Free The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine by April Lurie Page B

new
me
.”
             
    The reason I chose to do community service at the YMCA instead of the dog pound or the homeless shelter or the local church is because I figured I could shoot hoops in the gym during my free time—stay on top of my game for the AAU finals this weekend. But when I show up for work and meet my new boss, Mr. Pickler, my hopes go down the drain; and after two minutes in his office I decide that smelly dogs, winos, even nuns on a mission to save me from the pit of hell would be welcome company compared to this guy.
    “Dylan, you
do
realize it’s a privilege to be here, correct?” Mr. Pickler says. He’s sitting at his desk, tapping a pencil and shuffling through my paperwork.
    I’m in a chair across from him, trying to appear penitent. It’s not easy. “Um…yes, sir, I suppose I do.” On the wall behind him is a cheesy piece of art—a Thomas Kinkade print entitled
Mountain Paradise
—which speaks volumes about Pickler’s lack of taste and artistic appreciation. I can’t help it; I make a face.
    “Is there a problem, Mr. Fontaine?”
    “No, sir.”
    He lowers his bifocals and narrows his eyes, letting me know just how much he despises wiseass teenagers. “Well, in that case, I don’t have to explain that you are here to
work
and not to goof off. The facilities are for our members and their guests
only.
Understood?”
    Just like I thought. There goes hoop practice. “Yes, sir, I understand.”
    “Very well then, about your responsibilities…”
    I keep my eye on the clock while he lectures me for an hour or so about the importance of punctuality, respectfulness, and performing my duties within a reasonable time frame. By the end, I wonder if this guy actually does any work himself.
    “Um, Mr. Pickler?” I say. We’re in the hallway now, and he’s rummaging through a closet of cleaning supplies.
    “Yes, Dylan? Ah, there it is.” He turns around and hands me a scrub brush and a bottle of bleach.
    “I was wondering, does the time we spent, you know,
talking
count toward the twenty hours?”
    He arches an eyebrow. “
That,
Dylan, will be decided at the end of the day. Right now the bathrooms are waiting. I’ll be inspecting your work shortly, and when you’re finished, both gyms need to be swept.” He pauses for a moment, eyeing the bleach. “I, uh, trust you will not be
sniffing
anything on the job?”
    At first I don’t realize what he’s talking about, and then it dawns on me: Pickler thinks I might inhale the cleaning supplies to get high. Unbelievable. Even Headbone and Moser are not
that
hard-core. I shake my head. “Oh, no, Mr. Pickler, you’ve got it all wrong. Besides, I’m not here on drug charges.”
    “Oh?”
    “You mean they didn’t tell you why I got arrested?”
    He shakes his head. “No, the staff here is never informed as to why someone is doing community service. Unless, of course, they’re a sex offender.”
    “Oh…right.”
    As I’m digesting this piece of information and thinking that I’d better stay away from any strange-looking dudes in the men’s locker room, Pickler gives me a meaningful look. “You see, Dylan, since part of my job is to encourage the rehabilitation of our workers, I try to spend quality time with them. In most cases they open up, talk about their problems, and I find that the majority of boys your age are here on substance abuse charges.”
    He watches me for a while, and I begin to realize that Pickler is very interested in the particulars of my crime. In fact, he’s downright nosy. Since the last thing I want is a heart-to-heart with this guy, I decide to give him an excellent reason to stay away. “Well,” I say, “it’s a little embarrassing, sir, but I’m here because I stole underwear.”
    His eyes widen.
    “A certain
kind,
if you know what I mean.” Notice, I didn’t lie.
    He stands there, blinking. “Well, Dylan, that
is
rather…unusual.”
    “Yes, sir, I know.”
    He takes a step back. “I,