We Are Us

Chapter 19 Worthington University

Spring Semester, Freshman Year

“Hi, I have a—”

The upperclassman sitting at the reception desk of the Student Services office taps the clipboard facing me on her desk. “Sign in right there and someone will be with you in a minute.”

“Great.” I pick up the pencil attached to the metal clasp by a rubber band and write my name. “Thanks.”

I’m early. My appointment with the Dean of Student Affairs isn’t for another ten minutes, so I find a seat and pull a textbook out of my bag.

I received an email with the findings of Joha

I don’t know where I’m going to find a spare thirty hours this semester, but I want to get it over with. Once freshman year is behind me, I don’t want to think about that night, or Tucker Stockton, ever again.

“Poppy Whitman?” A gray-haired, African-American man in khakis and a tweed sport coat rests his elbow on the front desk and scans the students slumped around the room in various poses.

“That’s me,” I say, picking up my backpack and slinging it over my shoulder.

“Come on back.” He holds open the door to a hallway. I walk through it, but he doesn’t let it close behind me. “We’re just waiting on one more.”

The hair at the back of my neck rises, my heartbeat suddenly accelerating. No.

I don’t need to hear the dean say it, I already know who will be joining us.

“Tucker.” He elongates the word so that it sounds like there are three r’s on the end, not just one, then follows it up with a combination shoulder clap and squeeze, just in case I was in any doubt about the relationship between them. “Good to see you again, son.”

Tucker Stockton, the dark-haired golden boy of Worth U. Barf.

According to Wren, because beer was present in Tucker’s room, he’s been assigned ten hours of community service and one alcohol education class.

“Hey, Dean Johnson.” The hallway is narrow, and I have to make a distinct effort not to shrink away from Tucker. This is the first time I’ve seen him since last semester.

The dean’s office is bigger than Joha

“I don’t always see students together, but after reading your intake forms I thought it would make the most sense.”

My tongue is the consistency of cardboard. “Intake forms?”

“The questio

“Oh, right. Sure. Sorry.” I’d forgotten about the survey I received, asking about my interests and skills. My palms are sweating and my breath is too fast, too shallow. I dare a glance at Tucker. He is perfectly at ease, wearing jeans and a Henley, one foot crossed over his knee.

“Now, Poppy, you were a camp counselor, is that correct?”

I nod. “And Tucker, you coached a boys lacrosse team, right?”

“Just a clinic. It was part of an—”

Dean Johnson beams. “Clinic, right. The point is, you’ve both worked with kids. And, it just so happens I’ve found a perfect opportunity to fulfill your community service hours. Since you’ll be working together, it made sense to go over the details together, too.”

Working. Together.

This can’t be happening.

But it is.

“As I’m sure you know, Worthington University prides itself on our community outreach. TeenCharter is a nonprofit that runs several group homes in our area. Their facilities support teenagers who, for whatever reason, ca

“Are these kids—”

“What kind of—”

Tucker and I both talk at once. He grins at me as if we’re sharing an inside joke.

I flinch, spi

We found evidence of sexual activity. A condom… inside your clothes. Does that sound about right to you?

We shared one night, one mistake. That’s all.

Focus on the kids, Poppy. “TeenCharter… they work with the Department of Children and Families?”

“Yes. Each of their homes can support eight to twelve teenagers, but they’re not large facilities, and the director thinks it would be helpful to bring them to the Worth U campus one afternoon every weekend. The kids…”

I listen to him explain the necessity for places like these, housing children who don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t admit that I know exactly what kind of homes they are, and the children who live there. I was once one of them.

“How can we help?” Tucker asks.

I listen carefully for any note of scorn in his voice, any indication that he intends to do only the bare minimum to fulfill his obligations. But I don’t find any. Tucker sounds intrigued, even enthusiastic.

“The specifics are up to you and Poppy. But the main problem, as I understand it, is—”

“Boredom,” I interject. “These kids attend school, but there’s no organized sports, playdates with friends, or even errands with their parents. They’re scared, and they feel abandoned.” TeenCharter didn’t manage the home Sadie and I were placed in, but the issues children face are universal.

Two pairs of eyes swing my way. Dean Johnson speaks first. “That’s exactly right. What I’d like you both to work on is setting up an ongoing outreach program, where interested Worthington students will spend time with the TeenCharter children one afternoon every weekend. You can organize games or crafts, anything to put smiles on their faces. Sound good?”

“Yes,” Tucker and I both agree.

Aside from actually working with Tucker, it sounds great.