Free Intentions by Deborah Heiligman

too something to be here. What is it? Too rich? Too white? Too Jewish? I tuck my Star of David necklace inside my shirt, zip up my jacket.
    I cross the street and walk back the way I came, even faster. It’s not that I don’t feel safe; it’s that I feel noticeable. I put my head down as I pass “Chica!” man, who has crossed to this side of the street with his beer can. But he is talking to a woman in a black leather jacket and stiletto boots and, thankfully, ignores me.
    I end up back at Union, staring at it. I know I should go in.Right now, so I’m not too late. But the building puts me off: the bricks are dirty, most are cracked, some are missing. Above the main door is graffiti that they’d tried to scrub off, but they didn’t completely succeed. I can only make out a few letters, but my mind fills in the rest: SCHOOL SUCKS .
    The place scares me. But how can I not go to the reading lab? I have to honor my commitment. I am not a self-centered hypocrite like some people I know. Also, if I don’t go in, what would I say to McKelvy? What excuse could I make?
    It is not a noble reason, for sure, that has me walking very slowly toward the front door.
    Two women are leaning against the building, talking. I watch them from the sidewalk; they don’t see me. One of them is nodding, the other shaking her head. An argument? An impromptu parent-teacher conference? But I obviously have the situation totally wrong, because all of a sudden they break into laughter. I stare at them, confused. They stop laughing and stare back at me.
    “Can I help you?” one of them shouts.
    I pick up my pace, relieved that my hand has been forced. I have to do the right thing. Even if it’s for the wrong reasons.
    “I’m here to volunteer in the reading lab.”
    I’m sure they’re going to give me the business, but then they smile. One says, “OK, dear, go inside and tell them at the office. They’ll get you to the right place.”
    “Thank you,” I say.
    I press the buzzer, and someone says, “Yes?”
    “I’m here to volunteer in the reading lab.”
    The door buzzes, then clicks, and I open it up. I walk into the lobby, which is cheerfully decorated with splatter paintings onthe walls. I head toward the office, straight down the hall. Two little girls come skipping toward me holding hands, singing.
    “Hi, Mrs. Oberdorfer!” they shout to a teacher.
    “Hi, munchkins!” she says. “Please walk.”
    The three office ladies are sitting at their desks working and do not look up. I clear my throat.
    “You the girl from the high school?” asks one of them, getting up.
    I nod.
    “Sign in here, then you should hurry downstairs. The period has started already. Go down the stairs, turn right, and go to the end of the hall. You’ll see Mrs. Glick’s haven.”
    “She calls it her ‘haven in Hades’ because it’s in the basement,” one of the others says.
    As I walk down the stairs and through the hall, I see why they call it Hades. It is dark and dismal down here.
    But when I get to the reading lab, it is full of light. There are lamps all over the room: a floor lamp shaped like a rocket ship, another like a big crayon, a third, bright pink one; there are Winnie the Pooh, Cat in the Hat, and Mickey Mouse desk lamps on brightly colored tables. There’s a pirate wall light, and a pink Cinderella clock with pink bulbs circling it.
    All over the walls are posters about reading. Basketball stars reading with kids, kids reading to dogs, an alligator with glasses reading to other alligators.
    There are tables and chairs but also beanbag chairs on the floor: one shaped like a lion, one like a car, the rest big colorful blobs.
    No one notices me. All over the room are pairs of kids andadults reading, some at the tables, the rest on the floor. Most are women, though there is one older man. The adults are Hispanic, black, white. One of the women has two kids with her, a boy and a girl, and for some reason I know it’s Mrs. Glick, the