Page 6 of The Delivery

He leans forward ever so slightly as if insisting I sit first. I return the gesture, trying to retain some amount of control. He cracks a smile and leans forward, again insisting. I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. We are suddenly like awkward Americans at their first Japanese business meeting, answering every unknown with a timid greeting bow.

“Sit,” I say too loudly, forcefully breaking our mutual spell.

We sit simultaneously. Mozey plops with confidence, relaxation gaining easy control of his face. I tuck my skirt under like a sweaty, nervous secretary, as if our roles were reversed and he was here to interview me.

“I came to sign the papers. I want to stay.”

“You can do that. It’s fine. But you do always have to follow the rules. It’s the only way this program works. And it’s the only way to stay in it,” I add. I want to stress just how important procedure is to him. Without it we fall apart.

He nods again and adjusts his beanie a little bit farther back on his head, using both of his hands. The rings. They flicker and wink at me against his warm brown skin. He brings one hand down and rubs his chin, massaging the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He leans forward and his legs spread into a wide V, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Got it,” he says and licks his white teeth.

I feel the lick in all the places I shouldn’t be feeling it. I feel the goddamn lick all the way down to my feet. I want to lick those teeth.

“Did you see the mural sketch we did yesterday?” his eyes light up and shine bright at the mention of it.

“Oh my God, it was good! Hands down. The best work I’ve ever seen.” I don’t mean to be so forward, but it’s hard for me not to gush. His talent alone is gushworthy. “I’m serious. Even the sketch could hang in a gallery.”

He grins at my comment and looks sweetly sheepish. He offers nothing to qualify it. Only a grin and silence. He’s looking at me like a man looks at a woman. Not like a juvie kid looks at their court appointed social worker. I want to blush under his gaze. But I’m too seasoned for that. I won’t be seduced away from my mission.

“Have you always been an artist? Are you at all trained or just naturally talented?”

“I always had my drawings. Kept me sane when other shit wasn’t.”

His mention of his past yanks me into the present. I’ve got a job to do here, and I really want him to succeed. I’ve got to give him the skills and the confidence to make it in society once he walks out these doors. I know I’m good at it. He needs my help, and I’m more than willing to work to see him through this. Despite his good looks there are some boundaries I would never cross. I need to get myself a friend with benefits to work off all of this sexual tension.

“I got your note, so I filled out the forms myself. All I need is your signature.” I rummage through my desk and then pass him the clipboard.

He flips the pen around in his hand before he signs. He’s a show-off, this guy, always trying to impress. His signature is stylized, and he puts a cross after Robles instead of writing “Cruz.”

“Is that your legal signature?”

“Yes, ma’am, afraid so.”

Oh, so today he’s answering my questions. When opportunity knocks…

“Do you have any support system? Any family you’re in touch with?”

“I have some friends. I don’t know where my ma is at right now. I know I got some family in Mexico, but I ain’t in touch with them.”

“We offer group therapy here twice a week. It’s a really great opportunity. We also have a sponsor program, so if you’d like, we can set you up with one.”

He pulls off his beanie and his shiny, black hair falls to his shoulders.

“Who are they?”

“Who’s who?” I ask and realize I’m chewing on my pencil’s eraser. I throw the pencil down like it’s an affront to my authority.

“Sponsors,” he says, running his hand back across his head gathering it up with his thumb and forefinger. He pulls it into a ponytail and then twists it into a knot, securing it with a black elastic he pulls from his wrist.

“You can do that better than I can.”

He raises a brow looking quizzical.

“I’ve never been a hair person,” I say, self- consciously. “I’ve had the same cut since I was twelve. My mom always did it. Probably went out of style a long time ago. I wouldn’t even know.” I’m rambling. Likely blushing and definitely sweating in my shirt. Rein in the schoolgirl, Lana, his mental health and his success are important to you. He doesn’t care about your hair.

“All the sponsors are employees, we don’t take outside volunteers. It would be someone you’d get a chance to get to know well, someone you could spend time with.”

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