Free Intentions by Deborah Heiligman Page B

was, I don’t know, six and a half.”
    “Why not?”
    “Oh, it’s a long story. He’s got—his home life is not so great.”
    “That’s an understatement,” says another voice.
    I hadn’t realized another adult was still in the room. She’s at a computer.
    “Rachel, this is Mrs. Washington. She’s the other reading teacher.”
    “Hi,” I say.
    “Thanks for working with Randy,” says Mrs. Washington.
    “So can you tell me a little about him, or is it secret?”
    “It’s not a secret, exactly,” Mrs. Glick says, “but I don’t think you need to know that much.”
    “OK,” I say. And then, because I do want to know, I try to sell myself. “My mom is a social worker. She works with foster kids and their families. I kind of know some stuff.”
    The two teachers exchange a look, but before they can answer me, I blurt out, “Is Randy Jewish?”
    “Randy? No, not that I know of,” Mrs. Glick says. “Why?”
    I feel my face get red. “He was wearing a T-shirt from a bar mitzvah.”
    “Goodwill,” says Mrs. Washington.
    “Actually, that was one of mine, from a family bar mitzvah. I keep a supply here. I gave it to Randy one day when he needed a change of clothes. So let me tell you how we work here.”
    Mrs. Glick takes me through the program. The kids who come to the reading lab have all been tested. They don’t have learning disabilities, but they either aren’t reading or are reading below grade level.
    “Kids without learning disabilities but with problems reading often get lost in the cracks. That’s why I started this program. Sometimes all it takes is a way to help them crack the code, speaking of cracks.”
    “ Speaking of …,” says Mrs. Washington.
    Mrs. Glick frowns.
    What? Crack?
    “Anyways,” says Mrs. Glick, “with certain kids it’s pairingvisual images with words; with others it’s helping them hear the sounds of the words. And with some it’s a mystery until it happens.”
    “Randy’s got no one at home who reads to him,” says Mrs. Washington.
    “Probably,” says Mrs. Glick, shooting Mrs. Washington a look. “So it might just be a matter of as much exposure to words as the school can give him. He knows his letters but can’t put them together as words. And then one day, we hope, it will click.”
    She shows me around the room, where the different levels of books are, how they are grouped by subject. There are report forms I’ll have to fill out each week.
    “It’s a real challenge,” Mrs. Glick says to me as we are saying good-bye. “But when it works, well, that feeling is so amazing—you could tie it up and give it to me as a present any day.”
    I nod. I don’t know what to say. I wish I could stay in her haven forever, doing good, repairing the world, not thinking about my own stuff.
    “Thanks,” I say to her.
    “No, thank you ,” she says.
    “Good-bye!” says Mrs. Washington. “Have a good weekend.”
    “I’m going to try,” I tell them.

CHAPTER 13
    BAREFOOT AND IN THE KITCHEN
    I have not heard from Jake since he left. He warned me, but still. Saturday I wait around for him to call or text. He’s coming home today. I’m not sure what time.
    So I wait. And I wait some more.
    And I could wait some more but
    a girl can make the move and
    this is not the old days and
    this girl is pretty desperate for some
    contact with a nice human being around her own age,
    preferably male, preferably Jake.
    “I’m going for a bike ride,” I yell to my parents.
    They both yell back, “Fine, be careful” at exactly the same time. For some reason that gives me hope.
    I pedal fast. It’s drizzling, but I don’t care. I look for hills, going out of my way so I can pump hard going up and glide fast going down, careful to avoid the slick fallen leaves. It feels good to work out. I’m so focused on moving that I don’t realize the rain has picked up until it starts pouring buckets. By the time I get to Jake’s house, Sir Walter is making not-happy-at-all