- Atlanta area.
“Well, you know, soccer is referred to as football outside of the United States. Because, you know, you play with your feet.”
“We know that. We’re just messin’ with you.” Mike thumped him on the back hard enough to push him forward. “You play?”
“Yeah. I’m a starter for my high school’s JV team.”
Mike and Beau nodded in approval. Relieved, Roshan relaxed a little bit. He nearly mentioned that he was also one of the best young chess players in the state of Georgia, but he decided against it. It would probably be best to try to fit in as much as possible.
Lifting box after box of paint cans from the truck and carrying them back to the tent was arduous, monotonous work. After a while, Roshan’s biceps began to ache, and he could feel beads of sweat collecting at the nape of his neck. He could think of only one word for a south Georgia summer: relentless.
Rule one of fitting in: watch and learn. He felt like a high school freshman all over again, watching in wonder and mild confusion as the elders went about their usual activities. This time, they were college students, not upperclassmen on the high school varsity squad. They lifted boxes like weight-training athletes, helping each other load up their trembling arms with as many as they possibly could all at once. They were holding up surprisingly well, but he knew that they would get tired fast.
He was contented with carrying the boxes one at a time, taking advantage of the opportunity to walk by Molly as many times as possible. He did something different every time—kicked the table leg, called her name obnoxiously loudly, deliberately looked in the other direction before she could catch his eye, etc. He was having too much fun.
After all of the boxes had been stacked inside the tent, Roshan gave Mike and Beau a minute or so to catch their breath. Beau was as red as a tomato, but he went on laughing and jabbering about an upcoming party as if he hadn’t broken a sweat. Roshan wondered if he always struggled to keep up with his friend.
“Alrighty,” he piped up, receiving expectant looks from the others. “The next thing we’re going to do, obviously, is open up the boxes and put the paint cans on the little tables at each station. Five per table.”
Between the three of them, this task went by surprisingly fast. Getting the paint to the tables on the elevated platform was a little more challenge—they needed their hands free to climb. They came up with a few creative solutions, including stuffing the cans into their pockets and trying to toss the cans up to each other. At last, Roshan discovered that the best method was to take advantage of the ladder instead of fighting with it—balance the cans on the rungs as you move your feet, or lean on the ladder when you need your hands. It was the same way in chess; sometimes, it is necessary to work with your opponent to defeat your opponent.
Roshan didn’t say all of that. He did say, “Use the freaking ladder to stay steady so you won’t fall!” This was enough to get the message across.
It was only when he went back to double check everything when he discovered why they managed to go as quickly as they did.
“Hey guys,” he said very slowly, feeling his heartbeat quicken. “Guys, this station has two cans of red.” His eyes darted from table to table. “And that one has all blue.”
Mike gave him a blank look. Beau shrugged. “You said, ‘five per table,’” Beau reminded him. “I specifically remember you saying that.”
Roshan felt his heart sink. “Five cans per table. Come on now, guys! Try using the mathematical part of your brains and the artistic part at the same time. Five cans, five colors. Red, blue, yellow, black, and—” He stopped short.
Rule two of fitting in: no confrontations.
“Well, you could have said that,” Mike replied calmly. He appeared to be used to people telling him off. Roshan immediately felt guilty.
“You’re right. I should have. My bad.” He paused, letting his mind run through a dozen possible scenarios. How could they go about correcting the issue in the most efficient matter? Finally, he realized that he was wasting precious time by just thinking about it. He clasped his hands together. “Okay. Come on, guys. Let’s go. We have to fix this. We have exactly—” he stopped to check his watch. “We have a little under an hour until the competition starts.”
Fewer than sixty minutes before the moment that Roshan had been waiting for an eternity of car rides and paper-pushing would finally arrive. He was starting to feel lightheaded.
They were still finishing up when the first team arrived.
Roshan sprinted out of the tent and into the sunlight. “Molly!” he cried. “Molly!”
“What?”
“Molly! Why are you letting people in?”
“Well, I am the registration coordinator—”
“Well, hold them outside the door. Do something.”
“I can’t,” she told him. She sounded apologetic and mildly amused at the same time. “I’ve been given orders. The competition starts by ten, and they’re allowed to start showing up at nine thirty.”
It was 9:32.
Roshan ran back inside. Without him having to say a word, Mike and Beau got the message that it was time to pick up the pace. They managed to rearrange the rest of cans within the next ten minutes. Within those ten minutes, two more teams arrived.
Roshan didn’t really think much of the tent. He had been there when it was built, so he knew that it wasn’t much more than a giant tarp, some PVC, and a few metal beams. The competitors and their parents, on the other hand, seemed to be positively enchanted by it. He had to admit—something about the way the light shone in was pretty cool. And the “carpet” of grass—that was cool, too.
As soon as he stooped to recline in one of the chairs behind the volunteers’ table, a competitor—a lanky guy with a Saints snapback cap—approached. He sat up in a hurry.
“Hey, what’s up?” Roshan said eagerly. “Welcome to the National High School Fresco Competition.”
“Yeah, thanks, man. Um, are we gonna have can openers or something, or is figuring out how to open the paint cans part of the competition?”
Roshan gave him a blank look. “Oh.” That was all he said for a moment. Two big mistakes before ten o’clock. That deserves a pat on the back, he thought to himself sarcastically. Suddenly, he sprang out of his chair and jammed his hand into his pocket. “Oh, wait a second. Oh, we’re in luck.” He pulled out his Swiss army knife, the one that doubled as a flash drive. It had been a gift for his fifteenth birthday. “I think I’ve got something in here that we can use. I’ll get the cans for you.”
After popping open the cans for the teams that were already there (there were seven now), he went about opening the rest of them, one by one. He did some math in his head as he went. Nine teams on each of the three occupied walls and nine of the ceiling—that’s thirty-six. Five cans times thirty-six teams. One hundred and eighty cans . . . Things were going painstakingly slow.
“Roshan!”
His heart nearly stopped. It was Molly calling his name. It was now loud enough inside the tent for her to have to raise her voice. He immediately stood at attention, saluting her army-style. “Yes, Registration Coordinator Molly, sir!”
“Oh, shut up, Roshan. Quit it.”
“You have to say, ‘at ease, soldier.’”
“At ease, soldier,” Molly muttered, rolling her eyes. He relaxed. “Just wanted to let you know that the boss lady is coming down here soon to see how things are going. I don’t think you want to make her mad.”
“Mom’s coming here? Soon? How soon? Like, walking over right now soon?”
“Y’got ten minutes.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I kid you not.” Her accent was adorable. “Get to work. Make it snappy. If the boys aren’t helping, just rough ‘em up a little bit. They won’t get offended.”
That’s against rule two, he thought. “Okay. I’ll . . . I’ll hang in there, I guess.” Molly nodded and smiled, leaving as quickly as she’d come. Roshan was beginning to wi
sh that he could have continued delivering envelopes and playing virtual chess.
Time ticked away at an almost unbelievably fast pace. The tent was filling up, and it was beginning to take longer just to get from table to table. Spotting his name tag, a number of painters and associated adults stopped him to ask questions.
“Sorry ma’am, no parking on the cobblestone in front of Vitali Hall . . . Yeah, that’s the building with the dome . . . No, you can’t start painting until ten o’clock, but you can go ahead and start mixing your colors . . . The porta-potties are right outside, to the left . . . Ma’am, I’ve only been taking Spanish for three years. You’re going to have to speak a little slower. Más despacio, por favor. No, no soy mexicano . . .”
When he was finally finished with the cans on the back wall, he cut through the crowd all the way back to the volunteers’ table like a jungle explorer cutting through vines. He tossed the Swiss knife to Beau. “Hey, could you open the cans at the ceiling stations for me? There aren’t a lot of people up there yet, so you should be alright.” Beau rose ever so slowly from his seat before disappearing into the crowd. Roshan stood by Mike, watching the chaos unfold. He loved the lively competition atmosphere.
“Dude,” Roshan began, “if one more person asks me where the bathrooms are, in English or in Spanish, I think I’m gonna—”
“Looks like things are getting pretty busy around here!”
He made a 180 degree turn. “Oh, hey, Mom. Yeah, things are alright. Pretty dandy, actually.”
His mother squinted critically as she scanned her surroundings. He casually rested his palm on the table, but it was slippery with sweat, so it slipped, and he fell yet again. He considered remaining on the ground this time.
Mike laughed up a storm before helping him back to his feet. Regrettably, his mom helped him brush the grass off of the back of his pants and out of his hair. Over the top of her head, he could see Beau struggling with a paint can lid. Almost wincing, he waited for her admonishment.
“Everything seems to be going well,” she said with a smile. “Good work. I know things can get pretty hectic at times, but that’s in the job description. Keep it up. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Roshan waited until his mother was out of earshot to exhale. Maybe he could now take a breather for the first time all morning. At last, he took a seat behind the table.
There were only two seats. He should have taken that as a hint, but at that moment, he was busy watching the way Mike interacted with flustered competitors. Mike was like a statue; he never left his chair.
“Excuse me,” a petite girl with a not-so-petite voice said, standing with arms crossed. She addressed Mike directly without so much as a glance towards Roshan. He accepted this. I guess he looks more like the one in charge, he told himself. “Hi! Are we allowed to use our own paints from home?”
Mike hardly batted an eyelash. “Well, we wouldn’t be giving you paint if you could, right?”
The girl blanked. She hadn’t been expecting the sarcasm. “Uh . . . So, that’s a no?”
“You bet it is.”
“Okay. I mean, that’s all you had to say.” The girl laughed nervously. Roshan could tell that she was wondering whether Mike’s words were a joke or simply a rude remark. She backed away slowly.
Rule three: Imitate.
“That was a good one,” Roshan laughed. He could see another painter coming towards them. “I’ll get this one.”
“Excuse me,” she said, “but my team’s paint cans still haven’t been opened yet. I’m a little worried.”
“Oh, okay. I know exactly what you need.”
“A can opener?”
“No. A little patience,” he said curtly. “One of the other volunteers is coming around.”
“But a lot of the other teams have already—”
“Tough luck.” That was enough to send her away somewhat dismayed.
Mike chuckled. Roshan smirked halfheartedly. He could feel himself dying inside.
Upon returning, Beau tossed Roshan the closed Swiss army knife. He stood up, allowing Beau to take his seat. After a few minutes of battling with his conscious, he decided to go apologize.
“Hey, I’ll be right back, guys.”
Not too far into his search for the girl, he began to feel like finding one girl among a couple hundred would be more difficult than he’d thought. He made a couple more rounds on the ground floor before realizing that the only paint cans he didn’t get to were up on the platform. Hurriedly, he climbed the ladder.
At last, he found her and explained everything. Fortunately, Beau had done what he asked, and all of the remaining teams now had open paint cans and were ready to work.
The girl found the whole situation to be pretty funny. “It’s possible to make friends while still having your own personality,” she told him, tugging at one of her long braids. “You look like a friendly guy. I’m sure you already knew that.”
Roshan thought deeply about this advice, wondering if it applied to people over four years older than him.
He took his sweet time returning to the volunteers’ table. He got caught up in asking the contestants where they were from and listening to their ideas about painting as well as a host of other things. He exchanged jokes, mediated arguments, and helped clean up messes. Finally, he was doing what he had come to do—interact with a bunch of people that were both similar enough to him to be relatable and different enough from him to be incredibly interesting. He wasn’t even disappointed that only a few of the girls were cute.
Eventually, he did return to his post, and when he did, all he found was a couple of empty chairs. Mike and Beau were gone.
Maybe they actually got up to help someone, he thought hopefully. All he had to do was find them to make sure. Even though he was younger, he felt responsible for Mike and Beau.
After walking all around the tent until his feet ached never finding either of the guys, he was beginning to feel less optimistic. Is searching for them even worth the trouble? he wondered, slowing his pace. They never do anything useful unless someone tells them to.
Fighting the doubts from his mind, he decided to check and see if Molly knew where they had gone.
“Molly!” he called as he jumped outside.
He received no answer. Her chair behind the registration table was vacant.
Checking his watch, he discovered that nearly an hour had gone by. He quickly remembered that all thirty-six stations were now occupied, meaning that everyone had been registered. Molly’s work for the day was done. Roshan’s heart dropped.
But where did they go? They hadn’t left any sort of note to let him know. It was as if they had forgotten about him entirely.
Dejected, Roshan sat down at the volunteers’ table alone. He had failed to give the other volunteers even the slightest impression that he deserved to hang out with them. Molly probably thinks I’m some sort of weirdo, he thought, hiding his face in his hands.
When he looked up, he saw a short Hispanic girl squinting at the table from behind the nearest support beam. He realized that she was trying to read the sign.
“It says, ‘Volunteers,’” he told her as he walked towards her. It looked like she hadn’t seen him coming. With her large, feminine brown eyes, she looked a lot like a cute little deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. She nearly ran away. “Wait!” he called after her. Her eyes finally settled on his face as if she hadn’t noticed him standing there before. “Did you need some help?” he asked.
The deer—the girl—explained that she was looking for her glasses. That explains all of the squinting, he thought.
He introduced himself, as he done nearly a thousand times that morning alone, and took her to the lost and found, which was just one of the boxes out of which the paint cans had come. The glasses weren’t there, and he hadn’t expected them to be. He had never found one of his lost possessions in a lost and found.
He eventually learned that the girl’s name was B
renda. At first, Brenda seemed almost painfully shy, but she seemed to become a little more comfortable as she spent more time with him. He could tell that she was nervous about having to ask around to see if anyone had spotted the glasses, but he figured that it would be good for her. It was necessary for a person to leave her comfort zone every once in a while.
Somewhere along the line, Roshan and Brenda pulled away from everyone else, strolling slowly back and forth underneath the platform. They talked endlessly about their entire lives, going on and on until there was nothing left to say. He even told her about how his dad wanted him to become a doctor, but he had no idea what he wanted to be. All he knew was that he loved chess, soccer, and helping others. At the moment, he was considering becoming a teacher, like his mom.
Once Brenda started talking, she couldn’t stop. He didn’t mind at all. She seemed like a different person entirely when she spoke about the things that she was passionate about. It was as if she’d had a million things to say and no one to say them to. He wished that he could explain to her that, even outside of the confines of this tent, if she started speaking, people would start listening.
Before he could bring this idea up, however, his cell phone began to buzz in his pocket. Of course, it was his mom. Reluctantly, he excused himself to answer the call.
“Roshan, where are you?”
“In the tent, Mom. Where else would I be?”
“Roshan, are you upset about something?”
A few things, actually, he wanted to say, but he wasn’t going to start telling his mother about his social issues now. What did she know about fitting in and crushing on college girls? “No, I’m good,” he said instead. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”
“Oh, me too. We’ll head back to the hotel as soon as Painting Day is over. But for right now, I’m going to need you and the other volunteers—and Molly too, since she should be free—to put some more paper towels and toilet paper in the portable restrooms.”
My favorite job of all time. He wished he had a wall to bang his head against. “Where are the paper towels?”
“Check the storage closet in Vitali Hall. If you go through the front door, it’ll be the third door on your left.”
“Okay, Mom. I’m on it. I mean, we’re on it. See you later." He was going to have to be quick, being the only volunteer on duty now.
He was out of the tent in a flash. Crossing the lawn was beginning to feel like running through a desert.
He ran around to the front entrance of Vitali Hall, yanking open the heavy wooden door and jumping inside. The rush of cool air was like heaven. The buzzing fluorescent lights were only on in the front of the building; the long hallway before him stretched into darkness. He could see a pinprick of light at the end.
Finding the custodian’s closet was easy. Loading up on paper towels and toilet paper and making it out the door without dropping any was harder. He stacked everything into a pyramid and painstakingly lifted it, keeping the top roll in place with his chin. He came much too close to tripping over a really big fan sitting near the open doorway.
He took one last look down the creepy hallway, deciding that he would leave the way he’d come. He could have sworn that he heard a tapping sound coming from down there.
Loading up the portable restrooms wasn’t as bad as he had expected. All he had to do was hold his breath, and he was able to drop the rolls and jump out. He got the second and third, but the third was occupied, so he carried the remaining rolls into the tent with him.
“Hey, he’s back!”
Mike and Beau were back in their seats, munching on chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. Molly was sitting on the edge of the table, sipping from a Starbucks coffee cup. Beau waved. Roshan could feel his blood boiling.
“Hey Roshan!” Molly greeted him with a smile. Immediately, his temper cooled off.
“Uh, hey guys. Where did you guys go? I came back to the table, and you were all gone.”
“Oh, we were just chillin’ at the Student Center,” Mike told him. “It was about lunch time, so we took a break.”
“Oh, alright.” It was almost an acceptable answer. “Did you guys get me anything?”
“Oh . . . Well, we didn’t know what you wanted, buddy. Otherwise, we would have, for sure.”
Molly hopped up from the table. To Roshan’s dismay, she leaned in and gave Mike a kiss. “See you later, babe. Mom wants me to help her clean the garage. Bye Beau! Bye Roshan!”
“Bye,” Roshan croaked. Mike and Molly were going out. How had he not seen that coming? And they didn’t get him any food! His good mood was crashing and burning. He didn’t want to just fit in anymore. These guys were pretty jerk-ish anyway.
Rule one of taking a stand: Make your voice heard.
“Hey guys, don’t you think it would have been smarter to send one person to pick up food instead of leaving one volunteer to hold things down while everybody else left? Maybe you guys could have sent Molly, since her shift was done.”
“Well, that’s no fun,” Beau whined. “And we were just sitting here anyways.”
Rule two of taking a stand: Do not fear confrontation.
“That’s because you’re supposed to walk around and ask them if they need anything. That’s how a lot of volunteering jobs work.”
Mike sat up. “Look around you, dude. I’m gonna be a junior in college. Some of these people are high school freshmen. I mean, I could just walk up and say, ‘Howdy,’ but it would be a little awkward. I can’t just carry on conversations with them like you can.”
Rule three of taking a stand: Don’t assume you know everything.
Roshan realized that he was dealing with a couple of introverts. It wasn’t exactly that they were too lazy to interact with the painters; they just weren’t sure how. That was why they waited until he told them what to do before moving an inch. For once, being younger than the others was actually a good thing.
“It’s not as hard as you’d think,” he told them. “High schoolers love talking to college students. It gives them a glimpse of their future. They’ll ask you all kinds of questions about college life. All you have to do is answer.”
“These kids are geniuses, though,” Beau piped up. “No doubt, they’re aiming for places like Harvard. Not little old Valencia State.”
Roshan shrugged. “Even so, I’m sure they’d want to hear all about living in dorms and going to parties. And college dining room food. All of the universal stuff.”
Their eyes met, and they started to laugh. “Not sure if they’d want to hear about the parties,” Mike said.
“Trust me, I’m sure they would. I’m a little curious myself, actually.”
They thought this over for a second. “I guess we could answer a few of their questions,” Mike replied. “What do you think, Beau?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Beau said.
As soon as Roshan let them loose, they were instant hits. He had expected that, seeing that they were natural comedians. He checked up on them occasionally, but they often shooed him away for interrupting their stories.
Just as Roshan was considering finding Brenda again, Beau popped up out of nowhere and tapped him on the shoulder. “Just to let you know, some of the kids on the top floor are saying that it’s way too hot up there, and that it might start making the paint dry or something.”
Immediately, Roshan remembered the fan in Vitali Hall. “We can fix that. Come on.”
“Hey!”
A curly-haired teenager was running towards them. He was holding a big, professional-looking camera. “Hey!” he said again. “Volunteer guys. Mind if I get a picture? I want to be able to show my sister everything I saw here today. That would include you.”
“Sure,” Mike and Beau said, posing for the camera. Roshan was already standing out of the way, so he decided to wait that one out.
“What are you doing?” Beau asked as the guy held up his camera. “Hop in!”
At the very last second, he jumped in
to the background while making a ridiculous face. The artist thanked them before running off again.
Picking up the fan was more enjoyable work than moving the paint cans had been. For one, Roshan didn’t have to carry anything. Mike and Beau didn’t need his help with picking up the fan and its little generator. Also, even though he was still sort of the odd one out, he felt more like a good leader than he had before.
Getting the fan set up on the platform was a hassle, but they enlisted to help of a few eager painters, and things went by pretty quickly. At long last, Roshan was free to catch up with Brenda.
As he walked towards Station 7D, he could hear a couple of people arguing over the music. It was Brenda and the dude with the camera.
Brenda was almost unrecognizable. Her hair was down, falling wet and wild around her shoulders. She was wearing a simple white tank top, and her old gray hoodie was balled up in her hands. She also had her glasses on. She looked good. Really good.
“You’ve been acting just like Dad,” he heard her say. By the look on the camera guy’s face, he could tell that that was a low blow.
Nonetheless, Roshan wanted to cheer. Brenda was finally being assertive.
He considered leaving them to talk things out, but as he turned around, he heard his name.
“That’s Roshan, the volunteer,” Brenda said, pointing to the little screen on the back of the camera.
That’s my cue, he thought, running his fingers through his hair. For some reason, he felt way more nervous about talking to her than he had before. Maybe it was the fact that her brother was standing right there.
As it turned out, Camera Guy was also Brenda’s teammate for the competition. He didn’t seem happy at all about Roshan swapping numbers with his sister. Roshan tried to make a save by mentioning that it was just in case Brenda needed any more help, but really, he had something other than volunteering in mind.
Something like a movie date.
“I guess I’ll see you around, Brenda,” he said, taking his cue to leave. When he saw the look on her brother’s face, he simply couldn’t resist slipping in a smart-alecky comment. “You can tell your brother that I’ll try my best not to make any wrong moves.”
Check and mate, he thought as he strutted away. Finally, he felt like he could say that he had done something useful.