Closed Doors [#Wattys2016]

Mr. Parker's Offer

"Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."
- Christopher Robin

It's late afternoon by the time I finally reach the Parkers' place.

My hair and clothes are sticking to me in the summer heat; the temperature is in the nineties today, and the humidity isn't helping things. I had to stop numerous times to recuperate and gain a little energy to carry on. Every now and then, I'd take a small sip from the water bottle I have stored in an old backpack on my back. I don't drink much because I have to make it last.

The bucket full of blackberries is making my arms feel very sore. I alternate between hands and keep going. I don't have the option of turning back or giving up. I have to do this. I think of the alternative-of Jena having to go to school barefoot-and it gives me strength to keep moving.

My mouth is parched, and I feel lightheaded and dizzy when I finally reach their front porch. The Parkers have a really nice home. The lawn is always mowed and the bushes manicured. The house is perfectly white, two-stories high, and has a basement and a wrap-around porch. They are definitely not poor.

It always makes me nervous to knock on their door, because I never know who will open it. If it's the wife or the two older sons, they usually give me a hard time. The last time I was here, the wife started ranting about "throwing pearls at swine." I guess paying me for my hard work made me a pig? I don't know. I don't like her though. I've always wondered how such a nice guy like Mr. Parker ended up married to such a witch.

I gather my courage and knock hard on the front door. I wait, holding my breath and hoping against all odds that Mr. Parker opens the door. My heart leaps to my throat when I notice wavy black hair, but feel slightly less panicked when I realize it's only Reed. He's harmless, I know this much, and he won't be mean to me.

He looks surprised when he sees me. His bright blue eyes go wide as they study me, and then land on the bucket. I feel self-conscious and awkward under his gaze. I know I look like a sweaty, horrible mess. I'm not here to impress anybody or make friends, I remind myself.

"Yeah?"

"Is your dad home?" I ask quickly. I fix my gaze intently at the ground. I don't want to look at him; it makes me feel inferior. I know his eyes are judging me, and his mind is insulting me, even if he's too kind to say anything out loud.

"No. He's still in town, but he'll be back in a little while." He shrugs and then adds a little uneasily, "I can get my mom if you want-"

"No!" I cut him off, my wide eyes meeting his emphatically. I shake my head, knowing that probably seemed rude. "I mean... can I wait for your dad? I don't think your mom likes me very much."

"My mom doesn't like anyone very much. Not even me," he replies in a half-joking, tender voice. He smiles slightly, but I can tell there's some truth to his statement. "Don't feel bad about it. Anyway, she's upstairs right now. You can come in and wait for Dad if you want. I'm just doing a little baking." He steps aside and holds the door open for me.

"Thank you," I mumble quietly. I pick up the bucket of blackberries and walk into the house. It feels wonderful inside; they have air conditioning. It's the first time I've felt cool like this all summer long. I find myself wondering what it must feel like to live in this sort of luxury and not even think twice about it. It must be nice.

I follow him nervously as he limps to the kitchen. The whole place smells like fresh bread and it makes my stomach growl. As I enter the dining area, I see numerous trays full of buns and cakes on the table and counter-top. I'm instantly hit with how hungry I truly am, feeling my stomach and head ache from the lack of energy. I feel dizzy. I almost want to wait outside again, because it's such torture to be around all of this delicious food and not be able to have any of it.