Campaigning for Christopher (11 page)

“Of course you would be. Don’t be silly.”

“Am I? Being silly?” His voice was warm and, to her great surprise, even a bit playful. “I get the feeling you’re the main event,
Jules
.”

Jules.
She shivered with pleasure.

She had noticed the change in Christopher this morning, of course. He wasn’t as argumentative, insulting, or angry. His smiles seemed more genuine and less restrained, and his voice wasn’t thick with the bite of anger that had saturated it on Monday and Tuesday. Not that he seemed fond of her or anything ridiculous like that. No. He’d offered peace, and she was relieved to see that he meant it.

Principal Reyes stopped before a door with a small window and peeked inside, making eye contact with someone and nodding. “They’re ready for us.”

Chris and Julianne followed her into a small music room, where sixteen small children dressed in navy-blue pants and yellow polo shirts stood in two neat rows.

“Children, this is Mr. Winslow and Miss Crow. Can we all say ‘Welcome’?”

“Welcome,” they said in singsong unison.

“Mr. Mendoza said that you had prepared something special for today. Is that right?”

A little girl in the front row, with skin slightly darker than Julianne’s and hair just as black, nodded at her and said, “It’s for you.”

“For me?” she asked, touching her hand to her chest.

All of the children nodded, offering her gappy grins.

“Eyes on me, children,” said Mr. Mendoza, pressing a button on the CD player beside him.

Suddenly the room was filled with the sound of a strong, deliberate beat. It was a sound Julianne knew as well as her own voice—that of a hide-covered drum. Distracted by staring at the CD player, she couldn’t help the lump in her throat as the sweet sound of children’s voices joined the beat, singing:

Wakantanka tokaheya cewakiyelo

Wakantanka tokaheya cewakiyelo

Mitakuye ob wanikta ca tokaheya cewakiyelo

Her eyes filled with tears as her lips trembled, singing along mutely, forming the words she’d known since she was smaller than they.

These little children, in a depressed but proud Philadelphia neighborhood, had learned a Lakota prayer song . . . just for her. And it just about made her heart beat out of her chest with gratitude.

As Christopher looked on with rapt attention, the children repeated the song again before the drumbeat tapered off, then looked up at Julianne with wide, happy smiles.

“That was . . .,” she started, but her voice broke. She took a deep breath and tried again, her voice barely a whisper when she said, “just b-beautiful.”

A hum of excited chatter rippled through the assembled group, and Christopher noticed Julianne swipe at her eyes and sniffle softly. Taking a handkerchief out of his back pocket, he nudged her elbow gently. She turned to him, nodding gratefully as she took the starched white cloth and pressed it under her eyes.

“I learned that song when I was a little girl,” she said to him, her face uncharacteristically open and wistful. Younger. So beautiful, it made his chest ache.

Turning back to the children, she sniffled again, then smiled at them and said something that sounded like “pill maya.”

“What does that mean?” asked a little boy in the second row.

“It means ‘thank you,’” she said.

“Are you Puerto Rican or Dominican?” asked another child, with big brown eyes and short dark hair.

“Fabiola!” said Mrs. Reyes.

“Oh, it’s okay,” said Julianne in her warm, deep voice. Christopher watched in fascination as she stepped out of her high-heeled shoes and lowered herself to the floor, kneeling back on her heels. “I’m not Puerto Rican
or
Dominican, honey.”

“She’s from India,” said another child. “Remember?”

The students moved closer to Julianne, surrounding her, a couple of the braver little girls sitting down directly in front of her on the floor.

Julianne chuckled softly. “Oh, I’m not from the country India. I’m an American Indian, from South Dakota, which is part of the United States.”

Christopher circled around so he could see her face, but he stood back, careful not to intrude, arms crossed over his chest where his heart beat as loud as the drum in the recording.

“You got dark hair and dark eyes like me,” said the little girl sitting beside Julianne, her eyes alight with wonder.

“You’re right. I do.”

“You’re so pretty!” said another child, reaching out to pet Julianne’s hair.

Julianne giggled, pulling the ponytail over her shoulder to give the little girl better access. “Not as pretty as you!”

“My mama says you’re a model.”

“She’s right. I am.”

“My
dream
is to be a model someday,” said a little girl with long black braids. She stood up and jutted her hip to one side, posing with a confident, winsome smile. “What do you think?”

Christopher watched Julianne’s face carefully, holding his breath as she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and held it between her teeth for a moment before answering. Her eyes were tender but glistening as she overcame her emotions and mustered a smile for the child.

“I think d-dreams can come true. In fact . . .” She reached into her purse and pulled out something that she held up for the children to see. “Does anyone know what this is?”

“Oooo,” murmured the children, several of them reaching out to touch the feathers that hung from the bottom of the round wooden frame that held a web of string.

“I know what it is! It’s a dream catcher!” said a little boy in the back.

“That’s right!” said Julianne, grinning at him. “But it’s extra special. It’s a
Lakota
dream catcher, because I’m a Lakota.”

“Ohhhh,” they said, staring back and forth between the dream catcher and Julianne.

When had she decided to bring that?
Christopher wondered. While he’d prepared a rousing speech for the adults, he hadn’t spared a thought for the children they might be meeting today. Once again, he felt reluctantly grateful for Julianne and completely captivated by the shy smile she gave him before focusing on the children once again.

“Dream catchers were originally made by the Ojibwe tribes in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. That’s how the Lakota first learned about them. You see, Minnesota borders the state where I’m from. Does anyone remember which one?”

“South Dakota!”

“That’s right!” she exclaimed. “My
Ina
—that means “mother” in my language—made this for me when I was very little, and you know what?”

“What?” they asked, their voices soft and dreamlike.

“It hung over my bed, and see all these strings? They trapped—or
caught
—all my bad dreams and only let my good dreams through. And those good dreams slipped down these feathers and landed on my sleeping head. In my whole life, I’ve only had good dreams.
Good
dreams,” she said, holding out the dream catcher to the child who’d mentioned her dream of becoming a model, “that have come true. Now it’s your turn to catch good dreams and make them come true.”

The little girl stared at the dream catcher like it was the most beautiful, magical thing in the world, then lifted her eyes to Julianne.

“Thank you,” she whispered, clasping it to her small chest.

“You’re welcome,” said Julianne, smiling at the child, though a touch of sadness shadowed her eyes.

The other children in the circle griped and groaned.

“Aw, she’s so lucky.”

“Wish I could have a dream catcher.”

“I want one too!”

“Well, I tell you what,” said Julianne, looking around the circle with mischief. “As soon as I leave here, I am going to call my
Ina
and tell her I need . . .” She counted each head, grinning at each child in turn. “. . . fifteen more dream catchers sent to the William Wrigley Elementary School in Hunting Park, Pa. How does that sound?”

The children gasped and clapped, two of them jumping up to throw their small arms around Julianne’s neck. Opening her arms, she welcomed all of them into a giant bear hug before posing with them for Mrs. Reyes, who took about a dozen photos with her phone. And though Julianne grinned at Christopher, gesturing for him to join them, he shook his head, unable to keep from smiling back at her when she shook her head with exasperation.

As he watched her give a special smile and hug to each child before they filed out of the door to go back to class, Christopher, who’d warned himself not to fall for her before leaving her apartment that morning, felt a peculiar ache in his chest. He’d be willing to bet that she’d just made a difference in each and every one of their lives, and though he didn’t
want
to be touched by her warmth and kindness, he couldn’t help it. He was.

She waved good-bye to the last child before turning to Mr. Mendoza. “Thank you for preparing that song for me. It was a little bit of home, and I . . . well, thank you.”

“I hope it wasn’t awkward for you,” said the young, attractive music teacher, grinning at Julianne appreciatively.

“Not at all. It was very thoughtful.”

“Oh, I’m . . .” He blushed, looking down at his shoes before gazing at her again. “I’m so glad, Jules, uh, Juli—Miss Crow.”

Jules? Jules!

Furrowing his brows, Christopher realized that the teacher’s smile was just a touch too eager, and for reasons he wasn’t remotely interested in exploring, he felt his eyes narrow as he stepped up beside Julianne, putting his arm around her waist.

“Thank you for welcoming us,” he said, extending his hand.

Mr. Mendoza’s eyes shifted to Christopher, cooling a little. “Thank you for visiting us today, Mr. Winslow.”

Christopher pulled Julianne a touch closer, anchoring her against his hip. “It was
our
pleasure. The children were terrific.”

“I think Miss Crow is terrific,” said Mr. Mendoza softly, turning his eyes back to Julianne.

Christopher bristled inside, but offered the teacher a thin smile.

Julianne laughed beside him—a throaty, pleased sound—shaking her head with modesty and holding out her hand to Mr. Mendoza. “I won’t forget your kindness.”

Looking like a man who was about to miss out on the chance of a lifetime, the music teacher clasped her fingers, his eyes filled with longing. “Good-bye.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

“Good-bye,” said Christopher crisply, pulling Julianne along with him as he turned for the door, thus ending her farewell with puppy dog–eyed Mr. Mendoza.

“You didn’t have to yank me out of there,” said Julianne under her breath, pulling away from Christopher the second they were in the hallway. “He was just being nice.”

“Ha!” said Christopher, reaching up to rub his jaw as they followed red exit signs down the hallway. “He
just
wanted to get in your pants.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m right.” Christopher reached for the door to the outside, holding it open so she could precede him down the steps. He affected a lower, slightly urban-accented voice, “
I think Miss Crow is terrific . . . good-byyyyyyye
.”

“Believe it or not, most people don’t dislike me quite as passionately as you do.”

“You just haven’t given them a reason yet,” he sniped back.

For whatever reason, his back was up. It pissed him off to see Mr. fucking Mendoza fawning all over
Jules
. And it pissed him off even more that it pissed him off in the first place because not only did he have no actual claim on Julianne Crow, he didn’t
want
any claim on her. This entire farce was fucking with his head.

Almost at the bottom of the steps, he realized that she wasn’t descending beside him and stopped to turn around. She stood holding on to the railing, about six steps above him, glaring down at him with eyes of fire.

“What?” he asked, feeling terse and—just on the edges of terse—nervous.

“This morning,” she said, crossing her arms over her ample chest, “you offered me a truce.”

He walked up two steps to be closer to her, just in case anyone was listening, though no one was in sight. “Yes. And?”

“Truce means peace. You can’t say mean things like that if you offer someone a truce.”

He took another step closer to her, then another, until he was only two steps lower than she. Staring up at her angry face, he felt like he’d known her much longer than five days. So much longer. It felt like they’d been through a war together. And his feelings about her confused him more every second.

“I’m still . . .” He looked down at his feet, trying to figure out what he wanted to say.

I was so attracted to you on Saturday night, it hit me like a freight train.

I hated you so much by Sunday, I’d never known that sort of rage in my whole life.

By Monday, attraction and hate were merging. We kissed, and I can’t get that goddamn kiss out of my head.

On Tuesday, when you showed up for dinner, I was so relieved, I could taste it, and when you gave me what-for in front of your apartment building, I realized that I was starting to respect you, even though I don’t want to.

And today, only five days after seeing your face for the first time, I wanted to kiss you again while you sat on the floor surrounded by little kids, and I definitely wanted to punch Mr. Mendoza in the face for lusting after you because some stupid fucking part of me wants you to belong to me.

But you can’t. Not ever. Because I don’t trust you, and I never will.

He swallowed the unexpected lump in his throat. “Sorry.”

Her body relaxed and she nodded. “Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“What else is there?” she said, stepping around him and continuing down the stairs.

He turned around and hustled to keep up with her.

“It’s a screwed-up situation,” she said, reaching the curb. “The way we met.
This
,” she said, gesturing back and forth between them.

Most women he knew would have held a little grudge or had a little pity party, and she’d done neither. Just said “Okay” and moved on. He liked it. He liked the simplicity of it. For the hundredth time since Monday, he wished to God that he could have met her in a different way.

She stuck out her hand at an oncoming cab and hailed it, turning to look at Chris as it pulled over. “I guess I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Monday?” He didn’t know what he was expecting, but saying good-bye to her on the curb in front of William Wrigley Elementary School on Thursday and not seeing her again until Monday felt too abrupt. Did they have something else between now and Monday? “Don’t we have . . .?”

She took her phone out of her bag and scrolled down the screen. “Nope. Monday at nine we’re visiting the Penn Museum.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Fine,” he said, wishing they had a few more minutes now.

A crisp autumn breeze whooshed around them, and a wisp of hair blew from her ponytail. Without thinking, Christopher reached up and grabbed it, letting the silk slide through his fingers for just a moment before tucking it behind her ear. His fingers lingered on the smooth shell of her ear for just a moment before he dropped his hand, taking a step back.