Amber

Chapter 21

October 29, 2014

Dear Journal,

Today Brad and I went to the local food pantry to help out. We went after school with Mrs. Swanson and a few other student volunteers. I've gotten to know her pretty well lately. Whenever Brad brings in canned goods, I help him sort through them (arranged by expiration date, in case you were wondering). And then we talk to Mrs. Swanson about all of the volunteer work she does around the community, and she'll casually mention how there's always a need for more volunteers who have the time and a big enough heart. So finally we felt guilty and said we had available time and adequate-enough-sized hearts and would love to volunteer. So she arranged a day for us to stock shelves at the food pantry.

She was excited. Entirely too excited, I'd say. She's always kind of that way though. A constant stream of smiling. Somewhere underneath all of that is sadness though. I can tell sometimes by the way she talks to students as if they are filling a void in her life. She's always asking how we are doing and what's new, and it makes me think that the people in the library are the closest thing she has to a family. I'd ask her about it if I didn't think there was a chance she'd implode from misery.

There were six of us in total, cramming inside Mrs. Swanson's SUV and frantically searching the vehicle for any signs of a family or life that involves anything more exciting than helping the needy on a daily basis. (Nutritionally needy, that is.) The only clue I found was a clump of dark hair, clearly not hers, tangled under one of the seats. Brad said it probably belongs to her cat.

The food pantry isn't actually a pantry at all. It's more like a one-level office building that's been converted to what amounts to a small grocery store. There's a large section with all of the food laid out in aisles where people came through with carts and took what they needed. (I tried to talk Brad into pushing around one of the carts with a squeaky wheel, but he just looked at me like I was a crazy person.) There's another room with people sitting at desks, some looking busy, but most were smiling at us as we came in and out of the large stock room, unloading crates of food from cars in the parking lot and wheeling them inside to unpack and arrange them on shelves.

It was tough work but also fun! I felt like I was doing my part. (Whatever that means.) It honestly did feel cool to do something like that. Something that, like, helps others and doesn't benefit me at all. Although, I guess if Brad wasn't there, I probably wouldn't have gone. Is that bad? Is doing something good but for the wrong reasons worse than not doing something good at all? Is it selfish to do something for others if you enjoy doing it? Am I using volunteer work as a way to appear to be a good person in front of Brad? Holy crap, that sounds pathetic!

It doesn't matter, I guess. I'm not a saint, but I'm not a bad person. I mean, God, it's not like I'm out sleeping around with guys and getting pregnant and having abortions and spitting on homeless people and pushing the elderly in front of traffic ...

I'm just doing something nice. So what if I get to smell Brad's new facial lotion in the process? (It's to die for, by the way. Some sort of, like, evergreen, tree bark, and nutmeg smell. He's a freaking Christmas tree! Glorious. It's how God's aftershave would smell before going out with Mrs. God.)

I kind of wanted to disappear on the ride back to school because Brad was sitting next to me smelling like God, and sweat was making my shirt stick to me all over. Also my hair was a disaster. I probably smelled horrible—the combination of cardboard, aluminum, and the body odor of a teenage girl who just spent more physical exertion than the previous ten weeks combined. I guess it was only a matter of time before Brad saw me in my not-so-great state, but I was hoping it was maybe after we reached boyfriend-girlfriend status.

Speaking of which, I don't know how that's going to happen. Aside from going ahead and updating my Facebook status to: in a relationship with Bradley, whose friends call him Brad, Fuller—I don't know the best way to bring it up.

He obviously likes me. He's already planned our next date. (This Friday night. Movie in the park. Basically this thing where people come once a month to this big open area where there's, like, a garden and everyone sits on blankets, and there's a screen and a projector. It's set up by the city, and the library has volunteers organize it. Each month has a different theme, and this month is horror. But they don't tell you which movie it is until it starts playing.) But I don't want us to fall victim to the dreaded FRIEND ZONE. I'm not sure how many dates it would take for us to have missed our chance at a relationship. Is that how it works? Do you get three tries like in baseball? If we keep holding hands does that extend it to a fourth date? If you hold someone's hand tight enough do you keep them from falling into the friend zone?

Obviously I'm joking, journal. I'm not an idiot! But I'm also sort of serious. I almost wish I was the guy because then I could take charge of everything and just kiss him already. And I'd tell him that means we're a couple now and if he wants to get out of it, he'll have to kill one of us or clone himself—preferably the first because even his clone probably doesn't smell the same.

I wonder if Mrs. Swanson suspected something. I wonder if she knew I was the imposter among the group, the one whose heart is actually on the smaller side of the scale of goodness. Sometimes in the library, her eyes will dance from Brad to me, as if she's deciding if she should spill the beans and tell him that he can obviously do much better. Or maybe she feels sorry for me. Like all of the people she helps by volunteering. Maybe she knows from experience what is going to happen. That he's going to shatter me and leave my heart homeless. Then one day people will search my car for signs of a family or something significant, and all they'll find are clumps of cat hair. It's not like she knows something that I don't. Hannah already explained how it works. If I know I'm going to be shattered and still want to be with Brad, then that means I love him.

I do love him.

It looks weird when I write it. It's so small. How can it feel so heavy?

Shatter away, Brad. Do your worst.