I beamed at his praise. “The only thing I enjoy more than making goals is crushing them.”
He blinked and cleared his throat. “Miss McKenzie—”
“Please, call me Molly.”
“Molly, there are a few standard questions we like to ask our volunteer candidates in person, but first I’d like to go over a few of your responses—for clarification purposes.”
Were there any questions left to ask outside of blood type and the color of my favorite pajamas? “Of course. I’m happy to answer anything.”
“On question seven, under ‘Please describe your relationship with alcohol’, you wrote, quote: ‘I enjoy the occasional glass of red wine but refrain from drinking cocktails (with the exception of New Year’s Eve).’ End quote.” He glanced up, his expression unreadable.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m a red wine girl. Hard alcohol isn’t really for me.”
“Unless it’s New Year’s Eve,” he repeated dryly.
I smiled, sensing he was trying to make a joke, though I wasn’t quite sure what it was. “I can assure you, I haven’t taken a Jell-O shot since college, and I’ve never danced on tables for money.”
“While that is reassuring,” he cleared his throat again, “our residents sign an alcohol-free statement as part of their contract to live on campus. They agree to ten such guidelines in total, but our policy for alcohol consumption while participating in the program is zero tolerance. The statistics for substance dependence in our residents is higher than most—one out of every two young adults here—so it’s important for our staff and volunteers to uphold the same expectations we ask of our residents.”
“So,” I began, drawing a line through the dots he hadn’t explicitly connected. “I would also need to sign an alcohol-free statement? In order to volunteer?” Miles had definitely left that little detail out of our phone conversation last night.
“Would that be an issue for you?”
Was that a trick question? If I answered yes, would he automatically put me in the same category as an addict? But then again, if I said no, would it really mean zero glasses of wine for an entire summer? I straightened my spine, unwilling to let him in on my mental flailing. “Of course not. It’s not like I’m in the habit of drinking a bottle of wine each night before bed.”
He stared, unblinking.
“I’m kidding.”
“Forgive me if I don’t find alcohol abuse a humorous topic.”
Was anything a humorous topic for this guy? I was beginning to think I’d completely imagined his infectious smile during the team-building session outside. “Fair enough. Point taken.”
He reviewed my application for several more seconds, his finger dragging lower and lower down the page until he flipped it over and scanned the next one. “Ah, yes. I was curious about your check mark on the bilingual box. We represent many cultures and languages here at The Bridge, but you didn’t specify which languages you speak.”
Had I checked that box? My eyes must have been crossed from all the heavy reading and essay writing. Yet something told me that if I admitted such a mistake now, I’d have no more strikes left with Mr. No Humor. I wracked my brain, searching for any possible half-truth I could offer in reply. Even a crumb. And then I had it.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m bilingual.” For the number of times I’d been made to listen to my college roommate—a music major with a minor in Italian opera studies—practice La Bohème and Tosca in our shoebox of a dorm room, I could have been her understudy. “I learned Italian in college.”
“Italian?” He looked up from the application, his expression unmasked for the first time. I’d wowed him. Finally!
“Yes.”
“Well, that is unique. Most volunteers who check the bilingual box usually have two or three semesters of Spanish or French under their belt.” He did not sound impressed by those volunteers whatsoever. “But Italian is a first for us. Did you spend time in Italy?”
“I haven’t yet, no, but it’s a dream of mine to go someday.” Now, that was the honest truth. “I’ve always wanted to taste their local wi—” I caught myself before finishing the forbidden word while in his presence—“mozzarella and fresh baked bread. I hear the food is out of this world.”
“Traveling abroad takes language study to the next level. Conversing with people in their native tongue is a powerful way to connect. I highly recommend it.”
I smiled but kept my mouth shut. The flare of passion in his voice, in his brown-sugar eyes, made me want to know more about his experience in this area. Where had he traveled? What languages did he speak?
He closed the folder and sat back in his chair, his overall demeanor seeming to have warmed by at least half a degree.
“So why do you want to volunteer at The Bridge, Molly?”
For a man who seemed smitten by an application form I was quite certain he’d authored himself, this was about the most anticlimactic ending to an interview I could have imagined, seeing as I’d answered that particular question in written form at least six times in six different ways. I tamped down my internal frustration, remembering that I was a professional, a businesswoman with a goal. “Because I care about my community and the needs of the kids who live in it.” There. Simple, sweet, and to the point.
“And what needs do you believe you can help with . . . specifically?”
Specifically? “Well.” I smiled. “I think we’ve already established that when in a pinch, I can easily double as a human target.” I chuckled, but he did not. Fine. If he wanted serious, then I’d give him serious. “Mr. Whittaker, I built a self-made business from the ground up—first by researching how to upload tutorials to YouTube while filming some daily makeup, hair, and fashion tips from the kitchen pantry of my first apartment. Nobody knew my name or my face and nobody cared a lick about what I thought I could teach women in the beauty arena. My first few videos were only viewed by my friends and some family members. But little by little, I grew a following who shared those videos and commented with their encouragement for me to continue. My first sponsor—a protein bar catering to women’s health—found me ten months and a hundred and fifteen videos in. Their partnership provided me better camera and editing equipment, and about seventy-five percent of my daily sustenance, too. I now have a hundred and twenty-four companies who have partnered with my brand and my vision to bring a new level of honesty to the beauty industry worldwide, and with over half a million followers who engage in my weekly videos and livestreams, that number continues to grow daily, as do the products and retailers I endorse. So . . . what I have to offer your residents is a lesson in grit and determination.”
If Mr. Whittaker was impressed by any of that, he certainly did not show it. Instead, he leaned forward in his chair and released an exhale that had me itching to pull out my phone and tap into my Instagram account to prove I hadn’t exaggerated a single word of it.
But something told me it wouldn’t matter.
“You want to teach . . . grit?”
“Well, yes, and—”
He gave the tiniest shake of his head and sighed. “Miss McKenzie—Molly,” he corrected. “While I can appreciate your ambition and marketing abilities, I’m afraid that grit is not a quality our residents lack. Grit is how most of them survived their childhood. Grit is the common denominator for every child who’s ever lived through trauma. It’s kept them breathing in times most people would wish themselves dead. And it’s also kept many of them from experiencing deep and meaningful relationships, because the same instinct that tells them to push away potential failure and hurt has become the only instinct they know how to trust. The youth in our program don’t need more grit. They need more grace—to be seen, heard, known. To be real.”