jerseys, and the scent of a high school weight room.
“Not the tidiest, is he?” Lana says, peering through Garrett’s door. She turns to Dad. “How much supervision do the boys have up here?”
“They’re seventeen,” Dad says. “Enzo turns eighteen in a few weeks. I think they can handle having their own bedrooms.”
“Their own floor,” Lana corrects. “With a door that locks them away from the rest of the house.”
“For privacy,” Dad reminds her. “Because of the business downstairs.”
Lana opens her mouth to respond but pauses when we hear the familiar thud-thud-thud of Garrett climbing the stairs.
He reaches us and freezes, confusion flashing across his face.
His hair is still damp from his after-practice shower, a strand of it drooping over his forehead.
The smell of his bodywash fills the small space.
“Garrett!” Lana says, bright teeth winking at him. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m Lana from GYA. I’m checking up on how things are going for you this year.”
“It’s all good.”
“Do you feel connected in Irontown? Are things going well at school?” Lana’s pen hangs suspended over her clipboard, and I realize that this could be Garrett’s way out. He could tell her that he hates it here and that his placement sucks and he wants to fly back to Atlanta tomorrow.
This is his chance. He can get himself sent home. Maybe his parents wouldn’t listen to his plea, but if he told his GYA liaison that he felt uncomfortable in our home, that our family wasn’t treating him well, his flight would be booked by the end of the week.
His gaze lands on me, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.
I already know what he’ll do, and I can’t even blame him.
Our town is nothing compared to Atlanta.
Our school isn’t good enough, our football team isn’t good enough, and his friends here mean nothing next to the people he’s grown up with.
I think of the video call I overheard, how he described Irontown to his friends with casual derision, like he was trapped in a yearlong purgatory.
There is nothing for him in this town.
“Things are great,” Garrett says. “I’ve made some friends. I like school. The Rossis have been incredible. I’m lucky to be here.”
He’s no longer looking at me, but I wish he were, wish I had a clue what he’s feeling right now.
He just made the implicit decision to stay here, to continue living above an antique shop in a town he hates.
I thought I was beginning to understand him, but this choice reminds me that I don’t know the person living across the hall from me.
“I’m so glad to hear that, Garrett,” Lana says.
She scribbles on her clipboard, then moves to my room, and I feel as if I’m now under scrutiny.
She points at my pride flag with her pen. “Garrett, do you feel comfortable expressing your views and opinions here?”
Garrett’s eyes flick to the flag. “I don’t understand.”
“GYA strives to help our students learn about other cultures, but we don’t want our students to feel pressured into any political beliefs that misalign with their own values. I just want to ensure that no one here is forcing you to think or feel anything that goes against your own belief system.”
“Enzo’s pride flag doesn’t go against my beliefs. I don’t have a problem with gay people.”
“That’s nice,” Lana says, looking between the three of us. “Do politics ever come up in conversation here?”
I don’t know what to say, and I can tell Dad is done answering Lana’s questions. He leans against the wall, arms folded, glaring at her.
Garrett flashes his disarming grin. “Mr. Rossi likes to complain about the Irontown Chamber of Commerce a lot. But otherwise, no. We don’t talk about politics much.”
Lana watches him through her red-rimmed glasses, lips in a thin line.
Finally, she nods, jots one last note, then hands him a business card.
She steps back and smiles at us. “It was lovely meeting all of you. It seems like Garrett has found a fabulous placement for the year. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to contact me. ”
We troop down the stairs and into the hallway, and Lana clicks her way out the front door.
Garrett looks at Dad and me. “That was normal, right? GYA does that for everyone?”
Dad nods, but we all know it’s a lie. Because even if GYA checks up on each of their placements, Lana’s questions were not normal. It was as if she were looking for something in particular, trying to find a reason to send Garrett home.
That doesn’t make sense, I tell myself later while taking inventory of the women’s clothing room.
It must be GYA’s standard procedure. I’m just being paranoid.
I push Lana’s interrogation from my mind and instead dwell on Garrett’s responses.
When given the opportunity to get out of the situation, he chose Irontown, chose our family.
He chose to stay.