Page 9 of The Delivery

“What’s up, Doc?” says the girl and steps out of the cage of Mozey’s arms. Her eyebrows have a high arch; she’s wearing bright red lipstick. I note that none of it is on his face.

“I was heading to the bathroom. He was filling me in on his project,” she says, winking at him, her eyes going right to his crotch. “I’d say he’s a team asset.”

For some reason I’m the one dying of embarrassment.

“Fine. Go,” I say, waving her off.

Mozey watches her ass as she sways her hips and slowly saunters away down the hall.

I can’t believe I fell for his act. He’s a disgusting man, just like all the rest. He comes on to anyone with a vagina. And I fell for it. On the inside, I’m still the little kid with no friends. I want everyone to like me.

“Hey, Lana,” he says, eyeing me up and down suggestively.

“Mr. Cruz there is no fraternizing on our property. What you do on your own time is none of my business. However, fraternizing during open hours will get you kicked out of the program. Consider that your first and last warning. Please don’t waste my time or make me regret that I chose you.”

Mozey leans back against the lockers and crosses his arms.

“You don’t want me touching other women.”

It’s a statement. He delivers it with complete seriousness. I’m frozen and momentarily delirious. Did he just say “other women”?

“No touching, no kissing, no canoodling, not even hand holding. Hugs are okay, as long as they’re appropriate and warranted.” I rattle off rules like a robot. I am a robot. I don’t have feelings anymore.

His face curves seductively to reveal his sweet smile. He takes one step toward me and envelopes me in a huge, warm hug. My body tenses. I wasn’t expecting a hug, and I’m taken so off guard. I haven’t been hugged in a long time and his is so friendly; it warms me from the inside out. But, I’m made of hard clay, or maybe of stone, anything that would require a hammer and chisel for molding. Crack, bang. A few percussion chips fall away and smash on the floor.

I step backward out of his hug, my arms clenched at my sides. He smells of cedar and musk with a hint of turpentine.

“Funny, Mr. Cruz. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to court.”

I’m spinning inside, a gyroscope caught around my heart.

“Do you oil paint, too or is that-? Never mind. I’m late. Get to your creative space or get lost. The hug doesn’t get you off. I’m still writing you up.”

“Maybe I wasn’t trying to get off.”

His innuendo is clear.

“Can it, Cruz. I’m late,” I say as my heels clack down the hall, and I refuse to look back.

CHAPTER 5

Mozey’s hug follows me around all day long like a big, friendly, stray dog that’s impossible to shake off. I keep returning to the feel of his arms around me and beat myself up for being too pissed off in the moment to even have savored it. Jarel Hopkins loses his case and gets twenty to life. I hug him on the way out of the courtroom because no one else showed up to support him. He thanks me for Pathways and all the skills he learned. I sign him up for our mailing list so he can still feel connected to something on the outside while he counts away the years in prison. Sometimes there is success to be measured even in the failures.

I get a falafel sandwich from a food truck outside the courthouse and sit on a bench in the sun while I eat. I call my dad to tell him I received the summons and I’ll be there in February for the hearing. He tells me my mom has been taking in tailoring and he’s been delivering papers and this month they might be able to swing at least half of the mortgage.

I hang up depressed, wishing I could magically whisk away all of their financial troubles. The kids in our program are no strangers to poverty, at least now I can relate to them on a fundamental level. I, of course, won’t turn to crime, but I can see how feelings of desperation can turn into desperate measures. I lick a drop of hummus off my finger and stare at the sun.

I fanaticize about what I would do to Mozey Cruz if he weren’t a client. I wouldn’t even have to fuck him; I could just smell him and hold him and endlessly make-out with him. I don’t harbor any fantasies about being the dominant one and deflowering the young stud. I’m sure Mozey’s no virgin. I’m just dying to touch him. And what almost unnerves me more, I’m dying to know him, to understand how he runs.

I hop off the bench, feeling a little buzz just from thinking about him. I blast the car radio on the way back to Pathways and sing my heart out to pop songs even though I can’t usually stand a single one of them.

I go from Tuesday to Friday without a spotting of Mozey. That’s not to say I’m not thinking about him or I’m immune to the buzz of what he’s been doing. It appears I’m not the only idiot who finds him attractive.

Jennifer has been forced to terminate two female candidates for inappropriate behavior. Apparently they were upping the ante from exposure all the way to lewd acts trying to win his attention. Jennifer swears Mozey behaved in accordance with the rules, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s biased toward him—letting him get away with murder.

Either for his looks or his talent, Mozey has been gaining attention. A reporter for a prestigious magazine doing a piece on Chicano art in LA came to interview him. He’ll be in the magazine as well as featured in a spot for TV. A little part of me is jealous, and I feel like he’s escaping, like he no longer needs me. The little part I should probably refer to as “the selfish jerk.” I want him to succeed; I really, really do. I guess I also want him to crush back on me like I’m crushing on him. Or erase the all the years and the professional distance between us. I would love to actually hold him instead of holding onto invading sexual fantasies of him that are distracting me from my work.

Jennifer came to see me after his interview. She knocked timidly on my already open door and skirted in sideways like a nervous crab.

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