Stand by Me (13 page)

Avis kept her cell phone on all the time, even during staff meeting Monday morning, just in case Rochelle called.

The letter from the school board had said “Confidential” in big black letters across the top, so she wasn't at liberty to tell the staff that their jobs might be on the line if the school closed. Some might get offered jobs elsewhere in the public school system as students were diverted to other schools. But another job for her? Not likely. Not unless another principal retired. And what kind of mess would she inherit if she did?

Fortunately, this Monday started the week off on a good foot, as most kids seemed glad to get back into a routine after the weekend, and no one got sent to the office for detention. Which meant that Avis actually got to eat a quiet lunch in her office, using the time for some end-of-school-year planning and prayers for her teachers and students. When her cell phone rang, though, she practically dumped the contents of her purse trying to get to it—but it was only Peter calling to ask what she thought about talking to the pastors sometime that week about the invitation from South Africa.

“Uhhh . . . don't you think we need to talk some more first?”

“Well, sure. But we do need to make some decisions. I've got this offer to buy the business on the table. So let's talk tonight, okay? Then maybe we can ask Pastor Clark and Pastor Joe if we could meet with them after Bible study on Wednesday night, since we'll all be there anyway. Oh, gotta go. My other line is ringing. Love you.” Peter clicked off.

Stuffing things back in her purse, Avis realized Nonyameko's letter was still among the contents. Opening the pretty anniversary card, she read the note again:

. . . As you can see from the card, we have been able to start a few small businesses with some talented girls—greeting cards, rug and basket weaving—but to be honest, we need advice and practical help from someone more experienced in business than we are. We are wondering if the two of you would consider coming to South Africa for an extended visit. Whatever time you could spend would be a gift—three months? Six months? A year would be even better. We could also use your teaching skills, Avis. Many of our girls need help with basic education—math, language, typing, even health and hygiene. We'd love to arrange for some classes but need a teacher. You'd be a wonderful encouragement to these young women . . .

She stared at the card a long time. The struggling economy . . . the unexpected offer to buy out Software Symphony . . . the threat of more school closings, including Bethune Elementary . . . Maybe God
was
lining things up, preparing them for a change of direction.

All right, Lord, I'm listening. Forgive me for my reluctance to consider
this invitation. It's just that it's so big! And then there's Rochelle
and Conny. I really need to know that they're—

“Mrs. Douglass?” The knock on the door and the secretary poking her head in happened simultaneously. “We've got a situation. One of the fifth-grade boys was caught showing a handgun to another classmate out in the schoolyard. A real gun. But no ammunition, thank God!”

Avis flew out of the office right on the secretary's heels.

Chapter 12

K
at felt giddy all the way home on the El from the morning service at SouledOut. Just like that, a possible apartment to rent for the summer! It was an answer to prayer—and she hadn't even prayed about it yet! Which was something to think about. Did God answer prayers even before you prayed?

Nick was a little more guarded. “Don't get your hopes too high, Kitty Kat. We don't know how much they're asking. And”—he lowered his voice so that their conversation didn't carry to the two girls sitting on the other side of the aisle, though the rattle and squeals of the commuter train made that unlikely—“far as I know, Livie hasn't made a decision yet whether to stay here this summer. Dividing the rent three ways versus four could make a big difference.”

“What a wet blanket you are!” Kat shoved him with her elbow. “And you want to be a pastor? Where's your faith, Reverend!”

He turned his face and stared out the window.

“Aw, come on, Nick. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Sorry. It's just . . . isn't it kind of a confirmation that this is what we're supposed to be doing? I mean, it beats looking in the paper and making sixty-dozen-eleven phone calls or driving all around the city looking at rat-hole apartments. And wouldn't it be cool to get an apartment in the same building as someone from the SouledOut church? That Douglass couple, no less.”

Her friend nodded. “Yeah, gotta admit, it'd be nice if it worked out. Just . . . slow down a little bit, Kat. Wait till you call and get more information. That's all I'm saying.”

“Uh, can't call. Mr. Douglass didn't give me their number, or even their name. But I gave him my number and he said he'd speak to them.”

“Ah.” Nick raised an eyebrow at her. “So we have to wait for them to call? Ha. That's gonna drive you nuts, isn't it, Kat girl.”

“Nooo.” She tossed her head. But it gave her pause. What if the people didn't call? “Well, if we don't hear from them in a day or two, we could call the Douglasses and ask if they've spoken to them.”

“You've got the Douglasses' number?”

Rats
. She hadn't done that either. “They're probably in the phone directory. Or we can call the church.”

“
Or
we could look in the paper or contact the college housing office for a few more options instead of putting all our eggs in this one basket.”

“Whatever.”

But even back in her dorm room, sprawled on her bed trying to study for upcoming finals, Kat had a feeling about this. Something was
right
about it. The fact that they'd put out the word at this church they'd found, and
bam!
Right away someone had mentioned a possibility. A sublease for the summer. Probably furnished to boot! How perfect was that? And it would put them in the same neighborhood as SouledOut—a church they already felt attracted to—giving them a church home. Wasn't that another confirmation that God was going to make this happen?

Absently twisting a long strand of thick hair around her finger, Kat added another plus. The apartment was in the same building as an older couple she'd met at church. Her mother would like that. He was an elder and she was a worship leader. Double pluses. Though her parents probably imagined a large brick church with choir robes, an impressive podium, and a lot of pomp and ceremony—like the one in Phoenix where the Davies family name was on the membership rolls, though they rarely attended.

She didn't have to mention that the church met in a mall, or that the “older couple” was black—not sure what her parents would think about that. They'd surely tell her they weren't
racist
, but if they had qualms about her living right in the city, they might not be too keen on a racially mixed neighborhood. Not when their whole world was a lily-white subdivision out in the suburbs of Phoenix.

But living in the same building as the Douglasses would be cool. Kat had felt attracted to Avis Douglass the first time she'd led worship. The woman was such a . . . a diva! Kat had never seen anyone worship quite like her. As if God was right there—“in the house” as someone had said—and she was in awe of His majesty. Joy seemed to bubble out of her pores, and she danced and lifted her arms as if she were the only one in the room. Kat would love to get to know her better, to discover what made this woman tick.

Might not be easy, though. Even though Kat had tried to be superfriendly, the woman seemed kind of . . . distant. Like she was being held at arm's length. In fact, thinking back on it, Mrs. Douglass hadn't seemed all that keen on the idea of them renting the apartment in their building when her husband brought it up.

For the first time she felt a tiny wrinkle in the Perfect Plan.

The door opened and Brygitta barged in, dumping an armload of books on the other bed. “Kat! Have you eaten supper yet? I'm famished. Some of us are going for pizza.”

“Supper? What time is it?” Kat checked her watch. Yikes, ten after six . . . 5:10 in Phoenix. “No, you guys go on. I still gotta call my mom for Mother's Day.” Her mom would soon be gone to her Sunday evening women's book club, and
then
her name would be mud for sure.

The call came during her final exam in Adolescent Psychology on Monday afternoon. Most of her professors had assigned either a final paper or a take-home exam. But this professor gave his final exam in class, though he encouraged the use of laptops to answer the essay questions, in lieu of the old-fashioned “blue books” that were handwritten. “Of course it's easier to cheat with a laptop,” he'd drawled, “but if you're in a master's program at a Christian university and decide to cheat, you've got bigger problems than the grade you get on an exam.”

Kat was on the third essay question using her laptop when her phone vibrated in her jean jacket pocket. She slipped it out unobtrusively and stared at the caller ID. She didn't recognize the name—
Candy?
—but it was a 773 area code, same as SouledOut.
Oh God, oh God, please let them leave a message
.

The moment the professor called time, she hit the Print button that sent her exam to the queue in the professor's printer, stuffed her laptop into her backpack, and darted into the hallway, pressing the phone to her ear as she listened to the message.

“Hi. This is Louise Candy. I was given this number by our
upstairs neighbor and understand you are looking for an apartment
for the summer. Please call me at . . .”
And the female voice rattled off a number.

Rats
. She didn't have time to call back now. Bree had proofread the research paper she'd written last week and made a bunch of corrections she still had to incorporate—and the paper was due before five o'clock.
Arrgh
. Whatever made her take Classroom Counseling Strategies, anyway?

But the moment she dropped off the paper in her professor's office at 4:40, Kat found a quiet bench out on the commons, listened to the message again, and then hit Reply.

The phone rang. And rang five more times before voice mail picked up.
“You've reached the Candys. Leave a message.”
Swallowing her disappointment, Kat left her name and number, said yes, they were definitely interested in subleasing the apartment, and she would call back later.

Turning up the collar of her jean jacket as a chilly, late afternoon wind blew through campus, she called Brygitta's cell phone. “Where are you? The lady called back . . . you know, the one subleasing their apartment! . . . No, she called during one of my exams . . . Yes, of course I called her back! But all I got was voice mail. I'll try later . . . What are you doing for supper? . . . The dining hall? Ugh. But I guess I can do salad.” Kat shuddered. The university dining hall, even with its buffet-style food stations, still didn't get it when it came to food ecology and justice issues.

But she smiled as she flipped her phone shut and gathered up her backpack. Having their own apartment and being able to cook the stuff
she
believed in eating was going to be totally awesome.

Both Kat and Brygitta had take-home exams due the next day, so after supper in the dining hall they holed up in the room they shared in Graduate Housing and put a Do Not Disturb sign on their door. But when the Candy lady hadn't called back by nine o'clock, Kat said, “I'm calling.”