Writers on the Storm

By Christy Cauley

Until now, the most important thing in 14-year-old Cornelia Drake’s life was maintaining her rightful place just outside the most popular clique at Storm River High School. But when she is sentenced to community service for writing a racial slur against a Muslim teacher, Mrs. Hakim, Cornelia’s world comes crashing down. She is forced to join Mrs. Hakim’s writing club, Writers on the Storm, where Cornelia is introduced to a group of extraordinary people from all walks of life, including Admeta Vasquez, a classmate who makes no bones about despising Cornelia. When the two rivals become unlikely friends, they are thrown a curve ball when they discover that Mrs. Hakim has breast cancer and may not make it. Cornelia is forced to choose between her precious clique and her new found friends. She can take the easy road or stand and fight alongside the teacher she once despised.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christy Cauley
• Release date: Mar 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9780615458809

Christy Cauley

Christy Cauley, M.Ed., has a bachelor's in communications and a master's in education. She has been freelance writing since 1997. She writes articles, short stories, poetry and has been published in three books (other than her own). She was a movie reviewer for Westsider Magazine and Movie Mania. She was also a bi-weekly columnist of “Old Wives Tales” in the Harrison Press. Christy was the editor-in-chief and writer for Shock Value Music Magazine and continues to write freelance articles.

Book preview

Storm 714

Writers on the Storm

Christy Cauley

Copyright Christy J. Cauley 2011

Published by Shock Value Media at Smashwords

113,794 words

ISBN-13: 978-0-615-45880-9

www.ChristyCauley.com - [e-mail]

With gratitude to the most amazing husband a woman could ever ask for, Joseph Cauley. This book would not have been possible without you. My life would not have been possible without you. You are my everything.

Special thanks to my friend and editor, Robin Coronado, for all of your support, encouragement, and the hours of reading this book to help me make it the best it could be!

Thank you to my mother, Kathleen Cushing, for being an amazing woman and shattering that glass ceiling. And last but never least, thanks to our nephews, Jeremy, Jason and Justin for filling our house with love, laughter, fun, and . . . adventure!

Dedicated to the loving memory of our children, Gwendolyn and Gabriel Cauley (www.GwenAndGabe.com).

Chapter 1

Cornelia

Fourteen-year-old Cornelia Drake was sitting behind the defendant’s desk in a juvenile courtroom next to a lawyer whose name she couldn’t recall. Cornelia, ever the fashionista, was wearing a pink Chanel suit with Versace pumps. In her left hand, the high school freshman was nervously clutching the Gucci handbag she had gotten for her birthday last summer; in her right hand she was squeezing a tiny Daruma doll her boyfriend had given her for good luck.

Her mother, Veronica, who was sitting behind her, despised Cornelia’s boyfriend, Chad Barrington. After all, she thought he was the one who had gotten her into this mess in the first place. But any gift from Chad was a precious thing to Cornelia and she held on for dear life as she glanced back at her mother. She was disappointed to see that Veronica hadn’t touched up the black roots under her bleach-blonde locks. She thought her mother was looking quite disheveled lately and it wasn’t just her hair. Her clothes and make-up were also suffering. Annoyed that her mother wasn’t more presentable, Cornelia turned her attention to the Daruma doll that she was holding onto as if her life depended on it; and in a way, it did.

Chad first gave Cornelia the Daruma doll after she received her guilty verdict. Cornelia thought he was joking. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen in her life and she couldn’t imagine Chad giving it to her as a gift.

It’s Japanese, he said.

Well that’s no excuse, Cornelia replied, rolling her eyes.

It’s for luck, he continued without so much as a waiver in his bright smile. Daruma was this monk guy who spent like nine years meditating in a cave without blinking an eye.

That’s impossible, Cornelia protested.

Well normally, yeah, but Daruma was able to do it because he had ripped off his eyelids with his bare hands, Chad said, gesturing with his hands as if he were tearing off his own eyelids.

That’s disgusting! Cornelia shrieked, forcing the doll back into Chad’s hands.

No, it’s totally cool. That’s why the doll doesn’t have eyes, look, Chad said, still smiling like a school boy who had just gotten his first ‘A’ paper. He put the doll back into Cornelia’s hands. She looked down at the ugly doll, completely irritated with Chad, but when she looked back up into his crystal blue eyes, she melted.

Even though Chad’s parents had money, Cornelia’s father, Harrison Drake, Esquire, thought Chad Barrington was completely beneath Cornelia, but Cornelia didn’t care what her father thought. Besides, in that moment she was a prisoner to Chad’s dimples and the wispy way his black hair was covering part of his left eye. There was no fighting it.

You’re supposed to paint in one of the eyes and then make a wish. You don’t paint in the second eye until the wish comes true.

How… Cornelia searched for a word that wouldn’t hurt Chad’s feelings, charming. She managed a smile despite her repulsion. She absolutely adored Chad who was standing before her in ripped jeans, a t-shirt and a pair of Birkenstocks. Chad’s parents were kind of like old hippie rejects but Chad took pride in their lifestyle. They believed in spirituality rather than religion. They loved anything to do with Eastern spirituality and they were constantly touting different causes, especially ones that involved the environment and apparently eyelid-less monks.

You weren’t allowed to bring anything made of Styrofoam into the Barrington household. They were strict recyclers. Veronica used to come inside when she picked Cornelia up from their house, but later she just honked the horn because she couldn’t stand one more lecture about her gas-guzzling sport utility vehicle.

Chad wasn’t like the other boys Cornelia had dated in her life. He wasn’t the homecoming king or the captain of the football team type and he didn’t live in a mansion on the hill overlooking Storm River. He lived on the slope between the hill and the village where the poor and middle class kids lived, but unlike Harrison, Cornelia didn’t care about that. Before her parents’ divorce she might have cared, but now the fact that Chad annoyed her father was just another reason to date him. Cornelia and Chad were both freshmen at Storm River High School, although Cornelia was nearly expelled a few short weeks earlier.

It wasn’t unusual for Chad to buy Cornelia a crafty gift. He was a painter. Cornelia was always pushing him to become a film director, but art was his passion. There are no famous painters anymore, Cornelia would say. Chad was a member of the AV club, but he only liked to make movies for fun. His friends would write scripts, Cornelia and Chad’s friends would star and Chad would direct. They put the movies on the Internet, but Chad never had any interest in his hobby going any further. On the afternoon that he gave Cornelia the Daruma doll, he painted on the first eye with the care of a skilled craftsman. He insisted on making the doll’s expression perfect.

Now wish for a lenient punishment, he said.

You can’t tell me what to wish for, Cornelia protested, isn’t that cheating in the eyes of the monk gods or something? Oh, I forgot they don’t have any eyes!

Chad laughed and raised his eyebrows as if to say, now go on, CC. Cornelia’s middle name is Christina, so people close to her sometimes call her CC for short. Cornelia closed her eyes tight for a few seconds, and then opened them again. Did you make the wish? Chad asked.

Yes, I made a wish, and no, I am not going to tell you what it is, Cornelia replied with a coy smile.

Well I hope you wished for leniency, he said, because I don’t want to come visit you in the big house, and I don’t mean your dad’s house. Chad winked and Cornelia couldn’t stop herself from laughing at his joke even though the thought of jail time made her nervous. Even with a high profile lawyer like Harrison Drake for a father, it was possible she could be facing some time in juvenile hall.

Harrison Drake, Esquire, couldn’t be bothered with the minor offense she was charged with, so after getting her out on bail, he assigned one of his junior partners to the case and promptly left on a business trip. But that wasn’t before reaming Cornelia about ruining his chances for running for circuit court judge. He was standing before her with his short blonde locks slicked back, wearing a Versace suit without a thread out of place. Cornelia thought she inherited more fashion sense from her father than her mother. Harrison told Cornelia that he changed his cell phone number and that she could call her step-mother, Brandy, if she needed to contact him. Brandy was only ten years older than Cornelia and Cornelia despised her for tearing her family apart. Before he left, Harrison recommended that Cornelia plead guilty and try for leniency. Cornelia refused and opted for a trial instead. The judge quickly found her guilty on all counts.

Leniency sounded nice, but Cornelia was worried she wasn’t going to get it. She didn’t think the judge liked her much. Beneath the gold locket necklace her father had given her when she was five, Cornelia’s heart was pounding. She was furious with her father for leaving her on her own with Sally or Sharon, or was it Susie? Yes, Cornelia was now certain that her lawyer’s name started with an ‘S.’ Well, almost certain.

As she looked to her right, Cornelia was also certain that she was dressed much better than her lawyer. Ms. S. was wearing a brown business suit, but Cornelia couldn’t find any brand name insignias that she recognized. She imaged the rather disheveled looking thirty-something picking it up off of a rack in McAlphin’s or some other mall store on the west side of town. "She certainly couldn’t have gotten it on the east side," Cornelia thought. That’s where Cornelia had gotten her outfit. The east side had all of the posh shops.

Cornelia looked the part of the perfect daughter in every way. The front of her long, blonde hair ("real blonde, not from a bottle," she repeatedly pointed out to anyone who would listen in case they might think she was a bottle-blonde like her mother), was pulled back in a beautiful diamond crusted barrette that had been given to her by her grandmother who had died of breast cancer a few months earlier. That barrette was the most precious thing in the world to Cornelia. Truth be told, it was a more precious good luck charm than Chad’s Daruma doll could ever be, but she would never tell him that.

Cornelia and her grandmother were very close. When Cornelia’s parents were getting a divorce, visiting her grandmother was her only respite from the pain. Last spring it was torture watching her grandmother go through chemo. Eventually, her grandmother’s body withered away to nothing until she finally asked to be brought to Hospice where she died. Cornelia’s heart was broken.

The back of Cornelia’s hair hung loose with soft curls, courtesy of Damon, her mother’s hairdresser from Le Mieux Cheveux, the most expensive salon in town. Her nails were perfectly manicured and covered in a pale shade of pink, also courtesy of Damon, and her make-up was nearly non-existent, just some cherry flavored lip gloss and light pink eye shadow. Less is more, Veronica told Damon while he was getting Cornelia ready.

Cornelia’s thoughts were interrupted by the bailiff. Please rise, he said and everyone in the courtroom complied. Cornelia laid her handbag down on the table, but she kept her Daruma doll hidden away in her right hand. The judge entered the courtroom from a backdoor. He was old, tall and chubby and Cornelia thought he looked very mean. She was appalled by his double chin that shook when he spoke.

After the judge sat down on the bench, the bailiff said, Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Albert Brightny is presiding. You may be seated. And again everyone complied. Judge Brightny put on a pair of reading glasses and was looking through a black binder filled with paperwork while the bailiff read off some routine things like, This is case number six on the docket, in the matter of Storm River High School versus Cornelia Christina Drake. When the bailiff was through, the judge took off his glasses and closed the binder.

Would the defendant please rise, the bailiff said, addressing Cornelia. She and her lawyer stood up. Cornelia was still clutching her Daruma doll for dear life.

Ms. Drake, you have been found guilty on one charge of criminal vandalism and one charge of willfully promoting hatred, the judge said. Cornelia was pretty sure the judge had made up the second count, but Ms. S. had assured her it was a legitimate charge. The judge continued, "It is now my job to sentence you.

Now I know you stand before me today thinking that the Drake name and your family’s money will win you favor, but let me tell you right now, young lady, I’ll have none of that in my courtroom. The judge put the corner of his glasses in his mouth, crossed his arms in front of him, and never took his eyes off of Cornelia. His jowls were shaking as he spoke.

From behind her, Cornelia could hear her mother whisper, Schmuck. Cornelia’s eyes quickly darted to her left trying to catch a glimpse of her mother, but the forceful voice of the judge brought her eyes back to center.

Look at me when I’m addressing you young lady, he said, removing the glasses from his mouth and pointing them at her.

Ms. S. elbowed Cornelia and leaned over toward her left ear to whisper, Apologize, Cornelia.

Sorry, sir. I mean, your honor. Sorry, your honor, Cornelia fumbled for the right words.

Don’t apologize to me, young lady. The person you should be apologizing to is Mrs. Samantha Hakim. She is the victim here. She’s not even in this courtroom today because she refused to press charges against you. The school had to press charges. And do you know why that is, Ms. Drake? the judge’s face distorted into what Cornelia could only surmise was an angry look.

No, sir, your honor.

Mrs. Hakim isn’t here today because, despite the fact that you wrote horrible slurs about her across the walls of Storm River High School, she still thinks there is hope for you. She is the only reason you weren’t expelled from school, did you know that, Ms. Drake? She is the only reason you were allowed to plead to a lesser charge of willfully promoting hatred rather than publicly inciting hatred. The latter charge would have come with a heftier punishment.

Cornelia was shocked. She, in fact, had not known that it was Mrs. Hakim who defended her to the school board and the judge. Mrs. Hakim was the reason Cornelia was finishing up a two-week suspension rather than having been expelled from school and now she was the reason she was facing a lesser sentence. The truth was, Cornelia was hoping to get expelled so she could return to private school. She was outraged when her mother told her she was going to move her to a public high school. She was disappointed when the school board gave her only a suspension.

Cornelia suddenly realized the judge was awaiting a response. No I didn’t, your honor, she said softly, then cleared her throat.

Well, she was. She championed a stuck-up, spoiled rotten little hooligan like yourself because she believes in a silly thing called hope, the judge continued. Cornelia tried to mask the indignant look on her face, so she looked down at her Gucci handbag on the table.

I said look at me when I’m talking to you, girl! the judge snapped. Cornelia’s head popped to attention and her eyes widened. I’ve had the unenviable task of listening to you whine about how unfair Mrs. Hakim was in giving you a ‘D’ on your progress report in English class. As you know, your school work was subpoenaed by this court, Ms. Drake, so I’ve seen firsthand the reason why you received that ‘D’ and I can tell you right now that Mrs. Hakim, in fact, was being quite generous. If you had been in my class I would have failed you, the judge said, and then paused.

But your grade isn’t the issue here, young lady. At issue here is a stuck-up, spoiled rotten little hooligan who felt that her family name gave her the right to damage public property paid for by the taxes of law-abiding citizens of Storm River, Ohio. The issue is a stuck-up, spoiled rotten little hooligan taking her frustrations out on a school wall she had no business defiling. The issue, young lady, is a stuck-up, spoiled rotten little hooligan standing in my courtroom with absolutely no remorse for the crime she committed.

The judge paused for a moment, and then continued, "And what you did was a crime. It was a hate crime against Mrs. Hakim. It was a crime against Storm River High School. It was a crime against the community of Storm River, and it was a crime against the citizens of Storm River.

You, young lady, are a disgrace to the school that Mrs. Hakim fought so hard to keep you in, he continued. You’re a stuck-up, spoiled rotten little hooligan who will amount to nothing in this life unless I can put you back on the straight and narrow path. Unlike Mrs. Hakim, I feel I’m wasting my breath. You, Ms. Drake, are going to get through high school by the skin of your teeth, academically. Socially, you’ll be the toast of your class, with the most popular boyfriend, and the most notable clique on campus. Cornelia suddenly thought of the judge as a teenager who had always been chosen last for teams in gym class and was holding a grudge against popular kids. He continued, You will get by on your looks and your family’s money. You’ll go to college and major in something mundane then you’ll marry a rich man and continue the tradition of raising stuck-up, spoiled rotten little hooligan children.

Objection! Ms. S. yelled, raising her hand in the air.

Ms. Kirkwood, you can’t object to my comments, the trial is over, the judge said and Ms. S. put her hand down. Your client pleaded not guilty but she knows that she is guilty of a lot more than just vandalism. And if it were up to me, I would throw the book at her and sentence her to 30 days in juvenile hall. Cornelia let out a tiny muffled shriek.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Hakim has once again championed the stuck-up, spoiled rotten little hooligan by requesting leniency. Mrs. Hakim feels that Ms. Drake would be much better served by a sentence of community service, rather than time in juvenile hall. Cornelia breathed a little easier. Anything was better than juvenile hall, but she was still holding out hope for something even more lenient.

Although I disagree with her, the judge continued, as the victim and someone who knows the defendant better than I do, I am willing to defer to Mrs. Hakim on this issue. The judge paused and raised his gavel.

Cornelia Christina Drake, I hereby sentence you to 300 hours of community service, the judge said, and banged the gavel on his desk.

Cornelia was mortified. She thought she could get off with probation, maybe a few hours of community service, but 300? The thought of scrubbing toilets in some homeless shelter made her sick to her stomach. She put her left hand on her stomach and fought back the urge to vomit. She locked her knees together in an attempt to keep them from shaking. She felt as though all of the air had been sucked out of her lungs.

As the judge stood up to leave, the bailiff said, All rise, and the other people in the courtroom were once again on their feet. Before he ducked out the back door, the judge added, And you should consider yourself lucky, young lady, as he pointed his finger at Cornelia. That’s less than half the amount of hours you would have put in had you been sentenced to juvenile hall. You owe a debt of gratitude to Mrs. Hakim, Ms. Drake. I suggest you apologize to her and thank her for her intervention. Otherwise you would have been spending the next month behind bars with no cell phone, no Internet access, no music and no television. Cornelia was still in shock. She didn’t hear him.

After the judge left, the bailiff yelled, Court is adjourned! He then approached Cornelia and Ms. S. Kirkwood. He said, As part of your sentence, your first task will be to help remove graffiti from the Price Valley section of Storm River. Your service log will need to be signed by the attendant at the site as well as Mrs. Hakim. Do you understand?

Seeing the disgusted look on Cornelia’s face, he added, Yes, that’s right, your victim, Mrs. Hakim, will be your community service supervisor. Everything will have to be signed off on by her. The clerk will assist you with the necessary paperwork and fill you in on all the directions for completing your sentence. The bailiff shook his head and walked away.

Cornelia stood there stunned, as if her Versace pumps were glued to the floor. She felt a cold chill flow through her body and she clasped her right arm with her left hand while the right hand still held fast to Daruma. Three hundred hours? Cornelia asked no one in particular. Three hundred? Can he do that? she turned to ask her lawyer.

Yes, he can. He’s right, you got off easy. Your father will be pleased. Be thankful, Ms. S. Kirkwood said, turning around to greet Veronica.

Thanks, Sally, Veronica said while shaking the lawyer’s hand.

Sally! Cornelia said out loud.

Yes? Sally asked.

Nothing, I just knew your name started with an ‘S’ is all, Cornelia replied without thinking.

I just saved you from a month-long juvie stay and you don’t even remember my name? Sally asked. The judge was right, you are a… Sally stopped before she said something she would regret.

It’s o.k., Sally, you can say it, Veronica said. My daughter is a stuck-up, spoiled rotten little hooligan. Sally tried to give a faint smile, but quickly packed up the contents of her suitcase and headed out of the courtroom. Cornelia turned around to shoot her mother a dirty look.

Wipe that look off your face, CC. Sally’s right; you got off easy. You’re going to be a good girl, complete your service and be done with this whole sorted affair. In the meantime, you’re still grounded. That means no TV, no cell, no Internet, and no Chad Barrington. You go straight to school or cheerleading practice, or your service and then straight home. And on game nights you’re going straight to the game and straight home. No before or after parties. Do you understand me, Missy?

I might as well be in prison! Cornelia screeched, stomping her foot on the wood floor boards.

Honestly, Cornelia, I would have quite liked 30 days without you, but we have Samantha Hakim to thank for your continued presence, so go tell her your sob story. I don’t want to hear it! Veronica snapped, then turned to the clerk who was waiting to escort the pair to an office next door.

Cornelia was wounded by her mother’s barbs, but she would never show it on the outside. Ever since her parents got divorced she felt like neither one of them loved her any more. Her father was busy with his new bride and her mother acted like everything Cornelia did was a burden on her. Even her friends made her feel unwanted. Since the divorce Cornelia didn’t have the same allowance that she used to have, so she hadn’t been able to do everything she used to do with them, like going shopping on the east side. Her suit was from an east side shop alright, but the truth was, it was a hand-me-down from her mother. Cornelia tried to wear it with pride, but inside a fire was brewing and she was afraid she might explode at any moment.

Chapter 2

Penance

It was with great annoyance that Cornelia put on her least expensive pair of jeans and a purple t-shirt that read, SRHS Cheerleading. As she was tying her Nikes over a pair of ankle-length socks, she looked up at the Daruma doll sitting on the bookshelf between her desk and her vanity where she placed him after the trial. The second eye had still not been painted on, as Cornelia’s wish had not come true on that day in the courtroom. She thought it looked like Daruma was winking at her in a very sinister way. He was all red with some gold markings, except for his face. His face was white as a ghost with black outlining his eyes, eyebrows and cheeks, and red outlining his enormous nostrils and mouth. His big eyes had orange shading around the perimeter. Cornelia always swore that Daruma’s one good eye followed her around the room. The doll creeped her out, but what could she do? It was a gift from Chad and she couldn’t get rid of it. That would break his heart.

She wished Chad was coming with her. His tree-hugging family would be all about cleaning up graffiti, but she was still grounded from seeing him, so she could not ask him to come. She was sure the site coordinator would report it back to Mrs. Hakim and then the hours she put in would be for nothing. It made her angry to think that Mrs. Hakim, who Cornelia believed had gotten her into this mess in the first place, was her service coordinator.

Cornelia walked over to her vanity and sat down. It was a beautiful vanity; the kind some girls only see in storybooks. It was cherry wood with a fresh coat of varnish and gold accents trimming every drawer and edge. The mirror always reminded Cornelia of the mirror from Snow White. But she never had to ask, Who is the fairest of them all? She knew that was MacKenzie Phillips, the head cheerleader at Storm River High School.

Kenzie had all of the boys at Storm River High falling at her feet. She was the queen bee of the most popular clique at SRHS. Cornelia was right on the edge of that clique, but because she was a freshman she wasn’t quite in the inner circle yet. All of the popular girls at SRHS watched Kenzie’s every move; they noted every piece of clothing, every mannerism, and every hairstyle. They all copied her, careful not to imitate too closely. That could get you singled out as a poser and that would mean banishment from the popular clique forever. Cornelia found herself hoping that Kenzie would not drive by while she was carrying out any of her community service. "Don’t be silly, Cornelia thought to herself, Kenzie would never be caught dead in the valley."

Cornelia put on some lip gloss, but opted out of any more elaborate make-up. She was headed for a day of manual labor, something to which she was completely unaccustomed. She didn’t want to waste her expensive make-up on that. Her mother started limiting her to two make-up purchases a month, so Cornelia had to make it last. When it came to her hair, she settled for a ponytail, something she never wore at school, except for cheerleading practice when she didn’t want her hair getting hot and sweaty. At the actual games it was different. There were boys there, so she had to let her hair down. She always looked her best at games.

Her uniform was always perfectly pressed. She was tan, with a little help from the tanning beds at Le Mieux Cheveux. Her make-up was always flawless. With her clear skin, she didn’t need to wear foundation, only some blush, lipstick and eye shadow. Eye liner always took the longest to apply. Cornelia had to have it perfect. She had to smudge it so it didn’t look like a straight drawn-on line like her mother, but she couldn’t smudge it too much because then she would look like a pirate. A nice, soft, smoky line was what she strived for, but not on this day. This day she looked like Plain Jane and that’s the way she wanted it. She was hoping beyond hope that she wouldn’t see anyone she knew, or at the very least they wouldn’t recognize her looking so drab. She threw on a plain beige baseball cap, just in case, and pulled her ponytail through the hole in the back.

Veronica dropped Cornelia off at the service site around 9 a.m. It was an unusually warm day for October, but Cornelia tied a sweater around her waist just in case. I’ll pick you up here at three, Veronica told her. Call my cell if you’re going to be late.

Late? God, I hope it doesn’t go past three, Cornelia replied in a snotty voice.

You’re lucky you’re here at all, young lady, Veronica replied curtly.

Whatever, Cornelia said as she got out of her mom’s SUV, otherwise known as the monster. After a short drive down the hill into the valley, she stepped onto the curb at the corner of Glenway and Gilsey Streets and looked around for The Family Connection, the organization that was sponsoring the clean-up. All she saw was a run-down looking building with graffiti painted on the side. As Cornelia walked around to the front of the building she saw a small sign that said, The Family Connection. The windows were all boarded up; the place look abandoned. Cornelia knocked softly on the door. She could hear voices inside, but no one came to the door, so she knocked harder. The door opened by itself with the harder knock, so Cornelia pushed it the rest of the way open and went inside.

She saw a room full of teenagers who were mostly Hispanic and African-American. They were chatting amongst themselves. Cornelia noticed a few adults in the crowd; one was Hispanic, one African-American and one white. She approached the white woman. Doing so made her veins burn. She didn’t want anyone to think she was racist. "What if the Hispanic woman didn’t speak English?" she thought. "What if the African-American woman was from some African country and didn’t speak English well?" she rationalized. The truth was, Cornelia felt more comfortable speaking to the white woman because they were the same race. For the first time that day, Cornelia felt ashamed.

Hello? she said inquisitively to the young woman with the long brown hair.

Yes, hello! the woman replied with a huge smile. Cornelia noticed that the woman’s teeth were perfectly straight. She was pretty, and had a beauty mark on her right cheek. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and was dressed in just jeans, a t-shirt, and no-name tennis shoes.

Are you Natalie? Cornelia asked.

Why, yes, I am, Natalie replied.

I’m Cornelia Drake. I’m supposed to report to you for community service duty, Cornelia said softly, hoping no one around her could hear.

Oh yes, welcome! We’re glad to have the help, Natalie replied. Cornelia thought that despite her appearance, the woman was from a wealthy family. She was very well spoken and overly friendly. Cornelia didn’t think that poor people could be so happy. You’re actually going to be working with Monica. She’s leading our troops today, she said, pointing to the African-American woman. Monica was tall and overweight and Cornelia thought she looked mean. Don’t forget to ask her to sign your paperwork later, Natalie said.

O.k., Cornelia replied as Natalie motioned for Monica to come over.

Monica, I’d like you to meet Cornelia. She’s going to be working with the girls today. Then Natalie began to whisper, She’s the one I told you about earlier, so she’ll have a record for you to sign at the end of the day. She winked at Cornelia as if to say her secret was safe with her, but Monica didn’t change her facial expression. She only held out her hand to shake Cornelia’s. Cornelia placed her hand in Monica’s but she winced in pain as the woman shook her hand. Cornelia thought Monica had the grip of a grizzly bear. Her hand felt smooshed by the time Monica let go.

Alright ladies! Monica yelled to the entire room, turning away from Cornelia. Listen up, she continued, but many of the girls kept chatting. Monica looked even more annoyed.

The Hispanic woman yelled, ¡Cállese! Cornelia was shocked at how loud the woman’s voice was because she was such a tiny woman. She was probably five feet tall and very thin, but her voice bellowed throughout the room. It must have done the trick, because a hush fell over the girls. The Hispanic woman was also very pretty and wore no make-up. She had black curly hair that fell just above the shoulders. Her brown eyes had a twinkle to them and she had a bright, wide smile.

Thank you, Isabella, Monica said, tipping her head in the Hispanic woman’s direction. Now that I have your attention, ladies, let’s get ready to head out. After every sentence or two that Monica said, Isabella would repeat them in Spanish. This happened every time Monica addressed the group as a whole. At first Cornelia found it confusing, but after a while she could just tune Isabella out.

Monica went over the itinerary for the day, but Cornelia was distracted by a hang nail on the index finger of her left hand. Her perfect French manicure was now ruined and she didn’t bring her purse, so she had no tools to fix it. She pulled off the nail, but she didn’t have anything to file it down. She was trying to think of a substitute for a nail file.

Cornelia, do I bore you? Monica jostled Cornelia out of her reverie.

What? Cornelia said, accidentally.

I said, am I boring you? Monica had a little more irritated tone if that was possible.

No, Cornelia replied, not knowing what else to say.

Then stop staring at your little French nails and get your bubble goose out to the bus, we’re on a schedule, girl, Monica said, lightly tapping Cornelia on the behind with her clipboard. Cornelia had just noticed that the rest of the girls were already